The Alien CornW.S.Maugham

Lea Makart wished to set out for London at about six, so it was arranged that George should play at four.

At a little before four we all wandered into the drawing-room.

George gave no sign of nervousness.

He was already seated at the piano when I went in with his father and mother, and he watched us quietly settling ourselves down.

He gave me the shadow of a smile.

When he saw that we were all at our ease he began to play.

He played Chopin. He played two waltzes that were familiar to me, a polonaise and an etude.

I wished I knew music well enough to give an exact description of his playing.

It had strength, and a youthful exuberance, but I felt that he missed what to me is the peculiar charm of Chopin, its tenderness, nervous melancholy and wistful gaiety.

And I had a vague sensation, so slight that it almost escaped me, that the two hands did not quite synchronize.

Muriel's eyes were fixed on the pianist, but presently she dropped them and for the rest of the time stared at the floor.

His father looked at him too, and his eyes were steadfast, but unless I was much mistaken he went pale and his face betrayed something like dismay.

Music was in the blood of all of them, all their lives they had heard the greatest pianists in the world, and they judged with instinctive precision.

The only person whose face betrayed no emotion was Lea Makart.

She listened very attentively.

At last he stopped and turning round on his seat faced her.

He did not speak.

"What is it you want me to tell you?" she asked.

They looked into one another's eyes.

"I want you to tell me whether I have any chance of becoming in time a pianist in the first rank?"

"Not in a thousand years."

For a moment there was dead silence.

Freddy's head sank and he looked down at the carpet at his feet.

His wife put out her hand and took his.

But George continued to look steadily at Lea Makart.

She made a great sweeping gesture that took in the magnificent room with the beautiful things it contained and ail of us.

She said, "If I thought you had in you the makings of an artist I shouldn't hesitate to beseech you to give up all this for Art's sake.

Art is the only thing that matters.

In comparison with art, wealth and rank and power are not worth a straw.

Of course I can see that you've worked very hard.

Don't think it's been wasted. It will always be a pleasure to be able to play the piano and it will enable you to appreciate great playing as no ordinary person can hope to do.

Look at your hands.

They're not a pianist's hands".

Involuntarily I looked at George's hands.

I had never noticed them before.

I was astounded to see how podgy they were and how short and stumpy the fingers.

"Your ear is not quite perfect.

I don't think you can ever hope to be more than a very competent amateur.

In art the difference between the amateur and the professional is immeasurable."

George did not reply.

Except for his pallor no one would have known he was listening to the blasting of all his hopes.

The silence that fell was quite awful.

"Shall I play to you?" she said. "Yes, do".

She got up and went to the piano.

She played Bach.

I do not know the names of the pieces, but I recognized the music.

She played beautifully, with a soft brilliance that made you think of the full moon shining at dusk in the summer sky.

With another part of me I watched the others and I saw how intensely they were rapt.

I wished with all my heart that I could get from music the wonderful exaltation that possessed them.

She stopped, a smile hovered on her lips.

George gave a little chuckle.

"That clinches it, I fancy", he said.

The servants brought in tea and after tea Lea Makart and I bade the company farewell and got into the car....

We little knew what was happening at Tilby.

When we left, George went out on the terrace and presently his father joined him.

With his more than feminine sensitiveness he felt all that George was feeling, and George's anguish simply broke his heart.

He had never loved his son more than then.

When he appeared George greeted him with a little smile. Freddy's voice broke.

"Look here, old boy", he said, "I can't bear to think that you've had such a disappointment. Would you like to go back to Munich for another year and then see?"George shook his head.

"No, it wouldn't be any good. I've had my chance. Let's call it a day!"

"Try not to take it too hard".

"You see, the only thing in the world I want is to be a pianist.

And there's nothing doing".

George, trying so hard to be brave, smiled wanly.

"Would you like to go round the world?

You can get one of your Oxford pals to go with you and I'll pay all the expenses.

You've been working very hard for a long time."

"Thank awfully, daddy, we'll talk about it. I'm just going for a stroll now".

"Shall I come with you?"

"I'd rather go alone".

But George did not go for a walk.

Perhaps because the shooting season was about to open he took it into his head to go into the gun-room. He began to clean the gun that his mother had given him on his twentieth birthday.

No one had used it since he went to Germany.

Suddenly the servants were startled by a report.

When they went into the gun-room, they found George lying on the floor shot through the heart. Apparently the gun had been loaded and George while playing about with it had accidentally shot himself. One reads of such accidents in the papers often.