The tutors had an uphill task because neither of these accomplishments so essential to a girl’s success were ones at which Susan excelled. The dancing master, however, had an advantage over the pianist because there was at least something new he could teach her.
The pianist, Signor Pontielli, who had only been engaged a few days before the family left London, had already discovered that his pupil knew almost as much as he did about harmony and counterpoint; she had heard of almost all the dead composers he had and most of the live ones but, in spite of this extensive – and indeed unusual - knowledge in one so young, as well as a startlingly accurate ability to read music and play the notes in the right order, she lacked so absolutely any talent for the instrument that her playing almost made him shudder. She hit the notes as though she were arranging spoons in a drawer; it hurt his ears and affronted his artistic temperament.
“Do you like to listen to music?” he asked placing a sheet of music on the stand when the dancing master had sidled out of the room.
“I do not dislike it,” she replied carefully.
“Anyone who heard you play would soon come to dislike it,” he muttered viciously without moving his lips.
“I know it,” she acknowledged for, although she had no ear for music, she was not by any means deficient in hearing. “I believe I have no aptitude for the subject.”
“Do you perhaps prefer to sing than to play?” he enquired, shamed by his unkind remark and trying to remove some of the sting by evincing an interest he did not feel.
“I cannot sing,” she replied bluntly.
“So what will you do if you are asked to do so one evening?”
“I shall say that I cannot.”
“But you will play?”
“Oh yes, I believe I must if I am not to look disagreeable – and I can find the right notes, which I cannot when I attempt to sing. I daresay you find my playing excruciating - and I wish more than anything that you would teach me to do so more pleasingly – but, unfortunately, I am convinced that such an ambition is unattainable.”
“I shall be wasting your papa’s money if I cannot. Very well, for the moment we will concentrate exclusively upon the keyboard but I hope that, later, you will feel confident enough to essay a simple song or two. It is usual to begin with a series of scales; they help to loosen the fingers and settle the mind. After that, we will concentrate upon a short sonata.”
She nodded and began at once on the set of major scales he requested. She played them faultlessly. They required nothing of her other than a good memory and nimble fingers, both of which she possessed in large measure.
“That was excellent,” he said when she had completed the task, aware perhaps that it might be difficult to find anything else on which to compliment his pupil.
“Thank you,” she said humbly, dropping her hands to her lap.
He pointed to the score he had chosen. “This sonata is by Clementi; it is, I think, an ideal choice. It has the benefit of being very short so that there is not a great deal to learn – although I daresay learning does not present you with any difficulty,” he added, this time succeeding in disparaging one of her strong points. “It is not a particularly easy piece; there are a good many notes - and many of them must be played fast - but its brevity will mean that we can cover several aspects of performance in a short space of time. Have you played it before?”
Susan peered at the sheet of music. Looking at it, she had little idea of how it might sound but she did not think she had seen that particular arrangement of notes before. “No.”
“Very well. See what you can make of it.” There was such a marked absence of enthusiasm in his voice that she did not think he had high hopes.
Her performance amply demonstrated her ability to sight-read accurately along with a marked inability to make of the piece anything more than a succession of random notes.
“That was remarkable,” the teacher said. “You were sight-reading?”
“Yes. I am quite good at that,” she added, this time doing the disparaging of her own accord and accompanying it with a little twist of her lips. “I imagine that requires nothing more than a modicum of intelligence and a good memory but, as you pointed out, my lack of musical ability makes my playing even of the right notes disagreeable.”
“That is what I am here for,” he said gently, assuming the mantle of encouraging teacher. “Someone else has taught you how to read music – and done so very well. That is good. Now we must add the flavouring, so to speak.”
She nodded dully and the lesson progressed with Signor Pontielli explaining precisely how he thought she should hit the keys, how long each should be held and the duration of any pauses. He had clearly – at least for the time being – abandoned any attempt at inducing her to appreciate music. He would teach her to produce an approximation of a properly performed sonata even if it were to be achieved by strict adherence to a recipe alone.
He had brought with him a recently invented mechanical device which he referred to as ‘Maelzel’s metronome’. This, he explained, would help her to keep to the correct time while she was practising, although of course she would have to do without it when she was asked to play socially.
Susan found its regular ticking and clicking extraordinarily irritating but she tried hard to match her striking of the keys to its demands and earned praise for her dogged determination, if not for her talent.
“The piece should ultimately be played somewhat faster, but I have slowed it down to make it easier for you to achieve some rhythm,” he said at last, removing the sheet of music from the piano and rising. He had had enough, she thought, and was not surprised.
“I am sorry,” she said with genuine regret. “I realise that I am an exasperating pupil and that you already know your task will be impossible to fulfil.”
“I know no such thing. You have mastered the first few bars quite adequately and will find, with practice, that it becomes easier.”
