We have an idea that what we call the "common people" are more
communicative on such subjects than we are; but this is not so. They
talk of their physical ailments and sensations, but they are deeply shy
upon the subject of their feelings. Ben's mother would discuss the
state of her inside, the deaths of her relations and friends; his own
birth, down to the smallest detail. But she would never have dreamt of
telling her son that she loved him, desired his love, hungered for his
coming, grieved at his going.
Ben himself put none of his feeling for Beethoven into words, above all
to his mother; she would not have understood him if he had. He said
nothing of Jenny, either, save as a girl he'd met, a girl he was going
to bring home to tea; but she understood that without any words; that
was courting, part of the business of human nature; much like the
preparation of meals.
It was odd, coming to think of it--might have been ridiculous, save
that ridicule was the sort of thing which could find no possible
lodgment with Ben--that his determination to devote his whole musical
life to Beethoven, to interpret him as no Englishman had ever done
before, should have been synonymous with his sacred, heady, and yet
absolute determination to marry Jenny Bligh.
Pages:
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369