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and witnessed their amusing capers. While I was doing so, some music ran through my head that exactly
fitted their antics. I thought it was rather too good to miss, and so I borrowed the pair of them from Radiant
Wing, so that I could have them on the premises here, and watch them at my leisure. He has very kindly
given me a sort of indefinite lease upon them. Their performances are never exactly the same. I expect you
know, Roger, that Radiant Wing is Curator-in-Chief and Friend-at Large to them, acting by special
commission for his two friends on earth, who between them are the particular friends of these two imps of
mischief . I was at work on that music when you arrived.
Does that mean that we ve seriously interrupted you? asked Ruth.
By no means, dear lady, answered Peter. When I said I had something for you, I was referring to this
very piece of music. The piano version is already completed. I thought perhaps you would like to have it.
What I m working on now is the orchestral arrangement, which I believe will be decidedly effective. It will
differ only slightly from the piano version.
- Fuller, and with a few more frills and so on. Is Roger interested in this sort of thing?
Yes, very. I played the scherzo you wrote for me, on the organ the sphere, you know, and he was full
of delight, and questions. That s one of the reasons for our present call, apart from wishing him to meet
you. He doesn t suspect at least I don t think he does who you are, though Monsignor did caution him
to look for surprises. He s had one already with the two pets. I m sure he doesn t know who Franz is
either.
Well, you know, my dear, we have changed a little since we came here.
Roger was amusing himself with Franz, the puma, and the bird, and was oblivious to our conversation.
Presently Ruth called to him. Roger, dear, said she, you remember the piece I played for you at the
church? Peter has written another for me.
Roger joined us at the table, and was now gazing very earnestly from Peter Ilyitch to a bust standing upon
a side table. It was of a man in middle age, and wearing a neatly trimmed beard. Peter was amused at
Roger s obvious attempt to match the two.
You feel you can trace some relationship, Roger? queried Peter. You re perfectly correct. That was
how I looked when I was on earth. It s not vanity that leads me to keep that bust here, but solely the beauty
of the workmanship.
It was an exquisitely wrought piece of sculpture.
It was done by someone who knew me as I was, and preferred to model it on those lines, Peter
continued. Do you think I ve improved, Roger?
My goodness, sir, answered Roger, that s an awkward question. If I say yes, it would imply there was
room for improvement. If I say no, you haven t improved oh, heavens!
The boy was lost in confusion, and there was a burst of laughter from the rest of us, not the least from
Peter himself. He was, of course, now in his prime of life, in precisely the same way as Franz had reverted
to a similar period of external youthfulness.
Roger was very apologetic for his seeming curiosity, but he could not resist asking Peter what was
contained in the many large volumes that were to be seen upon the shelves. To those unacquainted with the
manuscript of orchestral scores, the volumes might have an unusual appearance in their size. It was
explained that they constituted the works of our present host.
Roger was astounded at their enormous quantity.
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There is nothing remarkable about that, my dear friend, said Peter. You see, it s some considerable time
since I first came here to live, and I ve not exactly been idle in the meantime. It amuses us greatly when we
hear the announcement made on earth before a broadcast performance, that this is the last work composed
by so-and-so . The last work. Naturally, one knows what is meant, but it sounds so funny to us, especially
when one glances at those shelves. Is it positively believed, I wonder, that once we ve left the earth, we ve
stopped composing?
I hastened to assure him it was so.
That is why they put up statues and monuments to us, my dear friend, said Franz Joseph. They think we
are finished and done for; not a note left in us. And now they are perfectly certain they know what was in
our minds when we wrote any piece, large or small. If any of us had given the plain reason:
to keep off starvation, they wouldn t have approved of that. Not nearly mystic enough. Ah, well. This is the
life. What do you say, my friends?
There was no need to affirm our complete agreement!
Now, Peter, Franz added, play your new piece. I should like to hear it again myself.
Peter went across to a grand piano standing in a corner a handsome instrument and commenced to
play. I will not essay the impossible by attempting to describe what our friend played. To give a description
of any piece of music in mere words is a useless and fruitless task, as it conveys to the reader precisely
nothing. The most that can be done is to give a series of musical technicalities and details which in the end
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