The guardian. [volume] (Boston, Mass.) 1901-1960, 1939-01-28
SHORT
SHORT
STORY

felt hat. He pushed
forward soiled left hand.
Two bits, miss, JUS two bits"
he whined.
l stared at that cracked, pal
sled hand and down at the other
hanging by his side with a terrible
stiffness, and wondered about them.
They were not proletarian hands,
stunted with sin, fiabby with excess,
wizened with rapacity. They had
not been created to pander and
beg. They were meant for finer,
bigger things: the chisel, the brush,
the baton.
"Ah, miss l am poo poor"
Then in a whee~..ng tone, Gus
two bits"
reached for my pocketbook.
What will you do with it?" speak
ing aloud a subconscious thought.
My eyes followed the shaken ex-
tended forefnger down t narrow
alley to the dim end where it rose
to meet the accumulated nrilliancy
"But that is the Opera nouse!"
cried in establishment.
Eyes. l go to hear-him" The
thin arm lifted slightly upward.
Clean-cut against the night sky, in
titanic letters seemingly writ with
fire, name glowed steadily for
moment, burned out, then famed
with brighter vehemence, only to
die again.
l sucked in my breath. 'Malte-
Bruu!" So swiftly did I turn, the
old man fell back a pace.
'Wait!" I called. I clutched at
the arm nearest to me. 1t was chill
lifeless paralyzed. I
fumbled in my purse, Here! Take
it! No don't thank me. Pm going
with you"
All the music lovers of the city
had gathered in the colossal audi
forum to listen to those consum-
mate symphonies which the fingers
of only Malte-Brun could entice
from the soul of the piano, and when
the tall, gaunt maestro stepped out
upon the stage, they gave him tu-
multuous welcome.
l was aware of the old man hitch
ing forward eagerly as the maestro
seated himself before the keyboard.
The sudden quiet was cloven by the
majestic opening chords of Grieg's
Norwegian Bridal Procession"
and into the misshapen face, fixed
so intently on the distant hoary-
haired musician, came a look Of
infinite calm, altering and making
of it the face of a thirsty child
whose parched lips have at last
tasted the soothing cool of spring
water.
Throughout the recital he sat thus,
until the final number, brief COM
position by Conrad Rahbek, called
'Disillusion, Then he stiffened.
That was all
l shall never forget Malte-Brun's
rendition of that weird selection.
The agony and grief of humanity
since creation was packed into those
limited measures, the sobbing of
strong men, the screams of mad
men, the curses of Goddess men, and
the prayers of dying men. l was
like some one dead when it ended.
Speech froze in my throat.
Outside the snow was falling with
that undisturbed, feather-like tran
guilty which enamates an imagi-
nary warmness. 1 threw back my
head and let the downy fakes brush
my throbbing temples.
Fingers plucked at my sleeve,
long fingers, tapering and sensitive.
l started guilty. 1 had forgotten
my companion.
"Now l CO." he murmured in a
husky voice.
"That last piece it was"
l choked.
"You liked it, miss?"
"Did not your"
He made no reply, but dropped
his wrinkled lids over his pale blue
eyes, mechanically smoothing his
breastpocket.
Finally he spoke. I'D like to
give you somethin', MISS" he fall
tered, "somethin' for t'night. It's
no good to me no more. Once
I thought"
He glanced over his twisted shout
der into the foyer of the Opera
house. 1t was dark now. He swal-
lowed noisily.
Funny" he went on, "the
dreams y dream when you're
young. You know" He commenced
to shout hoarsely. "But don't let
them git you, miss,-DON'T-LET-
THEM-GIT-YOU." He straight
ened. "Ah forgive forget
Here, miss. Take it, with the
blessin' of God and a beggar
Goodnight"
And he was gone, the snow Weav-
ing a sibilant white curtain about
him and blurring with a motherly
tenderness the ugly outline of his
warped form.
I FASTENED to the window of a
pharmacy and unfolded the grimy
manila wrappings of a package in
my hand. The light streamed out