"I hadn't known how worn out I was until
I woke up this morning. I don't think I ever before realized the meaning
of refuge."
"You'll recover from the need of it soon enough," promised the other.
She crossed to the piano. "What kind of music do you want? No; don't
tell me. I should be able to guess." Half turning on the bench she gazed
speculatively at the lax figure on the rug. "Chopin, I think. I've
guessed right? Well, I don't think I shall play you Chopin to-day. You
don't need that kind of--of--well, excitation."
Musing for a moment over a soft mingling of chords she began with a
little ripple of melody, MacDowell's lovely, hurrying, buoyant
"Improvisation," with its aeolian vibrancies, its light, bright surges
of sound, sinking at the last into cradled restfulness. Without pause or
transition she passed on to Grieg; the wistful, remote appeal of the
strangely misnamed "Erotique," plaintive, solemn, and in the fulfillment
almost hymnal: the brusque pursuing minors of the wedding music, and the
diamond-shower of notes of the sun-path song, bleak, piercing, Northern
sunlight imprisoned in melody. Then, the majestic swing of Ase's
death-chant, glorious and mystical.
"Are you asleep?" asked the player, speaking through the chords.
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