“What do you think of my present, Mr. Scheimann?” she asked. “Do you think I shall be a proficient in a week or two of practice?” She tilted her head charmingly, with a glance which Scheimann would have found haughty and coquettish but a few short months ago.
“I think it will do nicely, Miss Harwick,” he said. “In its honor, I have brought you a gift also.” He drew sheet music from beneath his coat: new pages, which showed signs not of a shop’s mark but of being transcribed by hand with evident care. He held them out to her.
She glanced at them, first without comprehension, then with greater interest. “You have brought me harp music,” she said. “ ‘Sang i en melankolisk stund’. Antoinette Charlotte Seurling,” she read aloud. “You have translated it yourself, for I recognize your handwriting upon the title, ‘Song in a Moment of Melancholy’. It is not French, nor Italian, then; it is Norse, perhaps?”
“Swedish,” answered Scheimann, gently. “Among these northern countries, she is known as the ‘Blind Song-Maiden’ for her affliction. A composer whose works I have obtained with great effort from a friend who has seen her perform in Finland.”
“A blind woman–who is well-known upon the stage?” asked Hetta. “Then she has performed before great crowds?”
“She has performed before the Queen of Sweden,” answered Scheimann.
His student was glancing over the composition in silence, although the stillness of her figure told him that she was not really seeing the notes before her. “I should imagine her to be a great beauty,” she said, at length. “Cradling her harp in her arms like a Norse princess before the throne.”
Scheimann laughed, softly. “She has none of your beauty, Miss Harwick,” he answered. “She is plain and deformed and it was only by the great pity of her music teacher that she was discovered to be something extraordinary. Her beauty,” he tapped the open sheet of music, its Swedish words translated carefully above in English, “was within. It was for her greatness within that she was honored so by her monarch. Her greatest composition is before you.”
“It seems a very sad piece,” said Hetta, after a moment’s silence. “I feel quite despondent looking at its notes. Perhaps I am only daunted; or else, imagine my harp’s performance to be more lively.” She spoke carelessly, endeavoring to hide the effect of either his words or his choice of music upon herself.
“I thank you for it, Mr. Scheimann,” she said, recollecting his thoughtfulness despite her distraction. His smile of response was gentler than in weeks previous–which neither Hetta nor he himself noticed–with signs of indulgence evident in his manner.
“If it is a lively tune you wish for your musical career, the rest of my gift shall cheer you, I think,” he answered. “You may play it as quickly as you please; you may hear your fingers move across strings or keys as you choose.” She moved aside the sheet of the blind songmaiden’s melancholy with some eagerness, only to find blank sheets beneath.
“I do not understand,” she said, with a little laugh of puzzlement. “Have you taken the wrong sheets from your own pianoforte?”
“I have not, Miss Harwick,” he answered. “I believe that it is time that you began learning the art which any musician desires to possess. That of creating music upon paper.”
He taught her to compose at the pianoforte, with an open bottle of ink upon it and the sheets of paper spread forth above it. It was a duet for the harp and pianoforte, a work not intended for completion but for exercise; for Hetta buoyed between despair at finding any harmony in notes to insisting that there must also be a part for strings as well, while wishing all the while that it might be simpler or livelier or slower.
“You have patience for the melody first,” he cautioned her. “See, we have a need for a bridge between these notes and also the next movement.”
She followed his guidance; it was he who was composing it at the indulgence of his student, who would play pieces of her own fancy which he would add to the score or modify by moving her fingers to rearrange the tune.
“Like so, Mademoiselle,” he would say, his fingers upon hers as he moved her hand higher upon the keys and adjusted the swiftness with which she played them. There was ink upon his hands, a stain upon one corner of his forehead, but Miss Harwick did not object to his touch or to his appearance.
“It must be light–so–and wistful,” he said, grasping for English words to express what he heard quite clearly in his head–but in another language. “You hear it so?”
“I can hear nothing except the same three notes in my head upon every turn,” she answered.
“Dispel them,” he answered. “Play them until you hear what shall be next, Miss Harwick.” He was close beside her on the pianoforte’s bench, standing and stooping over the pages before them at times to change or rearrange the music; or show her how to draw the notes and correct her own errors. At times, they were seated side by side, his shoulder touching hers as they played passages she or he had composed, in varying keys and tempos.
When the lesson was not in composition, she would practice the pianoforte or her voice; for Scheimann had brought her music which seemed beyond her means. Pieces which seemed to her eyes complicated and forced her to exert a great deal of energy to sing to his satisfaction. He would stop her and have her begin again. He would correct her posture or the tilt of her head, the manner in which she sang a note; he would reprimand her for a note delivered ever so slightly off-key and sigh with despair if her voice failed to reach its mark in her highest register.
She had begun the harp; and on those afternoons, she would play for him as he sat with his eyes closed. Hetta preferred these occasions, for she was satisfied that he did not criticize her performance so severely; and also that he closed his eyes when he listened, which she had learned was a good sign from her instructor.
“She improves vastly,” said Mrs. Harwick, who listened from below as she surveyed a list of wines submitted for her approval by the valet. “Shall we not consider letting her show it off before our friends? The Duchess of Valencia’s daughter gave a concert which was very well-received.”
