“And I thought it stodgy,” he repeated, looking shy and sideways at Karl’s great grey head.
“Well, you won’t again,” said he. “Will you try it again now?”
“No; how can I?” said Martin. “I’ve got to begin it all over again.”
“Then there was a piece of Bach. Play that. And now read nothing into it except the simplicity of a child. Just the notes,—the more simply the better. Wait a moment, Martin. I want to enjoy it. Let me sit down.”
Martin waited, and then began one of the Suites Anglaises, and like a breath of fresh air in a stuffy room, or like a cloudless dawn with the singing of birds after a night of storm and thunder, the exquisite melody flowed from his fingers, precise, youthful, and joyous. There was no introspection here, no moods of a troubled soul, no doubts or questioning; it sang as a thrush sings, changed and returned on itself, danced in a gavotte, moved slowly in a minuet, and romped through a Bourrée like a child.
At the end Martin laughed suddenly.
“Oh, how good!” he cried. “Did you know that Bach wrote that for me?” he asked, turning to Karl.
“Yes, I thought he must have,” said Karl. “And with the command that you were to play it to me. You played that very well; all your fingers were of one weight. How did you learn that?”
Martin raised his eyebrows.
“Why, it would spoil it, would it not, to play it any other way?” he asked.