Not to hear him, Ben Cohen, but to hear
Beethoven as he ought to be heard; that's how he felt.
During those weeks of preparation for the concert, his mother worked
desperately hard to keep their home together without his earnings,
while Jenny helped. At first that had been enough for her, too: to
help. But later--
Throughout those long evenings when, already tired from her work in the
factory, she had stood sorting, sprinkling, folding, ironing, the two
women got to a state where they scarcely dared to look at each other:
just a passing glance, a hardish stare, but no _looking into_.
If he had but once said, "I can't bear you to work so hard for me,"
everything would have been different, the fatigue wiped out. But he
didn't; he didn't even know they were working for him, working beyond
the limit of an ordinary working-woman's working-day, hard enough, in
all conscience.
"Men can't not be expected to notice things the way we do." That's what
they told themselves--they did not say even this much to each other.
But far, far away, out of sight, out of all actual knowledge, was the
fear which neither of them would have dared to realise, a vague horror,
a sort of ghost.
Pages:
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378