Far-away Stories. Locke William John

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СКАЧАТЬ came the inevitable check. Nothing more would come. He rose and walked about the room, his head swimming. After a quarter of an hour he played over what he had written, and then, with a groan of despair, fell forward, his arms on the keys, his bushy white head on his arms.

      The door opened, and Sonia, comely and shapely, entered the room, carrying a tray with food and drink set out on a white cloth. Seeing him bowed over the piano, she put the tray on the table and advanced.

      "Dear godfather," she said gently, her hand on his shoulder.

      He raised his head and smiled.

      "I did not hear you, my little Sonia."

      "You have been composing?"

      He sat upright, and tore the pencilled sheets into fragments, which he dropped in a handful on the floor.

      "Once, long ago, I had a dream. I lost it. To-day I thought that I had found it. But do you know what I did really find?"

      "No, godfather," replied Sonia, stooping, with housewifely tidiness, to pick up the litter.

      "That I am a poor old fool," said he.

      Sonia threw the paper into the grate and again came up behind him.

      "It is better to have lost a dream than never to have had one at all. What was your dream?"

      "I thought I could write the Song of Life as I heard it – as I hear it still." He smote his forehead lightly. "But no! God has not considered me worthy to sing it. I bow my head to His – to His" – he sought for the word with thin fingers – "to His decree."

      She said, with the indulgent wisdom of youth speaking to age:

      "He has given you the power to love and to win love."

      The old man swung round on the music-stool and put his arm round her waist and smiled into her young face.

      "Geoffrey is a very fortunate fellow."

      "Because he's a successful composer?"

      He looked at her and shook his head, and Sonia, knowing what he meant, blushed very prettily. Then she laughed and broke away.

      "Mother has had seventeen partridges sent her as presents this week, and she wants you to help her eat them, and father's offered a bargain in some good Beaujolais, and won't decide until you tell him what you think of it."

      Deftly she set out the meal, and drew a chair to the table. Angelo Fardetti rose.

      "That I should love you all," said he simply, "is only human, but that you should so much love me is more than I can understand."

      You see, he knew that watchful ears had missed his usual outgoing footsteps, and that watchful hearts had divined the reason. To refuse, to hesitate, would be to reject love. So there was no more to be said. He sat down meekly, and Sonia ministered to his wants. As soon as she saw that he was making headway with the partridge and the burgundy, she too sat by the table.

      "Godfather," she said, "I've had splendid news this morning."

      "Geoffrey?"

      "Of course. What other news could be splendid? His Symphony in E flat is going to be given at the Queen's Hall."

      "That is indeed beautiful news," said the old man, laying down knife and fork, "but I did not know that he had written a Symphony in E flat."

      "That was why he went and buried himself for months in Cornwall – to finish it," she explained.

      "I knew nothing about it. Aie! aie!" he sighed. "It is to you, and no longer to me, that he tells things."

      "You silly, jealous old dear!" she laughed. "He had to account for deserting me all the summer. But as to what it's all about, I'm as ignorant as you are. I've not heard a note of it. Sometimes Geoff is like that, you know. If he's dead certain sure of himself, he won't have any criticism or opinions while the work's in progress. It's only when he's doubtful that he brings one in. And the doubtful things are never anything like the certain ones. You must have noticed it."

      "That is true," said Angelo Fardetti, taking up knife and fork again. "He was like that since he was a boy."

      "It is going to be given on Saturday fortnight. He'll conduct himself. They've got a splendid programme to send him off. Lembrich's going to play, and Carli's going to sing – just for his sake. Isn't it gorgeous?"

      "It is grand. But what does Geoffrey say about it? Come, come, after all he is not the sphinx." He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table.

      "Would you really like to know?"

      "I am waiting."

      "He says it's going to knock 'em!" she laughed.

      "Knock 'em?"

      "Those were his words."

      "But – "

      She interpreted into purer English. Geoffrey was confident that his symphony would achieve a sensational success.

      "In the meanwhile," said she, "if you don't finish your partridge you'll break mother's heart."

      She poured out a glass of burgundy, which the old man drank; but he refused the food.

      "No, no," he said, "I cannot eat more. I have a lump there – in my throat. I am too excited. I feel that he is marching to his great triumph. My little Geoffrey." He rose, knocking his chair over, and strode about the confined space. "Sacramento! But I am a wicked old man. I was sorrowful because I was so dull, so stupid that I could not write a sonata. I blamed the good God. Mea maxima culpa. And at once he sends me a partridge in a halo of love, and the news of my dear son's glory – "

      Sonia stopped him, her plump hands on the front of his old corrugated frock-coat.

      "And your glory, too, dear godfather. If it hadn't been for you, where would Geoffrey be? And who realises it more than Geoffrey? Would you like to see a bit of his letter? Only a little bit – for there's a lot of rubbish in it that I would be ashamed of anybody who thinks well of him to read – but just a little bit."

      Her hand was at the broad belt joining blouse and skirt. Angelo, towering above her, smiled with an old man's tenderness at the laughing love in her dark eyes, and at the happiness in her young, comely face. Her features were generous, and her mouth frankly large, but her lips were fresh and her teeth white and even, and to the old fellow she looked all that man could dream of the virginal mother-to-be of great sons. She fished the letter from her belt, scanned and folded it carefully.

      "There! Read."

      And Angelo Fardetti read:

      "I've learned my theory and technique, and God knows what – things that only they could teach me – from professors with world-famous names. But for real inspiration, for the fount of music itself, I come back all the time to our dear old maestro, Angelo Fardetti. I can't for the life of me define what it is, but he opened for me a secret chamber behind whose concealed door all these illustrious chaps have walked unsuspectingly. It seems silly to say it because, beyond a few odds and ends, the dear old man has composed nothing, but I am convinced that I owe the essentials of everything I do in music to his teaching and influence."

      Angelo gave СКАЧАТЬ