.. the implication being that the piano was placed there
for the use of the workers when melody surged within them....
But she was the only one who played. And she never played except when
she was tipped the wink. And it was only one thing--a something of
Rubenstein's ... which she had practised and practised and practised to
perfection; and _that_ rendered, with haughty head like a little sibyl,
she would go back to her work-bench. And if urged to play more, she
would answer, lifting her great, velvet eyes in a dreamy gaze, "no, no
more to-day. The inspiration has gone." And, awed, the visitors would
depart.
* * * * *
Back of the bindery stood the blacksmith shop, where MacKittrick, the
historian-blacksmith, plied the bellows and smote the anvil.
MacKittrick took a liking to me. For one day we began talking about
ancient history, and he perceived that I had a little knowledge of it,
and a feeling for the colour and motion of its long-ago life.
"I want you to come and work for me," he urged, "my work is mostly
pretty," he apologised, with blacksmith sturdiness, "--not making
horseshoes, but cutting out delicate things, ornamental iron work for
aesthetic purposes, and all that ... all you'll have to do will be to
swing the hammer gently, while I direct the blows and cut put the dainty
filigree the "Master" sells to folk, afterward, as art.
Pages:
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291