THE fire on the nursery
hearth gave a little flicker and the sleepy child opened his eyes as the story
finished. "--arching his neck and looking down into the clear water the
ugly duckling saw that he had become a beautiful white swan, and all the
sorrows he had suffered while he was an ugly duckling vanished away and he was
as happy as sunshine and--" The fire fell together with a soft purr and
the child was asleep.
When the young mother
came back, empty-armed from the bedroom, she sank down before the fire and the
occupant of the big chair. "Dear Mother-Aunt," she said, "how
sweet to have you in my own home. Every day of life with my children is like a
fresh revelation of all you were to us in those days of childhood you made so
happy. I took it then as unconsciously as the sunlight or any other blessed
thing, but now I know what sacrifices and never-ending care it meant. And after
all--though that is so hard to realize--we weren't your own children and you
were giving up your own life to us, day by day. It is such a joy now to have
you see me trying to be to my little ones what you were to us--to have you hear
me telling them the lovely tales you told us. I think my favorite is the one I
told to-night. I can always hear your voice as I end it, and if my children
feel as happy over the joy of the swan as I used to--"
The older woman laughed
a little, and then sighed. "I have just seen the other ending to that
story, and I don't know if I am glad or sorry--if I dare be sad! I think it
would be wrong to grieve--and yet--"
"What can you
mean?" asked the niece. "How can there be any story in the family at
Boston that you have not known before?"
"It wasn't there.
It was in West Ripley."
The niece sat up with
arched eyebrows of question.
"You never even
heard of West Ripley, did you? Yet that was the chapter in my life before I
came to the long, dear story of your childhood--yours and all the rest--after
your mother's death."
"Oh!" cried
the other, "is there a story you never told me? Auntie dear, pretend I am
your little girl again, and tell me a new story."
The white-haired woman
stroked the sunny head at her knee. "This is a tale for a grown woman,
dear, not for a child, and perhaps you can help me decide what its meaning is.
It's all a part of the only little scrap of life of my very own I ever had.
"I was twenty-five
before they let me go away from Boston and the sweet but narrow bonds of our
life there. They never could understand my wanting to--girls didn't thirty
years ago as they do now--and they were disappointed that I didn't marry.
Father blamed my music--'the girl's in love with her piano instead of a decent
marrying man,' he used to say; and I imagine he was right. I had a horror of decent
marrying people and all that they meant, and was always living in a fancy world
where everyone was gay for the mere joy of all the lovely things there are. I
so loved my music I seemed to need no other friend and it was like a bird's
swoop out of an open window into the sunlight, when I found myself at West
Ripley, free from all the round of unending home duties and the endless chain
of aunts and uncles and cousins who were so kind but so alien.
"It is true I had
my music pupils,--what seemed to me such a flight into freedom, was in reality
only going up to a little mountain town to teach music--but they and all the
rest were frankly strangers to me, and could not come knocking at the door of
my real life with the kindly brutality of the people in Boston, presuming on a
long but shallow acquaintance. So I lived my life and dreamed my dreams, and
wrote a few songs out of the many I heard in my new and peaceful solitude and
liberty."
She fell to musing,
eyes on the fire, till her niece said: "Why, auntie I never heard of all
this before--and how is your ugly duckling in it?"
"I stopped in West
Ripley on the way here from Boston, the first time I have been back. It brought
all that life up with such startling clearness. I don't think I ever spoke of
it to you; it was one of the things I put aside.
"The ugly duckling
was one of my pupils, a big ungainly boy of seventeen, his parent's despair and
bewilderment, and my joy. I remember the first time I heard him play--and the
second! His mother, kindly, capable New England housewife asked me to tea and
Dan was there, all big dark eyes and awkward hands and feet. They talked about
him and what a problem he was with the frank cruelty of devoted families.
"'He's bright
enough, if he'd apply himself,' said the father, 'and you'd think any boy with
his prospects in life would take an interest in his studies.'
"'Yes,' explained
the mother, 'my husband's business is the best in town and we've always looked
forward so to having Dan (he's the only child we have living) take his place in
the factory. But we want him educated--I'd like to have him go to the business college
here, and learn just how to keep accounts and all, but he's so crazy over music
he can't put his mind on anything else. Wherever he got that kink we can't
imagine. There never has been anybody queer in the family since I can
remember.'
"I looked over at
Dan with a sudden interest. I knew what that sort of talk meant. He was
crumbling his bread with a sullen flush on his face, and in pity I tried to
turn the conversation.
"After tea we went
into the front room, where Dan's piano stood. Mr. Marvin looked at it with
great disapproval. 'I got that for Dan when he was a little fellow. His mother
wanted to have accomplishments, but I declare, I think it's bewitched him.'
"I asked eagerly
to have Dan play; it sounded as though he were a misunderstood genius. His
mother said, 'yes, of course he would play. Play the "Maiden's
Prayer" for the lady.' Dan protested hopelessly but ended by sitting down
and banging through that old show piece with the irritating monotony of a hand
organ. I smiled at the prompt disappearance of the little romance I had begun
to weave about him,--'Another village talent,' I thought amusedly.
