The Oregon daily journal., May 21, 1916, Page 54, Image 54

THE SUNDAY FICTION MAGAZINE -MAY 21, 1916.
TlnlE
GENIUS
By Robert W. Sneddon
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Illustrated by Dorothy Dulat
U ri f 17 rah'" ' aSk"S Isidore was transferred to ?5v.
lT WAS a' September
night. Little Isidore
Levlne tossed on his
hard bed and closed
his eyes tightly. It
was so warm in the
room! He wondered if
winter Would ever
come again. In the next room he could
hear low voices. 'His father and mother
had a visitor. Would they never cease
talking?
Isidore was so tired; he couldn't stop
thinking1 such wonderful things. He was
in a concert hall. A quartet was playing
chamber musie it was a Russian pro
gram, Arensky, Glazounow andTTls heart
leaped up, child as he was, at the music
.of the steppes, the forests, the rushing
streams.
What were they talking about In there?
Oh, those lessons, those dreaded history
and grammar lessons, the alphabet march
ing like battalions of soldiers across the
weary pages! How he'hated school!
At night, when the lamp was lit, he
spent hours poring over his books. His
father would peer over his steel spectacles,
watching the boy quietly, and would look
up from his Yiddish newspaper to tell Isi
dore how fortunate he was to have a
chance to learn, and what a wonderful
place America was.
Now, as he lay on the bed, Isidore could
hear the cries of the children in the streets,
playing those marvelous games of action
and adventure, games In which he was
never allowed to join. Oh, how he wanted
to, -cry!
All at once the door was opened softly.
Looking up, Isidore saw bis father's face,
lit by the candle he was holding. Behind
him was another spectacled face such a
funny, grinning face!
, "You sleep, Isidore?" asked his father
almost caressingly.
The little boy's heart responded to the
kindness of the tone.
' "No!" he whispered.
"So this is the little musician?" said
the owner of the funny faci. -
"Yes, this is my son. Isidore, I have
news for you. Mr. Strunsky will give you
lessons by the piano. Tomorrow you go
to him, and every afternoon. That is
good, eh?" - - '
Isidore drew"h his breath, and, too
much moved td answer, nodded his head.
The faces at the door withdrew, and he
was alone. Oh, hew happy he was now,
how happy!
The next afternoon his mother a
strange, stout creature with hands equally
ready to caress and to slap took him to
his new taskmaster. Mr. Strunsky lived
in Second avenue, in 'an almost swell
house. There was a card in the window
next. to the door which read:
"Morris Strunsky Music Studio Fifty
Cents an Hour."
"Such a chance!" his mother repeated
as she puffed up the steps with him, point
ing to the sign. "And for you only a quar
ter!" WJthout explaining why the professor's
rates should be so favorable, she rang the
bell. Mr. Strunsky himself answering it.
Isidore was transferred to his care, after
elaborate greetings on both sides.
Mr. Strunsky led Isidore into the lar
gest living-room he had ever seen. In one
corner stood a piano. There was a well
worn carpet cn the floor, and much dingy
furniture. Innumerable photographs, fixed
in a network of dusty strings on the walls,
gave some indication of the master's suc
cession of pupils.
Mr. Strunsky, still smiling, though Isi
dore began to find something to frighten
him in the musician's grin, led the boy to
a huge chair and made him sit down. He
examined his new pupil's hands. Isidore
was glad they were clean.
The professor nodded and stared again,
then with a sigh clapped Isidore on the
head.
"Good boy!" he said, and stared again.
How delicate the little fellow looked, and
what large eyes he bad! "You don't eat
good," the master announced suddenly.
"Always two helps," answered Isidore
shyly, wondering what It all meant.
"Then it don't stick," .said Mr. Strun
sky regretfully. "But come you by the
piano. ' Your papa say you play a little by
ear. Let me hear you, and -do not be
afraid. I am very kind to little boys who
are good. Seer
Isidore stared ' at , the piano.-" Some
earlier pupil had scratched a rude face on
the polish, and it seemed to leer menacing
ly. It somehow reminded him "of Mr.
