Another messenger arrived, here, with orders for him to come at once, as the applause renewed itself, growing still more insistent.
“I’m busy,” the Boy said, sitting still. Just then his father came in, and bade him go at once. Reluctantly he put down his plaything, and went off to the stage. He made his way down the centre, between the musicians, bowing this way and that, and making his funny little foreign gestures with his hands. The applause redoubled at the sight of him, and a shower of flowers fell about him. He picked up a big bouquet of roses, that fell at his feet, and then saying perfectly distinctly to the first violin:
“There! that’s all I’m going to do,” he marched off again. Everybody laughed and applauded, although, of course, only the nearest musicians heard what he said. The conductor gave the signal for the next number, and the performance went on. By this time, Mrs. Drayton had taken the girls back to their seats.
After the last regular number of the programme, some musician was invited to come from the audience and give the Boy a simple theme for him to improvise upon. At this request, a well-known amateur musician, an old resident of the city, came forward, and went upon the stage. He was a tall, peculiar-looking man, with long hair lying on his shoulders. He sat down on the piano-stool with an odd little mannerism, which he always had while playing, bending his head forward in a funny, rather affected way. For a theme, he played “Home, Sweet Home,” very slowly. The Boy listened, with his head on one side, in his little, bird-like manner. When Professor Sands had played the air through once, he repeated it more rapidly. As he began, the boy put out his hand impatiently to stop him, but the professor played on. Whereupon, the Boy gave the pedal a petulant little kick, as if to say:
“What in the world is he playing that easy thing over again for? How many times does he think I need to hear a theme?”
But the professor finished it, and then resigned his seat to the child. As soon as he was seated, he placed his fingers stiffly on the keys, with his head bent forward, in an irresistibly funny imitation of the professor’s manner, and played the theme through just as slowly as he had; then he straightened up, and darted through it again at lightning speed. Next he wove it into the most elaborate improvisations, recurring constantly to the theme. Whenever he played, even a dozen notes of it, he instantly dropped into Professor Sands’s mannerism. The audience were soon in convulsions of laughter, and even the professor himself, recognising the joke, laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks. Not a muscle of the Boy’s face moved. At last he flashed into “Yankee Doodle,” slipped again to “Home, Sweet Home,” playing it so swiftly that it was only a ripple of melody, dropped, then, into his imitation of Professor Sands again, and finished with a series of chords so rich and full that it seemed scarcely possible those tiny fingers could evoke them.
Between laughter and applause the audience made the roof ring. The Boy stood, still grave and demure as always, with his folded hands hanging in front of him, but those nearest caught the wicked little twinkle in the dark eyes. Of course, the three girls clapped their gloves into rags.
“Did you ever see such a perfectly fascinating darling?” sighed Marjorie, in pure delight, as the child was finally allowed to leave the stage.
“Marjorie, do you feel that you can ever touch the piano again, when you think of that little mouse sitting up there and playing like that, without half trying?” said Edith mournfully. “It’s just—just presumptuous to try!” This was said as they were coming down the steps, on the way out.
“Indeed, that is never the way to feel after listening to a genius,” said Mrs. Drayton, cheerily. “Certainly you cannot expect to rival playing like that, but it should be an inspiration to you, to lift you up, and make you do your very best yourself.”