It is a very difficult matter for a blind man to play by note. These are
printed in relief like the letters which they use; each note has its
special sign, and stands in a row like the lines of a book. To designate
the notes that form the chords, raised points are placed between them. It
is of course a difficult and complicated task for a blind person to learn
these by heart, each hand separately; but in Peter’s case the labor was
lightened by his love for the integral parts of the work. Memorizing a
few chords for one hand at a time, he would place himself at the piano;
and when, from the combining of these hieroglyphics in relief, all of a
sudden surprising harmonies resulted, it gave him a delight keen enough
to enliven the otherwise dull work, and render it fascinating.
Yet even so, there still remained a weary way between the printed sheets
of music and the execution of the same; for in order that the signs
might be embodied in melody, the hands had first to transmit them to the
memory, and the memory in its turn to send them back to the fingers.
Meanwhile, however, Peter’s strongly developed musical instinct and
imagination, that had already taken a definite form, began to play a part
in the complicated labor of memorizing, and to stamp the work of the
composer with the distinct impress of the player’s own individuality.
Thus far the form which his musical feeling had taken, was for the most
part derived from his mother’s playing. All Nature spoke to his soul in
the language and music of the folk-songs of his native land.
While with beating heart and soul overflowing with emotion, Peter
now played this piece, from the very first resonant chords there was
such brilliancy, animation, and genuine feeling, and at the same time
something so characteristic of the player, that an expression of wonder
was mingled with delight on the faces of the listeners. The next
moment, however, the wonder was wholly merged in delight; and the elder
Stavruchènko’s son, a professional musician, as he listened, strove for a
long time to follow the familiar piece, and at the same time to analyze
the peculiar “style” of the pianist.
Music recognizes no party; it stands aloof from the clashing of opinions.
If the eyes of the young people sparkled and their faces flushed, and
daring conceptions of future life and happiness sprang up in their minds,
so also the eyes of the old sceptic sparkled with animation.
At first old Stavruchènko sat with bowed head, listening in silence; but
little by little he grew animated, and gently touching Maxim whispered,
“How finely he plays! Wonderfully, it must be confessed! By Jove!—”
As the sounds swelled a thought came into his mind, probably of his
youth; for his eyes sparkled, his face flushed, he straightened himself,
and raising his arm seemed about to dash his clenched hand upon the
table, but restraining himself, allowed it to fall silently. Casting one
rapid glance at his boys, he stroked his mustache, and leaning toward
Maxim, whispered: “They talk of putting us old people into the archives.
Nonsense! There was a time when you and I—And even now—Is it not true?”
Anna Michàilovna looked inquiringly at Evelyn. The girl had folded her
work on her knees, and sat watching the blind musician but her blue eyes
expressed nothing beyond a rapt attention. She was interpreting those
sounds in her own way; she fancied she could hear in them the pattering
sound of the water in the old locks, and the whisper of the wild
cherry-tree in the dusky avenue.