Stories by English Authors: Germany - Коллектив авторов 2 стр.

He glanced at his shrunken arm, and then, as though ashamed of this allusion to his own personal infirmity, he added hastily:

But when the first pang of such a pain is over, there remains the comfort of being a listener. At first one does not think it is a comfort; but as time goes on there is no resisting its magic influence. And Lowell said rightly that one of Gods great charities is music.

I did not know you were musical, Mr. Keith, said an English lady. You have never before spoken of music.

Perhaps not, madam, he answered. One does not often speak of what one cares for most of all. But when I am in London I rarely miss hearing our best players.

At this point others joined in, and the various merits of eminent pianists were warmly discussed.

What a wonderful name that little English lady has made for herself! said the major, who was considered an authority on all subjects. I would go anywhere to hear Miss Thyra Flowerdew. We all ought to be very proud of her. She has taken even the German musical world by storm, and they say her recitals at Paris have been brilliantly successful. I myself have heard her at New York, Leipsic, London, Berlin, and even Chicago.

The little girl stirred uneasily in her chair.

I dont think Miss Flowerdew has ever been to Chicago, she said.

There was a dead silence. The admirer of Miss Thyra Flowerdew looked much annoyed, and twiddled his watch-chain. He had meant to say Philadelphia, but he did not think it necessary to own to his mistake.

What impertinence! said one of the ladies to Miss Blake. What can she know about it? Is she not the young person who tuned the piano?

Perhaps she tunes Miss Thyra Flowerdews piano! suggested Miss Blake, in a loud whisper.

You are right, madam, said the little girl, quietly. I have often tuned Miss Flowerdews piano.

There was another embarrassing silence; and then a lovely old lady, whom every one reverenced, came to the rescue.

I think her playing is simply superb, she said. Nothing that I ever hear satisfies me so entirely. She has all the tenderness of an angels touch.

Listening to her, said the major, who had now recovered from his annoyance at being interrupted, one becomes unconscious of her presence, for she is the music itself. And that is rare. It is but seldom nowadays that we are allowed to forget the personality of the player. And yet her personality is an unusual one; having once seen her, it would not be easy to forget her. I should recognise her anywhere.

As he spoke, he glanced at the little tuner, and could not help admiring her dignified composure under circumstances which might have been distressing to any one; and when she rose with the others he followed her, and said stiffly:

I regret that I was the indirect cause of putting you in an awkward position.

It is really of no consequence, she said, brightly. If you think I was impertinent, I ask your forgiveness. I did not mean to be officious. The words were spoken before I was aware of them.

She passed into the salon, where she found a quiet corner for herself, and read some of the newspapers. No one took the slightest notice of her; not a word was spoken to her; but when she relieved the company of her presence her impertinence was commented on.

I am sorry that she heard what I said, remarked Miss Blake; but she did not seem to mind. These young women who go out into the world lose the edge of their sensitiveness and femininity. I have always observed that.

How much they are spared then! answered some one.

Meanwhile the little girl slept soundly. She had merry dreams, and finally woke up laughing. She hurried over her breakfast, and then stood ready to go for a butterfly hunt. She looked thoroughly happy, and evidently had found, and was holding tightly, the key to lifes enjoyment.

Oswald Everard was waiting on the balcony, and he reminded her that he intended to go with her.

Come along then, she answered; we must not lose a moment.

They caught butterflies; they picked flowers; they ran; they lingered by the wayside; they sang; they climbed, and he marvelled at her easy speed. Nothing seemed to tire her, and everything seemed to delight her the flowers, the birds, the clouds, the grasses, and the fragrance of the pine woods.

Is it not good to live? she cried. Is it not splendid to take in the scented air? Draw in as many long breaths as you can. Isnt it good? Dont you feel now as though you were ready to move mountains? I do. What a dear old nurse Nature is! How she pets us, and gives us the best of her treasures!

Her happiness invaded Oswald Everards soul, and he felt like a school-boy once more, rejoicing in a fine day and his liberty, with nothing to spoil the freshness of the air, and nothing to threaten the freedom of the moment.

