said a low pleasant voice from the back of the room. P-r-r-rm, Pr-um!
The speaker did not say Pr-r-rm, Pr-um! That sound was produced by an up and down draw of the bow across the fourth string of the old violoncello he held between his legs, letting the neck of the instrument with its pegs fall directly after into the hollow of his arm, as he picked up a cake of amber-hued transparent rosin from the edge of a music stand, and began thoughtfully to rub it up and down the horse-hair of the bow.
The speaker’s was a pleasant handsome face of a man approaching sixty; but though his hair was very grey, he was remarkably well-preserved. His well-cut rather effeminate face showed but few lines, and there was just a tinge of colour in his cheeks, such as good port wine might have produced: but in this case it was a consequence of a calm, peaceful, seaside life. He was evidently slight and tall, but bent, and in his blue eyes there was a dreamy look, while a curious twitch came over his face from time to time as if he suffered pain.
“It would have been better, father,” said Richard Linnell, turning over the leaves of a music-book with his violin bow, “but we can’t pick and choose whom one is to sit next in this world.”
“No, no, we can’t, my son.”
“And I don’t think that we ought to trouble ourselves about our neighbours, so long as they behave themselves decorously here.”
“No, no, my son,” said Linnell, senior, thoughtfully. “There’s a deal of wickedness in this world, but I suppose we mustn’t go about throwing stones.”
“I’m not going to, father, and I’m sure you wouldn’t throw one at a mad dog.”
“Don’t you think I would, Dick?” with a very sweet smile; and the eyes brightened and looked pleased. “Well, perhaps you are right. Poor brute! Why should I add to its agony?”
“So long as it didn’t bite, eh, father?”
“To be sure, Dick; so long as it didn’t bite. I should like to run through that adagio again, Dick, but not if you’re tired, my boy, not if you’re tired.”
“Tired? No!” cried the young man. “I could keep on all day.”
“That’s right. I’m glad I taught you. There’s something so soul-refreshing in a bit of music, especially when you are low-spirited.”
“Which you never are, now.”
“N-no, not often, say not often, say not often. It makes me a little low-spirited though about that woman and her mother, Dick.”
“I don’t see why it should.”
“But it does. Such a noble-looking beautiful creature, and such a hard, vulgar, worldly mother. Ah, Dick, beautiful women are to be pitied.”
“No, no: to be admired,” said Richard, laughing.
“Pitied, my boy, pitied,” said the elder, making curves in the air with his bow, while the fingers of his left hand – long, thin, white, delicate fingers – stopped the strings, as if he were playing the bars of some composition. “Your plain women scout their beautiful sisters, and trample upon them, but it is in ignorance. They don’t know the temptations that assail one who is born to good looks.”
“Why, father, this is quite a homily.”
“Ah, yes, Dick,” he said, laughing. “I ought to have been a preacher, I think, I am always prosing. Poor things – poor things! A lovely face is often a curse.”
“Oh, don’t say that.”
“But I do say it, Dick. It is a curse to that woman upstairs. Never marry a beautiful woman, Dick.”
“But you did, father.”
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
