Chapter #0001 — A Wish
Ellen was the daughter of a relatively prosperous merchant and was a child of refined beauty. Though only seven years old, she carried herself with an air suggestive of keen intelligence and precocious religious sensibility. Her name was therefore well known among the children at her public school and among their parents.
Her parents dealt in household goods. Although theirs was a low-margin, high-volume trade, they had earned a reputation for stocking goods of excellent quality. Their monthly donations to the church were also generous without being conspicuous, which the townspeople regarded favourably. Her father was courteous and earnest; her mother, warm and approachable. Both showed genuine respect toward their customers, without the slightest trace of servility. Their business grew year by year until, in that small town, they had a main shop and three branches. This was not a result they had particularly sought. It was simply the outcome of the townspeople’s natural wish to buy good things at fair prices from merchants who were trustworthy and possessed of dignity.
One evening, as September thirtieth—Ellen’s eighth birthday—was drawing near, the family sat together after dinner. Her father looked at her with affection and asked, “Ellen, your eighth birthday will soon be here. Is there anything you would like to mark the occasion?”
Ellen gave a slightly bashful smile. “Father, there is nothing in particular I want. But there is something I would like to ask of you.”
Her father made a show of surprise. “Oh? A request? What would you like to ask?”
Ellen’s face brightened. “I believe that my violin playing, which I practise every day, has now reached a level fit to be performed before others. My teacher agrees with me.”
“Well, well.” Ellen’s father paused there. He already understood, more or less, what she meant to say—and it seemed to be something he had long been waiting to hear.
With a tender smile, he deliberately asked, “Then tell me, Ellen. What is it you wish for?”
Ellen blushed faintly. “I would like to give a violin recital.”
Her mother looked delighted. “My, my. A recital, after refusing so firmly all this time.”
Ellen regarded her mother with calm eyes. “That was because I did not have confidence that I could perform properly. Now I do.”
Her father was visibly moved. “Ellen, I am so happy to hear you say that at last. It will soon be five full years since we gave you your violin for your third birthday.” His eyes went distant. “You were five, I think, when we once had you play for your mother and me. I remember thinking even then that you were ready to take part in a joint pupils’ recital.”
Ellen’s eyes softened and narrowed. “At that age, all I could do was produce the notes written on the page. I had already realised, after listening to my teacher’s example, that that was not enough. I must feel what the composer intended, give it proper form in sound, make it music, and communicate it to everyone who listens.”
Her father let out a breath. “My.” He raised both palms toward Ellen. “Ellen, were you already aspiring to such heights? That is—well, I know little about music, but is that not something only a professional performer need concern herself with?” He put his right hand to his chin. “No, wait. I see. From the listener’s point of view, you are entirely right. It would be indulgent to assume that poor playing should be forgiven merely because the performer is an amateur.”
Her mother looked exasperated. “Really, dear. She is not taking money from the audience. Yes, certainly, she will be taking their time—their time, at least. But who would expect professional-level playing from a child this young?” She shook her head. “It is a hobby. Surely it is enough if there is even one good thing in the performance. Ellen, you need not have worked quite so hard. Ah—but you already have, haven’t you? And that is something to be proud of.” She sighed once. “Still, you and your teacher have been carrying all this between the two of you. I shall have to say something to the teacher as well.”
Ellen seemed a little excited. “No. In fact, I have intended from the beginning to ask the people who come to hear me for money. I would like to donate that money to the church.” Her father looked as though he had something to say, but remained silent. Ellen continued. “There are people in this town who cannot fully provide for themselves and depend upon the church kitchen for breakfast, luncheon, and supper, are there not?” Her mother looked pleased, but she too remained silent. The sight reassured Ellen. “One of my classmates at public school eats both meals other than school luncheon at the church. I would like to be of help to people like that.”
Ellen’s father showed her the palm of his right hand. “Hmm. I see. Ellen, you truly are pure and innocent. Or perhaps, as a girl not yet eight, I should say simple and uncomplicated.” Then his expression grew stern. “If this were merely a birthday celebration—a chance to display your hobby without charging the audience—then I would arrange it. But charging money and donating it to the church is another matter.” His voice was calm and sincere. “A recital requires a hall. If you wish to draw an audience, you will need advertising. But how many people would pay to attend a violin recital by a girl of only eight? Those with whom I do business might come out of courtesy, but the event would certainly operate at a loss.” He was not angry. He was instructing her. “If it makes a loss in substance, then it cannot truly be called your donation. I would do far better to donate that amount directly to the church. Ellen, raising money through your own efforts is neither as simple nor as easy as you imagine.”
Ellen’s mother spoke gently. “Why not, dear? We can pay the expenses and donate the proceeds to the church. We could use the small town hall. We need only put notices in our shops and speak to our customers; word will spread all through town. So long as we do not charge too much for admission, I think a fair number of people will come. Let her do it.”
Silence fell among the three of them.
Ellen looked into her father’s eyes, then her mother’s, and spoke. “I asked the archpriest at the church to hear me play. I performed a religious work of about twenty minutes’ length, written for unaccompanied violin. He said that I might play it before the pipe-organ recital following Sunday Mass—no, that I most certainly ought to play it once.” Her parents exchanged glances. Ellen continued. “I asked the archpriest whether I might say to the audience, ‘If you enjoy my performance, please make a larger donation than usual.’ He laughed, stroked my head, and gave me his blessing.”
Ellen’s parents stared wordlessly into her eyes.
After a while, her father smiled and caressed her cheek. “Then there is nothing left for us to do.”
Her mother smiled as well and stroked Ellen’s hair. “That does not make it a birthday present at all.”
