The Somerset reporter. [volume] (Skowhegan, Me.) 1868-1909, 1899-02-16

emile-a smile unlike his, Tor 1t had
naught Of scorn in it--there broke upon
the silence the opening bars of little
prelude, dainty and sweet in itself, but
the manner Of its playing veritable
triumph in mediocrity. 1t walled and
cried laboriously above the Poets head
and echoed about the window. 1t broke
into painful snatches and indifferent
rhythm.
The Poet sprang to his feet with an
exclamation of impatience. ITO spoil
that with thisl" he cried. "Oh, how
can shei' He bit his lips wrathfully
het he did not intend to have his dream
together spoiled and, his anger con-
! ering his WEAKNESS. he ran lightly up
the narrow stair.
He burst into the room of the stranger
without preface or prelude. and began
in a high pitched, womanish voice,
What in the world Then he
paused, for he found she was crying A
little, middle aged woman, with a
wrinkled face and funny elfn locks that
fell in a cloud about it. She was stand
ing in the middle of the room with her
music stretched out fatty ON the table
and her violin and bow in her hands
standing. the tears running thickly
down her pale cheeks, without making
any attempt to wipe them away.
The Poet felt even angrier than be.
fore Women of that age had no right
to cry SO openly, he thought. 1t went
against all his theories He was angry.
too that he had imagined her to be
young
what an abominable row p he said
savagely. And what are you crying
about? But it is enough to make any
one cry" He was not far from tears
himself with vexation.
She looked up at him wistfully-she
was but little thing-and without
any apparent surprise at his presence
or abrupt entrance. "Ahl | should not
have played again, she sobbed, latter
after | had given it up
Then | had Guessed arightl" cried
the Poet. Yesterday it was renuncia-
ton and today resignation. But what
had you given up? What have you re
nounced2 To what are you resigned q
II don't understand you, she said
uncomprehendingly. She laid her violin
on the table, hanging over it as moth
er does over her child
when you played yesterday
But I didn't play yesterday. she
cried. Il wanted to-oh. so badly. The
storm cried to me, the wind cried and
the sea cried. and | heard them all. |
took my violin in my hand, but could
tell nothing of what | heard. Oh, how
unhappy wasl Then L drew the bow
backward and forward across the
strings. but without touching them.
and imagined it all. l caught the sob
bling of the sea god on the end of my
bow. | sent out the cry of the gulls -
And the spray of the seal cried the
Poet.
And the eddy and gathering of the
foam -
"And the mutter of the waves.
And | thought of how | might have
played had not something something
been wanting Oh cried to God to
give me the power to play as--as my
sonl could play but for this thing
me that cannot.
THE cry for the unattainable, the
Poet Whispered to himself, but she did
not hear or heed him
II made resolution. She dried her
tears briefly at the recollection of it.
God would not give me my desire, so
| gave mp my semblance of it. for
wanted to keep my ideal. Then, when |
had quite made mp my mind, how |
could have played then But it would
not come.
The triumph, said the Poet. He
smiled imperceptibly to himself
But today it was all so dreary. II
was all over, and there was nothing
left And after had thought how it
was all over and my last note played
thought | would again say goodby to
my fiddle And l fetched it tout and
played goodby, hut without making a
sound And felt not bit sorry, but
only strange feeling here. She put
her hand ON her heart so played "A
real little bit to see if it would take It
away.
He did not speak. His dream had
come back 10 him, and his thoughts.
like white clouds, foated far, far away
Black and White.