Of late, I have been wishing for music.An odd chance gratified my desire.
I had to go into Exeter yesterday.I got there about sunset, transacted my business, and turned to walk home again through the warm twilight.In Southernhay, as I was passing a house of which the ground-floor windows stood open, there sounded the notes of a piano--chords touched by a skilful hand.I checked my step, hoping, and in a minute or two the musician began to play that nocturne of Chopin which I love best--I don't know how to name it.My heart leapt.There I stood in the thickening dusk, the glorious sounds floating about me; and I trembled with very ecstasy of enjoyment.
When silence came, I waited in the hope of another piece, but nothing followed, and so I went my way.
It is well for me that I cannot hear music when I will; assuredly Ishould not have such intense pleasure as comes to me now and then by haphazard.As I walked on, forgetting all about the distance, and reaching home before I knew I was half way there, I felt gratitude to my unknown benefactor--a state of mind I have often experienced in the days long gone by.It happened at times--not in my barest days, but in those of decent poverty--that some one in the house where I lodged played the piano--and how it rejoiced me when this came to pass! I say "played the piano"--a phrase that covers much.
For my own part, I was very tolerant; anything that could by the largest interpretation be called music, I welcomed and was thankful;for even "five-finger exercises" I found, at moments, better than nothing.For it was when I was labouring at my desk that the notes of the instrument were grateful and helpful to me.Some men, Ibelieve, would have been driven frantic under the circumstances; to me, anything like a musical sound always came as a godsend; it tuned my thoughts; it made the words flow.Even the street organs put me in a happy mood; I owe many a page to them--written when I should else have been sunk in bilious gloom.
More than once, too, when I was walking London streets by night, penniless and miserable, music from an open window has stayed my step, even as yesterday.Very well can I remember such a moment in Eaton Square, one night when I was going back to Chelsea, tired, hungry, racked by frustrate passions.I had tramped miles and miles, in the hope of wearying myself so that I could sleep and forget.Then came the piano notes--I saw that there was festival in the house--and for an hour or so I revelled as none of the bidden guests could possibly be doing.And when I reached my poor lodgings, I was no longer envious nor mad with desires, but as Ifell asleep I thanked the unknown mortal who had played for me, and given me peace.
