This, though a satisfactory plan to the performers, was far from pleasant to the sensitive ears of the Dana aunties.
Again, in case of five-finger exercises, they divided the piano fairly, and then diligently pursued their “one-and, two-and, three-and” quite irrespective of each other.
As they were careful not to infringe on one another’s territory, they saw no objection to this arrangement, and quite in despair, the aunts would close the doors of the drawing-room, where the musicians were, and retire to the farthest corners of the house.
There was, of course, great temptation for the twins to neglect their task, and chatter, but they were too conscientious for this.
Neither would have considered it honourable to remove their hands from the keys during practice hour. So the little fingers diligently worked up and down, but the counting often gave way to conversation. Instead of “one-and,” Dolly might say, in time with her counting, “Don’t you,—think the,—poles will,—come to-,—day, Dick?” And Dick would pound away, as he replied, “Yes, Pat,—said they,—sure would,—come to,—day-ay.”
Thus a staccato conversation could be kept up while the twenty stiff little fingers were acquiring proper limberness and skill.
“It’s enough to drive anybody frantic! I can’t stand it!” said Aunt Abbie, as one day she listened to the measured chatter, and its accompaniment of pounded keys that didn’t chord.
“I can’t either!” declared Aunt Rachel, “and I’ve made up my mind, Abbie, what to do. We’ll get another piano,—a second-hand one will do,—and put it up in the playroom. Then they can practise separately.”
“Ye-es,” said Miss Abbie, doubtfully; “but they wouldn’t like that. They always want to be together.”
“Well, they’ll have to stand it. It’s enough to ruin their musical ear, to hear those discords themselves.”