But, of course, your aunt did that! And a
couch and a brass fender, and--is that a pianola? That is your desk.
I thought men's desks were always untidy, and covered with dust and
tobacco ash."
She flitted to my colour prints and my little case of books. Then she
went to the pianola. I watched her intently.
"Does this thing play?" she said.
"What?" I asked.
"Does this thing play?"
I roused myself from my preoccupation.
"Like a musical gorilla with fingers all of one length. And a sort of
soul.... It's all the world of music to me."
"What do you play?"
"Beethoven, when I want to clear up my head while I'm working. He
is--how one would always like to work. Sometimes Chopin and those
others, but Beethoven. Beethoven mainly. Yes."
Silence again between us. She spoke with an effort.
"Play me something." She turned from me and explored the rack of
music rolls, became interested and took a piece, the first part of the
Kreutzer Sonata, hesitated. "No," she said, "that!"
She gave me Brahms' Second Concerto, Op. 58, and curled up on the sofa
watching me as I set myself slowly to play.
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