"In spite of
themselves the parents looked pleased as he finished. 'It sounds real pretty,
don't it, mother?' said Mr. Marvin with a shamefaced pride, and Mrs. Marvin,
'Sometimes I think Dan does play real good.'
"I was asked to
play, and sure of their comfortable denseness, I threw my whole soul into the
'Sonata Appassionata.' They did not ask me to play again, and could only say,
with a bewildered politeness, that 'It must have taken you a long time to learn
to play such a hard piece.' Dan had disappeared, and when I started home in the
pleasant summer twilight he was nowhere to be found to bid me good-night. His
father was irritated, and said sharply: 'He's got to stop his foolishness and
tend to his work at school. I know he has a Latin lesson to get to-night.'
"As I went through
a little clump of young pines near the house where I was living, I was startled
by hurrying footsteps behind me. Dan was there, his long, thin face pale in the
starlight and distorted with some strong feeling. 'Oh,' he cried, carried out
of his shy hesitancy, 'I didn't think anybody could play like that. How can you
look so like people! It's like being an angel to be able to do that! And you
mustn't think I am like what I was to-night,--I never saw anybody before I
wanted to play for as I do for myself--how could I know till you played? Can't
I come now and show you on your piano? I can't bear to have you sleep thinking
I am like that--when you are the only one I ever saw who--oh, please let me
play for you!'
"When we were
inside the house he hurried to the piano and began the 'Spring Song.' I sat
transfixed with astonishment and an odd pain, for I felt as though a powerful
intruder had pushed his way into my own domain. And yet he could be no
intruder--this joyful apparition of youth and ecstacy, who sat uncovering to me
the hidden sweet things of his heart. When he had finished he whirled about,
still glowing with the fire of his music, but was suddenly smitten dumb with
his old awkward embarrassment, a crimson shame at his own boldness flaming in
his cheeks, and a sudden doubt of himself quivering in his sensitive mouth. I
am always proud when I think I had the generosity to welcome him to his own.
'Dan,' I said, 'you are one of the chosen. Never let anything come between you
and your music. It is your kingdom.'
"The boy looked at
me for a moment in silence. Then suddenly his face twisted like a child's and he
broke into loud sobs. He rushed out of the house as rapidly as he had rushed
in, and following him to the door, I heard the sound of weeping from the dark
group of silent pine trees.
"After that there
was a long time when I could never catch sight of him, until one day his mother
came in with him to ask me to give him lessons. 'We think he plays plenty good
enough a'ready,' she said cheerfully, 'but he's promised to study real hard and
graduate with his class if his father will let him take lessons of you. He
never liked that other teacher we had here.' I agreed, and Dan and I were left
alone together--the boy all blushes and shamefaced embarrassment in speaking of
his art.
"It was only after
many months of work together that he came to trust me with his half-formed
aspirations and ideals, though I lavished on the big rustic lad every atom of
tact and sympathy I had. It was not that he was hard to lead. On the contrary,
he had that curious plastic yielding to circumstances so often accompanying the
lyric gift, and once he told me that just before I came he had been on the
point of giving up his music altogether. I exclaimed in horror at this, and he
explained. 'Father and mother were so much disappointed over me, and the
minister came to talk to me about what was right to them, and my Aunt Jane told
me there were other ways of going wrong and breaking your folk's hearts than by
getting drunk, and--'
"I flamed at this
with missionary fervor. It was like a soul to be saved. 'Dan!' I cried. 'Don't
listen to them,--they don't know what a precious,--what an inestimable, what a
sacred treasure you have. It is a holy gift from Heaven. They are like blind
people,--trust me who can see!'
"We were under the
pine trees that day, it was in early spring, and Dan was lying on his back on
the brown needles. The tears came into his eyes as I spoke, and he said
fervently: 'It's like being let out of prison to hear you say that. I want to
do what's right, and it nearly kills me to be made to think it's wrong to go on
with my music.'
"'Never think so
again, Dan,' I cried with youthful sureness of my convictions.
"He shook his head
uncertainly. 'When I am with you I don't, but at home--' he paused, 'I'm all
they have got--'
"I knew the way to
exorcise this demon of a New England conscience, and took him into the house to
the piano, where he was soon playing Beethoven with a premature power and vigor
that surprised me. I had heard all the great pianists of that day and I had
never seen one who could move me more, one who could equal the occasional
felicities of expression which were absolutely ravishing in Dan's playing. At
times, through the roughness of his technic, there pierced a poignant beauty
that used to leave me quite breathless. I have heard all the great artists
since then, but a certain throbbing spontaneity which was his, and which
recreated the music he played, they all lack.