She rose too and shook out her skirts. The maid, whose fidgeting had been almost as irritating as the metronome’s indifferent tapping, noticed these promising signs that the session was at an end and bounced to her feet at once.
“Thank you, Meg,” Susan said. “We have finished our lesson; you may go.”
Meg stared back at her young mistress with a bold look and said, “Mrs Porter said I was to stay with you all the time.”
“Yes, well, you have. You may go now.”
The maid went to the door, opened it but did not walk through.
“What is the matter? Are you waiting for me?” Susan asked.
“Either you or the Seenyore,” Meg said.
Susan flushed angrily and turned away from the maid’s contemptuous face.
“Thank you for the lesson, Signor Pontielli.”
“It was a pleasure, Signorina,” the music master said mendaciously, bowing.
Thus it was that Susan, ravenous after the hard work she had put in both dancing and endeavouring to play the pianoforte, ate a large nuncheon, happily devouring slices of ham as Lord Marklye cut them and spreading her bread with a thick layer of butter. Mrs Porter, believing she could almost see her daughter’s large frame expanding with each bite she took, became quite irritable and expressed a wish to lie down upon her bed when his lordship excused himself for the afternoon. He had, apparently, to visit some farms on his estate.
Mr Porter kissed his wife and expressed the view that a rest upon her bed would probably help to alleviate some of the megrims caused by the long journey the day before and apologised to his daughter for being unable to spend the afternoon with her. He explained that he had, unfortunately, been obliged to bring a pile of papers with him and must peruse them as soon as possible in case there should prove to be anything which required his immediate attention.
Susan, finding herself at a loose end, decided to take a walk. As she was not yet familiar with either the house and its doors or the garden, she left from the front. But, having got there, she
was so thoroughly confused by the entirely different geography on this side that she was forced to abandon her original intention of finding the lake.
Eventually, aware that she could not stand indecisively upon the front steps all afternoon, she set off at random, hoping, not only that she would enjoy an interesting walk, but that she would be able to find her way back again. She had seen no one of whom she could ask advice, his lordship and her parents having melted away as soon as nuncheon was finished. There was a footman in the hall but he looked so very wooden, as he opened the door for her, that she felt obliged to go out with an assumption of confidence rather than attempt to ask him for directions.
She wished that she did not so often find herself in other people’s way. His lordship and her father were busy, her mother wished to avoid her, her teachers must be sighing with relief that their lessons were completed for the day and even the footman seemed disinclined to be addressed.
It was late June and the sun positively blazed from an almost cloudless sky so that Susan felt overheated after she had walked only a few yards under its relentless rays. She had eaten too much and thereby incurred her mother’s displeasure, a circumstance which, while by no means unusual, rarely failed to upset her. She was conscious, as she walked, that, if she had heeded her mother and moderated the size of her nuncheon, she would not now be so excessively uncomfortable.
She was lonely as she trudged along a path, going she knew not where, and was delighted when she saw, only a short way ahead, what looked like a wood. That, she decided, would be just the place on a day like this, far better than frying herself beside the sparkling water, particularly in view of the fact that she had failed to equip herself with a parasol and felt unable to return for one in case the wooden footman was still in the hall.
When she stepped out of the sun she found that, even in the shade, it was still hot; at first the contrast between the brightness outside and the gloom within rendered her almost blind. Afraid that she might miss the path in the sudden darkness and be unable to find her way back, she stood still and waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the dramatic diminution in light.
As she stood there, a sound came to her ears which she identified as a snatch of music with which she was familiar. Her governess had tried, unsuccessfully, to teach it to her and had played it herself in order to demonstrate. This time it was not played upon the pianoforte.
She stood and listened for a few minutes until, realising that a supernatural being was unlikely to be responsible, she became aware that her presence, if noticed, might embarrass the performer, who presumably believed him or herself to be alone. She turned and began to stumble back towards the sunlight but she must have become disoriented and set off in the wrong direction because, in a moment, she found herself in a small clearing and saw, seated on a log, the musician.
“Oh!” she exclaimed, inadvertently treading upon a twig, which snapped beneath her weight with a loud crack.
“Miss Porter!” The man stopped playing and stood up. It was Signor Pontielli.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not know you were here. I was going for a walk and thought it might be cool in the wood.”
“It is cooler,” he agreed. “You need not apologise; I do not own the wood. I came here so that I would be undisturbed.”
“Yes, yes, of course you did, and now I have disturbed you. I will go at once.”
She turned away but almost at once realised that she no longer had the least idea which way would take her back to the house; there seemed to be a number of paths radiating from the clearing and sunlight could be perceived at the edge of most of them. Not wishing to ask him – the number of people of whom she was reluctant to ask advice seemed to be growing alarmingly - she set off with determination, hoping that she was going in the right direction and comforting herself with the thought that, once she emerged from amongst the trees, it would surely be easy to see the house.
“Do you wish to go back to the Hall?” he asked from behind her.
