“MORGEN,” he greeted his pupil in a businesslike way, put on a black
alpaca coat, and conducted her at once to the piano in Mrs. Kohler’s
sitting-room. He twirled the stool to the proper height, pointed to it,
and sat down in a wooden chair beside Thea.
“The scale of B flat major,” he directed, and then fell into an attitude
of deep attention. Without a word his pupil set to work.
To Mrs. Kohler, in the garden, came the cheerful sound of effort, of
vigorous striving. Unconsciously she wielded her rake more lightly.
Occasionally she heard the teacher’s voice. “Scale of E minor…WEITER,
WEITER!...IMMER I hear the thumb, like a lame foot. WEITER...WEITER,
once…SCHON! The chords, quick!”
The pupil did not open her mouth until they began the second movement of
the Clementi sonata, when she remonstrated in low tones about the way he
had marked the fingering of a passage.
“It makes no matter what you think,” replied her teacher coldly. “There
is only one right way. The thumb there. EIN, ZWEI, DREI, VIER,” etc.
Then for an hour there was no further interruption.
At the end of the lesson Thea turned on her stool and leaned her arm on
the keyboard. They usually had a little talk after the lesson.
Herr Wunsch grinned. “How soon is it you are free from school? Then we
make ahead faster, eh?”
“First week in June. Then will you give me the ‘Invitation to the
Dance’?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “It makes no matter. If you want him, you
play him out of lesson hours.”
“All right.” Thea fumbled in her pocket and brought out a crumpled slip
of paper. “What does this mean, please? I guess it’s Latin.”
Wunsch blinked at the line penciled on the paper. “Wherefrom you get
this?” he asked gruffly.
“Out of a book Dr. Archie gave me to read. It’s all English but that.
Did you ever see it before?” she asked, watching his face.
“Yes. A long time ago,” he muttered, scowling. “Ovidius!” He took a stub
of lead pencil from his vest pocket, steadied his hand by a visible
effort, and under the words:
“LENTE CURRITE, LENTE CURRITE, NOCTIS EQUI,” he wrote in a clear,
elegant Gothic hand,—
“GO SLOWLY, GO SLOWLY, YE STEEDS OF THE NIGHT.”
He put the pencil back in his pocket and continued to stare at the
Latin. It recalled the poem, which he had read as a student, and thought
very fine. There were treasures of memory which no lodging-house keeper
could attach. One carried things about in one’s head, long after one’s
linen could be smuggled out in a tuning-bag. He handed the paper back
to Thea. “There is the English, quite elegant,” he said, rising.
Mrs. Kohler stuck her head in at the door, and Thea slid off the stool.
“Come in, Mrs. Kohler,” she called, “and show me the piece-picture.”
The old woman laughed, pulled off her big gardening gloves, and pushed
Thea to the lounge before the object of her delight. The
“piece-picture,” which hung on the wall and nearly covered one whole end
of the room, was the handiwork of Fritz Kohler. He had learned his trade
