Then Larry pounded each one flat like a coin, and drilled through a small hole, making thus, for each, a souvenir of the shining metal. “This is from Harry’s first mining,” he said, “and it represents good, hard labor. He’s picked out a lot of worthless dirt and stone to find this.”

Amalia held the little disk in her hand and smiled upon it. “I love so this little precious thing. Now, Mr. ’Arry, what shall I play for you? It is yours to ask––for me, to play; it is all I have.”

312

“That sonnet you played me yesterday. The last line is, ‘“Quelle est donc cette femme?” et ne comprenda pas.’”

“The music of that is not my father’s best––but you ask it, yes.” Then she began, first playing after her own heart little dancing airs, gay and fantastic, and at last slid into a plaintive strain, and recited the accompaniment of rhythmic words.

“Mon âme a son secret, ma vie a son mystère:
Un amour eternel en un moment concu.
Le mal est sans espoir, aussi j’ai du le taire
Et celle qui l’a fait n’en a jamais rien su.”

One minor note came and went and came again, through the melody, until the last tones fell on that note and were held suspended in a tremulous plaint.

“Elle dira, lisant ces vers tout remplis d’elle:
‘Quelle est donc cette femme?’ et ne comprendra pas.”

Without pause she passed into a quick staccato and then descended to long-drawn tones, deep and full. “This is better, but I have never played it for you because that it is Polish, and to make it in English and so sing it is hard. You have heard of our great and good general Kosciuszko, yes? My father loved well to speak of him and also of one very high officer under him,––I speak his name for you, Julian Niemcewicz. This high officer, I do not know how to say in English his rank, but that is no matter. He was writer, and poet, and soldier––all. At last he was exiled and sorrowful, like my father,––sorrowful most of all because he might no more serve his country. It is to this poet’s own words which he wrote for his grave that my father have put in music the cry of his sorrow. In Polish 313 is it more beautiful, but I sing it for you in English for your comprehending.”

“O, ye exiles, who so long wander over the world,
Where will ye find a resting place for your weary steps?
The wild dove has its nest, and the worm a clod of earth,
Each man a country, but the Pole a grave!”