stories by english authors in germany(旅德英国作家的故事)-第4节
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〃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。
〃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
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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 don't 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。 Don't 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 listener's 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 dame's 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！〃
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〃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 worsea 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
d'hote/。 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 Schumann's 〃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
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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 Schumann's 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？
。 。 。 The murmuring dying notes； That fall as soft as snow
on the sea；
and
The passionate strain that； deeply going； Refines the
bosom it trembles through。
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 keepingand we rest。
The little girl ceased playing。 There was not a sound to be heard； the
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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。〃
