And when, sitting for a moment, coming back slowly from Beethoven’s existence to her own, she heard no sound or stir from the porch, she had only a quiet smile of tolerant amusement.  Apparently she had not guessed right as to their tastes.  Or perhaps she had played them to sleep.

As for herself, she was hungry for more; she reached out her hand towards that world of high, purified beauty which miraculously was always there, with open doors of gold and ivory. . . .

What now?  What did she know by heart?  The Largo in the Chopin Sonata.  That would do to come after Beethoven.

The first plunge into this did not so intimately startle and stir her as the Beethoven movement had done.  It was always like that, she thought as she played, the sound of the first note, the first chord struck when one had not played for a day or so; it was having one’s closed eyes unsealed to the daylight anew, an incredulous rapture.  But after that, though you didn’t go on quaking and bowing your head, though you were no longer surprised to find music still there, better than you could possibly remember it, though you took it for granted, how deeply and solidly and steadfastly you lived in it and on it!  It made you like the child in the Wordsworth sonnet, “A beauteous evening, calm and free”; it took you in to worship quite simply and naturally at the Temple’s inner shrine; and you adored none the less although you were not “breathless with adoration,” like the nun; because it was a whole world given to you, not a mere pang of joy; because you could live and move and be blessedly and securely at home in it.

She finished the last note of the Largo and sat quiet for a moment.  Then she knew that someone had come into the room behind her.  She turned about, facing with serene, wide brows whatever might be there.

The first meeting with the eyes of the man who stood there moved her.  So he too deeply and greatly loved music!  His face was quite other from the hawk-like, intent, boldly imperious countenance which she had seen before.  Those piercing eyes were softened and quietly shining.  The arrogant lines about the mouth that could look so bitter and skeptical, were as sweet and candid as a child’s.

He smiled at her, a good, grateful, peaceful smile, and nodded, as though now they understood each other with no more need for words.  “Go on . . . go on!” was all he said, very gently and softly.  He sank down in an arm-chair and leaned his head back in the relaxed pose of listening.

He looked quite and exactly what Marise was feeling.

It was with a stir of all her pulses, a pride, a glory, a new sympathy in her heart, that she turned back to the piano.

CHAPTER V

A LITTLE GIRL AND HER MOTHER

An Afternoon in the Life of Elly Crittenden, aet. 8 Years

April 6.