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operas and found that she had not； though she was perfectly
familiar with their respective situations； and had once possessed
the piano score of The Flying Dutchman。 I began to think it
would have been best to get her back to Red Willow County without
waking her； and regretted having suggested the concert。
From the time we entered the concert hall； however； she was
a trifle less passive and inert； and for the first time seemed to
perceive her surroundings。 I had felt some trepidation lest she
might become aware of the absurdities of her attire； or might
experience some painful embarrassment at stepping suddenly into
the world to which she had been dead for a quarter of a century。
But； again； I found how superficially I had judged her。 She sat
looking about her with eyes as impersonal； almost as stony； as
those with which the granite Rameses in a museum watches the
froth and fret that ebbs and flows about his pedestal…separated
from it by the lonely stretch of centuries。 I have seen this
same aloofness in old miners who drift into the Brown Hotel at
Denver； their pockets full of bullion； their linen soiled； their
haggard faces unshaven； standing in the thronged corridors as
solitary as though they were still in a frozen camp on the Yukon；
conscious that certain experiences have isolated them from their
fellows by a gulf no haberdasher could bridge。
We sat at the extreme left of the first balcony； facing the
arc of our own and the balcony above us； veritable hanging
gardens； brilliant as tulip beds。 The matinee audience was made
up chiefly of women。 One lost the contour of faces and figures
indeed； any effect of line whatever…and there was only the color
of bodices past counting； the shimmer of fabrics soft and firm；
silky and sheer： red； mauve； pink； blue； lilac； purple； ecru；
rose； yellow； cream； and white； all the colors that an
impressionist finds in a sunlit landscape； with here and there
the dead shadow of a frock coat。 My Aunt Georgiana regarded them
as though they had been so many daubs of tube…paint on a palette。
When the musicians came out and took their places； she gave
a little stir of anticipation and looked with quickening interest
down over the rail at that invariable grouping； perhaps the first
wholly familiar thing that had greeted her eye since she had left
old Maggie and her weakling calf。 I could feel how all those
details sank into her soul； for I had not forgotten how they had
sunk into mine when。 I came fresh from plowing forever and
forever between green aisles of corn； where； as in a treadmill；
one might walk from daybreak to dusk without perceiving a shadow
of change。 The clean profiles of the musicians； the gloss of
their linen； the dull black of their coats； the beloved shapes of
the instruments； the patches of yellow light thrown by the green…
shaded lamps on the smooth； varnished bellies of the cellos and
the bass viols in the rear； the restless； wind…tossed forest of
fiddle necks and bows…I recalled how； in the first orchestra I
had ever heard； those long bow strokes seemed to draw the heart
out of me； as a conjurer's stick reels out yards of paper ribbon
from a hat。
The first number was the Tannhauser overture。 When the
horns drew out the first strain of the Pilgrim's chorus my Aunt
Georgiana clutched my coat sleeve。 Then it was I first realized
that for her this broke a silence of thirty years； the
inconceivable silence of the plains。 With the battle between the
two motives； with the frenzy of the Venusberg theme and its
ripping of strings； there came to me an overwhelming sense of the
waste and wear we are so powerless to combat； and I saw again the
tall； naked house on the prairie； black and grim as a wooden
fortress； the black pond where I had learned to swim； its margin
pitted with sun…dried cattle tracks； the rain…gullied clay banks
about the naked house； the four dwarf ash seedlings where the
dishcloths were always hung to dry before the kitchen door。 The
world there was the flat world of the ancients； to the east； a
cornfield that stretched to daybreak； to the west； a corral that
reached to sunset； between； the conquests of peace； dearer bought
than those of war。
The overture closed； my aunt released my coat sleeve； but
she said nothing。 She sat staring at the orchestra through a
dullness of thirty years； through the films made little by little
by each of the three hundred and sixty…five days in every one of
them。 What； I wondered； did she get from it？ She had been a good
pianist in her day I knew； and her musical education had been
broader than that of most music teachers of a quarter of a
century ago。 She had often told me of Mozart's operas and
Meyerbeer's； and I could remember hearing her sing； years ago；
certain melodies of Verdi's。 When I had fallen ill with a fever
in her house she used to sit by my cot in the eveningwhen the
cool； night wind blew in through the faded mosquito netting
tacked over the window； and I lay watching a certain bright star
that burned red above the cornfieldand sing 〃Home to our
mountains； O； let us return！〃 in a way fit to break the heart of
a Vermont boy near dead of homesickness already。
I watched her closely through the prelude to Tristan and
Isolde； trying vainly to conjecture what that seething turmoil
of strings and winds might mean to her； but she sat mutely staring
at the violin bows that drove obliquely downward； like the
pelting streaks of rain in a summer shower。 Had this music any
message for her？ Had she enough left to at all comprehend this
power which had kindled the world since she had left it？ I was
in a fever of curiosity； but Aunt Georgiana sat silent upon her
peak in Darien。 She preserved this utter immobility throughout
the number from The Flying Dutchman； though her fingers
worked mechanically upon her black dress； as though； of themselves；
they were recalling the piano score they had once played。 Poor old
hands！ They had been stretched and twisted into mere tentacles to
hold and lift and knead with； the palms unduly swollen； the
fingers bent and knottedon one of them a thin； worn band that
had once been a wedding ring。 As I pressed and gently quieted
one of those groping hands I remembered with quivering eyelids
their services for me in other days。
Soon after the tenor began the 〃Prize Song；〃 I heard a quick
drawn breath and turned to my aunt。 Her eyes were closed； but
the tears were glistening on her cheeks； and I think； in a moment
more； they were in my eyes as well。 It never really died； then
the soul that can suffer so excruciatingly and so interminably；
it withers to the outward eye only； like that strange moss which
can lie on a dusty shelf half a century and yet； if placed in
water； grows green again。 She wept so throughout the development
and elaboration of the melody。
During the intermission before the second half of the concert； I
questioned my aunt and found that the 〃Prize Song〃 was not new to
her。 Some years before there had drifted to the farm in Red Willow
County a young German； a tramp cowpuncher； who had sung the chorus
at Bayreuth； when he was a boy； along with the other peasant boys
and girls。 Of a Sunday morning he used to sit on his
gingham…sheeted bed in the hands' bedroom which opened off the
kitchen； cleaning the leather of his boots and saddle； singing the
〃Prize Song；〃 while my aunt went about her work in the kitchen。
She had hovered about him until she had prevailed upon him to join
the country church； though his sole fitness for this step； insofar
as I could gather； lay in his boyish face and his possession of
this divine melody。 Shortly afterward he had gone to town on the
Fourth of July； been drunk for several days； lost his money at a
faro table； ridden a saddled Texan steer on a bet； and disappeared
with a fractured collarbone。 All this my aunt told me huskily；
wanderingly； as though she were talking in the weak lapses of
illness。
〃Well； we have come to better things than the old Trovatore
at any rate； Aunt Georgie？〃 I queried； with a well…meant effort
at jocularity。
Her lip quivered and she hastily put her handkerchief up to
her mouth。 From behind it she murmured； 〃And you have been
hearing this ever since you left me； Clark？〃 Her questio