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Updated: June 7, 2025
Nay, come away. The features of that living impersonation of the heroic faults and virtues which 'the mirror, that professed to give to 'the very body of the time, its form and pressure, could not fail to show, are glimmering here constantly in 'this ancient piece, and often shine out in the more critical passages, with such unmistakeable clearness, as to furnish an effectual diversion for any eye, that should undertake to fathom prematurely the player's intention.
I feel that technic should be in the player's head, it should be a mental picture, a sort of 'master record. It should be a matter of will power to which the manual possibilities should be subjected. Technic to me is a mental and not a manual thing.
Even if he had been more capable of enjoying the excellence of the player's performance, the glance he directed towards her would have sufficed to chill him into indifference. She was not young, and with prominent features and puckered skin, was twisting her face into strange sentimental grimaces, as if terribly overcome by the beauty and pathos of her own melodies.
Since Safti had spoken the music meant more to me. I tried to read the player's heart in the endless song it made. Trills, twitterings, grace notes, little runs upward ending in the air surely it was a boy's heart, and not unhappy. "It is coming nearer," I said. "Yes. Ah, it is Smaïn!" Safti's one eye is sharp. I had seen no one.
And it became an infernal ball. It became endowed with a fiendish propensity to run up a player's leg and all about him, as if trying to hide in his pocket. Grace's efforts to find it were heartbreaking to watch. Every time it bounded out to center field, which was of frequent occurrence, Tom would fall on it and hug it as if he were trying to capture a fleeing squirrel.
"The King!" he cried; "long life to him!" He had also thrown twelve. His cheek flushed a rosy red, and with a player's superstitious belief in his luck he regarded the check given to his opponent in the light of a presage of victory. They threw again, and he won by two points nine to seven. Hurrah!
I looked round, and the landscape was as changed as a scene that replaces a scene on the player's stage. I was aware that I had wandered far from my home, and I knew not what direction I should take to regain it.
Come, man, 'tis a pity if we cannot all stand together in this real play as well as in all the make-believe." "That's my sort!" cried Master Hemynge. "Why, what? Here is a player's daughter who has no father, and a player whose father will not have him, orphaned by fate, and disinherited by folly, common stock with us all! Marry, 'tis a sort of stock I want some of.
"The player's province they but vainly try, Who want these powers, deportment, voice, and eye."
"The first Gaston showed us the way. His wife was a strolling player's daughter. Good-bye, sir." Lady Belward's face was in her hands. "Good-bye-grandmother," he said at the door, and then he was gone. At the outer door the old housekeeper stepped forward, her gloomy face most agitated. "Oh, sir, oh, sir, you will come back again? Oh, don't go like your father!"
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