“Never mind,” he said, “but come back with me and have a cup of
coffee. I have been out all night, struggling with an obstinate little
aria. I will play it for you.”
He unlocked the door. The parlor was dark. The shades had not yet been
drawn. As he sent them flying up with a screech, my heart sank. Every
thing was just as we had left it last night; but it was cheerless and
empty with her away. There lay the Chopin still open on the music rest.
There were our two chairs still close together as we had placed them.
Tikulski went after the coffee apparatus; presently returned, arranged
it on the table, and applied a match to the lamp.
“While we wait for the water to boil,” he said, “I will give you
the result of my night’s labor. I composed it walking up and down
under the trees in the park, so that they—the trees—might claim it
for their fruit! Ha-ha! A heavenly night: the sky could scarcely hold
the stars, there were so many; but terribly warm.”
Again he went away—to fetch his instrument.
He was gone a long while. The water began to boil—boiled loudly and
more loudly. A dense stream of vapor gushed from the nozzle of the pot.
Still he remained.
At last I lost patience. Stepping to the threshold, I called his name.
At first he did not answer.
“Mr. Tikulski!” I repeated.
I seemed to hear—no, certainly did hear—his voice, low,
inarticulate, down at the other end of the hallway. It alarmed me.
Had he met with an accident? hurt himself? fainted after the night’s
vigil? paralysis? apoplexy? I hastened toward him, entered the room
whence his voice had sounded. There he stood. He stood in the center of
the floor, immobile as a statue, his face livid, his attitude that of a
man who has seen a ghost.
“For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried.
He appeared not to hear. I repeated my question.
He roused himself. A tremor swept over him. A painful rattling
was audible in his throat. He raised his arm heavily and pointed.
“L-look,” he gasped.