"It's like being at the opera!" was the best compliment he
had to give.
The young man smiled as if a light had been turned on behind his eyes
and his brilliant white teeth. "Delighted!" he said. "I can't sing
properly nowadays--shell shock. I suppose I never shall again. But I do
my best."
He sat down once more at the piano, and without asking his audience to
choose, began in a low voice an old, sweet, entirely banal and utterly
heartbreaking ballad of Tosti's, with words by Christina Rossetti:
"When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me,
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree.
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet,
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain.
And dreaming through the twilight
That does not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget."
The words were of no great depth or worth, and the music was too
intentionally heart-wringing to be sincerely fine, yet sung by that
man's voice, the piano softly touched by his hands, the poor old song
took my self-control and shivered it like thin glass. Tears burst from
Mrs. Beckett's eyes, and she hid her face on my shoulder, sobbing
beneath her breath: "Oh, Jim--Jim!"
When the singer had finished he looked at her, not in surprise, but
thoughtfully.
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