Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: September 25, 2024
She was, even before she grew to womanhood, so we are told, a fine musician, a marvellous worker in tapestry, in hammered brass and pottery, and was altogether as wise and wonderful a young woman as even these later centuries can show.
For he came with some of the light and careless and arrogant tread, the intellectual sparkling, the superb gesture and port, of the musician of the new race. The man who composed such music, one knew, had been born on some sort of human height, in some cooler, brighter atmosphere than that of the crowded valleys.
Paula ignored it in rather a pointed way; being a musician she might have been expected to see that it was kept in tune. She had a piano of her own up in the big room at the top of the house that had once been the nursery and over this instrument, she made, Miss Wollaston felt, a silly amount of fuss.
Then flinging herself upon the uncomfortable sofa she said, "Mademoiselle, I am going to move away from my house on Esplanade Street." "Ah!" ejaculated the musician, neither surprised nor especially interested. Nothing ever seemed to astonish her very much. She was endeavoring to adjust the bunch of violets which had become loose from its fastening in her hair.
Tonio's mother, however, his beautiful, passionate mother, who played the piano and the mandolin so wonderfully, and to whom everything was quite immaterial, married anew after the lapse of a year, this time a musician, a virtuoso with an Italian name whom she followed to far-away lands. Tonio Kröger found this a trifle unprincipled; but was he called upon to prevent her?
"Let me sing you my new song." A piano was a novelty in Northern Ohio. Julia played with a real skill and expression, and her father, though no musician, loved to listen, and more to hear her sing, with her clear, strong, sweet voice, and so she played and sang her song.
They call it 'Returned from the Grave. Pay? We'll see how you like my playing." On entering the room where the caperish youth were already shuffling in corners, the musician met Mamzel Florian, who offered him a slice of the cake. He bent somewhat near to take it, and she gave a little cry.
Presently they came to a place where the street had been mended, and the stones lay scattered about. Here the woman no longer trusted to the dog's guidance, but anxiously hastened to the musician, and led him with evident tenderness and minute watchfulness over the rugged way.
A vibration from the violin a sigh as if the instrument had been suddenly moved rather than a touch upon the strings intimated that the young musician was astir. But it was Spears, the blacksmith, who spoke.
"I can't," he said. "But you play. I am sure of it." "And you?" he parried. She made a sad negative sign. "Well, I'll play something out of The Rosenkavalier." "Ah! But you are a musician!" She amiably scrutinised him. "And yet no." Smiling, he, too, made a sad negative sign. "The waltz out of The Rosenkavalier, eh?" "Oh, yes! A waltz. I prefer waltzes to anything."
Word Of The Day
Others Looking