Lydia stared at it in silence and then turned the page.
He looked at the music he was about to play and wondered what Lydia was thinking now.
She must have sat by Robert’s side just as she was sitting by his.
Why did she want to torture herself by making him play those pieces that must recall to her bitter memories of her short happiness and the misery that followed it?
“Well, begin.”
He played well at sight and the music was not difficult.
He thought he acquitted himself of his task without discredit.
Having struck the last chord he waited for a word of praise.
“You played it very nicely,” said Lydia, “but where does Russia come in?”
“What exactly d’you mean by that?” he asked, somewhat affronted.
“You play it as if it was about a Sunday afternoon in London with people in their best clothes walking around those great empty squares and wishing it was time for tea.
But that’s not what it is at all.
It’s the old, old song of peasants who lament the shortness and the hardness of their life, it’s the wide fields of golden corn and the labour of gathering in the harvest, it’s the great forest of beech-trees, and the nostalgia of the workers for an age when peace and plenty reigned on the earth, and it’s the wild dance that for a brief period brings them forgetfulness of their lot.”
“Well, you play it better.”
“I can’t play,” she answered, but she edged him along the bench and took his seat.
He listened.
She played badly, but for all that got something out of the music that he hadn’t seen in it.
She managed, though at a price, to bring out the tumult of its emotion and the bitterness of its melancholy; and she infused the dance rhythms with a barbaric vitality that stirred the blood.
But Charley was put out.
“I must confess I don’t see why you should think you get the Russian atmosphere better by playing false notes and keeping your foot firmly on the loud pedal,” he said, acidly, when she finished.
She burst out laughing and flinging both her arms round his neck kissed him on the cheeks.
“You are a sweet,” she cried.
“It’s very nice of you to say so,” he answered coldly, disengaging himself.
“Have I offended you?”
“Not at all.”
She shook her head and smiled at him with soft tenderness.
“You play very well and your technique is excellent, but it’s no good thinking you can play Russian music; you can’t.
Play me some Schumann. I’m sure you can.”
“No, I’m not going to play any more.”
“If you’re angry with me, why don’t you hit me?”
Charley couldn’t help chuckling.
“You fool.
It never occurred to me.
Besides, I’m not angry.”
“You’re so big and strong and handsome, I forget that you’re only a young boy.” She sighed.
“And you’re so unprepared for life.
Sometimes when I look at you I get such a pang.”
“Now don’t get all Russian and emotional.”
“Be nice to me and play some Schumann.”
When Lydia liked she could be very persuasive.
With a diffident smile Charley resumed his seat.
Schumann, in point of fact, was the composer he liked best and he knew a great deal by heart.
He played to her for an hour, and whenever he wanted to stop she urged him to go on.
The young woman at the cashier’s desk was curious to see who was playing the piano and peeped in.
When she went back to her counter she murmured to the porter with an arch and meaning smile:
“The turtle doves are having a good time.”
When at last Charley stopped, Lydia gave a little sigh of contentment.
“I knew that was the music to suit you.
It’s like you, healthy and comfortable and wholesome.
There’s fresh air in it and sunshine and the delicious scent of pine-trees.