The Piano Next Door

by Elia W. Peattie

　　

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BABETTE had gone away for thesummer; the furniture was in itssummer linens; the curtains weredown, and Babette's husband, JohnBoyce, was alone in the house. It was thefirst year of his marriage, and he missedBabette. But then, as he often said to himself,he ought never to have married her. Hedid it from pure selfishness, and because hewas determined to possess the most illusive,tantalizing, elegant, and utterly unmoral littlecreature that the sun shone upon. He wantedher because she reminded him of birds, andflowers, and summer winds, and other exquisitethings created for the delectation ofmankind. He neither expected nor desiredher to think. He had half-frightened her intomarrying him, had taken her to a poor man'shome, provided her with no society such asshe had been accustomed to, and he had noreasonable cause of complaint when sheanswered the call of summer and flitted away,like a butterfly in the morning sunshine, tothe place where the flowers grew.He wrote to her every evening, sitting inthe stifling, ugly house, and poured out hissoul as if it were a libation to a goddess.She sometimes answered by telegraph, sometimesby a perfumed note. He schooled himselfnot to feel hurt. Why should Babettewrite? Does a goldfinch indict epistles; ora humming-bird study composition; or aglancing, red-scaled fish in summer shallowsconsider the meaning of words?He knew at the beginning what Babette was-- guessed her limitations -- trembled whenhe buttoned her tiny glove -- kissed her daintyslipper when he found it in the closet aftershe was gone -- thrilled at the sound of herlaugh, or the memory of it! That was all.A mere case of love. He was in bonds.Babette was not. Therefore he was in thecity, working overhours to pay for Babette'spretty follies down at the seaside. It wasquite right and proper. He was a grub inthe furrow; she a lark in the blue. Thosehad always been and always must be theirrelative positions.Having attained a mood of philosophiccalm, in which he was prepared to spend hisevenings alone -- as became a grub -- and toawait with dignified patience the return ofhis wife, it was in the nature of an inconsistencythat he should have walked the floor ofthe dull little drawing-room like a lion incage. It did not seem in keeping with theposition of superior serenity which he hadassumed, that, reading Babette's notes, heshould have raged with jealousy, or that, inthe loneliness of his unkempt chamber, heshould have stretched out arms of longing.Even if Babette had been present, she wouldonly have smiled her gay little smile and coquettedwith him. She could not understand.He had known, of course, from the first moment,that she could not understand! Andso, why the ache, ache, ache of the heart!Or WAS it the heart, or the brain, or thesoul?Sometimes, when the evenings were so hotthat he could not endure the close air of thehouse, he sat on the narrow, dusty front porchand looked about him at his neighbors. Thestreet had once been smart and aspiring, butit had fallen into decay and dejection. Paleyoung men, with flurried-looking wives, seemedto Boyce to occupy most of the houses. Sometimesthree or four couples would live in onehouse. Most of these appeared to be childless.The women made a pretence at fashionabledressing, and wore their hair elaboratelyin fashions which somehow suggested boardinghouses to Boyce, though he could nothave told why. Every house in the blockneeded fresh paint. Lacking this renovation,the householders tried to make up for it bya display of lace curtains which, at everywindow, swayed in the smoke-weighted breeze.Strips of carpeting were laid down the frontsteps of the houses where the communities ofyoung couples lived, and here, evenings, theinmates of the houses gathered, committingmild extravagances such as the treating of eachother to ginger ale, or beer, or ice-cream.Boyce watched these tawdry makeshifts atsociability with bitterness and loathing. Hewondered how he could have been such afool as to bring his exquisite Babette to thisneighborhood. How could he expect thatshe would return to him? It was not reasonable.He ought to go down on his kneeswith gratitude that she even condescended towrite him.Sitting one night till late, -- so late that thefashionable young wives with their husbandshad retired from the strips of stair carpeting,-- and raging at the loneliness which ate athis heart like a cancer, he heard, softly creepingthrough the windows of the house adjoininghis own, the sound of comfortable melody.It breathed upon his ear like a spirit ofconsolation, speaking of peace, of love whichneeds no reward save its own sweetness, ofaspiration which looks forever beyond thething of the hour to find attainment in thatwhich is eternal. So insidiously did it whisperthese things, so delicately did the simpleand perfect melodies creep upon the spirit --that Boyce felt no resentment, but from thefirst listened as one who listens to learn, oras one who, fainting on the hot road, hears, farin the ferny deeps below, the