CONCERNING A PERFORMANCE.
TOLD BY NANNIE.
SO many and such unexpected things have happened lately that I scarcely know where to begin, or how to tell everything.
The very first surprise was two letters that came for Felix and me from our godmother, aunt Lindsay. She is not really our aunt, though we call her so, and I'm named Nancy after her; but she knew dear mamma when she was a girl, and she is the only person except mamma that we ever heard call papa "Jack." Aunt Lindsay is quite an old lady, and she's very eccentric. She lives in a big old house in Boston, and very seldom comes to New York; but twice a year, on our birthday and at Christmas, she sends us a letter and a present,—generally a book,—and Fee and I have to write and thank her. How we dread those letters! It was hard enough when we had mamma to talk them over with before we began them; but now it's a great deal worse, for Miss Marston does not help us in the least.
She says we are quite old enough now to do them alone, and I suppose we are. But we can't express ourselves in the same way time after time, and it is so difficult to think of new things to say that are interesting and not frivolous,—for aunt Lindsay wouldn't permit that. Sometimes we really get low-spirited over our efforts, and I'd be ashamed to tell how many sheets of paper and envelopes are spoilt in the undertaking. Once, in a fit of desperation, Felix bought a "Complete Letter-Writer," and we hunted through it; but there seemed to be nothing in it suitable for an occasion such as ours, and besides, the language used in the "Letter-Writer" was so very fine and unlike our former efforts that we were afraid aunt Lindsay would, as Phil vulgarly puts it, "smell a mice." So that had to be given up, and finally, after many and great struggles, with the help of the whole family, we would manage to write something that Miss Marston allowed us to send. On the principle that brevity is wit, some of these productions of ours are really remarkable.
And now, though it was neither Christmas nor our birthday, here came two letters from our godmother which would have to be answered. We groaned as we received them, and the family, even to Kathie, gave us their sympathy,—Phil suggesting that perhaps "the old lady" had sent us a whole library this time, which would of course call for a special expression of gratitude.
Think, then, how we felt when we opened the letters and found that our godmother wrote to tell us she had made arrangements for Felix to take painting lessons for one term, and for me, violin lessons for the same length of time! To say we were astonished doesn't at all express our state of mind. The questions that occurred to us when we got over the first shock were, how could aunt Lindsay have known just what would best please each of us, and why had she remembered us at this time of the year, which was no particular occasion? And then we thought of her kindness, and were so ashamed! Fee and I looked at each other, and though we didn't say it, the same thought came to us both,—that we would write her the nicest letter of thanks that we could compose, if it took every sheet of note-paper we owned.
Of course we read aunt Lindsay's letter aloud,—that and talking them over is the best part of receiving letters,—and of course we all got very much excited over our unexpected good fortune. Felix said right away that he would give Nora lessons in drawing two afternoons in the week,—she really draws very nicely, and is so anxious to get on,—provided she'd promise not to "put on any airs or frills;" and I told Fee I'd help him—in the same way—with his violin playing. Then Phil proposed, and the whole family approved, that we should on the following evening—which was papa's night at the Archæological Society—celebrate the happy event by what we call "a musical performance."
Though we are very fond of these "performances," we have not had one for quite a while, because some of us older ones haven't felt up to it; for, as Fee truly says, "it really requires very good spirits indeed to make a festive occasion go off successfully." Since that day in papa's study that Jack has told about, nothing more has been said of Fee's going to college,—though we all want it just as much as ever, and Jack and I feel that it will come,—and Felix himself seems to have quite given up the idea.
He laughs and jokes again in his old merry way, particularly when Phil is at home; Nora and he have made friends, and Betty and Jack have got over staring at Fee with big round eyes of sympathy, and dear old Phil no longer skulks in and out of the house as if he were ashamed of himself; now he tells us bits of his college experience, and—as of old—gets Felix to help him with his studies. Things look as if everybody was satisfied; but, though he never alludes to it, I know Fee's heart is sore over his disappointment,—you see, he is my own twin, and, while I love all my brothers and sisters, Felix is more dear to me than any one else in the whole wide world, and I understand him better than anybody else does.
