The Old Flute-Player | Page 2

that much hit mykes me think o' Roman Catholics an'
such," the landlady replied.

Then, for a time, she paused in thought, while the slavey lost herself in
dreams that, possibly, she had been serving and been worshiping a real
princess. As the height of the ambition of all such as she, in London, is
to be humble before rank, the mere thought filled her with delight and
multiplied into the homage of a subject for an over-lord the love she
felt already for the charming German girl of whom they spoke.
"She might be," said the landlady, at length.
"W'at? Princesses?" inquired the wistful slavey.
The landlady looked shrewdly at her. It might be that by thus confiding
to the servant her own speculations as to her lodgers' rank, she had been
sowing seed of some extravagance. Hypnotized by the idea, the slavey
might slip to the two mysterious Germans, sometime, something which
would not be charged upon the bill! "Nothink of the sort!" she cried,
therefore, hastily. "An' don't you never tyke no coals to 'em that you
don't tell abaht--you 'ear?"
The slavey promised, but the seed was sown. From that time on full
many a small attention fell to the Herr Kreutzer and his pretty,
gentle-mannered, dark-haired, big-eyed Anna of which the landlady
knew nothing, and many a dream of romance did the smutted slavey's
small, sad eyes see in the kitchen fire on lonely evenings while she was
waiting for the last lodger to come in before she went to bed behind the
kindlings-bin. And the central figures of these dreams were, always, the
beautiful young German girl and her dignified, independent, shabby,
courteous old father.
In the small orchestra where Kreutzer played, he made no friends
among the other musical performers; when the manager of the dingy
little theatre politely tried to pump him as to details of his history he
managed to evade all answers in the least illuminating, although he
never failed to do so with complete politeness.
All that really was known of him was that he had arrived in London,
years ago, with only two possessions which he seemed to value, and,
indeed, but two which were worth valuing. One of these, of course, was

his exquisite young daughter, then a little child; the other was his
wonderful old flute. The daughter he secluded with the jealous care of a
far-eastern parent; the flute he played upon with an artistic skill
unequalled in the history of orchestras in that small theatre.
With it he could easily have found a place in the best orchestra in
London, but, apparently, he did not care to offer such a band his
services. On the one or two occasions when a "cruising listener" for the
big orchestras came to the little theatre, heard the old man's masterful
performance, found himself enthralled by it and made the marvelous
flute-player a rich offer, the old man refused peremptorily even to talk
the matter over with him--to the great delight of the small manager,
who was paying but a pittance for his splendid work.
So anxious did Herr Kreutzer seem to be to keep from winning notice
from the outside world, indeed, that when a stranger who might
possibly be one of those explorers after merit in dim places appeared
there in the little theatre, the other members of the orchestra felt quite
sure of wretched playing from the grey-haired flutist. If it chanced that
they had noticed no such stranger, but yet Herr Kreutzer struck false
notes persistently, they all made sure that they had missed the entrance
of the "cruiser," searched the audience for him with keen and
speculative eyes and played their very best, certain that the man was
there and hopeful of attracting the attention and the approbation which
the old flute-player shunned. More than one had thus been warned, to
their great good.
And Herr Kreutzer, on such evenings, was privileged to strike false
notes with painful iteration, even to the actual distress of auditors,
without a word of criticism from the leader or the manager.
Excruciating discord from the flute, on three or four nights of a season,
was accepted as part payment for such playing, upon every other night,
as seldom had been heard from any flute in any orchestra in London or
elsewhere.
The theatre saw very little of the daughter. Once at the beginning of the
run of every fit new play, the flute-player requested of the manager a
box and always got it. In this box, on such occasions, his daughter sat

in solitary state, enjoying with a childish fervor the mumming of the
actors on the stage, the story of the play, the music of the orchestra.
Such glimpses, only, had the theatre of her. Her father never introduced