At the sound of Ellen’s music, the conversation in the long drawing-room
ceased save for the two women who sat the far corner--Irene and Eva
Barr. They went on talking in an undertone of their work among the poor.
The others listened, captivated by the sound, for Ellen played well, far
better than any of the little group save Lily and Julia Shane knew. To
the others it was simply music; to the old woman and her daughter it was
something more. They found in it the fire of genius, the smoldering
warmth of a true artist, a quality unreal and transcendental which
raised the beautiful old room for a moment out of the monotonous slough
of commonplace existence. Ellen, in high-collared shirtwaist and skirt
with her dark hair piled high in a ridiculous pompadour, sat very
straight bending over the keys from time to time in a caressing fashion.
She played first of all a Brahms waltz, a delicate thread of peasant
melody raised to the lofty realm of immortality by genius; and from this
she swept into a Chopin valse, melancholy but somehow brilliant, and
then into a polonaise, so dashing and so thunderous that even Irene and
Eva Barr, ignorant of all the beauty of sound that tumbled flood-like
into the old room, suspended their peevish talk for a time and sat quite
still, caught somehow in the contagious awe of the others.
The thin girl at the piano was not in a drawing-room at all. She sat in
some enormous concert hall on a high stage before thousands of people.
The faces stretched out before her, row after row, until those who sat
far back were misty and blurred, not to be distinguished. When she had
finished the polonaise she sat quietly for a moment as though waiting
for a storm of applause to arise after a little hush from the great
audience. There was a moment of silence and then the voice of Lily was
heard, warm and soft, almost caressing.
“It was beautiful, Ellen ... really beautiful. I had no idea you played
so well.”
The girl, blushing, turned and smiled at the cousin who lay back so
indolently among the cushions of the sofa, so beautiful, so charming in
the black gown from Worth. The smile conveyed a world of shy and
inarticulate gratitude. The girl was happy because she understood that
Lily knew. To the others it was just music.
“Your daughter is an artist, Hattie,” remarked Julia Shane. “You should
be proud of her.”
The mother, her stout figure tightly laced, sat very straight in her
stiff chair, her work-stained hands resting awkwardly in her lap. Her
face beamed with the pride of a woman who was completely primitive, for
whom nothing in this world existed save her children.
“And now, Ellen,” she said, “play the McKinley Funeral March. You play
it so well.”
The girl’s young face clouded suddenly. “But it’s not McKinley’s Funeral
March, Mama,” she protested. “It’s Chopin’s. It’s not the same thing.”
“Well, you know what I mean ... the one you played at the Memorial
Service for McKinley.” She turned to Lily, her pride written in every
line of her strong face. “You know, Ellen was chosen to play at the
services for McKinley. Mark Hanna himself made a speech from the same
platform.”