"Oh, let's have a shot at it," he said. "If Lady Barbara won't mind, play that one through to me first, Mike.""Oh, presently, Hermann," he said. "It makes such an infernal row that you can't hear anything else afterwards. Do sing, Miss Sylvia; my aunt won't really mind--will you, Aunt Barbara?""Michael, I have just learned that this is THE Miss Falbe," she said. "I am suffering from shock. Do let me suffer from coals of fire, too."Michael gently edged Hermann away from the music-stool. Much as he enjoyed his master's accompaniment he was perfectly sure that he preferred, if possible, to play for Sylvia himself than have the pleasure of listening to anybody else.
"And may I play for you, Miss Sylvia?" he asked.
"Yes, will you? Thanks, Lord Comber."
Hermann moved away.
"And so Mr. Hermann sits down by Lady Barbara while Lord Comber plays for Miss Sylvia," he observed, with emphasis on the titles.
A sudden amazing boldness seized Michael.
"Sylvia, then," he said.
"All right, Michael," answered the girl, laughing.
She came and stood on the left of the piano, slightly behind him.
"And what are we going to have?" asked Michael.
"It must be something we both know, for I've brought no music,"said she.
Michael began playing the introduction to the Hugo Wolff song which he had accompanied for her one Sunday night at their house. He knew it perfectly by heart, but stumbled a little over the difficult syncopated time. This was not done without purpose, for the next moment he felt her hand on his shoulder marking it for him.
"Yes, that's right," she said. "Now you've got it." And Michael smiled sweetly at his own amazing ingenuity.
Hermann put down the Variations, which he still had in his hand, when Sylvia's voice began. Unaccustomed as she was to her accompanist, his trained ear told him that she was singing perfectly at ease, and was completely at home with her player.
Occasionally she gave Michael some little indication, as she had done before, but for the most part her fingers rested immobile on his shoulder, and he seemed to understand her perfectly. Somehow this was a surprise to him; he had not known that Michael possessed that sort of second-sight that unerringly feels and translates into the keys the singer's mood. For himself he always had to attend most closely when he was playing for his sister, but familiar as he was with her singing, he felt that Michael divined her certainly as well as himself, and he listened to the piano more than to the voice.
"You extraordinary creature," he said when the song was over.
"Where did you learn to accompany?"
Suddenly Michael felt an access of shyness, as if he had been surprised when he thought himself private.
"Oh, I've played it before for Miss--I mean for Sylvia," he said.
Then he turned to the girl.
"Thanks, awfully," he said. "And I'm greedy. May we have one more?"He slid into the opening bars of "Who is Sylvia?" That song, since he had heard her sing it at her recital in the summer, had grown in significance to him, even as she had. It had seemed part of her then, but then she was a stranger. To-night it was even more intimately part of her, and she was a friend.
Hermann strolled across to the fireplace at the end of this, and lit a cigarette.
"My sister's a blatant egoist, Lady Barbara," he said. "She loves singing about herself. And she lays it on pretty thick, too, doesn't she? Now, Sylvia, if you've finished--quite finished, Imean--do come and sit down and let me try these Variations--""Shall we surrender, Michael?" asked the girl. "Or shall we stick to the piano, now we've got it? If Hermann once sits down, you know, we shan't get him away for the rest of the evening. I can't sing any more, but we might play a duet to keep him out."Hermann rushed to the piano, took his sister by the shoulders, and pushed her into a chair.
"You sit there," he said, "and listen to something not about yourself. Michael, if you don't come away from that piano, I shall take Sylvia home at once. Now you may all talk as much as you like; you won't interrupt me one atom--but you'll have to talk loud in certain parts."Then a feat of marvellous execution began. Michael had taken an evil pleasure in giving his master, for whom he slaved with so unwearied a diligence, something that should tax his powers, and he gave a great crash of laughter when for a moment Hermann was brought to a complete standstill in an octave passage of triplets against quavers, and the performer exultantly joined in it, as he pushed his hair back from his forehead, and made a second attempt.
"It isn't decent to ask a fellow to read that," he shouted. "It's a crime; it's a scandal.""My dear, nobody asked you to read it," said Sylvia.
"Silence, you chit! Mike, come here a minute. Sit down one second and play that. Promise to get up again, though, immediately. Just these three bars--yes, I see. An orang-outang apparently can do it, so why not I? Am I not much better than they? Go away, please; or, rather, stop there and turn over. Why couldn't you have finished the page with the last act, and started this one fresh, instead of making this Godforsaken arrangement? Now!"A very simple little minuet measure followed this outrageous passage, and Hermann's exquisite lightness of touch made it sound strangely remote, as if from a mile away, or a hundred years ago, some graceful echo was evoked again. Then the little dirge wept for the memories of something that had never happened, and leaving out the number he disapproved of, as reminiscent of the Handel theme, Hermann gathered himself up again for the assertion of the original tune, with its bars of scale octaves. The contagious jollity of it all seized the others, and Sylvia, with full voice, and Aunt Barbara, in a strange hooting, sang to it.
Then Hermann banged out the last chord, and jumped up from his seat, rolling up the music.
"I go straight home," he said, "and have a peaceful hour with it.