Strunsky, who was standing near the win
dow lighting a long pipe.
He gave a choked gasp, and strucK a
timid chord; then he began to play. As
his slim fingers found the keys the room
began to fade away. Oh, what wonderful
sounds he could make!
Suddenly he heard a voice say:
"That is fine! Stop! What is it you
play, my boy? I do not know it. What
is It?"
"I don't know," Isidore faltered in a
whisper. "It comes by me Just."
"You are afraid of -me. So!" said Mr.
Strunsky, coming over and putting his
hand under his chin.
Isidore felt his heart beat; then he
looked up Into the old man's face. There
was something so tender and encouraging
in Mr. Strunsky 's eyes that fear fell away
from the boy.
"No," he whispered, "I am not afraid
now!"
Mr. Strunsky smiled' sadly, and then
grinned.
"Good! Then we make of you a fine
musician. Yes, we will show them! Do
not be afraid of me any more ever. I will
make of you a great man; but first, yes,
first, you must learn such a lot!
And in perfect trust Isidore entered
upon his career.
n.
OH. WHAT dreadful days followed!
Those black heads with tails, those
curious and perplexing symbols to be com
mitted to memory, the endless repetition
of scales and exercises in which he heard
no music! Mr. Strunsky, with a pencil
ready to rap his fingers if be made a mis
take, alternately scolding and caressing
him; at one moment beaming with his
queer, wrinkled face, and then bellowing
with scorn" and impatient vituperation! -Isidore
was alternately a genius, a fool,
a good-for-nothing, a wonder; but out of
it all emerged the fact that he waa pro
gressing with unheard-of rapidity.
One evening Mr. Strunsky came to the
boy's father. . '
"It Is done, my friend; you must get
-him a better teacher now. I will recom
mend him to Herr Schule such a great
man! For nothing, I am sure, he will take
Isidore. One day your boy will make much
money, my friend; so feed him welL A
good nourishment is a fine thing for so
nervous a boy."
A ML A. T ! 9 ' '
Aiier inai isiuore was conscious IQ&I
his parents were trying to do all they
could for him. He was fed with unlimited
eggs and milk, and his mother would feel
ilia iinu iiluc b.1 iiiB niui a. uuetir hiliub.
When it rained he was never allowed to go
out! without a pair of high rubbers, and ho
had a fine, thick overcoat.
Mr. Strunsky came one day and took
mm to xne great nerr schuie, wttn whom
the old man held a long whispered con
versation. Then Isidore had to play, while
Herr Venule pulled his black beard and
nodded approvingly.
"I take him, yes for your sake, my
old : comrade, and because I think I can
make something of9 him."
So Isidore had to begin all over again,
for his new teacher had a method of his
own.
At his school breaking-up day Isidore
played a piece, and a woman reporter who
had. strayed in wrote a paragraph for her
newspaper about a little Russian prodigy.
The notice was cut out, and traveled about
the .East Side in his mother's purse, for
the ILevines had many friends, but Herr
Schule was terribly annoyed.
"To put ideas into the boy's head what
nonsense! Yes, some day, .but now no I
He plays no more In public till I say."
And that was Isidore's last appearance
in public till three years later. He was
shooting up into a weedy boy, still frail,
but his arms were strong. Only at times,
when he had been practicing for hours, he
felt pains in his back and saw black snot
swim before his eyes. jr"'
He had remorseless taskmasters, who;
kept him at his work- Herr Schule, be
cause he had never known what it was to
be tired; and his parents, because they
had visions of money to be so easily
earned by a child who must surely be
grateful for the care they had lavished on
him. ' And something of this entered Into
Isidore's consciousness.- Perhaps, if h
made a iot of money, his father would, let
,him jwt a little. ' -
If only he might rest and play, as other'
noys ma: w nen ne practicea ; ne coma
hear them calling to one another outside,