Smyrna times., 1911-10-04
=. STARVED =.

son, and here was Griselda again. |
/ called her Griselda because she
was so patient: every opera and !
symphony night for three years had
found her there, at the head of the
crush" line, standing uncomplain-
ingly, waiting only for the doors to
open.
My own work lies so near the
opera house, that it would be easy
for me to be first, but Griselda
always arrived before me. Then,
with a ring of poor music students,
and poorer music teachers like my
self and poverty stricken music
lovers of various sorts, we would
stand and chat, talking of this, of
that, of nothing, of everything. But
never of ourselves. am not proud
of the shabby wreck of dead ambi-
tions that l am myself, and there
was haughy reticence about Griselda
that forbade confidence.
Chis first night of this season,
however, for some reason-the ex-
citement of hearing the great Can
taro, the melancholy softness of the
autumn evening, what you will
the ice was broken on both sides.
Never mind what l had to tell; it
would not interest you, and it would
only hurt me. But let me tell you
Griselda 5 story.
She dropped her handbag re.
member, a worn little brown thing,
like herself. The initials on it were
"P. L. "Your own? 1 asked
"a foolish question to make con-
: versation
eyes," she said, "my name is
Pepits Lowegrund'
l remarked on the strange COM
bination. She answered that she
was the child of an Italian mother
and a Danish father. l said that
that accounted for her light hair
and dark skin. Then the conversa-
tion languished.
All at once she turned to me in g
queer intense little way.
q "Do you know" she said, how
they feed a starving man, little BY
: little, and sometimes he dies of thu
# food he has craved too long?
: have been starved all my life, ant
: now l am eating food for the frs
: time.
g "Did you ever hear of Marghariti
4 Leonini? She was a concert violin
E ist 40 years ago, and she was m
n mother. My father came and too
= = her away from the stage and mar
t. ried her, and she had me and died
ooi That is all her life.
81 do not know why my fathe
married my mother; he disapprove
of everything she did, and among a
his own musical countrymen he hasn
a spark of music in his soul. Whe
she died, he took all her things, he
Y clothes, her violin and all, and shu
them up in the attic of our house
Then he started to bring me U
after his own ideas.
IS "But l was born wrong. H
IS could regulate my days and night
99SS by rule, he could turn me into
I'D stiff, shining-faced little girl, wit
Of straight pigtails down her wei
Sc scrubbed neck, but he couldn't kee
TT me from being a musician at hear
t. l used to follow even the handorga
T 'tn men around town, helping the
IS trundle their organs only to he;
ec- them play.
ID ID "The only good music I heal
was in church-not my father
~ church, for that was a hard-bencht
pIace-but the churches of other
where I would creep in and sit
the back to hear the organ play al
{. the choir sing and fairly cry wi
the painful joy of music.
"Then one day found r
So mothers things in the attic. e
perimented. | discovered that mus
came from the violin. After tn
l lived in the attic whenever I
}. father was away. 1 played trus
from school until my teacher cor
planned; and my father beat l
until his arm was tired, but / wou
not tell where l had been. lw
~ when l found the violin and "
O Is when | ran away from home.
lone rainy afternoon l was pls
ing to myself, the queer little thin
/ made up for want of better mus
voice called to me from do
stairs. 1t was not my fathers, |