He motioned Harry Baggs to follow him
and proceeded to the brow of the field, where he settled down against a
fence, picking disconsolately at the burring strings and attempting to
tighten an ancient bow. Baggs dropped beside him. Below them night
flooded the winding road and deepened under the hedges; a window showed
palely alight; the stillness was intense.
"Now!" French Janin said.
The violin went home beneath his chin and he improvised a thin but
adequate opening for Harry Baggs' song. The boy, for the first time in
his existence, sang indifferently; his voice, merely big, lacked
resonance; the song was robbed of all power to move or suggest.
Janin muttered unintelligibly; he was, Harry Baggs surmised, speaking
his native language, obscurely complaining, accusing. They tried a
second song: "Hard times, hard times, come again no more." There was
not an accent of longing nor regret.
"That'll do," French Janin told him; "good enough for cows and
chickens."
He rose and descended to the camp, a bowed unsubstantial figure in the
gloom.
IV
They started early to the sale. Janin, as always, walked swiftly, his
violin wrapped in a cloth beneath his arm. Harry Baggs lounged sullenly
at his side. The day was filled with a warm silvery mist, through which
the sun mounted rayless, crisp and round. Along the road plum trees
were in vivid pink bloom; the apple buds were opening, distilling
palpable clouds of fragrance.
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