It's Sunday.
Fourteen Orpheus
Chester didn’t have long to wait. In a few minutes Tucker came bounding into the newsstand and up to the stool and the shelf. Harry followed him, ambling silently along, as always. Tucker Mouse took himself very seriously now that he was the manager of a famous concert artist. “Good evening, Chester,” he said. “You should excuse the suggestion, please, but I thought your tempo was off tonight in the ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’ You can’t afford to relax just because you’re on top, you know. And now, let us begin the practicing.” Chester crawled out of the matchbox. “Can’t I even say hello to Harry?” he asked. “So say hello!” said Tucker Mouse. “Hello, Harry—Hello, Chester. So, the greetings being over, let us get on with the practicing.” Chester looked at Harry and shook his head. The cat smiled and winked. Tucker twisted the dial. Wearily Chester crossed his wings into the position for playing. There was an Irish jig on the radio. The cricket prepared to fling himself into the first wild strains of the jig, but suddenly he dropped his wings and said, “I’m just not up to it tonight.” “What’s the matter?” asked Tucker. “I don’t feel like playing,” said Chester. “You don’t feel like playing!” the mouse exclaimed. “That’s like the sun saying, ‘I don’t feel like shining.’” “Well, sometimes there are cloudy days,” said the cricket. “Can’t I have a rest too?” “Um, um um—” Tucker Mouse was very much flustered. Let him take a day off,” said Harry Cat. “What’s the matter, Chester? Is fame beginning to get you down?” “I guess I’m just feeling Septemberish,” sighed Chester. “It’s getting toward autumn now. And it’s so pretty up in Connecticut. All the trees change color. The days get very clear—with a little smoke on the horizon from burning leaves. Pumpkins begin to come out.” “We can go up to Central Park,” said Tucker. “the trees change their color there too.” “It isn’t the same,” said Chester. “I need to see a shock of corn.” He paused and fidgeted nervously. “I didn’t mean to tell you yet, but you may as well know. I’m going to—I’m going to retire.” “Retire!” shrieked Tucker Mouse. “Yes, retire,” said Chester softly. “I love New York, and I love to have all those people listen to me, but I love Connecticut more. And I’m going home.” “But—but—but—” Tucker Mouse was spluttering helplessly. “I’m sorry, Tucker, but I’ve made up my mind,” said Chester. “What about Mario?” said the mouse. “He wants me to be happy,” Chester answered. “He said he wished I’d never come to New York if I was going to be miserable.” “But all the human beings!” Tucker waved his front legs. “All the suffering thousands your playing gives pleasure to—what about them?” “My playing gives pleasure to a lot of people in Connecticut too,” said Chester. “Who?” asked Tucker Mouse scornfully. “Oh—woodchucks and pheasants and ducks and rabbits, and everybody else who lives in the meadow or the brook. I had a bullfrog tell me once that he enjoyed my music more than anything else—except the sound of rain on the pond where he lived. And another time a fox was chasing a rabbit around my stump, and they both stopped to listen while I was playing.” “What happened?” said Tucker. “The rabbit made it to his hole,” said Chester. “I began the fox’s favorite song just as he was about to chase him again, and he stayed to listen. Now I couldn’t do that for any human being in the subway station.” “I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Tucker Mouse. He turned to the cat. “Harry, say something! Make him stay!” “Yes, Harry,” said Chester. “What’s your opinion?” Harry Cat sat perfectly still a moment. His whiskers were wiggling, which was a sign that he was thinking very hard. “My opinion,” he said finally, “is that it’s Chester’s life and he should do what he wants. What good is it to be famous if it only makes you unhappy? Other people have retired at the peak of their careers. In all honesty, however, I must add that I will be dreadfully sorry to see him go.” Tucker Mouse scratched his left ear—always a good sign. Something about that phrase—“peak of their careers”—struck his imagination. “There would be a lot of glory, I suppose,” he said. “Giving everything up—just when he’s on top. What a gesture!” The idea took hold of his tiny mouse’s mind. “I can’t see it all now. At the summit of his success—that’s the same as the peak of his career, isn’t it?” “Just the same,” said Harry Cat, grinning at Chester. “At the summit of his success—her vanishes!” Tucker raced back and forth on the shelf. “The papers will go crazy! Where is he? Where did he go? Nobody knows. He leaves behind only a beautiful memory. How touching! How lovely!” His voice cracked. “The only thing that worries me,” said Chester Cricket, “is what will happen to the newsstand if I go.” “Don’t worry about that,” said Harry Cat. “This newsstand has been touched by the Golden Finger of Fortune! They’ll probably make a national park out of it.” “Do you really think so?” said