“And is she engaged to a duke or an earl now?” inquired Mr. Harwick, tersely. “I see no reason to expend any more money on Hetta’s fancies if the result of it is to be more of this infernal racket above.”
Mrs. Harwick surveyed him coldly. “And how much of this opinion is inspired by Dotty’s broken engagement?” she asked. “Is this your response to her unhappiness–to blame Hetta for her failure to–”
“I am merely saying we do not have the means currently to indulge all of our daughter’s tastes,” he answered, a wave of angry red rising from his neck to his face.
“Are we to have nothing fine? Nothing elegant because your creditors are unhappy?” Mrs. Harwick demanded, bitterly. “Why did we come here, if there is nothing to be had except the same burdens as in England?”
“Enough,” said her husband. “I will hear no more of this for the time being.” He rose from his seat and left his wife alone in their chamber.
Persuasion–or pleading–on the part of Mrs. Harwick and her daughters won out, however; for September was settled as the month in which Mrs. Harwick’s longed-for musical fete would take place, with Hetta’s performance the intended jewel of the evening.
Much of English society in Paris and Parisian society in favor with the transplanted gentry were invited and came accordingly. The splendors of the French house’s drawing room fitted up for public display shone brilliantly despite the limitations of lamps, candles, and reflective mirrors aglow with all their might. The pianoforte had been brought downstairs, along with the harp; and Herr Magner Scheimann was procured to serve as an honorary musical director and be shown off as the pet musician of the Harwick household.
He had procured a more fashionable suit for this occasion and endeavored to be more charming, although his mind was greatly occupied with the music. A violincello had been procured, a violinist was expected among the musical gentry pr
esent, but he was pressed to procure a better music stand than the broken one which had been Miss Dorothy’s when she was instructed in the violin.
“Is it not frightening?” whispered Hetta. “The countess is seated there–I am not certain that I can perform before a countess. At least I cannot play Haydn, for it is beyond my reach tonight, I am sure.”
“You shall play splendidly,” he whispered to her. “You shall play Bach and Liebmann; that is your strength for the present. Sing nothing but Mozart, if you wish. But no Gluck.” He spoke this final warning with a twinkle in his eye, breaking the scowl which had incurred Mrs. Harwick’s apprehension more than once during his training of her child.
“You are too hard upon him,” was Hetta’s low, playful reply. “But I shall play to please you, if you wish.” The glance from her blue eyes was coquettish, directed at her instructor as a smile bloomed on her pink lips.
“Then it is my honor,” he answered, with a bow.
Her performance was what he would wish; she played with concentration, not with the lightness of previous entertainments. She sang and accompanied herself with selections melodious and pleasing, as he had advised; then she broke the program with a performance at the harp, a light Gaelic medley which was accompanied by the young violinist present.
There were a series of performances–unavoidable, in the estimation of Mrs. Harwick–which featured the cellist and violinist, then a young lady present who was musically accomplished and the daughter of a diplomat. During this time, the lady of the house circulated the room and indulged herself, as did her husband, in the compliments paid to her daughter. How well Miss Harwick looked tonight! How pretty her manners when conversing with others! And was it true that her sister was on the verge of engagement to the young baronet?
During the second half of the evening, came the moment which Scheimann had anticipated.
“If you will excuse me.” This statement, broke his conversation with a Madame Someone or Other who had a mild interest in retaining his services. She was greatly piqued, he observed, as he bowed and left her there, thus creating one of the many incidents which would give him a reputation as brusque and unfeeling.
He approached the pianoforte and bent close to Hetta, who was seated there again. “You are ready?” he asked.
“Of course,” she answered. He opened the sheet music before her, then seated himself beside her.
Their duet began; four hands playing two equally complicated parts from one of Dibden’s pieces, especially arranged for this occasion by Scheimann. Side by side at the instrument, as they were on the days when he taught her composition; only they were equals at this moment, their skill mutual in this piece’s performance.
“Miss Harwick is indeed very accomplished,” whispered wealthy Mrs. Neil to her companion, Madame Allette. “I have heard it rumored that she is trained like a stage performer by this composer. He must have a foot wedged in their house by now for him to drive such a pretty creature like cattle.”
“They are an interesting contrast,” murmured the Frenchwoman. “Such a pretty girl, for an Englishwoman, yet still a child; she is the beauty who charms a beast.”
“He has the appearance of a beast,” her companion answered, quietly. “Such a scowling face–I have heard he possesses a dreadful temper. Although he seems pleased enough at this moment with his little actress protege.”
At this point, the two women moved further into the crowd of listeners, leaving Mr. Harwick, who had been in earshot until this moment, with a darkened eye as he glanced at the playful gaiety of Hetta at the pianoforte. His enjoyment of watching a young earl-to-be admire Hetta’s performance–for who did not admire such a charming young girl on the bloom of womanhood?–was entirely spoiled.
