At length came a little pause. He wiped his forehead with a blue
cotton handkerchief, and seemed ready to begin again. Mary
interrupted him with the question:
"Will you please tell me whose music you have been playing?"
He opened his eyes, which had remained closed even while he stood
motionless, and, with a smile sweeter than any she had ever seen
on such a strong face, answered:
"It's nobody's, miss."
"Do you mean you have been extemporizing all this time?"
"I don't know exactly what that means."
"You must have learned it from notes?"
"I couldn't read them if I had any to read," he answered.
"Then what an ear and what a memory you must have! How often have
you heard it?"
"Just as often as I've played it, and no oftener. Not being able
to read, and seldom hearing any music I care for, I'm forced to
be content with what runs out at my fingers when I shut my eyes.
It all comes of shutting my eyes. I couldn't play a thing but for
shutting my eyes. It's a wonderful deal that comes of shutting
your eyes! Did you never try it, miss?"
Mary was so astonished both by what he said and the simplicity
with which he said it, having clearly no notion that he was
uttering anything strange, that she was silent, and the man,
after a moment's retuning, began again to play. Then did Mary
gather all her listening powers, and brace her attention to the
tightest--but at first with no better success.
Pages:
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409