“Yes. Is this not the right way?”
“I daresay it would take you there eventually but I am certain it is not the most direct route. It is not, in any event, the way I came.”
“Oh! Did you come from the house?” she asked idiotically for where else might he have come from? He was, after all, staying there.
“Yes. Would you like me to set you on the right path? Or – better still – I will accompany you so that you will not get lost.”
“Oh, but then … I do not wish to be any trouble,” she muttered, embarrassed and certain that, like everyone else, he must wish to be rid of her as soon as possible.
“It is not the least trouble,” he contradicted, advancing towards her. “Did you like what I was playing?”
“Yes. Is that a violin? I have never heard one before – or seen one except in books.”
“Have you not? Then, if you are not in a hurry to get back, let me play you something and you shall see what you think of it. Sit down here and let me entertain you.”
He took out his handkerchief, dusted down the log on which he had been sitting and spread out the piece of linen for a rug.
“Oh!” she said. “I do not wish to be a nuisance!”
“You are not. Indeed, you have come at precisely the right moment to provide me with an audience.”
He gestured for her to sit down and she did so, perching with a straight back and her feet neatly aligned in the leaf litter. The log was a little low and her knees almost reached her chest. She hoped the performance would not last too long.
Signor Pontielli stepped back a short distance, performed a deep bow, placed the violin against his shoulder, holding it in place with his chin, and began to play.
Chapter 5
“It is not always easy to change one’s nature though, is it?” Mary mused. “I have tried and yet, as you see, I am still inclined to act first and regret it afterwards.”
“I am not, of course, intimately acquainted with you yet – although I hope to remedy that – but, so far as I can see, there is nothing that requires alteration.”
“You do not know the whole,” she exclaimed with such a degree of dramatic despair that he was startled.
“No,” he agreed soberly, clearly not sure where this was leading. “If it would make you feel better to unburden yourself, pray do not hesitate to do so. Some people, I believe, find me sympathetic.”
“Oh, there is nothing new which has made me particularly down in the mouth. In any event, I promise that I shall not jump in, this time with intent. That would show base ingratitude for the trouble you have taken to restore me to dry land.”
“Are you so unhappy?” he asked, bewildered. “A moment ago you were laughing and teasing me.”
“I had forgotten for a few moments – probably on account of realising that I would not after all be leaving the world quite so soon and being, in the main, quite pleased about it – that, when men do such things, it frequently impresses women; unfortunately it does not seem to work the other way: men are rarely impressed by incautious female behaviour – it is simply dismissed as hen-witted. A long time ago I did something so rash that my life is, as it were, permanently encumbered.”
“I am certain you exaggerate. No one is obliged to pay for the rest of their lives for something they did when they were very young and, if someone has made you believe that, they have been unnecessarily cruel.”
“It is Society which is cruel. Lady Leland rescued me then and she has taken care of me ever since.”
“And now you are repaying the debt by taking care of her?”
“That is what she would have me believe. It is not, however, true. She does not need anyone to take care of her: she has, after all, plenty of servants.”
“Servants are all very well in their way but it would have to be a remarkable servant who could brighten one’s life and stimulate one’s mind, which is what I conjecture you do for her ladyship.”
“She is kind enoug
h so say so. I had better go home or she will begin to wonder what has become of me. She sent me out for a walk and I have been an age.”
“How do you propose to go back? You are on the wrong side of the river. Would you like me to carry you across?”
“Is that the only way to reach the other side? You need not have gone to the trouble of fetching my bunch of flowers if I must go back. I own I have never seen a serviceable bridge but perhaps I have not walked far enough.”
“You would have to walk a very long way. My predecessor was a curmudgeonly fellow who allowed his property to go to rack and ruin. There is a broken-down bridge not so very far from here, which I had been intending to repair eventually. However, I am afraid I have not yet done so, not thinking it likely that I might have any immediate need for it. Now that I realise how essential it is, I shall set the works in train at once. I do not think there is much alternative to my escorting you to her ladyship’s gates in one way or another.
“I can take you back to my house and put you in a carriage or I can drive you myself in my curricle, if you do not object to anyone who sees us indulging in the wildest conjecture as to why we are both so damp. But, on the whole, I think the wisest course would be for me to carry you across the river on my horse and deliver you, safe, sound and unremarked by any curious onlookers, at your own front door.”
“Oh, I should like to ride in a curricle. I have never done so, you know. But you have already done quite enough for me by saving my life; I have no right to expect you to run the risk of incurring gossip if you are seen on a public road in the company of a dishevelled female.”
“I was thinking of you; for myself, I should count it an honour to be seen in the company of what any educated person would immediately identify as a water nymph.”
“You are very kind but there is no need to protect a reputation which I do not in fact possess. In addition, I cannot help feeling that it would be an excessively maladroit water nymph which needed to be rescued from a river.”
Mary Or The Perils 0f Imprudence Page 4