Stories by English Authors: Germany

“It may be funny to you,” he said, laughing in spite of himself; “but it is not funny to me.”

“Of course it isn’t,” she replied, making a desperate effort to be serious. “Well, tell me something more about these tuners.”

“Not another word,” he said, gallantly. “I am ashamed of myself as it is. Come to the end of the garden, and let me show you the view down into the valley.”

She had conquered her fit of merriment, but her face wore a settled look of mischief, and she was evidently the possessor of some secret joke. She seemed in capital health and spirits, and had so much to say that was bright and interesting that Oswald Everard found himself becoming reconciled to the whole race of tuners. He was amazed to learn that she had walked all the way from Z – , and quite alone, too.

“Oh, I don’t think anything of that,” she said; “I had a splendid time, and I caught four rare butterflies. I would not have missed those for anything. As for the going about by myself, that is a second nature. Besides, I do not belong to any one. That has its advantages, and I suppose its disadvantages; but at present I have only discovered the advantages. The disadvantages will discover themselves!”

“I believe you are what the novels call an advanced young woman,” he said. “Perhaps you give lectures on woman’s suffrage, or something of that sort?”

“I have very often mounted the platform,” she answered. “In fact, I am never so happy as when addressing an immense audience. A most unfeminine thing to do, isn’t it? What would the lady yonder in the horse-cloth dress and billycock hat say? Don’t you think you ought to go and help her drive away the goat? She looks so frightened. She interests me deeply. I wonder whether she has written an essay on the feminine in woman. I should like to read it; it would do me so much good.”

“You are at least a true woman,” he said, laughing, “for I see you can be spiteful. The tuning has not driven that away.”

“Ah, I had forgotten about the tuning,” she answered, brightly; “but now you remind me, I have been seized with a great idea.”

“Won’t you tell it to me?” he asked.

“No,” she answered; “I keep my great ideas for myself, and work them out in secret. And this one is particularly amusing. What fun I shall have!”

“But why keep the fun to yourself?” he said. “We all want to be amused here; we all want to be stirred up; a little fun would be a charity.”

“Very well, since you wish it, you shall be stirred up,” she answered; “but you must give me time to work out my great idea. I do not hurry about things, not even about my professional duties; for I have a strong feeling that it is vulgar to be always amassing riches! As I have neither a husband nor a brother to support, I have chosen less wealth, and more leisure to enjoy all the loveliness of life! So you see I take my time about everything. And to-morrow I shall catch butterflies at my leisure, and lie among the dear old pines, and work at my great idea.”

“I shall catch butterflies,” said her companion; “and I too shall lie among the dear old pines.”

“Just as you please,” she said; and at that moment the table d’hote bell rang.

The little girl hastened to the bureau, and spoke rapidly in German to the cashier.

“Ach, Fraulein!” he said. “You are not really serious?”

“Yes, I am,” she said. “I don’t want them to know my name. It will only worry me. Say I am the young lady who tuned the piano.”

She had scarcely given these directions and mounted to her room when Oswald Everard, who was much interested in his mysterious companion, came to the bureau, and asked for the name of the little lady.

“Es ist das Fraulein welches das Piano gestimmt hat,” answered the man, returning with unusual quickness to his account-book.

No one spoke to the little girl at table d’hote, but for all that she enjoyed her dinner, and gave her serious attention to all the courses. Being thus solidly occupied, she had not much leisure to bestow on the conversation of the other guests. Nor was it specially original; it treated of the short-comings of the chef, the tastelessness of the soup, the toughness of the beef, and all the many failings which go to complete a mountain hotel dinner. But suddenly, so it seemed to the little girl, this time-honoured talk passed into another phase; she heard the word “music” mentioned, and she became at once interested to learn what these people had to say on a subject which was dearer to her than any other.

“For my own part,” said a stern-looking old man, “I have no words to describe what a gracious comfort music has been to me all my life. It is the noblest language which man may understand and speak. And I sometimes think that those who know it, or know something of it, are able at rare moments to find an answer to life’s perplexing problems.”

The little girl looked up from her plate. Robert Browning’s words rose to her lips, but she did not give them utterance:

God has a few of us whom He whispers in the ear;
The rest may reason, and welcome; ‘tis we musicians know.

“I have lived through a long life,” said another elderly man, “and have therefore had my share of trouble; but the grief of being obliged to give up music was the grief which held me longest, or which perhaps has never left me. I still crave for the gracious pleasure of touching once more the strings of the violoncello, and hearing the dear, tender voice singing and throbbing, and answering even to such poor skill as mine. I still yearn to take my part in concerted music, and be one of those privileged to play Beethoven’s string-quartettes. But that will have to be in another incarnation, I think.”

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 God’s 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 don’t 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 Flowerdew’s piano!” suggested Miss Blake, in a loud whisper.

“You are right, madam,” said the little girl, quietly. “I have often tuned Miss Flowerdew’s 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 angel’s 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 life’s 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.”