The final performance of the evening was Hetta’s voice. Scheimann accompanied her on the pianoforte as she sang Leonore’s aria from Fidelio. It was not intended to show her full range, but merely present it as an impressive soprano with rich depths and beauty. That she was capable of more, he was certain; for Scheimann was now convinced that hers was the most coveted and perhaps rarest levels of mezzo-soprano. It was not ready for such a trial, however, so he chose a piece which would only hint at her possibilities.
Her voice impressed them; but there were equal compliments paid to the beauty of the singer herself. The glow of youth and flawless complexion, the elegance of her posture and appearance drew the eye as easily as the ear.
He had not reflected on her beauty greatly in the past–having preferred not to think of it– but it would not be denied in this moment. A rose in existence as a woman, he was tempted to imagine, with the deeply-imbued colors and complex nature which such blossoms possessed. It was the influence of her gown which inspired such a notion, he decided, as if he had not reflected unconsciously on such a sentiment before now.
“I wish that you were a performer in earnest, my dear Miss Harwick, that I might oblige you sing in my parlor,” said Mrs. Swift, whose husband had a modest fortune from a merchant’s trade. “You would be a picturesque scene indeed–the last singer I engaged had a wart upon her nose. Imagine!”
“I cannot,” said Hetta, with a laugh. “How dreadful for your guests to observe.” Her manners were charming enough that one could not tell if she spoke in seriousness or in subtle mockery of her hostess’s concerns. No one but Scheimann would suppose the latter possible–he, who had given her the music of the deformed Swedish prodigy.
“Indeed,” said another guest, with a smirk, “you might take to the stage if you were born in other circumstances, Miss Harwick. Your face and figure would please the audience without desire for anything more.” In response, the young lady’s gaze became more shuttered, a toss from her golden head following as she turned her attention to the more amiable speaker in her conversation.
Hetta’s triumph was evident upon this evening. Hers was the admiration of many for months to come; but with such admiration, so also came the scrutiny of others. There were still more among the guests who carried the conviction that gift and beauty aside, such compliments would only fuel a fire which had been steadily consuming the proud and petted Miss Harwick for some time.
“It is jealousy on the part of the Swifts, of that I am certain,” said Mrs. Harwick, who was closeted with her husband in the drawing room. Their guests had all but gone; Hetta had betaken herself upstairs like a princess retiring from court, declaring herself too fatigued to remain awake.
“Their daughter has managed to procure an alliance with a French admiral and that is all they may boast about these days–”
“Am I to pretend that their opinions are trivial to me when you indulge yourself by sharing them?” snapped Mr. Harwick. “First you complain to me that our daughter has no attention–now you complain that she has too much–”
“It is only that their remarks are unfair,” cried Mrs. Harwick, who seemed on the verge of tears. “To refer to our daughter as a salon singer–the voice of an actress–”
“That is what comes of having a professional in the house five afternoons a week to pamper these ideas,” her husband retorted.
“But she is greatly talented–”
“I will not have my daughter accused of sounding like a bloody professional!” There was a thud as his fist struck the table; his wife issued a gasp in response to this oath.
“She might have the attentions of an earl–and you would have her give up her one amusement in society and sit at home!” With this unfair accusation, Mrs. Harwick hurried from the room.
“She has enough charms without this," he retorted. "Had she taken as much care for her hand, she would at least be wife to a baron!” His wife's response was to retreat to her chamber upstairs, closing its door with force behind her.
The door to the drawing room was left open in her wake; but even before then it had been open enough for their conversation to be overhead by Herr Scheimann. He had lingered after the musicians were gone and the final guests were shown to their carria
ges, half in an attempt to hide from any conversation with guests once his role was concluded and half in hopes of congratulating his student with a few private words.
Only the former attempt had been successful; but it had placed him in this position, the unhappiness of one who hears their work denigrated to a means of social mobility. It was in his best interests to leave the house before he was detected; but on this occasion, Herr Scheimann did not choose to act in his own interests.
Mr. Charles Harwick was seated moodily before the fire, a half-empty glass of claret in hand. He looked up when the composer crossed his threshold, but not with the genial aspect of the employer paying his fees.
“What do you want?” he demanded. Scheimann had paused a few feet away.
“I think that you are unfair,” he said. “To speak in this manner of Miss Harwick’s talents. She has proven herself this evening as more than a–a parlor toy, as you would say.”
“Has she,” replied Charles Harwick.
“She might be a great musician, with encouragement,” said Scheimann. “I have seen very few students who have been so promising.” At the conclusion of this statement, his employer looked up at him, a bloodshot aspect to his eyes.
“Mind your own damn business,” he answered. “You’re not the only music master in this city to be had for less money and fewer troubles.” He swallowed the rest of his glass’s contents after muttering these words.
Scheimann stiffened, the blood rising in his face in response to being sworn at by this man. Only a great deal of effort and some thought to his employment prevented him from responding in the manner his temper demanded. Instead, he turned on his heel and left the room.
The hall was darkened, its light almost extinguished as if all the family and servants had gone to bed rather than a faint attempt at economy by a family which seldom knew such gestures. In the darkness, moving automatically in the direction of the door without aid of a servant's escort, he almost did not see Hetta's form upon the stairs.
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