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Updated: June 20, 2025
May I be permitted to sit beside you on this bench, gnadige Frau?" He sat down, tugging at a white-paper package in the tail pocket of his coat. "Cherries," he said, nodding and smiling. "There is nothing like cherries for producing free saliva after trombone playing, especially after Grieg's 'Ich Liebe Dich. Those sustained blasts on 'liebe' make my throat as dry as a railway tunnel. Have some?"
As she went to the piano and sat down she saw upon the rack the little springtime song of Grieg's that was the first thing she had ever heard upon David's violin; she played a few bars of it to herself, and then she stopped and sat still, lost in the memory which it brought to her mind of the night when she had sat at the window and listened to it, just after seeing Arthur for the last time.
"Just listen here's Rossini's 'Barbier de Seville, and Grieg's 'Anitra's Dance' from the 'Peer Gynt Suite, and here's that most entrancing 'Barcarolle' from the 'Contes d'Hoffman' you remember it?" She began to hum the air, then, as the harmony flowed through her soul, sang a few lines, her voice like gold and honey: Belle nuit, o nuit d'amour, souris a nos ivresses!
I was a bookworm then, but when I came to know it, I woke among the butterflies. To be sure I have given up reading for a good many years ever since I was made sexton. There! I smell Grieg's Wedding March in the quiver of those rose-petals!" I went to the rose-bush and listened hard, but could not hear the thinnest ghost of a sound; I only smelt something I had never before smelt in any rose.
To Margaret some of it sounded like Grieg's Peer Gynt music. She found something irresistibly infectious in the mirth of these people who were so seldom merry, and she felt almost one of them. Something seemed struggling for freedom in them tonight, something of the joyous childhood of the nations which exile had not killed. The girls were all boisterous with delight.
He laughed. There was a curious sound in the laugh, it was mocking yet musical, it was eerie yet merry. Involuntarily Ralph thought of Grieg's "Dance of the Imps," and Auber's overture "Le Domino Noir." "But I have not yet explained my object in calling upon you," the visitor went on.
His "There Was an Aged Monarch" is seriously deserving of the frankest comparison with Grieg's treatment of the same Lied. It is interesting to note the radical difference of their attitudes toward it. Grieg writes in a folk-tone that is severe to the point of grimness. He is right because it is ein altes Liedchen, and Heine's handling of it is also kept outwardly cold.
I laid aside my cigar, approached the piano, and sat down. I struck a few chords and found the instrument to be in remarkably good order. I played a Chopin Polonaise, I tinkled Grieg's Papillon, then I ceased. "That is to pay for my supper," I explained. Next I played Le Courier, and when I had finished that I turned again, rising. "That is to pay for my horse's supper," I said.
It was a trick she had in moments of intense concentration, and the sharp, hissing sound of the last words was so distinct that she involuntarily turned to see that she had not been overheard. No, it was all right, everyone was busy with the preparations for the evening's work, except Joyselle, who sat at the piano and was playing, very softly, a little thing of Grieg's.
From such fancy the mind passed easily enough to the memory of that astonishing composition of Grieg's, "In the Hall of the Mountain King," and, once recalled, the stately yet staccato rhythm ran in one's ears continually. For if we had many days of cloud and smother of vapor that blotted out everything, when a fine day came how brilliant beyond all that lower levels know it was!
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