The Scranton tribune. [volume] (Scranton, Pa.) 1891-1910, 1897-11-30

notes of the Dead March in Saul
1t was remarkably inaccurate, and
even he seemed to realize that he was
not doing justice to himself.
He broke ofr and sat disconsolatelY
swinging his legs to and fro on the
high music stool, one shoulder sulkily
turned toward the audience. The audi
ence applauded: 1t was what they
knew was expected Of them
Dear, wee fellow-what a thorough
child he was! Doubtless his kind old
teacher would have to coax him to COM
mence-with a toy, perhaps, or a sweet
meat.
Captain Somerset left his seat and
made his way round to the back of the
platform. The little performers moth
er, a gifted amateur violinist, appeared
beside the piano, and gently placed
his hands on the keys. 1t was n pretty
sight and appealed to every parent in
the audience-the lovely woman bend
ing over her talented little son and
tcnderly urging him to proceed.
Il remember nowi" he cried. hast
lily. Let me alone. mother: let me
alone! ! am not cross, only--the wrong
tunes are tlngling in my head and fin
gers"
It was really lamentable. The poor
| child was evidently unlike himself and
| nervous. The good hearted audience
, cheered him to the echo with frantic
enthusiasm and sympathy as he once
again broke off from the faulty, halt
ing Dead March" and scrambled down
from the stool.
Il can't | can't can't" he vhis-
pered. in unreasoning fear, hiding his
head against his mothers gown. 1T
is all n mass of little jumping notes
that hurt my eyes. they frighten me
and-oh. yes, let me get back. Herr
Professor; Push the stool nearer
/ please; Il LITTLE nearer; remember
/ now
Could his dead father hear him FUN
| bling hclplessly amongst the notes Of
the tune" that was to rouse him even
from death?
one or two amongst the audience
hisSch. but they We're Indignantly clap
/ ped down by the tendcr-hearted ma
! jority.
/ And Capt Somerset pushed past
/ mother ana teacher. and put his arms
/ i'm projecting fatherly fashion about
| the little figure at the piano.
| Henri Jeune had made a humiliating
| ending To his musical career, and was
| now weeping bitterly upon the keys of
the piaEG-his face hid len in the trem-
ulous hands that had forever lost their
! cunning.
ITS the only tune I can play" he
! walled, the only tune I can play! [
! shall never remember anything else,
! r-never-never!"
That was the end Of Henri Jeune.
Henry Somerset became. i'm time, a
| dull-one Of the very dulest-of her
| majestys subalterns, and by sheer
| dogged heroism and manliness-unas
sisted by "soul"-won for himself fame
| and honor, as the Somersets have done
from time immemorial.
But what a musician was lost in lit e
tie Henri Jeune. He was taken abroad
| by an uncle-it was said-for rest and
| reCre alton, and his place at concert
| halls knows him no more.
| Major Henry Somerset can tell YOU
all about it, Not very feelingly. per-
haps, for the major is the most matter
| of-fact, unmusCal man on the face of
! the earth. The story, as he tells it. is
| not without a certain Vein of humor
| and he illustrates it by a truly disas-
| trouS performance on a piano of the
| Dear March in SAUL faulty as to
time and eXcruciatingly incorrect. Like
his father before him, it is the only
tune that he can play. He himself
vows that it is tune, and sturdily lays
| claim to playing it.
No doubt he is right. Henri Jeune
! played it thus. and all the world ad-
| mitred that he was a born musician.
! He played it thus at his last public
| appearance in the S. halI--the dead
march to his prospective greatness. the
| funeral dirge to his lost career Henri
| Jeune is, professionally, dead; but a
| dull heart beats somewhere that was
once his. Clumsy fngers-which were
| once Henri Jeune's-torture piano
and pitilessly manglc an immortal
| work.
1t is all the music he will ever play
the rest was blotted from his MEM
! Ory as though it had never been.
Whilst the duh heart beats, whilst
| the clumsy fingers stir, he will re-
| member nothing else in the world OF
| harmonies, ncvcr-neVcr-ncvcr.