The Fortunes of Oliver Horn [162]
the strings with his bow. "And a wonderful instrument too," he continued, as he tightened one of its strings, his acute ear having detected a slight inaccuracy of pitch.
"I'm all ready, Mr. Simmons; now, if you please."
If the club and its guests had forgotten the old gentleman an hour before, the old gentleman had now quite forgotten them.
He played simply and easily, Simmons joining in, picking out the accompaniment, entirely unaware that anybody was listening, as unaware as he would have been had only the white-haired mistress been present, and perhaps Malachi stepping noiselessly in and out. When he ceased, and the audience had broken out into exclamations of delight, he looked about him as if surprised, and then, suddenly remembering the cause of it all, said, in a low, gentle voice, and with a pleasant smile: "I don't wonder you're delighted, gentlemen. It is to me the most divine of all his creations. There is only one Bach." That his hand had held the bow and that the merit of its expression lay with him, never seemed to have entered his head.
When the applause had died out, and Oliver with the others had crowded around his father to congratulate him, the young fellow's eyes fell upon Nathan, who was still sitting on the long divan, his head resting against the wall, his trembling legs crossed one over the other, the thin hands in his lap--Richard's skill was a never-ending delight to Nathan, and he had not lost a note that his bow had called out. The flute-player had kept so quiet since the music had begun, and had become so much a part of the decorations --like one of the old chairs with its arms held out, or a white-faced bust staring from out a dark corner, or some portrait that looked down from the tapestries and held its peace--that almost everyone had forgotten his presence.
The attitude of the old man--always a pathetic one, brought back to Oliver's mind some memory from out his boyhood days. Suddenly a forgotten strain from Nathan's flute floated through his brain, some strain that had vibrated through the old rooms in Kennedy Square. Springing to his feet and tip- toeing to the door, he passed between the two men in armor--rather tired knights by this time, but still on duty--ran down the carpeted hall between the lines of palms and up one flight of stairs. Then came a series of low knocks. A few minutes later he bounded in again, his rapier in his hand to give his legs freer play.
"I rapped up Mitchell, who's sick in his studio upstairs, and got his flute," he whispered to Waller. "If you think my father can play you should hear Uncle Nat Gill," and he walked toward Nathan, the flute held out toward him.
The old gentleman woke to consciousness at the sight of the instrument, and a slight flush overspread his face.
"Oh, Oliver! Really, gentlemen--I--Of course, I love the instrument, but here among you all--" and he looked up in a helpless way.
"No, no, Uncle Nat," cried Oliver, pressing the flute into Nathan's hand. "We won't take any excuse. There is no one in my town, gentlemen," and he faced the others, "who can play as he does. Please, Uncle Nat--just for me; it's so long since I heard you play," and he caught hold of Nathan's arm to lift him to his feet.
"You are quite right, my son," cried Richard, "and I will play his accompaniment."
Oliver's announcement and Richard's endorsement caused a stir as great as Richard's own performance. A certain curiosity took possession of the room, quite distinct from the spirit of merriment which had characterized it before. Many of the men now left their seats and began crowding about the piano--red cardinals, cavaliers, nobles, and black-coated guests looking over each other's shoulders. Everybody was getting more and more mystified.
"Really, Fred," whispered Waller, who still sat quietly watching the two visitors--he had not taken his eyes from them since Richard in his enthusiasm sprang forward to grasp Simmons's hand--,"this is the most ridiculous thing I ever saw in my life. First comes this fossil thoroughbred
"I'm all ready, Mr. Simmons; now, if you please."
If the club and its guests had forgotten the old gentleman an hour before, the old gentleman had now quite forgotten them.
He played simply and easily, Simmons joining in, picking out the accompaniment, entirely unaware that anybody was listening, as unaware as he would have been had only the white-haired mistress been present, and perhaps Malachi stepping noiselessly in and out. When he ceased, and the audience had broken out into exclamations of delight, he looked about him as if surprised, and then, suddenly remembering the cause of it all, said, in a low, gentle voice, and with a pleasant smile: "I don't wonder you're delighted, gentlemen. It is to me the most divine of all his creations. There is only one Bach." That his hand had held the bow and that the merit of its expression lay with him, never seemed to have entered his head.
When the applause had died out, and Oliver with the others had crowded around his father to congratulate him, the young fellow's eyes fell upon Nathan, who was still sitting on the long divan, his head resting against the wall, his trembling legs crossed one over the other, the thin hands in his lap--Richard's skill was a never-ending delight to Nathan, and he had not lost a note that his bow had called out. The flute-player had kept so quiet since the music had begun, and had become so much a part of the decorations --like one of the old chairs with its arms held out, or a white-faced bust staring from out a dark corner, or some portrait that looked down from the tapestries and held its peace--that almost everyone had forgotten his presence.
The attitude of the old man--always a pathetic one, brought back to Oliver's mind some memory from out his boyhood days. Suddenly a forgotten strain from Nathan's flute floated through his brain, some strain that had vibrated through the old rooms in Kennedy Square. Springing to his feet and tip- toeing to the door, he passed between the two men in armor--rather tired knights by this time, but still on duty--ran down the carpeted hall between the lines of palms and up one flight of stairs. Then came a series of low knocks. A few minutes later he bounded in again, his rapier in his hand to give his legs freer play.
"I rapped up Mitchell, who's sick in his studio upstairs, and got his flute," he whispered to Waller. "If you think my father can play you should hear Uncle Nat Gill," and he walked toward Nathan, the flute held out toward him.
The old gentleman woke to consciousness at the sight of the instrument, and a slight flush overspread his face.
"Oh, Oliver! Really, gentlemen--I--Of course, I love the instrument, but here among you all--" and he looked up in a helpless way.
"No, no, Uncle Nat," cried Oliver, pressing the flute into Nathan's hand. "We won't take any excuse. There is no one in my town, gentlemen," and he faced the others, "who can play as he does. Please, Uncle Nat--just for me; it's so long since I heard you play," and he caught hold of Nathan's arm to lift him to his feet.
"You are quite right, my son," cried Richard, "and I will play his accompaniment."
Oliver's announcement and Richard's endorsement caused a stir as great as Richard's own performance. A certain curiosity took possession of the room, quite distinct from the spirit of merriment which had characterized it before. Many of the men now left their seats and began crowding about the piano--red cardinals, cavaliers, nobles, and black-coated guests looking over each other's shoulders. Everybody was getting more and more mystified.
"Really, Fred," whispered Waller, who still sat quietly watching the two visitors--he had not taken his eyes from them since Richard in his enthusiasm sprang forward to grasp Simmons's hand--,"this is the most ridiculous thing I ever saw in my life. First comes this fossil thoroughbred