Fee is not like the rest of us; in the first place, he is more delicate, and his lameness makes him very sensitive. Then, too, though we all, from Phil to Alan, confide in him our troubles and pleasures, he rarely, if ever, opens his heart to any of us. And when we talk things over among ourselves, and so in a way help one another along, Fee keeps his deepest feelings to himself. Very often we children talk of dear mamma, particularly when we're together in the firelight Sunday afternoons and evenings,—it's a comfort to us; but Felix simply listens,—he never speaks of her, though he was mother's boy. But I know, all the same, that he misses her every day of his life, and that as long as he lives he'll never forget one tone of her voice, or one word she has said to him.
Fee used to have a dreadful temper; he'd say such cutting, sarcastic things! and when mamma would speak to him about it, he'd declare that he couldn't help it, and that the sharp ugly words would come. But now, since she's gone, he is so much better, and I'm sure that he's trying to control himself, because he remembers how grieved she used to be when he got into a rage. I don't mean to say that he has entirely gotten over it,—I don't suppose that will ever be; but he doesn't flash out as he used to, and sometimes when he is very angry, he sets his lips tight together, and limps out of the room just as fast as ever he can go, to keep the ugly words from being spoken.
Once in a great while, if I am alone in the schoolroom, he'll come and throw himself down on the old sofa beside me, and, putting his head in my lap, lay my hand over his eyes. I know then, as well as if he had told me, that he is thinking of dear mamma and longing for her; and such a rush of love comes into my heart for him that I think he must feel it in my very finger-tips as they touch him.
He was more with mamma at the last than any of us, because he is so gentle and helpful in a sick-room; but when the end had come, and we children were standing about the bed, crying bitterly, with our arms around one another, I missed Felix. From room to room I hunted, and at last I found him, huddled up in a heap on the floor of the old store-room at the top of the house. And never shall I forget the white, utterly wretched face that he turned on me, as I knelt down by him and put my arms round his neck. He held my shoulders with his two thin hands so tight that I could feel his finger-nails through my sleeves. "Oh, Nannie!" he said, in such a hoarse whisper I'd never have known it for Fee's sweet voice, "if I could only die this very night!" Then he sank down, and lay there trembling from head to foot, and sobbing, sobbing!
I pulled a quilt down from one of the shelves and threw it over him; then I sat on the floor and drew his head into my lap and just smoothed his forehead and hair for the longest while, without a word, until he quieted down. I felt, somehow, that he would rather not have me say anything.
Don't imagine, from what I've said, that Fee is a dismal sort of person, for indeed he isn't; he's the merriest of us all, and the prime leader in all the mischief and fun that goes on; and just as soon as it was settled that we should have a performance, he began to plan what each person should do, and to arrange the programme. We always have a programme: it saves confusion and people's feelings getting hurt; for, of course, then one can only go on in one's turn and for the special part set down; otherwise, everybody would be on the stage at once, and there'd be no audience.
The large closet in the schoolroom is our dressing-room on these occasions, and as we have no way of making a stage, the younger children, Paul and Mädel and Alan,—Kathie is too big for that now,—stand on a table near the closet and deliver their parts. Felix makes up the funniest names for us on the programme, and we answer to them as readily as if we were in the habit of doing so every day.
We were all very busy that afternoon and evening and the next afternoon preparing our parts for the performance; but, with all that, Fee and I got our letters off to our godmother. I felt so truly grateful both for him and for myself, that I didn't have nearly as much trouble composing it as I had expected. But all day I was in a perfect fever to get up to the Conservatory, where aunt Lindsay had entered my name, and to make arrangements for taking my violin lessons. Miss Marston and I talked the matter over, and found that when all the little home duties and my regular studies were finished, there was but one hour that I could set aside regularly for my new work. For though I should only take two lessons a week, I should have to have time to practise, or I'd be able to make no progress at all.
