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pianist in her day I knew； and her musical education had been
broader than that of most music teachers of a quarter of a
century ago。 She had often told me of Mozart's operas and
Meyerbeer's； and I could remember hearing her sing； years ago；
certain melodies of Verdi's。 When I had fallen ill with a fever
in her house she used to sit by my cot in the eveningwhen the
cool； night wind blew in through the faded mosquito netting
tacked over the window； and I lay watching a certain bright star
that burned red above the cornfieldand sing 〃Home to our
mountains； O； let us return！〃 in a way fit to break the heart of
a Vermont boy near dead of homesickness already。
I watched her closely through the prelude to Tristan and
Isolde； trying vainly to conjecture what that seething turmoil
of strings and winds might mean to her； but she sat mutely staring
at the violin bows that drove obliquely downward； like the
pelting streaks of rain in a summer shower。 Had this music any
message for her？ Had she enough left to at all comprehend this
power which had kindled the world since she had left it？ I was
in a fever of curiosity； but Aunt Georgiana sat silent upon her
peak in Darien。 She preserved this utter immobility throughout
the number from The Flying Dutchman； though her fingers
worked mechanically upon her black dress； as though； of themselves；
they were recalling the piano score they had once played。 Poor old
hands！ They had been stretched and twisted into mere tentacles to
hold and lift and knead with； the palms unduly swollen； the
fingers bent and knottedon one of them a thin； worn band that
had once been a wedding ring。 As I pressed and gently quieted
one of those groping hands I remembered with quivering eyelids
their services for me in other days。
Soon after the tenor began the 〃Prize Song；〃 I heard a quick
drawn breath and turned to my aunt。 Her eyes were closed； but
the tears were glistening on her cheeks； and I think； in a moment
more； they were in my eyes as well。 It never really died； then
the soul that can suffer so excruciatingly and so interminably；
it withers to the outward eye only； like that strange moss which
can lie on a dusty shelf half a century and yet； if placed in
water； grows green again。 She wept so throughout the development
and elaboration of the melody。
During the intermission before the second half of the concert； I
questioned my aunt and found that the 〃Prize Song〃 was not new to
her。 Some years before there had drifted to the farm in Red Willow
County a young German； a tramp cowpuncher； who had sung the chorus
at Bayreuth； when he was a boy； along with the other peasant boys
and girls。 Of a Sunday morning he used to sit on his
gingham…sheeted bed in the hands' bedroom which opened off the
kitchen； cleaning the leather of his boots and saddle； singing the
〃Prize Song；〃 while my aunt went about her work in the kitchen。
She had hovered about him until she had prevailed upon him to join
the country church； though his sole fitness for this step； insofar
as I could gather； lay in his boyish face and his possession of
this divine melody。 Shortly afterward he had gone to town on the
Fourth of July； been drunk for several days； lost his money at a
faro table； ridden a saddled Texan steer on a bet； and disappeared
with a fractured collarbone。 All this my aunt told me huskily；
wanderingly； as though she were talking in the weak lapses of
illness。
〃Well； we have come to better things than the old Trovatore
at any rate； Aunt Georgie？〃 I queried； with a well…meant effort
at jocularity。
Her lip quivered and she hastily put her handkerchief up to
her mouth。 From behind it she murmured； 〃And you have been
hearing this ever since you left me； Clark？〃 Her question was the
gentlest and saddest of reproaches。
The second half of the program consisted of four numbers from the
Ring； and closed with Siegfried's funeral march。 My
aunt wept quietly； but almost continuously； as a shallow vessel
overflows in a rainstorm。 From time to time her dim eyes looked
up at the lights which studded the ceiling； burning softly under
their dull glass globes； doubtless they were stars in truth to
her。 I was still perplexed as to what measure of musical
comprehension was left to her； she who had heard nothing but the
singing of gospel hymns at Methodist services in the square frame
schoolhouse on Section Thirteen for so many years。 I was wholly
unable to gauge how much of it had been dissolved in soapsuds； or
worked into bread； or milked into the bottom of a pail。
The deluge of sound poured on and on； I never knew what she
found in the shining current of it； I never knew how far it bore
her； or past what happy islands。 From the trembling of her face
I could well believe that before the last numbers she had been
carried out where the myriad graves are； into the gray；
nameless burying grounds of the sea； or into some world of death
vaster yet； where； from the beginning of the world； hope has lain
down with hope and dream with dream and； renouncing； slept。
The concert was over； the people filed out of the hall
chattering and laughing； glad to relax and find the living level
again； but my kinswoman made no effort to rise。 The harpist
slipped its green felt cover over his instrument； the flute
players shook the water from their mouthpieces； the men of the
orchestra went out one by one； leaving the stage to the chairs
and music stands； empty as a winter cornfield。
I spoke to my aunt。 She burst into tears and sobbed pleadingly。
〃I don't want to go； Clark； I don't want to go！〃
I understood。 For her； just outside the door of the concert
hall； lay the black pond with the cattle…tracked bluffs； the
tall； unpainted house； with weather…curled boards； naked as a
tower； the crook…backed ash seedlings where the dishcloths hung
to dry； the gaunt； molting turkeys picking up refuse about the
kitchen door。
End