Catrina Lanovitch had this trick.

She only played a Russian people-song--a simple lay such as one may hear issuing from the door of any kabak on a summer evening.
But she infused a true Russian soul into it--the soul that is cursed with a fatal power of dumb and patient endurance.

She did not sway from side to side as do some people who lose themselves in the intoxication of music.

But she sat quite upright, her sturdy, square shoulders motionless.

Her strange eyes were fixed with the stillness of distant contemplation.
Suddenly she stopped and leaped to her feet.