“I suppose I haven’t,” Maureen said. “I’m not much of an artist myself.”
“Yes, but you play the piano,” Mira said. “And much better than I ever could.”
Maureen smiled. “I’m not as good as I once was. I haven’t had as much time to practice since... well, since moving to Bath.”
“Why not?” Mira asked.
“My aunt didn’t like me to practice when she was sleeping. And as she slept most of the time, it was rather a difficult prospect. I’ve been playing a little more in the last month.”
“Can you play for us?” Liza asked.
Maureen ducked her head in a rare show of shyness. “I suppose I could, if you really wanted me to.”
They finished their teacakes and withdrew to the music room on the second floor. A lovely pianoforte stood in the center, glowing in the light filtering through the thin, delicate curtains covering the window. Near the door stood a credenza displayingobjets d’art.
“What a lovely little carousel,” Liza said, admiring one of the curios. It was a delicate thing with gold work and tiny, porcelain horses with different colored saddles and bridles. It stood on a heavy base engraved with swirls and flowers.
“It’s a musical box,” Maureen said, pausing next to it. She opened a drawer in the credenza and pulled out a key, slotted it into the base of the carousel, and turned it. The springs creaked before a delicate tinkling sound rang out.
“It’s beautiful,” Mira said.
“Isn’t it? It’s one of Mendelssohn’s Songs Without Words. I find it incredible that the little box is able to play both the harmony and the melody at once. Although I find the tempo a little faster than it ought to be.”
Mira smiled. “That suggests you know how to play it.”
Maureen’s eyes sparkled and she opened one of the doors on the credenza, pulling out two folders of sheet music. “I’ve dabbled.”
“Are you a Mendelssohn enthusiast, then?” Liza asked.
“Oh yes. My father was partial to him.” She sighed. “He actually gave the box to me a few weeks before he died.”
The musical box filled the silence, before slowly coming to a stop.
“I’m so sorry,” Mira said.
Maureen blinked rapidly and stepped towards the piano. “I’m fine. I’m still surprised when the sorrow overcomes me.” She lifted the sheet music. “I’ll play the Mendelssohn first.”
Mira and Liza took their seats on a low-backed velvet sofa while Maureen opened the piano.
“You know, he wrote these songs without any titles or suggestions as to how one ought to feel when listening to or performing them. He felt that music could communicate so much more than words ever could. Poetry in music alone.” She set the sheet music on the rest above the piano keys and arranged her skirts over the bench. “Of course, since he died people have given most of them names, which defeats the whole purpose.”
“Does this one have a name?” Liza asked.
Maureen smiled. “I’ll tell you after I play.” She took a breath and started with her left hand playing the lower keys.
The notes were warm and bright, the melody joining the bass line and washing over them. It hadn’t occurred to Mira before how much she relied on the programs at musical reviews to tell her what to think and feel about a piece. The history behind it, the reasons why the composer might have written it, secrets hidden within the notes. And, of course, the title.
She closed her eyes and let the music envelop her. Thehigh notes spoke and the lower register responded, a call and response. The general tone of the piece was happy, but beneath it all the harmony was tinged with sorrow. Nostalgic, though Mira didn’t believe she had ever heard the piece before. What was Mendelssohn trying to communicate? Some hidden message tucked between the rests and quarter notes? The full piece was deep and rich in a way the musical box would never achieve.
Maureen lightened her touch as she finished the piece. Liza’s clapping brought Mira back from her revelry.
“Oh, that was wonderful, Maureen,” Liza said.
“I’m a little out of practice.” A blush rose to Maureen’s cheeks.
“I never would have known,” Mira said.
Liza sat straighter. “Did it have a name?”
