Stories by English Authors in Germany(旅德英国作家的故事)

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STORIES

By English Authors in Germany

STORIES

THE BIRD ON ITS JOURNEY

BY BEATRICE HARRADEN

It was about four in the afternoon when a young girl came into the

salon of the little hotel at C---- in Switzerland, and drew her chair up to the

fire.

"You are soaked through," said an elderly lady, who was herself trying

to get roasted. "You ought to lose no time in changing your clothes."

"I have not anything to change," said the young girl, laughing. "Oh, I

shall soon be dry!"

"Have you lost all your luggage?" asked the lady, sympathetically.

"No," said the young girl; "I had none to lose." And she smiled a little

mischievously, as though she knew by instinct that her companion's

sympathy would at once degenerate into suspicion!

"I don't mean to say that I have not a knapsack," she added,

considerately. "I have walked a long distance--in fact, from Z----."

"And where did you leave your companions?" asked the lady, with a

touch of forgiveness in her voice.

"I am without companions, just as I am without luggage," laughed the

girl.

And then she opened the piano, and struck a few notes. There was

something caressing in the way in which she touched the keys; whoever

she was, she knew how to make sweet music; sad music, too, full of that

undefinable longing, like the holding out of one's arms to one's friends in

the hopeless distance.

The lady bending over the fire looked up at the little girl, and forgot

that she had brought neither friends nor luggage with her. She hesitated for

one moment, and then she took the childish face between her hands and

kissed it.

"Thank you, dear, for your music," she said, gently.

"The piano is terribly out of tune," said the little girl, suddenly; and

she ran out of the room, and came back carrying her knapsack.

"What are you going to do?" asked her companion.

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"I am going to tune the piano," the little girl said; and she took a

tuning-hammer out of her knapsack, and began her work in real earnest.

She evidently knew what she was about, and pegged away at the notes as

though her whole life depended upon the result.

The lady by the fire was lost in amazement. Who could she be?

Without luggage and without friends, and with a tuning-hammer!

Meanwhile one of the gentlemen had strolled into the salon; but

hearing the sound of tuning, and being in secret possession of nerves, he

fled, saying, "The tuner, by Jove!"

A few minutes afterward Miss Blake, whose nerves were no secret

possession, hastened into the salon, and, in her usual imperious fashion,

demanded instant silence.

"I have just done," said the little girl. "The piano was so terribly out of

tune, I could not resist the temptation."

Miss Blake, who never listened to what any one said, took it for

granted that the little girl was the tuner for whom M. le Proprietaire had

promised to send; and having bestowed on her a condescending nod,

passed out into the garden, where she told some of the visitors that the

piano had been tuned at last, and that the tuner was a young woman of

rather eccentric appearance.

"Really, it is quite abominable how women thrust themselves into

every profession," she remarked, in her masculine voice. "It is so

unfeminine, so unseemly."

There was nothing of the feminine about Miss Blake; her horse-cloth

dress, her waistcoat and high collar, and her billycock hat were of the

masculine genus; even her nerves could not be called feminine, since we

learn from two or three doctors (taken off their guard) that nerves are

neither feminine nor masculine, but common.

"I should like to see this tuner," said one of the tennis-players, leaning

against a tree.

"Here she comes," said Miss Blake, as the little girl was seen

sauntering into the garden.

The men put up their eye-glasses, and saw a little lady with a childish

face and soft brown hair, of strictly feminine appearance and bearing. The

STORIES

goat came toward her and began nibbling at her frock. She seemed to

understand the manner of goats, and played with him to his heart's content.

One of the tennis players, Oswald Everard by name, strolled down to the

bank where she was having her frolic.

"Good-afternoon," he said, raising his cap. "I hope the goat is not

worrying you. Poor little fellow! this is his last day of play. He is to be

killed to-morrow for /table d'hote/."

"What a shame!" she said. "Fancy to be killed, and then grumbled at!"

"That is precisely what we do here," he said, laughing. "We grumble at

everything we eat. And I own to being one of the grumpiest; though the

lady in the horse-cloth dress yonder follows close upon my heels."

"She was the lady who was annoyed at me because I tuned the piano,"

the little girl said. "Still, it had to be done. It was plainly my duty. I

seemed to have come for that purpose."

"It has been confoundedly annoying having it out of tune," he said.

