“I couldn’t begin to feel what that is like,” said the clarinet.
“That must be excruciating,” echoed the french horn.
The flute did not look up. Nor did he feel less self-pity. He had been given to a beginner. The flute had performed at the Met. At the Lyric. At the Palladium. The notes of Handel, Pachelbel…of his beloved Bach, had graced his keys and tone hole. Yet, yesterday he endured the agony of Three Blind Mice.
“Our sainted Beethoven!” exclaimed the clarinet. “Three Blind Mice? Really? How did you ever manage, my dear?”
“I don’t believe I know that one,” said the French horn. “Is that a developed theme on Farmer in the Dell?”
The flute smoldered. The French horn had played nothing but masterpieces since he was crafted – always in the hands of a virtuoso. Continue reading