He had
never before heard music at once so clear and capable of such depths.
He realized instinctively, with a tightening of his heart, that he was
listening to one of the great songs of which Janin had spoken. It hung
for a minute or more in his hearing, thrilling every nerve, and then
died away. It stopped actually, but its harmony rang in Harry Baggs'
brain. Instantly it had become an essential, a permanent part of his
being. It filled him with a violent sense of triumph, a richness of
possession that gave birth to a new unconquerable pride.
He rose, waited for a short space; but nothing more followed. He was
glad of that; he had no wish to blur the impressions of the first.
Harry Baggs hurried up the road and crossed the field to where he had
left French Janin. The latter was still sleeping, crumpled against the
vegetation. Baggs grasped the thin shoulder, shook him into
consciousness.
"I have just heard something," he said. "Listen! What is it?"
He sang without further preliminary, substituting a blank phrasing for
uncomprehended words; but the melody swept without faltering to its
conclusion. Janin answered irritably, disturbed by his rude awakening:
"The Serenade from Don Giovanni--Mozart. Well, what about it?"
"It's wonderful!" Harry Baggs declared. "Are there any more as great?"
"It is good," Janin agreed, his interest stirred; "but there are
better--the Dio Possente, the Brindisi from Hamlet. Once I led the
finale of Hamlet.
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