FullReads

“It is gratifying,” said Aunt Eliza, “to find that my teachings promise such happy results, that the seeds I have so carefully sown already show signs of a glorious fruition. Now, while it is true that I cannot conceive of a happier love than that which exists between my own dear tabby cat and myself, it is also true that I recognize your bassoon as an object so much worthier of adoration than mankind in general, and your male acquaintances in particular, that I most heartily felicitate you upon the idol you have chosen for your worship. Bassoons do not smoke, nor chew tobacco, nor swear, nor bet on horse-races, nor play billiards, nor do any of those horrid things which constitute the larger part of a man’s ambitions and pursuits. You have acted wisely, my dear, and heaven grant you may be as happy in his love as I am in tabby’s.”

“I feel that I shall be,” murmured Aurora; “already my bassoon is very precious to me.”

With the dawn of this first passion a new motive seemed to come into Aurora’s life–a gentle melancholy, a subdued sentiment whose accompaniments were sighings and day-dreamings and solitary tears and swoonings.

Quite naturally Aurora sought Aunt Eliza’s society more than ever now, and her conversation and thoughts were always on the bassoon. It was very beautiful.

But late one night Aurora burst into Aunt Eliza’s room and threw herself upon Aunt Eliza’s bed, sobbing bitterly. Aunt Eliza was inexpressibly shocked, and under a sudden impulse of horror the tabby sprang to her feet, arched her back, bristled her tail, and uttered monosyllables of astonishment.

“Why, Aurora, what ails you?” inquired Aunt Eliza, kindly.

“Oh, auntie, my heart is broken, I know it is,” wailed Aurora.

“Come, come, my child,” said Aunt Eliza, soothingly, “don’t take on so. Tell auntie what ails you.”

“He was harsh and cruel to me to-night, and oh! I loved him so!” moaned Aurora.

“A lovers’ quarrel, eh?” thought Aunt Eliza; and she got up, slipped her wrapper on, and brewed Aurora a big bowl of boneset tea. Oh, how nice and bitter and fragrant it was, and how Aunt Eliza’s nostrils sniffed, and how her eyes sparkled as she sipped the grateful beverage.

“There, drink that, my dear,” said Aunt Eliza, “and then tell me all about it.”

Aurora quaffed the bowl of boneset tea, and the wholesome draught seemed to give her fortitude, for now she told Aunt Eliza the whole story. It seems that Aurora had been to the opera as usual, not for the purpose of hearing and seeing the performance, but simply for the sake of being where the beloved bassoon was. The opera was Wagner’s “Die Walkuere,” and the part played by the bassoon in the orchestration was one of conspicuous importance. Fully appreciating his importance, the bassoon conducted himself with brutal arrogance and superciliousness on this occasion. His whole nature seemed changed; his tones were harsh and discordant, and with malevolent obstinacy he led all the other instruments in the orchestra through a seemingly endless series of musical pyrotechnics. There never was a more remarkable exhibition of stubbornness. When the violins and the ‘cellos, the hautboys and the flutes, the cornets and the trombones, said “Come, let us work together in G minor,” or “Let us do this passage in B flat,” the bassoon would lead off with a wild shriek in D sharp or some other foreign key, and maintain it so lustily that the other instruments–e. g., the violins, the ‘cellos, the hautboys, and all–were compelled to back, switch, and wheel into the bassoon’s lead as best they could.

But no sooner had they come into harmony than the bassoon–oh, melancholy perversity of that instrument–would strike off into another key with a ribald snicker or coarse guffaw, causing more turbulence and another stampede. And this preposterous condition of affairs was kept up the whole evening, the bassoon seeming to take a fiendish delight in his riotous, brutal conduct.