My brother was always
a pattern of solemnity. My sister was clay, molded by the
circumstances in which she happened to be placed. There was but
one whose deportment remains to be described as being of importance
to our happiness. Had Pleyel likewise dismissed his vivacity?
He was as whimsical and jestful as ever, but he was not happy. The
truth in this respect was of too much importance to me not to make
me a vigilant observer. His mirth was easily perceived to be the
fruit of exertion. When his thoughts wandered from the company, an
air of dissatisfaction and impatience stole across his features.
Even the punctuality and frequency of his visits were somewhat
lessened. It may be supposed that my own uneasiness was heightened
by these tokens; but, strange as it may seem, I found, in the
present state of my mind, no relief but in the persuasion that
Pleyel was unhappy.
That unhappiness, indeed, depended for its value in my eyes on the
cause that produced it. There was but one source whence it could
flow. A nameless ecstasy thrilled through my frame when any new
proof occurred that the ambiguousness of my behavior was the cause.
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