Is it not good to live? he cried. Yes, indeed it is, if we know how to enjoy.

They had come upon some haymakers, and the little girl hastened up to help them, laughing and talking to the women, and helping them to pile up the hay on the shoulders of a broad-backed man, who then conveyed his burden to a pear-shaped stack. Oswald Everard watched his companion for a moment, and then, quite forgetting his dignity as an amateur tenor singer, he too lent his aid, and did not leave off until his companion sank exhausted on the ground.

Oh, she laughed, what delightful work for a very short time! Come along; let us go into that brown chatlet yonder and ask for some milk. I am simply parched with thirst. Thank you, but I prefer to carry my own flowers.

What an independent little lady you are! he said.

It is quite necessary in our profession, I can assure you, she said, with a tone of mischief in her voice. That reminds me that my profession is evidently not looked upon with any favour by the visitors at the hotel. I am heartbroken to think that I have not won the esteem of that lady in the billycock hat. What will she say to you for coming out with me? And what will she say of me for allowing you to come? I wonder whether she will say, How unfeminine! I wish I could hear her!

I dont suppose you care, he said. You seem to be a wild little bird.

I dont care what a person of that description says, replied his companion.

What on earth made you contradict the major at dinner last night? he asked. I was not at the table, but some one told me of the incident; and I felt very sorry about it. What could you know of Miss Thyra Flowerdew?

Well, considering that she is in my profession, of course I know something about her, said the little girl.

Confound it all! he said, rather rudely. Surely there is some difference between the bellows-blower and the organist.

Absolutely none, she answered; merely a variation of the original theme!

As she spoke she knocked at the door of the chalet, and asked the old dame to give them some milk. They sat in the Stube, and the little girl looked about, and admired the spinning-wheel and the quaint chairs and the queer old jugs and the pictures on the walls.

Ah, but you shall see the other room, the old peasant woman said; and she led them into a small apartment which was evidently intended for a study. It bore evidences of unusual taste and care, and one could see that some loving hand had been trying to make it a real sanctum of refinement. There was even a small piano. A carved book-rack was fastened to the wall.

The old dame did not speak at first; she gave her guests time to recover from the astonishment which she felt they must be experiencing; then she pointed proudly to the piano.

The old dame did not speak at first; she gave her guests time to recover from the astonishment which she felt they must be experiencing; then she pointed proudly to the piano.

I bought that for my daughters, she said, with a strange mixture of sadness and triumph. I wanted to keep them at home with me, and I saved and saved, and got enough money to buy the piano. They had always wanted to have one, and I thought they would then stay with me. They liked music and books, and I knew they would be glad to have a room of their own where they might read and play and study; and so I gave them this corner.

Well, mother, asked the little girl, and where are they this afternoon?

Ah, she answered sadly, they did not care to stay; but it was natural enough, and I was foolish to grieve. Besides, they come to see me.

And then they play to you? asked the little girl, gently.

They say the piano is out of tune, the old dame said. I dont know. Perhaps you can tell.

The little girl sat down to the piano, and struck a few chords.

Yes, she said; it is badly out of tune. Give me the tuning-hammer. I am sorry, she added, smiling at Oswald Everard, but I cannot neglect my duty. Dont wait for me.

I will wait for you, he said, sullenly; and he went into the balcony and smoked his pipe, and tried to possess his soul in patience.

When she had faithfully done her work she played a few simple melodies, such as she knew the old woman would love and understand; and she turned away when she saw that the listeners eyes were moist.

Play once again, the old woman whispered. I am dreaming of beautiful things.

So the little tuner touched the keys again with all the tenderness of an angel.

Tell your daughters, she said, as she rose to say good-bye, that the piano is now in good tune. Then they will play to you the next time they come.

I shall always remember you, mademoiselle, the old woman said; and, almost unconsciously, she took the childish face and kissed it.

Oswald Everard was waiting in the hay-field for his companion; and when she apologised to him for this little professional intermezzo, as she called it, he recovered from his sulkiness and readjusted his nerves, which the noise of the tuning had somewhat disturbed.

