She tried something else, but
with no better result. He showed little interest: he was not a
man capable of showing where nothing was, for he never meant to
show anything; his expression was only the ripple of the
unconscious pool to the sway and swirl of the fishes below. It
seemed as if he had only a narrow entrance for the admission of
music into his understanding--but a large outlet for the spring
that rose within him, and was, therefore, a somewhat remarkable
exception to the common run of mortals: in such, the capacity for
reception far exceeds the capability of production. His dominant
thoughts were in musical form, and easily found their expression
in music; but, mainly no doubt from want of practice in
reception, and experience of variety in embodiment, the forms in
which others gave themselves utterance could not with
corresponding readiness find their way to the sympathetic place
in him. But pride or repulsion had no share in this defect. The
man was open and inspired, and stupid as a child.
The next time she made the attempt to open this channel between
them, something she played did find him, and for a few minutes he
seemed lost in listening.
"How nice it would be," she said, "if we could play together
sometimes!"
"Do you mean both at once, miss?" he asked.
"Yes--you on your violin, and I on the piano."
"That could hardly be, I'm afraid, miss," he answered; "for, you
see, I don't know always--not exactly--what I'm going to play;
and if I don't know, and you don't know, how are we to keep
together?"
"Nobody can play your own things but yourself, of course--that
is, until you are able to write them down; but, if you would
learn something, we could play that together.
Pages:
472
473
474
475
476
477
478
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496