Stories by English Authors: Germany (Selected by Scribners) | Page 4

"You are not really serious?"
"Yes, I am," she said. "I don't want them to know my name. It will only
worry me. Say I am the young lady who tuned the piano."
She had scarcely given these directions and mounted to her room when
Oswald Everard, who was much interested in his mysterious
companion, came to the bureau, and asked for the name of the little
lady.
"Es ist das Fraulein welches das Piano gestimmt hat," answered the
man, returning with unusual quickness to his account-book.
No one spoke to the little girl at table d'hote, but for all that she
enjoyed her dinner, and gave her serious attention to all the courses.
Being thus solidly occupied, she had not much leisure to bestow on the
conversation of the other guests. Nor was it specially original; it treated
of the short-comings of the chef, the tastelessness of the soup, the
toughness of the beef, and all the many failings which go to complete a
mountain hotel dinner. But suddenly, so it seemed to the little girl, this
time-honoured talk passed into another phase; she heard the word
"music" mentioned, and she became at once interested to learn what
these people had to say on a subject which was dearer to her than any
other.
"For my own part," said a stern-looking old man, "I have no words to
describe what a gracious comfort music has been to me all my life. It is

the noblest language which man may understand and speak. And I
sometimes think that those who know it, or know something of it, are
able at rare moments to find an answer to life's perplexing problems."
The little girl looked up from her plate. Robert Browning's words rose
to her lips, but she did not give them utterance:
God has a few of us whom He whispers in the ear; The rest may reason,
and welcome; 'tis we musicians know.
"I have lived through a long life," said another elderly man, "and have
therefore had my share of trouble; but the grief of being obliged to give
up music was the grief which held me longest, or which perhaps has
never left me. I still crave for the gracious pleasure of touching once
more the strings of the violoncello, and hearing the dear, tender voice
singing and throbbing, and answering even to such poor skill as mine. I
still yearn to take my part in concerted music, and be one of those
privileged to play Beethoven's string-quartettes. But that will have to be
in another incarnation, I think."
He glanced at his shrunken arm, and then, as though ashamed of this
allusion to his own personal infirmity, he added hastily:
"But when the first pang of such a pain is over, there remains the
comfort of being a listener. At first one does not think it is a comfort;
but as time goes on there is no resisting its magic influence. And
Lowell said rightly that 'one of God's great charities is music.'"
"I did not know you were musical, Mr. Keith," said an English lady.
"You have never before spoken of music."
"Perhaps not, madam," he answered. "One does not often speak of what
one cares for most of all. But when I am in London I rarely miss
hearing our best players."
At this point others joined in, and the various merits of eminent pianists
were warmly discussed.

"What a wonderful name that little English lady has made for herself!"
said the major, who was considered an authority on all subjects. "I
would go anywhere to hear Miss Thyra Flowerdew. We all ought to be
very proud of her. She has taken even the German musical world by
storm, and they say her recitals at Paris have been brilliantly successful.
I myself have heard her at New York, Leipsic, London, Berlin, and
even Chicago."
The little girl stirred uneasily in her chair.
"I don't think Miss Flowerdew has ever been to Chicago," she said.
There was a dead silence. The admirer of Miss Thyra Flowerdew
looked much annoyed, and twiddled his watch-chain. He had meant to
say "Philadelphia," but he did not think it necessary to own to his
mistake.
"What impertinence!" said one of the ladies to Miss Blake. "What can
she know about it? Is she not the young person who tuned the piano?"
"Perhaps she tunes Miss Thyra Flowerdew's piano!" suggested Miss
Blake, in a loud whisper.
"You are right, madam," said the little girl, quietly. "I have often tuned
Miss Flowerdew's piano."
There was another embarrassing silence; and then a lovely old lady,
whom every one reverenced, came to the rescue.
"I think her playing is simply superb," she said. "Nothing that I ever
hear satisfies me so entirely. She has all