Clara had done and came down, true and clean, on to the opening chord.
The full rich tones of the piano echoed from all over the room; and some
metal object far away from her hummed the dominant. She held the chord
for its full term.... Should she play any more?

She had confessed herself... just that minor chord... anyone hearing it
would know more than she could ever tell them... her whole being beat
out the rhythm as she waited for the end of the phrase to insist on
what already had been said. As it came, she found herself sitting back,
slackening the muscles of her arms and of her whole body, and ready to
swing forward into the rising storm of her page. She did not need to
follow the notes on the music stand. Her fingers knew them. Grave and
happy she sat with unseeing eyes, listening, for the first time.

At the end of the page she was sitting with her eyes full of tears,
aware of Fraulein standing between the open swing doors with
Gertrude's face showing over her shoulder--its amazement changing to
a large-toothed smile as Fraulein's quietly repeated "Prachtvoll,
prachtvoll" came across the room. Miriam, after a hasty smile, sat
straining her eyes as widely as possible, so that the tears should not
fall. She glared at the volume in front of her, turning the pages. She
was glad that the heavy sun-blinds cast a deep shadow over the room. She
blinked. She thought they would not notice. Only one tear fell and that
was from the left eye, towards the wall. "You are a real musician, Miss
Henderson," said Fraulein, advancing.

17

Every other day or so Miriam found she could get an hour on a bedroom
piano; and always on a Saturday morning during _raccommodage._ She
rediscovered all the pieces she had already learned.

She went through them one by one, eagerly, slurring over difficulties,
pressing on, getting their effect, listening and discovering. "It's
_technique_ I want," she told herself, when she had reached the end of
her collection, beginning to attach a meaning to the familiar word.
Then she set to work. She restricted herself to the Pathetique,
always omitting the first page, which she knew so well and practised
mechanically, slowly, meaninglessly, with neither pedalling nor
expression, page by page until a movement was perfect. Then when the
mood came, she played... and listened. She soon discovered she could
not always "play"--even the things she knew perfectly--and she began to
understand the fury