She said I might go up that afternoon; so right after school Nora and I started out to the Conservatory. I was very nervous, and my violin is not a very good one; Phil says it's nothing but a fiddle, and that the old second-hand dealer from whom we bought them—Fee has one, too,—cheated us. They certainly do squeak dreadfully, at times, when you least expect it; but then we didn't pay much for them,—you may know that, when we saved for them out of our allowance!—and, as nurse says, "If you want a good article, you've got to pay for it;" still, they're a great deal better than nothing. But to go back to my story: Nora says that, considering how very nervous I was, and the poor instrument I had, she thinks I did fairly well. I love violin music! I can't express what a delight it is to me to play; and the prospect of being able to improve myself in it made me very happy. The professor that aunt Lindsay wanted to be my teacher told us his classes were very full, and that the hour I named for Wednesday and Saturday afternoons was the only time he could give me; then he said something kind about my playing, that gave me a little confidence, and sent me home quite radiant.
As I came out of the room which Betty and I share, after putting away my things, nurse opened the nursery door and beckoned me in: "Miss Nannie," she said impressively, "I'm kinder worried 'bout your pa. He's never had no appetite to brag of; but for a week past he's been eatin' like a bird. Mornin' after mornin' he ain't touched nothin' but his tea, an' I'm afraid something's wrong. I don't want to frighten you, my dear, but I thought by tellin' you, maybe you could find out if anything ails him, and get him to send for the doctor. I think he looks kinder bad, and—lors! child, if anything happened to him, what would become o' you all!"
I got very nervous, until I remembered how easily nurse gets alarmed; if the children feel the least under the weather, she is apt to imagine that they are going to be seriously ill. "No," I said, "I haven't noticed that he looks badly; but thank you, nursie, for telling me. I'll look closely at him this evening at dinner, and I'll try my best to find out if he isn't well."
Papa always has his breakfast and lunch in the study, and dines with us. We older ones think that he does this as a duty, for we are pretty sure that he doesn't enjoy it; you see, papa does not really care for children, and there is no grown person now for him to talk to,—except Miss Marston, and she is not very interesting. Poor papa!
He sits at the head of the table, but Phil does the carving; and though very often he does not say a dozen words throughout the entire meal, yet even our daring Betty is subdued into good behaviour by his presence. There is no reason for it that we know of,—papa has never forbidden our talking at table,—but somehow, since dear mamma has gone, we have very little conversation at dinner; though we make up for it at other meals, I assure you. I sit in mamma's place now, and this evening, as I looked carefully at papa across the long table, I could see that he did look thinner: there was a tired expression on his face, too, that troubled me. As I passed through the hall, about half an hour later, he stood there in overcoat and hat, putting on his gloves before starting out for a meeting of the Archæological Society; and when I asked, "Papa, are you feeling well? really quite well?" he put on that bored expression that always makes me feel miles away from him.
"ALAN MADE HIS BOW."
"Well? Oh, yes!" then he added, with more animation, "Nannie, I wish you would get me that pamphlet that is lying on my desk. I nearly forgot it."
He took the pamphlet when I brought it, and began fingering it aimlessly, giving me a disagreeable feeling of being in the way; and as I turned and ran up the stairs, he went into the drawing-room. He wasn't there but a minute or two,—before I reached the second floor I heard the front door close behind him,—and the next morning, when Nora and I were dusting the drawing-room, we found the pamphlet on the floor before mamma's picture. After all, he had forgotten it.
I ran on up to the schoolroom, and there everybody was in a great state of excitement, preparing for the performance, which was to begin and end early on account of the younger children. There was no attempt at costume, but we girls wore a ribbon—they belong to our "stage property"—tied from shoulder to waist, the boys carried a paper rose in their button-holes, and Kathie and the twins and Alan were decorated with huge paper-muslin sashes and fancy caps, so that we all presented quite a festive and unusual appearance. The chairs were ranged in rows; the invited guests—Murray Unsworth, and his cousin, Helen Vassah (they always come to our "festive occasions")—arrived; nurse, and Hannah, our maid, came in and took their places at the back, cook stealing in a little later; a bell tinkled; Alan walked out of the closet, was assisted to the table by Felix,—who was master of ceremonies,—and made his bow to the audience with one hand on his heart and a trumpet in the other, and the performance began.
