The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  “Splendid,” said the head, rising from his chair and proffering his hand by way of demonstrating that the bargain was sealed and the meeting was over.

  *

  Wilfred met a nervous Florence in the music room the following Thursday. She was a slim girl, jolie laide as the French have it, and with that sheen of youth which shone in the gloss on her hair, her tight cheekbones and shadows under her chin. She seemed to him a pleasant enough girl; slightly shy in his presence. He asked her to play some scales and to sight read some progressively more difficult pieces on the piano. He stood over her, correcting her as she played.

  “You will see a sharp there. Again, please.”

  “No, no. Read the notation. This is to be played molto allegro but you are rendering it in a different way altogether.”

  “You must also practise this passage here as you are not proficient. Now, take it from here again,” pointing to the top of the page.

  Florence was a dutiful and compliant student. Wilfred treated her as he would one of his boy students, tapping the music stand with his knuckle to stop and make a point. He was clinical, exact and unemotional. His teaching style was to correct mistakes rather than to praise passion. Each lesson would begin with him requiring her to reprise the passages she was to have practised and ended with a clear exposition of additional work in advance. Florence, for her part, wanted to please her master. Lessons continued through the summer and into the winter. As her general home schooling had now finished she was able to focus solely on her musical studies.

  Sometimes Florence would already be in the music room, playing when Wilfred appeared.

  One day he asked, “What is that piece? I do not seem to recognise it. It sounds rather over-emotional.”

  “Oh, it is nothing. A silly little composition of my own of no great merit. Sometimes a slip of a melody will stir something in my heart.”

  “Well,” said Wilfred brusquely, “let us, instead, stir something in your brain, shall we? Technique and proficiency first. The heart may subsequently follow!” he sermonised.

  *

  As Florence became more accomplished, they would occasionally play simple duets, he on the violin, she accompanying him on the piano. Dr Hammersley-Pope and his wife had especially requested that Florence perform at the Christmas concert. Wilfred set a Mozart piano and violin sonata as their goal with its perfect cadences and counterpoint, each instrument passing the melody to each other and ending in a perfect convergence of harmony. The two practised the piece assiduously, Farquharson, a strict taskmaster, aiming for perfection. Each rendition was punctuated by pauses to reprise unsatisfactory passages. Wilfred was determined that the piece be played faultlessly, Florence that it also be played appasionata.

  Early one December evening, a couple of weeks before the concert, they played the piece with confidence, timing and sure-footed skill. As Florence picked up the melody, Wilfred would acknowledge the correctness of her playing and timing with a nod. She would then accompany him admiringly as he in turn executed the piece impeccably. The sonata ended in a climax of euphonic perfection. At its conclusion, Florence jumped up from her piano in excitement and clapped her hands like a young girl. She then involuntarily threw her arms around Wilfred and, laughing, made to kiss him on the cheek. He stood, astonished, with bow and violin in outstretched arms.

  For a moment, neither knew what to say nor where to look until Wilfred, realising that matters needed to be back in control, said, “Perhaps, Florence, you should restrain yourself and exercise a little decorum. Music can stir up emotions but it is vital to keep that in check otherwise who knows where we shall be!”

  Florence acknowledged her mistake and the lesson continued with a tension in the air. A line had been crossed.

  *

  Florence’s tutoring continued but she became increasingly drawn to Wilfred. In her eyes and at her impressionable age he became a heroic, unattainable figure. His exotic Australian accent, his strong hands, his masterly way, his dark looks were all magnified in her mind, creating a hero for her to worship. Even his age, some twelve years older than herself, gave him an aura of fascinating maturity.

  She began to harbour passionate, impossible thoughts. In her fevered imagination, he became a brooding, dashing hero from a novel. And the more instructional and formal he was, the stronger her feelings became. She liked the way he dealt with her firmly. Occasionally she would deliberately play a discordant note so that he would put his hand on her back and say, “No, no Florence. Once more please.”

  He made her shiver when he touched her.

  At night, in her bed, she touched herself as she had hot, liquid thoughts about Wilfred, imagining him to be turbulent, volcanic and thrilling, and she put herself at his disposal for whatever he might desire.

  The concert came and their piece was roundly applauded. Wilfred asked the audience to acknowledge Florence, standing modestly by the piano. That is just like him, she thought, letting me get all the praise while he is my tutor, my master, my sovereign, the only star in my firmament.

  Wilfred had given her no cause for this hero worship but a teenage girl, in seclusion with no contact allowed between herself and males, has an impulse to find a repository for her fantasies, however unlikely and however unrequited.

  Florence gathered her courage and resolved to press the matter. She thought she saw in his manner to her a softening, an attraction. She imagined that, in his position, it would not be appropriate to take the initiative. She must act because it was coming to the point where her ability would mean no further need for teaching. At the end of one of their lessons, she handed him a letter.