Chester. “Well, even if they don’t,” Harry answered, “I’m sure the Bellinis will do very well. They’re famous now too.” “So when do you plan to make it final?” asked Tucker. Chester thought a moment. “Today is Thursday,” he said. “How about tomorrow night?” “Friday is an excellent day for retiring,” said the mouse. “If I ever retire from scrounging, it will be on a Friday.” Chester Cricket heaved a big sigh. “Oh—I feel better,” he said. “If you want me to learn some new pieces for tomorrow now, I will.” “Why bother?” said Harry Cat. “Tonight’s your last full night in New York. You may as well enjoy yourself.” “Come to the drain pipe!” said Tucker Mouse. “We’ll have a party in honor of your retirement. I have plenty of food—and no matches to burn the place up!” So the three friends hopped, scuttled, and padded across to Tucker’s home, where a fine farewell feast was held. And it was thoroughly enjoyed by all. The next day, at five minutes to six, Chester was about to begin the last public piece he would ever play in New York City. It was Friday night, the busiest time of all. Besides the commuters coming home from work, the station was swarming with men and women who were leaving the city for the weekend, on their way to Grand Central Station. But they all stopped to listen to Chester. There were so many people crowded around the newsstand that the police had to keep the aisles to and from the subway trains open with ropes. The cricket had just finished his most beautiful concert. For this final encore he wanted to play the sextet from an opera called Lucia di Lammermoor. It had been written for six people, but even though he was very talented, Chester could do only one part. So he took the tenor’s music because it carried the main theme most of the time. They didn’t know it, but Chester was playing the sextet in honor of the whole Bellini family. It was Papa’s favorite of favorites, and Mario and Mama loved it too. Chester wanted them always to remember him playing this piece. As he struck up the first notes, a sigh of pleasure came from Papa Bellini and he settled back on the stool with his eyes closed. Mama leaned against the side of the newsstand, resting her head on one hand. At the sound of the familiar strains, without her meaning to, a smile spread over her face. Mario was bending over the cricket cage, fascinated by the way Chester moved his wings when he played. And he was awfully proud that it was his pet that everyone was listening to. Over in the drain pipe opening, Tucker and Harry were sitting side by side. The animals were the only ones who knew that it was his farewell performance, and it made them feel solemn and a little sad. But the music was so sweet that they couldn’t help but be happy too. “It’s the sextet from Loochy the Murmur,” announced Tucker Mouse, who had become quite an expert on all things musical during the past week. “Too bad there aren’t five other crickets like Chester,” whispered Harry Cat. “They could do the whole thing.” Then they too were silent, and for as long as the music lasted, no one moved a hair or a whisker. Chester’s playing filled the station. Like ripples around a stone dropped into still water, the circles of silence spread out from the newsstand. And as the people listened, a change came over their faces. Eyes that looked worried grew soft and peaceful, tongues left off chattering, and ears full of the city’s rustling were rested by the cricket’s melody. The men at the other newsstands heard Chester and stopped shouting for people to buy their newspapers and magazines. Mickey the counterman heard him and left off making a Coca-Cola. Three girls came to the door of the Loft’s candy store. Passengers coming up from the lower level paused before asking the policemen for directions. No one dared break the hush that had taken hold of the station. Above the cricket cage, through a grate in sidewalk, the chirping rose up to the street. A man who was walking down Broadway stopped and listened. Then someone else did. In a minute a knot of people was staring at the grate. “What is it?” “An accident?” “What’s happening? Whispers passed back and forth in the crowd. But as soon as there was a moment of silence, everyone could hear the music. People overflowed the sidewalk into the street. A policeman had to stop traffic so nobody would get hurt. And then everyone in the stopped cars heard Chester too. You wouldn’t think a cricket’s tiny chirp could carry so far, but when all is silence, the piercing notes can be heard for miles. Traffic came to a standstill. The buses, the cars, men and women walking—everything stopped. And what was strangest of all, no one minded. Just this once, in the very heart of the busiest of cities, everyone was perfectly content not to move and hardly to breathe. And for those few minutes, while the song lasted, Times Square was as still as a meadow at evening, with the sun streaming in on the people there and the wind moving among them as if they were only tall blades of grass.