"I've had to give up singing altogether. But what a strange profession you

have chosen! Very unusual, isn't it?"

"Why, surely not," she answered, amused. "It seems to me that every

other woman has taken to it. The wonder to me is that any one ever scores

a success. Nowadays, however, no one could amass a huge fortune out of

it."

"No one, indeed!" replied Oswald Everard, laughing. "What on earth

made you take to it?"

"It took to me," she said simply. "It wrapped me round with

enthusiasm. I could think of nothing else. I vowed that I would rise to the

top of my profession. I worked day and night. But it means incessant toil

for years if one wants to make any headway."

"Good gracious! I thought it was merely a matter of a few months," he

said, smiling at the little girl.

"A few months!" she repeated, scornfully. "You are speaking the

language of an amateur. No; one has to work faithfully year after year; to

grasp the possibilities, and pass on to greater possibilities. You imagine

what it must feel like to touch the notes, and know that you are keeping

the listeners spellbound; that you are taking them into a fairy-land of

STORIES

sound, where petty personality is lost in vague longing and regret."

"I confess I had not thought of it in that way," he said, humbly. "I have

only regarded it as a necessary every-day evil; and to be quite honest with

you, I fail to see now how it can inspire enthusiasm. I wish I could see," he

added, looking up at the engaging little figure before him.

"Never mind," she said, laughing at his distress; "I forgive you. And,

after all, you are not the only person who looks upon it as a necessary evil.

My poor old guardian abominated it. He made many sacrifices to come

and listen to me. He knew I liked to see his kind old face, and that the

presence of a real friend inspired me with confidence."

"I should not have thought it was nervous work," he said.

"Try it and see," she answered. "But surely you spoke of singing. Are

you not nervous when you sing?" "Sometimes," he replied, rather stiffly.

"But that is slightly different." (He was very proud of his singing, and

made a great fuss about it.) "Your profession, as I remarked before, is an

unavoidable nuisance. When I think what I have suffered from the

gentlemen of your profession, I only wonder that I have any brains left.

But I am uncourteous."

"No, no," she said; "let me hear about your sufferings."

"Whenever I have specially wanted to be quiet," he said--and then he

glanced at her childish little face, and he hesitated. "It seems so rude of

me," he added. He was the soul of courtesy, although he was an amateur

tenor singer.

"Please tell me," the little girl said, in her winning way.

"Well," he said, gathering himself together, "it is the one subject on

which I can be eloquent. Ever since I can remember, I have been worried

and tortured by those rascals. I have tried in every way to escape from

them, but there is no hope for me. Yes; I believe that all the tuners in the

universe are in league against me, and have marked me out for their

special prey."

"/All the what/?" asked the little girl, with a jerk in her voice.

"All the tuners, of course," he replied, rather snappishly. "I know that

we cannot do without them; but good heavens! they have no tact, no

consideration, no mercy. Whenever I've wanted to write or read quietly,

STORIES

that fatal knock has come at the door, and I've known by instinct that all

chance of peace was over. Whenever I've been giving a luncheon party, the

tuner has arrived, with his abominable black bag, and his abominable card

which has to be signed at once. On one occasion I was just proposing to a

girl in her father's library when the tuner struck up in the drawing-room. I

left off suddenly, and fled from the house. But there is no escape from

these fiends; I believe they are swarming about in the air like so many

bacteria. And how, in the name of goodness, you should deliberately

choose to be one of them, and should be so enthusiastic over your work,

puzzles me beyond all words. Don't say that you carry a black bag, and

present cards which have to be filled up at the most inconvenient time;

don't--"

He stopped suddenly, for the little girl was convulsed with laughter.

She laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks, and then she dried her

eyes and laughed again.

"Excuse me," she said; "I can't help myself; it's so funny."

"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.

STORIES

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.

STORIES

"/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

STORIES

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.

STORIES

"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."

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STORIES1STORIESByEnglishAuthorsinGermanySTORIES2THEBIRDONITSJOURNEYBYBEATRICEHARRADENItwasaboutfourintheafternoonwhenayounggirlcameintothesalonofthelittlehotelatC----inSwitzerland,anddrewherchairuptothefire."Youaresoakedthrough,"saidanelderlylady,whowasherselftryingtogetroasted."Yououghttolosenotime...

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Stories by English Authors in Germany(旅德英国作家的故事)

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