"VIOLIN DUO, RENDERED BY THE WORLD-RENOWNED VIOLINISTS,
MLLE. NANINA AND MONS. FELIX."
The programme was elaborately printed in two or three colours, on heavy light-brown paper, and it was tacked up on the schoolroom wall in full view of all, so that each person would know when his or her turn had come, and could disappear in the dark closet,—no lights were allowed there for fear of fire,—to reappear immediately before the audience, amid a storm of applause. This is the way the programme read:—
"Yankibus Doodlum," trumpet solo by the Infant Prodigy, Master Alano Enrico Rosie.
"Eight White Sheep," vocal duet, rendered with appropriate finger-play by the Celebrated Twin Singers, Fräulein Mädel and Herr Paulus.
"Little White Lily," charming vocal solo by the Famous Prima Donna, Mlle. Kathé.
"Charge of the Six Hundred," favourite recitation by the Distinguished Elocutionist, Prof. Jacqueminot.
Extraordinary exhibition with Indian clubs by the Remarkable Strong Girl, Signorina Bettina, with piano accompaniment by Signorina Eleanora Nonie.
"Serenade," Gounod, violin duo, rendered by the World-Renowned Violinists, Mlle. Nanina and Mons. Felix.
"Le Soupir," piano solo by the Brilliant Pianist, Signorina Eleanora Nonie.
"Swanee River."
"Feniculi."
"Good-night, Ladies," college songs, with banjo accompaniment, by the Wonderful Tenor Singer and Banjoist, Prof. Philipo.
Curtain down! Lights out!
Everything went off beautifully, from Alan's opening bow to Phil's parting obeisance, with two exceptions,—the small boy fell off the table and scraped his shin, and so had to be comforted, and Kathie got so excited when she knew her turn was coming that she jumped up from her chair and raced round and round the schoolroom table, scuffing her feet on the floor and making her hand squeak on the wooden surface of the table, thereby interfering with the effect of Fräulein Mädel and Herr Paulus's vocal efforts. She was captured, however, and brought to reason and good behaviour by the threat of having her name crossed off the programme. With these two trifling exceptions, the performance was most creditable, the artistes were warmly received and enthusiastically applauded,—in one or two instances they even applauded themselves.
Hastily manufactured bouquets of newspaper and paper-muslin were showered upon the stage, and when all was over nurse and cook surprised us by refreshments of cookies and lemonade, served on the schoolroom table. How we enjoyed it! Not a cake was left, nor a drop of lemonade. Nora was shocked, and I was so glad Miss Marston had not accepted our invitation to be present!
When it was all over, and we were putting away the things, I told Felix what nurse had said, and asked him if he had noticed that papa wasn't well.
Fee looked at me with reflective eyes for a moment or two. "Yes," he said slowly, "come to think of it, the pater has looked rather seedy lately. And another thing," he added, "he hasn't let me make a single reference for him this whole week; and yesterday, when I went in somewhat abruptly, he was sitting at his desk with pages of the Fetich before him, but not writing or reading, just resting his head on his hand. I don't think I've ever seen him do that before."
Again that horrid apprehension came over me.
"Oh, Fee," I said nervously, "do you suppose he is ill,—that anything is going to happen to him? Do tell me frankly what you think!"
Felix bent over the stage property he was doing up, as he answered: "I've thought for some time past that he misses—mother—more than ever." Then he walked off with his bundle.
How utterly ashamed I felt! Nurse had noticed how badly he looked; Felix had, too,—and perhaps he had guessed the trouble truly; Phil, even, might have seen it, and I, papa's eldest daughter, who had promised mamma to take care of him, had been too selfishly absorbed in my own affairs to even think of him! It was no comfort to tell myself that papa was hard to get at; I felt I had neglected him.
"Don't worry, twinnie," Felix said, kindly, coming back to me. "You know care once killed a feline, in spite of his nine lives; so don't you go in for that sort of thing, or you'll get the worst of it. Go to bed now, and have a good sleep; by daylight things will look very much brighter; and at any rate you have your violin lessons ahead of you, and the performance behind you,—two good things. Good-night."