It was very good of you to tune the old dames piano, he said, looking at her with renewed interest.

Some one had to do it, of course, she answered, brightly, and I am glad the chance fell to me. What a comfort it is to think that the next time those daughters come to see her they will play to her and make her very happy! Poor old dear!

You puzzle me greatly, he said. I cannot for the life of me think what made you choose your calling. You must have many gifts; any one who talks with you must see that at once. And you play quite nicely, too.

I am sorry that my profession sticks in your throat, she answered. Do be thankful that I am nothing worse than a tuner. For I might be something worse a snob, for instance.

And, so speaking, she dashed after a butterfly, and left him to recover from her words. He was conscious of having deserved a reproof; and when at last he overtook her he said as much, and asked for her kind indulgence.

I forgive you, she said, laughing. You and I are not looking at things from the same point of view; but we have had a splendid morning together, and I have enjoyed every minute of it. And to-morrow I go on my way.

And to-morrow you go, he repeated. Can it not be the day after to-morrow?

I am a bird of passage, she said, shaking her head. You must not seek to detain me. I have taken my rest, and off I go to other climes.

They had arrived at the hotel, and Oswald Everard saw no more of his companion until the evening, when she came down rather late for table dhote. She hurried over her dinner and went into the salon. She closed the door, and sat down to the piano, and lingered there without touching the keys; once or twice she raised her hands, and then she let them rest on the notes, and, half unconsciously, they began to move and make sweet music; and then they drifted into Schumanns Abendlied, and then the little girl played some of his Kinderscenen, and some of his Fantasie Stucke, and some of his songs.

Her touch and feeling were exquisite, and her phrasing betrayed the true musician. The strains of music reached the dining-room, and, one by one, the guests came creeping in, moved by the music and anxious to see the musician.

The little girl did not look up; she was in a Schumann mood that evening, and only the players of Schumann know what enthralling possession he takes of their very spirit. All the passion and pathos and wildness and longing had found an inspired interpreter; and those who listened to her were held by the magic which was her own secret, and which had won for her such honour as comes only to the few. She understood Schumanns music, and was at her best with him.

Had she, perhaps, chosen to play his music this evening because she wished to be at her best? Or was she merely being impelled by an overwhelming force within her? Perhaps it was something of both.

Was she wishing to humiliate these people who had received her so coldly? This little girl was only human; perhaps there was something of that feeling too. Who can tell? But she played as she had never played in London, or Paris, or Berlin, or New York, or Philadelphia.

At last she arrived at the Carnaval, and those who heard her declared afterward that they had never listened to a more magnificent rendering. The tenderness was so restrained; the vigour was so refined. When the last notes of that spirited Marche des Davidsbundler contre les Philistins had died away, she glanced at Oswald Everard, who was standing near her almost dazed.

And now my favourite piece of all, she said; and she at once began the Second Novelette, the finest of the eight, but seldom played in public.

What can one say of the wild rush of the leading theme, and the pathetic longing of the intermezzo?

and

What can one say of those vague aspirations and finest thoughts which possess the very dullest among us when such music as that which the little girl had chosen catches us and keeps us, if only for a passing moment, but that moment of the rarest worth and loveliness in our unlovely lives?

What can one say of the highest music except that, like death, it is the great leveller: it gathers us all to its tender keeping and we rest.

The little girl ceased playing. There was not a sound to be heard; the magic was still holding her listeners. When at last they had freed themselves with a sigh, they pressed forward to greet her.

There is only one person who can play like that, cried the major, with sudden inspiration she is Miss Thyra Flowerdew.

The little girl smiled.

That is my name, she said, simply; and she slipped out of the room.

The next morning, at an early hour, the bird of passage took her flight onward, but she was not destined to go off unobserved. Oswald Everard saw the little figure swinging along the road, and she overtook her.

You little wild bird! he said. And so this was your great idea to have your fun out of us all, and then play to us and make us feel I dont know how, and then to go.