In Midsummer Days and Other Tales | Page 7

So far, so good; but then the spring came, and it was so warm that it
was really pleasant to live in rooms with a northern aspect. His
bedroom joined the sitting-room; he always kept his bedroom in
pitch-black darkness by letting down the Venetian blinds; there were no
Venetian blinds in the sitting-room, because they were not wanted
there.
And the early summer came and everything grew green. The conductor
had dined at the restaurant "Hazelmount," and had drunk a bottle of
Burgundy with his dinner, and therefore he slept long and soundly,
especially as the theatre was closed on that day.
He slept well, but while he slept it grew so warm in the room that he
woke up two or three times, or, at any rate, he thought he did. Once he
fancied that his wall-paper was on fire, but that was probably the effect
of the Burgundy; another time he felt as if something hot had touched
his face, but that was certainly the Burgundy; and so he turned over and
fell asleep again.
At half-past nine he got up, dressed, and went into the sitting-room to
refresh himself with a glass of milk which always stood ready for him
in the morning.
It was anything but cool in the sitting-room this morning; it was almost
warm, too warm. And the cold milk was not cold; it was lukewarm,
unpleasantly lukewarm.
The conductor was not a hot-tempered man, but he liked order and
method in everything. Therefore he rang for old Louisa, and since he
made his first fifty remonstrances always in a very mild tone, he spoke
kindly but firmly to her, as she put her head through the door.
"Louisa," he said, "you have given me lukewarm milk."

"Oh! no, sir," replied Louisa, "it was quite cold, it must have got warm
in standing."
"Then you must have had a fire in the room; it's very warm here this
morning."
No, Louisa had not had a fire; and she retired into the kitchen, very
much hurt.
He forgave her for the milk. But a look round the sitting-room made
him feel very depressed. I must tell you that he had built a little private
altar in a corner, near the piano, which consisted of a small table with
two silver candlesticks, a large photograph of a young woman, and a
tall, gold-edged champagne glass. This glass--it was the glass he had
used on his wedding-day, and he was a widower now--always
contained a red rose in memory of and as an offering to her who once
had been the sunshine of his life. Whether it was summer or winter,
there was always a rose; and in the winter time it lasted a whole week,
that is to say if he trimmed the stem occasionally and put a little salt
into the water. Now, he had put a fresh rose into the glass only last
night, and to-day it was faded, shrivelled up, dead, with its head
drooping. This was a bad omen. He knew what sensitive creatures
flowers are, and had noticed that they thrive with some people and not
with others. He remembered how sometimes, in his wife's lifetime, her
rose, which always stood on her little work-table, had faded and died
quite unexpectedly. And he had also noticed that this always happened
when his sun was hiding behind a cloud, which after a while would
dissolve in large drops to the accompaniment of a low rumbling. Roses
must have peace and kind words; they can't bear harsh voices. They
love music, and sometimes he would play to the roses and they opened
their buds and smiled.
Now Louisa was a hard woman, and often muttered and growled to
herself when she turned out the room. There were days when she was
in a very bad temper, so that the milk curdled in the kitchen, and the
whole dinner tasted of discord, which the conductor noticed at once; for
he was himself like a delicate instrument, whose soul responded to
moods and influences which other people did not feel.

He concluded that Louisa had killed the rose; perhaps if she had
scolded the poor thing, or knocked the glass, or breathed on the flower
angrily, a treatment which it could not bear. Therefore he rang again;
and when Louisa put in her head, he said, not unkindly, but more firmly
than before:
"What have you done to my rose, Louisa?"
"Nothing, sir!"
"Nothing? Do you think the flower died without a very good reason?
You can see for yourself that there is no water in the glass! You must
have poured it away!"
As Louisa had done no such thing, she went into the kitchen and began
to cry, for it is disagreeable to be