gurgle of a spring.Then came harmonies more intricate: fairfabrics of woven sound, in the midst of whichgleamed golden threads of joy; a tapestry ofsound, multi-tinted, gallant with story andachievement, and beautiful things. Boyce,sitting on his absurd piazza, with his kneesjambed against the balustrade, and his chairback against the dun-colored wall of hishouse, seemed to be walking in the cathedralof the redwood forest, with blue above him,a vast hymn in his ears, pungent perfume inhis nostrils, and mighty shafts of trees liftingthemselves to heaven, proud and erect as puremen before their Judge. He stood on amountain at sunrise, and saw the marvels ofthe amethystine clouds below his feet, heardan eternal and white silence, such as broodsamong the everlasting snows, and saw an eaglewinging for the sun. He was in a city, andaway from him, diverging like the spokes ofa wheel, ran thronging streets, and to his sensecame the beat, beat, beat of the city's heart.He saw the golden alchemy of a chosen race;saw greed transmitted to progress; saw thatwhich had enslaved men, work at last to theirliberation; heard the roar of mighty mills,and on the streets all the peoples of earthwalking with common purpose, in fealty andunderstanding. And then, from the swellingof this concourse of great sounds, came adiminuendo, calm as philosophy, and fromthat, nothingness.Boyce sat still for a long time, listening tothe echoes which this music had awakenedin his soul. He retired, at length, content,but determined that upon the morrow hewould watch -- the day being Sunday -- forthe musician who had so moved and taughthim.He arose early, therefore, and having preparedhis own simple breakfast of fruit andcoffee, took his station by the window towatch for the man. For he felt convincedthat the exposition he had heard was that ofa masculine mind. The long, hot hours ofthe morning went by, but the front doorof the house next to his did not open."These artists sleep late," he complained.Still he watched. He was too much afraidof losing him to go out for dinner. By threein the afternoon he had grown impatient. Hewent to the house next door and rang thebell. There was no response. He thunderedanother appeal. An old woman witha cloth about her head answered the door.She was very deaf, and Boyce had difficultyin making himself understood."The family is in the country," was all shewould say. "The family will not be hometill September.""But there is some one living here?"shouted Boyce."_I_ live here," she said with dignity, puttingback a wisp of dirty gray hair behindher ear. "It is my house. I sublet to thefamily.""What family?"But the old creature was not communicative.The family that lives here," she said."Then who plays the piano in this house?"roared Boyce. "Do you?"He thought a shade of pallor showed itselfon her ash-colored cheeks. Yet she smiled alittle at the idea of her playing."There is no piano," she said, and she putan enigmatical emphasis to the words."Nonsense," cried Boyce, indignantly. "Iheard a piano being played in this very housefor hours last night!""You may enter," said the old woman,with an accent more vicious than hospitable.Boyce almost burst into the drawing-room.It was a dusty and forbidding place, with uglyfurniture and gaudy walls. No piano nor anyother musical instrument stood in it. Theintruder turned an angry and baffled face tothe old woman, who was smiling with illconcealedexultation."I shall see the other rooms," he announced.The old woman did not appear tobe surprised at his impertinence."As you please," she said.So, with the hobbling creature, with herbandaged head, for a guide, he explored everyroom of the house, which being identical withhis own, he could do without fear of leavingany apartment unentered. But no piano didhe find!"Explain," roared Boyce at length, turningupon the leering old hag beside him. "Explain!For surely I heard music more beautifulthan I can tell.""I know nothing," she said. "But it istrue I once had a lodger who rented thefront room, and that he played upon thepiano. I am poor at hearing, but he musthave played well, for all the neighbors usedto come in front of the house to listen, andsometimes they applauded him, and sometimesthey were still. I could tell bywatching their hands. Sometimes little childrencame and danced. Other times youngmen and women came and listened. But theyoung man died. The neighbors were angry.They came to look at him and said he hadstarved to death. It was no fault of mine.I sold his piano to pay his funeral expenses --and it took every cent to pay forthem too, I'd have you know. But sincethen, sometimes -- still, it must be nonsense,for I never heard it -- folks say that heplays the piano in my room. It has kept meout of the letting of it more than once. Butthe family doesn't seem to mind -- the familythat lives here, you know. They will be backin September. Yes."Boyce left her nodding her thanks at whathe had placed in her hand, and went home towrite it all to Babette -- Babette who wouldlaugh so merrily when she read it!

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