  “Please forgive me for this. But I implore you to read this in the privacy of your rooms. You will probably consider me just a foolish little girl but I must unburden myself.”

  Wilfred who had, since the impromptu kiss, always conducted himself properly and considered that matter firmly closed, accepted the letter with some surprise and initial hesitation but said that he would, of course, consider the contents and respond in due course if necessary.

  The letter, several pages long, was a lengthy and intense outburst from an inflamed girl, infatuated with the temptation of the unattainable. It owed much to the romantic novels of Mrs Bentham she had read where vulnerable girls eventually secured the heart of a doctor, cavalryman or sea captain. She suggested that their liaison had been predestined as they had been thrown together in music. Florence pledged her undying love and hoped that if he even reciprocated one hundredth of her feelings, she would be able to die happy.

  Wilfred read the letter with astonishment. Affairs of the heart had not, so far, troubled his orderly world. He had no idea that such febrile thoughts had been boiling in her head. As for the concept of ‘love’, that was not something he readily entertained. Of course, she was not unattractive, was passably intelligent and a keen music student. But love? That was something he left to Catullus or Mr Byron, or, in its baser form, in novels by female scribblers.

  However, over the following days, an idea began to form in his head. As a bachelor, the likelihood of his promotion to housemaster or even eventually to headmaster was hampered by the lack of a suitable wife. Masters were expected to have a partner who could assist in their duties – pastoral, medical, social and the like – for the boys under his jurisdiction. He began to consider the advantage of securing a supportive helpmeet.

  The chances of his meeting someone in the ordinary course of his circumscribed year were negligible, given his monastic existence. Perhaps, just perhaps, Florence could become a suitable assistant and amanuensis for all those domestic duties that were properly a woman’s province and such a distraction from his work. And as a married man his career path might broaden, particularly given the link to the head. Yes, the idea was becoming rational and logical and, after some thought, he decided he would be prepared to entertain it. He had long ago res
olved to remain in the haven of the school; now here was an opportunity to cement that resolution.

  Naturally there would be some difficulties in view of his position at the school, and the reaction of the head was unpredictable. He needed to be careful about that. Setting that aside, Wilfred considered that the notion was, on balance, tenable.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  At their next practice, the lesson went ahead as normal although Florence was inwardly turbulent. She thought, I have miscalculated badly. I have done wrong. He hates me.

  However, at the end of their drills, he motioned to her to sit down beside him on a settle, which she did apprehensively. He was never a man who would hold your gaze and they sat next to each other without direct eye contact.

  “My dear Florence. First, may I thank you for your kind thoughts in your letter which I read with due care.”

  Her heart sank. He was about to brush her off politely.

  “I must say, I had never given our liaison any amorous context as I hope you will acknowledge. I trust that I have been properly in control at all times?”

  She agreed, but waited for the grenade to be thrown.

  “I have considered – at some length – your outline thoughts.” He paused. She looked down at her hands.

  “And I have to say that your sentiments are not entirely, how shall we say, unreciprocated.”

  She mused on this, looking to him for further clarification.

  “In short, there are a number of obstacles in the way of, perhaps, our embarking on something other than a purely friendly and didactic relationship. Do you follow?”

  “Do you mean to say that there is no chance for me?” she asked hesitantly.

  “I mean no such thing. However, it behoves me to say that firstly there is a considerable age gap between our years. Whilst it is not unknown for a mature man to… er… accompany a younger woman, it is a factor that will be part of the equation. Secondly, when tutoring you I am in loco parentis, therefore I have, how shall we characterise it, a certain responsibility towards you. And lastly, there would, no doubt, be certain questions asked by your father – my employer – should we wish to bring to their attention the nature of our potential attachment.”

  He was pleased with his careful phrasing, considering that it would be an interesting challenge to render his sentiments in Latin.

  “So you do like me then? But you are concerned about what people would think?”

  “Exactly. Of course. You are an attractive person.”

  She looked at him, sighed extravagantly and beamed the look of a young girl in thrall to her emotions.

  “But,” he continued, “we would have to exercise every possible caution and the first thing I would need you to do would be to discuss the matter with your father. Should he give his approval then we would be able to conduct ourselves more… er… companionably but of course, at all times, respectably.”

  “Oh Wilfred!” she exclaimed, emboldened sufficiently to call him by his Christian name for the first time. “Father loves me and if he knows that you love me he will be happy for me, of that I am sure. As for the age gap, it is nothing if two people love each other.”

  She threw herself at him and clasped him around the neck. Wilfred, for whom matters were moving at somewhat too fast a pace, carefully disentangled her. Talk of love was unsettling and over-emotional but nevertheless he could see the advantages in the potential enterprise. He had a question.

  “But may I ask, why me? Are there none of the older boys in the school to whom you might be attracted?”

  “All immature. Whenever I do engage them in conversation, which is not very often, they only talk of rugby, fives, the cadet force, batting averages. My soulmate needs to be someone I can look up to, who appreciates the Classics, music, literature. I only realised what I wanted when we found each other.”

