"Stevenson_Markheim" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stevenson Robert Louis)

and when at last he overtook her he said as much, and asked for her
kind indulgence.

"I forgive you," she said, laughing. "You and I are not looking at
things from the same point of view; but we have had a splendid morning
together, and I have enjoyed every minute of it. And to-morrow I go on
my way."

"And to-morrow you go," he repeated. "Can it not be the day after
to-morrow?"

"I am a bird of passage," she said, shaking her head. "You must not
seek to detain me. I have taken my rest, and off I go to other
climes."



They had arrived at the hotel, and Oswald Everard saw no more of his
companion until the evening, when she came down rather late for /table
d'hote/. She hurried over her dinner and went into the salon. She
closed the door, and sat down to the piano, and lingered there without
touching the keys; once or twice she raised her hands, and then she
let them rest on the notes, and, half unconsciously, they began to
move and make sweet music; and then they drifted into Schumann's
"Abendlied," and then the little girl played some of his
"Kinderscenen," and some of his "Fantasie Stucke," and some of his
songs.

Her touch and feeling were exquisite, and her phrasing betrayed the
true musician. The strains of music reached the dining-room, and, one
by one, the guests came creeping in, moved by the music and anxious to
see the musician.

The little girl did not look up; she was in a Schumann mood that
evening, and only the players of Schumann know what enthralling
possession he takes of their very spirit. All the passion and pathos
and wildness and longing had found an inspired interpreter; and those
who listened to her were held by the magic which was her own secret,
and which had won for her such honour as comes only to the few. She
understood Schumann's music, and was at her best with him.

Had she, perhaps, chosen to play his music this evening because she
wished to be at her best? Or was she merely being impelled by an
overwhelming force within her? Perhaps it was something of both.

Was she wishing to humiliate these people who had received her so
coldly? This little girl was only human; perhaps there was something
of that feeling too. Who can tell? But she played as she had never
played in London, or Paris, or Berlin, or New York, or Philadelphia.