"The scene under
the pines came back to me with a pang of compunction the next fall when his
mother came to see me, her face swollen with weeping, to ask me to use my
influence with Dan in turning him to his duty. 'He'll kill his father yet!' she
sobbed. 'My husband is just heart-broken over his shiftlessness--the only child
we have, and we've done everything in the world for him! To think a son of mine
should be so lacking in a sense of duty! He's just told his father that he
won't go into the factory at all--and I thought Daniel would have a stroke! I'm
going to get the minister to talk to him again, and I thought if you would--' She
hurried away, her face buried in her handkerchief, leaving me with the first
hesitation in my youthful, one-sided view of life. For a moment I blamed myself
for fostering rebellion in Dan, and I almost decided to withdraw altogether
from the responsibility of shaping his life, but later I felt again that, if I
stood aloof, I would be leaving an exquisite and fragile flower to be
ruthlessly thrust under the sod by a plow.
"Although I had
decided, I had no opportunity to act on my decision, for that very evening came
the letter from your father, telling of your mother's death, and begging me,
his only sister, with no family of her own, to come to his desolate
house."
The younger woman
caught her hand and kissed it. "I know your side of the story from that
moment, dearest--absorbing care, so loving and so complete that father's
children never knew they had lost a mother. Did you see your boy again before
you left?"
"Yes, he played
for me once, something from a Wagner opera, I had somehow secured, though nobody
knew him then. How he did play that! Ah, what would he have said to modern
music?"
There was a pause, and
then the niece said: "You speak as though he were dead. Is he?"
"No--and yes. I
saw him in West Ripley last week--the first time since those days. I had not
even heard of him, I was so busy those first years with my new and beautiful
duty of caring for you little ones. I only heard that his father died soon
after I left, but that was all till I saw him!"
"What is he like
now, Auntie?"
"Old and fat and
bald. I felt positively sick when I learned that the pallid, fat old man with
puffy hands who took up the collection in church was all that was left of my
joyous, youthful genius, singing his heart away at the piano.
"He is a pillar of
the church, the prominent citizen of West Ripley, a member of the State Senate.
His mother--still a vigorous old lady--told me with thankful and remorseful
tears in her eyes how she had misjudged Daniel. 'I used to think he might go
wrong or queer, when he was a boy. Maybe you remember how odd he was, but the
minister and I kept working with him, and praying for him, and then when his
father died and he had me to take care of and the factory to run he seemed to
sober down. He worked like a madman for three or four years, and then once he
told me he was trying to make enough to stop and learn some more music. That
upset me so as I can't say. It just seemed to me as though I couldn't bear it,
when I'd thought he was all cured of that nonsense. And I thought anyway 'twas
time for him to be settling down with a family of his own, and so I sort o'
engineered him toward my cousin's step-daughter. She was an awful pretty girl
and dead in love with Dan. After they were married, he did really and truly
sober down and I've never heard him say a word about music since.
"'It's queer, he
swung right t'other way and never would touch the piano, not even to play hymns
of a Sunday evening, as we'd like to have him. He won't stay in the room where
one of his girls is practisin'--seems to despise it now as much as he used to
love it. Unreasonable, ain't it? She's a real, practical, sensible woman--his
wife is--and anyway there's nothing so settling for a young man as being
married and having a family. He's been the best son and husband and father you
can think of--he's a good man, Daniel is, if he is my son.'
"She told me all
this while we were waiting for dinner in Dan's house. A little later his rosy,
buxom daughters came in, talking animatedly of a church fair. Dan was late, through
some extra business at the factory and had to hurry through his dinner.
"Afterwards, old
Mrs. Marvin asked me to play, and with all my soul torn between pity and sorrow
and content, I played the 'Sonata Appassionata.' When I finished I looked at Dan.
He was paler than usual and the big pouches under his eyes hung down heavily,
but for one instant he looked at me with the eyes of the boy under the pine
trees--eyes filled with tears. And then it was all over--like the last flicker
of a dying candle. He puffed his big black cigar, played with his youngest
daughter who sat on his knee, repelled good-naturedly the importunate demands
of the others for his purse, and looked at me and the world with the keen and
shallow eyes of the successful business man. The ugly duckling had developed
into no useless swan, but had satisfied the reasonable and loving demands of
the duck yard. How could I do anything but sorrow? How dared I do anything but
rejoice?"
Her niece rose to her
knees and threw her arms about the older woman. "You've been telling me
two stories," she cried, "yours as well as your boy's. Dear
Mother-Aunt, I never knew before that you, too, were an ugly duckling who was
not allowed to develop into a swan! I never knew what you were sacrificing for
all the loving service that made our childhood so sweet. But dearest, I cannot
regret it--there is no life but that for you, the best life can give you--love
in a home, and children. Why, when I think of my own children!" her face
all alight with a soft fervor of domesticity, "would I give them up for
all the music in the world. And think how we love you! You may not have grown
to be a beautiful swan, but you have grown to be something better--to be an
angel!"
Her aunt smiled at her
affectionately, "you are right dear,--love is best--of course you are
right,--and yet--"