He waited for the strong tremor to seize his wrist.
It did not come.
He sounded the four open strings, slowly, one after the other.
Yes, the tones were very pure, very rich, very clear.
Then he took courage, pressed his fingers into the finger-board, and
began to play.
Alas, poor Infant of Prague!
Alas, poor _born_ musician, who preferred doing things he had never
learned to do!
The exquisite rise and fall of harmony, came not again.
Bitterly disappointed, Ronnie waited, staring into the mirror.
But a rather weary, very lonely, and exceedingly modern young man stared
back at him.
At last he realised that he could no longer play the 'cello by
inspiration. So he began very carefully feeling for the notes.
The Infant squeaked occasionally, and wailed a little; but on the whole
it behaved very well; and, after half-an-hour's work, having found out
the key which enabled him to use chiefly the open strings, Ronnie
managed to play right through, very fairly in tune, "O come, all ye
faithful, joyful and triumphant!"
This gave him extraordinary pleasure. It seemed such a certainty of
possession, to be able to pick out all the notes for himself.
He longed that Helen might be there to hear.
The Infant of Prague grew dearer to him than ever. He was now mastering
it himself, independent of the antics of an old person of a century
ago, bowing away in the mirror.
Pages:
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164