The back steps to the pineland house.
A small mattress is put in the plantation wagon—I have no spring wagon—and on that the piano is put and steadied by two men while it is slowly driven out. It always takes eight men, as they are not accustomed to lifting, and they make a great ado over it. Just as the piano was lifted out of the wagon up the rather high steps on to the piazza at the pineland, they set it down at the head of the steps, and gave it a great push to roll it toward the sitting room door, there came a tremendous crash. The piazza had fallen in on the side toward the house. Fortunately there were no men in front of the piano; they were all behind. I was standing very near and called to them to hold on to it a moment. I had two heavy planks brought and put as a bridge from the place where the piano rested into the door, and as soon as they got the front rollers on the plank all danger was over, but for a time it looked as if there must be a terrible smashup. I sent one of the men under the house to see what had caused the crash. He reported it was the giving way of one of the blocks, which was so rotten it had crumbled away. "Why, Bonaparte, I sent you to examine the foundation of this house and see if any repairs were needed, and you said it was all in order." Bonaparte only murmured apologetically that he was too busy to see about such small matters.
I am very thankful no one was hurt, and the dear piano is safely installed. It is a small Steinway upright and is very nearly human in its companionship. This is the sixth Steinway I have had, I believe, having never owned any other. I watch its health with desperate anxiety, for it will have to last me to the end, unless something wonderful happens to revive rice. I have been at the piano all evening and it is now 1 o'clock and I am too much excited to go to bed, and that is why I am writing.
An unknown friend sent me two years ago two volumes of Russian music that I find fascinating. A cradle song by Karganoff and a prelude by Rachmaninoff especially possess me. When I play that Berceuse I feel myself the Russian peasant clasping her child, with intense strained nerves, always alert, in spite of the soothing, delicious melody she sings and the reassuring loving reiterations of promised safety. The prelude is tremendous, foreshadowing awful depths of pain, endless struggle through distress and discord, up, up, creeping to a final chord of perfect harmony, but a minor chord. If I were asked for what I was most thankful in my possessions I should say my power of enjoyment. Here entirely alone, with never any audience—and in some measure because of that—these things can fill me with such intense pleasure that it is like being on a mountain top with the heavens opening in a glorious sunset, revealing to the panting soul the inner Court of the Beyond.
I remember when taking a singing lesson as a girl being so overcome by my inability to express what the music said to me that I broke down and was reduced to tears and said: "Oh, Mr. Toiriani, there is no use for me to go on: I have no voice and it is useless." He turned fiercely upon me and said: "Voice—what does that matter? You must go on. Vous avez le feu sacré." As I used my handkerchief violently in my effort to suppress the sobs that would come, it seemed to me a poor consolation, for if the said fire found no outlet it must consume and not illuminate; but I dared not answer, only struggled for composure to go on with "Buona notte, buon dormir" in a feeble, quavering, high soprano. But I often think now I understand more what he meant. One is independent of outside things; there is a warmth and a glow and a depth that fills and satisfies, irrespective of results and externals.
July 3.
I paid off this afternoon, as the Fourth of July is the day of all days the negroes celebrate. It was always so before the war. Every creature has to be finely dressed.
Chloe came in yesterday in great excitement to say Miss Penelope had opened a big box of the most beautiful hats and she wanted the money to buy one, "Quarter of a dollar and 10 cents." I exclaimed at the cheapness, but when she returned and showed me a very large, black straw trimmed with a wealth of black and white veiling and a huge purple orchid on top I was still more filled with wonder how it is possible.
Chloe is perfectly happy. The cloud which has hung over her for the last week is dispelled by the consciousness that she is suitably provided to celebrate the country's birthday.
July 6.