So, when he saw his brother seated at the piano, letting his fingers run lightly and carelessly over the key-board, and then looking up to the ceiling and muttering, “What key is it in again?” as if he were searching for the right one, a shiver always ran through Cousin Ola. For he knew that Hans had mastered three accompaniments, and no more—one minor and two major.
And when the singer, before rising from the piano, threw in these three carefully-practised minor chords so lightly, and with such an impromptu air, as if his fingers had instinctively chanced upon them, then Ola shook his head and said to himself, “This is not quite straightforward of Hans.”
In the mean time his brother sang away at his rich repertory. Schumann and Kierulf were his favorites, so he performed “Du bist die Ruh,” “My loved one, I am prison’d” “Ich grolle nicht,” “Die alten bösen Lieder,” “I lay my all, love, at thy feet,” “Aus meiren grossen Schmerzen mach’ ich die kleinen Lieder”—all with the same calm superiority, and that light, half-sportive accompaniment. The only thing that gave him a little trouble was that fatal point, “Ich legt’ auch meine Liebe, Und meinen Schmerz hinein;” but even of this he made something.
Then Ola, who knew to a nicety the limits of his brother’s musical accomplishment, noticed that he was leaving the beaten track, and beginning to wander among the keys; and presently he was horrified to find that Hans was groping after that unhappy “Hope’s clad in April green.” But fortunately he could not hit upon it, so he confined himself to humming the song half aloud, while he threw in the three famous minor chords.
“Now we’re quite cool again,” cried the fair one in light green, hastily.
There was a general burst of laughter at her eagerness to get away, and she was quite crimson when she said good-night.
Cousin Ola, who was standing near the hostess, also took his leave. Cousin Hans, on the other hand, was detained by the Sheriff, who was anxious to learn under what teachers he had studied music; and that took time.
Thus it happened that Ola and the fair one in the light green passed out into the passage at the same time. There the young folks were crowding round the hat-pegs, some to find their own wraps, some to take down other people’s.
“I suppose it’s no good trying to push our way forward,” said the fair one.
Ola’s windpipe contracted in such a vexatious way that he only succeeded in uttering a meaningless sound. They stood close to each other in the crush, and Ola would gladly have given a finger to be able to say something pleasant to her, or at least something rational; but he found it quite impossible.