§ 1
“CLAREMONT,” the Ridgeway, was a corner detached house well set back from the road. A high evergreen hedge impeded the view from the footpath, and a curving carriage drive overhung with rhododendron bushes hid all suggestion of a house until the last possible moment. Then all that you saw was a tiny porch and a panorama of low-hanging eaves, diamond window-panes and russet-brown roofs of immense steepness. A telephone bracket affixed to one of the rafters and an electric bell in the porch convinced you that all this parade of antiquarianism was really the most aggressive modernity. A motor-garage, suitably disguised, stood at one side of the house. Behind was a vista of tennis-courts, conservatories, and an Italian pergola.
Beneath the tiny porch in the middle of a hot Sunday afternoon Catherine paused and pressed the button of the bell. She was excited. Her visit savoured of the miraculous. This was the house of the famous Emil Razounov The famous Emil Razounov had arranged this appointment to meet her. She was actually ringing the bell of Emil Razounov’s house. In another minute she and Emil Razounov would be face to face.
A maid opened the door. “What name, please?” she asked pertly, and Catherine replied.
Catherine passed into a wide hall, furnished with all sorts of queer furniture that she contrasted mentally with the bamboo hall-stand and the circular barometer that had graced the hall of No. 24, Kitchener Road. At one side a door was half open, and through this Catherine was ushered into what was apparently the front room of the house.
It was a long, low-roofed apartment, with dark panelling along the walls and rafters across the ceiling. The furniture was sparse, but bore signs of opulence: there were several huge leather armchairs and a couple of settees. Apart from these there was nothing in the room save a small table littered with music in manuscript, and a full-size grand piano. At first Catherine thought the room was unoccupied, but two winding coils of smoke rising upwards from two of the armchairs—the backs of which were towards her—seemed to proclaim the presence of men.
“Miss Weston,” announced the maid, and closed the door behind her.
One of the coils of smoke gyrated from the perpendicular. This was the preliminary to a slow creaking of one of the armchairs. A figure rose from the depths, and its back view was the first that Catherine saw of it. It was tall, attired in a light tweed jacket, grey flannel trousers, and carpet slippers of a self-congratulatory hue. Altogether, it was most disreputable for a Sabbath afternoon. It was difficult to recognize in this the spruce, well-groomed man of the world who had pushed his way into the Forest Hotel on the previous night. Yet Catherine did recognize him, and was rather astonished at her own perception in so doing. He faced her with the graceless langour of one who has just got out of bed at an early hour. Yet in his extreme ungainliness perhaps there was a certain charm. And as for his face—Catherine decided that it was not only lacking in positive good looks, but was also well endowed with extremely negative characteristics. To begin with, the lie of his features was not symmetrical. His hair was black and wiry, lustreless and devoid of interest. The whole plan and elevation of his face was so unconventional that he would probably have passed for being intellectual....
He bowed to her slightly. There was no doubt of his ability to bow. Whether he were ungainly or not, his bowing was so elegant as to savour of the professional. It was consciously a performance of exquisite artistry, as if he were thinking: “I know I’m ugly, but I’ve mastered the art of bowing, anyway. Put me in evening clothes, and I’ll pass for an ambassador or a head-waiter.”
He did not offer his hand.
“Ah,” he said, “M’sieur Razounov will be ready in a moment. Please take a seat.”
Catherine sat down in one of the easy chairs. From this position she could see that another chair contained the recumbent form of Emil Razounov. He was reading a Sunday paper and taking occasional puffs at a large cigar. Catherine had heard much gossip about Razounov’s eccentricities, yet compared with his companion he seemed to her to be disappointingly ordinary. For several moments the two men sat in silence, while Catherine made ruthless mental criticisms. She was piqued at the lack of enthusiasm accorded her.
Suddenly Emil Razounov spoke. The voice came from the depths of the chair like a female voice out of a gramophone horn. It was almost uncanny.
“I say, Verreker, hass not the young lady come?”
The man addressed as Verreker replied somewhat curtly: “Oh yes, she’s here.”
“Zhen perhaps she weel go to the piano and play.”
Catherine left her chair and went to the instrument. Before sitting down she took off her hat—which was a species of tam-o’-shanter—and placed it on the table beside the piano. She did this from two reasons: first, she did not feel comfortable with it on; and second, she was proud of her hair, and conscious that it was the most impressive thing about her.
