Anne slid down from the couch and opened the piano. It was dusty. She stroked a key with her little finger. An unexpected sound rose from the instrument, a warm clear sound like the flare of a tinder box. It died down suddenly. She struck another key; another flare. She drew her hand over many keys; many flares, quite a din. She put her head back and stared upwards as if she saw the flaring little flames of the notes.
Somebody stroked her face. Her father.
“Would you like to learn to play the piano?”
She did not answer. It was without learning that she would have liked to play and to sing, so beautifully that even the men in the timber yard would lay down their work.
John Hubert became thoughtful.
“All the Jörgs were fond of music. Music was the very life of your mother.”
Gently Anne opened her blue eyes with a green glitter in them.
“Yes,” she said with determination, “I want to learn.”
Next day, a gentleman of solemn appearance came to the house; his name was Casimir Sztaviarsky. He was at that time the most fashionable dancing and music master in town. He wore a coal-black wig, he walked on the tip of his toes, he balanced his hips and received sixpence per hour. He mentioned frequently that he was a descendant of Polish kings. When he was angry he spoke Polish.
After her lessons, Anne learned many things from him. Sztaviarsky spoke to her about Chopin, the citizens’ choir in Pest, Mozart, grandfather Jörg who played the ’cello well and played the organ on Sundays in the church of the Franciscan friars.