Now it is so different that I sit and ask myself whether
all that is not a dream. Can anyone change so in one short month? I
could not. But who knows? perhaps I do her wrong. You know I never
could read her at home without your help, and, dear Eve, I miss you
now from my side most sadly. Without you I seem to be adrift, without
rudder or compass."
Then, as he could not sleep, he dressed himself, and went out at four
o'clock in the morning. He roamed about with a heavy heart; at last he
bethought him of his fiddle. Since Lucy's departure from Font Abbey
this had been a great solace to him. It was at once a depository and
vent to him; he poured out his heart to it and by it; sometimes he
would fancy, while he played, that he was describing the beauties of
her mind and person; at others, regretting the sad fate that separated
him from her; or, hope reviving, would see her near him, and be
telling her how he loved her; and, so great an inspirer is love, he
had invented more than one clear melody during the last month, he who
up to that time had been content to render the thoughts of others,
like most fiddlers and composers.
So he said to himself, "I had better not play in the house, or I shall
wake them out of their first sleep."
He brought out his violin, got among some trees near the stable-yard,
and tried to soothe his sorrowful heart. He played sadly, sweetly and
dreamingly. He bade the wooden shell tell all the world how lonely he
was, only the magic shell told it so tenderly and tunefully that he
soon ceased to be alone.
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