The Three Miss Kings: An Australian StoryCambridge, Ada
History
The Three Miss Kings: An Australian Story
Cambridge, Ada
Australia -- History -- 1788-1900 -- Fiction; Sisters -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
One day, when their preparations for regular domestic life were fairly
completed, Patty, tired after a long spell of amateur carpentering,
sat down to the piano to rest and refresh herself. The piano had
been tuned on its arrival in Melbourne; and the man who tuned it had
stared at her when she told him that it had been made to her mother's
order, and showed him the famous name above the key-board. He would
have stared still more had he heard what kind of magic life she could
summon into the exquisite mechanism boxed up in that poor-looking
deal case. All the sisters were musicians, strange to say; taught by
their mother in the noble and simple spirit of the German school, and
inheriting from her the sensitive ear and heart to understand the
dignity and mystery, if not the message (which nobody understands) of
that wonderful language which begins where words leave off. To "play
the piano" was no mere conventional drawing-room performance with them,
as they themselves were no conventional drawing-room misses; a "piece"
of the ordinary pattern would have shocked their sense of art and
harmony almost as much as it might have shocked Mozart and Mendelssohn,
and Schubert and Schumann, and the other great masters whose pupils
they were; while to talk and laugh, either when playing or listening,
would have been to them like talking and laughing over their prayers.
But, of the three, Patty was the most truly musical, in the serious
meaning of the word, inasmuch as her temperament was warmer than those
of her sisters, her imagination more vivid, her senses generally more
susceptible to delicate impressions than theirs. The "spirits of the
air" had all their supernatural power over her receptive and responsive
soul, and she thrilled like an Æolian harp to the west wind under the
spell of those emotions that have no name or shape, and for which no
imagery supplies a comparison, which belong to the ideal world, into
which those magic spirits summon us, and where the sacred hours of our
lives--the sweetest, the saddest, the happiest--are spent.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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