“What shall I play?” she asked nonchalantly. She could not help betraying her annoyance at her unceremonious reception.
There was a pause. It seemed almost as if both men were struck dumb with astonishment at her amazing question. Then Verreker said carelessly, as if it were a matter of no consequence at all: “Oh, whatever you like.” She took several moments to adjust the music-stool to her final satisfaction and prepare for playing. The time was useful to decide what she should play. Strange that she should not have decided before! She had decided before, as a matter of fact: she had decided to play some Debussy. But since entering the room she had changed her mind. She would play Chopin.
She played “Poland is Lost.” She played it well, because she was feeling defiant. She played with the same complete disrespect for her audience as had won her the first prize at the musical eisteddfod. Where she wanted to bang, she banged. She did not care that she was in a low-roofed dining-room and not a concert hall. She did not care if she pleased or displeased them. They were contemptuous of her: she would be contemptuous of them. The result was that she was not in the least nervous. Yet when she had struck the last note she could not help remarking to herself: “I did play that well. They must have been rather impressed.”
An awkward pause ensued. Then Verreker said very weakly: “Thank you.” His “thank you” was almost ruder than if he had said nothing at all.
“Well?” said Razounov.
Catherine thought he was speaking to her. She was meditating something in reply when Verreker spoke, showing that the word had been addressed to him. A feeling of exquisite relief that she had not spoken came over her.
“She oughtn’t to play Chopin,” remarked Verreker.
“No,” agreed Razounov.
Catherine’s face reddened. It was the subtle innuendo of their remarks that hurt her. Also, by all the standards she had learnt at the Bockley High School for Girls there was something impolite in their criticizing her coolly in the third person as if she were not present. She resented it. She was not a stickler for etiquette, but she would not be insulted. “I don’t care who they are,” she thought rebelliously, “they’ve no right to treat me like that. I’m as good as they are, every bit!”
A long pause seemed to intensify the sinister significance of their previous remarks.
“Look here,” cried Catherine, breaking in raucously upon the silence, “why don’t you tell me straight out I can’t play?”
After she had said it she regretted her hastiness. She perceived it was a foolish thing to say. She blushed fiercely.
Verreker raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. Razounov beamed beatifically.
“My dear lady,” he began caressingly, “I will be perfectly fhrank with you. Eet is best to be fhrank, is eet not? ... You will neffer be a first-class player. Perrhaps a second, ohr a third, pairhaps you may eahrn plenhty of money at eet, but you will never be a—you know what I mean—a ghreat—a suphreme pianiste.” (He meant obviously: “You will never be what I am.”) ... “Why? ... Ah, I cannot tell. Why is zhe ghreat gift given to sohm and not to othairs? ... Eet is that you haf not it in you, that zohmsing, that spark that is cault ghenius ... you understand?”
Catherine understood. But she could not disguise her humiliation, her mortification, her disappointment.
“Do you agree with me, Verreker?” asked Razounov, as if desiring confirmation of his verdict.
Verreker said curtly: “I don’t profess to prophesy these things. Still, in this case, I believe you’re right.”
That was worse! There was something contemptuous in those words, “in this case.” Catherine hated him.
“Still,” purred Razounov, “you would improve with a course of instruction. You will make a good player if you are careful. I cannot give you lessons myself, as I am engaged all my time, but I will supervise. And Mr. Verreker will gif you a lesson once a week. Efery month I will supervise. Is zhat plain?”
Catherine could not answer. She was struggling with tears. The second time that day that tears had troubled her. Yet what a different variety of tears! These were tears of rage and disappointment, of blinding disillusionment, of sullen mortification. She dare not trust herself to reply. If she had attempted a word she would have been caught in a maelstrom of burning indignation.
“I will drop you a card when I can give you a first lesson,” said Verreker, quietly.... “Well ... er ... thank you for coming ...”
Catherine took the hint and put on her hat. She did not say a word as she left the room. But her eyes were furiously blazing: there was in them that danger glint of which Verreker, if he had seen it, would have done well to beware.
Out in the Ridgeway, Catherine decided one thing. She would never take lessons off Verreker; she would never go near that house again....