When she sat down at the piano and played, her fussiness was all forgotten;
her first notes used to be recognized through the house,
and people used to stop what they were doing, and come in. Even the children
would leave off playing, and come straggling in, tiptoeing as they crossed
the floor. Some of the other performers used to play a great deal louder,
but we never tiptoed when they played. Cousin Fanny would sit at the piano
looking either up or right straight ahead of her, or often with
her eyes closed (she never looked at the keys), and the sound used to rise
from under her long, thin fingers, sometimes rushing and pouring forth
like a deep roar, sometimes ringing out clear like a band of bugles,
making the hair move on the head and giving strange tinglings down the back.
Then we boys wanted to go forth in the world on fiery, black chargers,
like the olden knights, and fight giants and rescue beautiful ladies and
poor women. Then again, with her eyes shut, the sound would almost die away,
and her fingers would move softly and lingeringly as if they loved
the touch of the keys, and hated to leave them; and the sound would come from
away far off, and everything would grow quiet and subdued, and the perfume
of the roses out of doors would steal in on the air, and the soft breezes
would stir the trees, and we were all in love, and wanted to see
somebody that we didn't see. And Cousin Fanny was not herself any longer,
but we imagined some one else was there. Sometimes she suddenly began to sing
(she sang old songs, English or French); her voice might be weak
(it all depended on her whims; SHE said, on her health), in that case
she always stopped and left the piano; or it might be "in condition".
When it was, it was as velvety and mellow as a bell far off,
and the old ballads and chansons used to fill the twilight.
We used even to forget then that she was an old maid. Now and then
she sang songs that no one else had ever heard. They were her own;
she had composed both the words and the air. At other times
she sang the songs of others to her own airs. I remember the first time