  He momentarily considered what element of ‘finding’ he had been responsible for, but dismissed the conjecture.

  “Oh Wilfred, I will make you happy, you will see,” she said submissively, with a winsome turn of the head.

  “My dear, it is imperative that we do these things in the correct order. I shall, at an appropriate time, talk to your father. Until then, there must be no whiff of impropriety. We can continue our lessons but there must be no physicality until we have your father’s imprimatur. Until then, you must keep all of this in that silly little head of yours,” he said, clasping her pleasantly by the shoulders.

  His tone brooked no disagreement. Florence liked him being decisive. She did, however, jump excitedly and took his hands in hers, but Wilfred put them back down by her sides and gave her a schoolmasterly look.

  *

  Wilfred had engineered a meeting with Dr Hammersley-Pope.

  “Well, what is it Farquharson? I am very busy at present.”

  Once Wilfred stated the sensitive nature of the meeting, the head listened to him in stony silence, hands behind his back looking out through his study window.

  “… And so, sir,” continued Wilfred, “it is the fervent wish of Florence and,” almost forgetting, “of myself also that we are able to meet on a personal level and in due course you should know that my intentions towards your daughter are entirely honourable and we should, in the fullness of time, move towards securing your blessing to a more formal union. I give you my assurance that my behaviour towards her has been unimpeachable as you would expect.”

  The doctor gave no indication in his face or body of any reaction whatsoever. He ushered Wilfred out. This was shocking news. His daughter! His only child! And a member of staff! He had considered that Florence would marry a banker, or a lawyer, perhaps someone with land or a title. But a schoolteacher! His initial reaction was to tell them both to dismiss any such thoughts as it would be highly irregular and inappropriate.

  However, over the next few days, in conversation with his wife, a woman of sentimental leanings, his mind softened.

  “Just think, Roy,” she sugared, “your daughter is young and in love. And he is a respectable steady type. Think what might have befallen her – or indeed still may – if she were to fall in with one of the vagabonds or villains out there. Womanisers, fortune-hunters, all waiting. She will be safe with him. Oh I grant you he is no Adonis, but he is pleasing enough on the eye.

  “As for their age, well let us not forget there are ten years between ourselves indeed. He also has money from his family. He could have chosen not to work but he has chosen the noblest of professions. And is it not Florence’s wishes that must be paramount in all of this? I have spoken with her and she has no doubts at all but that she loves him. She is eighteen now and knows her own mind. And,” she added slyly, “you will keep a good teacher perhaps? In time he may make a housemaster and our daughter will play her part in the school and stay close to us?”

  In time, the head’s mind was turned and he summoned Wilfred to announce, though with no visible show of enthusiasm, that he would consent to their liaison as long as it was made respectable with an engagement to be married. They shook hands formally.

  “Thank you, Headmaster. I shall do my duty towards her.”

  Wilfred met Florence in the music room to convey the news. She was ecstatic and leapt towards him only for him to hold her at arms’ length.

  “It is indeed gratifying that your father has blessed our attachment but, of course, we must maintain a respectful distance until the union is formally confirmed.”

  “But Wilfred,” she smiled archly, “do you not want to kiss your intended?”

  Wilfred attempted an awkward embrace and kissed Florence fleetingly and awkwardly on the cheek.

  “Now away with you, little thing and,” he said with a magisterial tone, “don’t forget to practise now!”

  *

  Their engagement caused some mild surprise but then the life of the school carried on w
ith its normal rhythms. Wilfred and Florence would walk in the grounds, sit together in chapel and occasionally take tea with the head and his wife. There was little physical contact but Florence knew that this was because honourable Wilfred was protecting her. She was also much taken up with arrangements for her wedding. Alone at night she did have very pleasurable thoughts of Wilfred subduing her commandingly and sought sensual relief but knew that real delights awaited them in the marriage bed. She could wait.

  The marriage was solemnised in the school chapel by the chaplain in the spring of 1895. On the day of the wedding, the thirty-two-year-old groom and the nineteen-year-old bride exchanged their vows in the presence of a small group of relatives of the bride. Wilfred, it was understood, had many brothers but they and his aging parents could not be expected to make the trip from Australia. A colleague of middle years from the school of his acquaintance, Mr Greygoose, a plump teacher of trigonometry and algebra, stood as best man. There was a wedding breakfast and one or two short, but formal, toasts.

  A vacancy for a head of house had fortuitously occurred and Wilfred had been duly appointed. The position carried a substantial grace and favour cottage in the school grounds, which was to become the marital home. After the wedding, along a lantern-hung path, the couple made their way home. Florence was nervous but excited.

  By candlelight she took off her wedding dress, her jewellery and her garland of flowers to wait for her love in their bedroom, seen by her for the first time. She had dreamed of this moment and, as a sensual girl, almost trembled with unlocked desire.