Jim Lascelles began to grow restless, as sensitive souls are apt to do when amateurs begin to talk “shop” for their benefit. And in his capacity of a common-sense young Englishman of athletic tastes, he felt that to call a man a genius was much the same as kicking him. Of course mothers are privileged. In self-defense, however, Jim began to carry the war into the enemy’s country.
“Does anybody object to Chopin?” said he.
Nobody did.
“Then you must play your little piece, my dear,” said Jim, with a cool air of triumph.
Jim’s mother protested, of course; and of course her six callers were unanimous in their insistence. Jim opened the little rosewood piano, and arranged the music-stool with a dual sense of satisfaction. Not only had he turned the tables effectually, but also he was genuinely proud of his mother’s playing.
Jim had reason to be proud of it. Truth to tell, she played a waltz about as well as it could be played by an amateur on a cottage piano in a small back sitting-room. The ladies, with the exception of Miss Perry, rewarded her with a murmur of thanks. Miss Perry was not content with anything less than vigorous applause. Cheriton, on the contrary, was strangely silent.
“She talks about me,” said Jim, triumphantly, “so I shall now talk about her. Pachmann is the only person in Europe who knows more about Chopin than she does.”
“I know something about Chopin too,” said Cheriton.
As he spoke all his artifice seemed to fall away from him in the oddest manner. It struck Jim all at once that his face was old and worn and tired.
“You will hardly believe,” said Cheriton, in an altered voice, “where I first heard that. It was at a little house in the Rue Saint Antoine. George Sand was living in it at that time, and Chopin brought it there and played it to us the evening he composed it. They were all there—De Musset, Flaubert, Edmond de Goncourt, and that weird fellow——”