§ 2
At her next lesson with Verreker she said: “Razounov didn’t remember me, apparently——”
Verreker replied quite casually: “Oh no, why should he?”
She coloured slightly.
“Well,” she said, with some acerbity, “considering he took the trouble to send for me after hearing me play at that club concert, I think he might at least——”
Verreker faced her suddenly.
“What’s that?” he said.
“What’s what?”
“What you’ve just been talking about. I don’t understand in the least.... You say he heard you at a concert?”
“Well, I presume so, anyway. What remarkably short memories you musical people have! Razounov apparently heard me at the concert, and sent me a message to come and see him the next day. You ought to remember that: it was you yourself who brought it. You tracked me down to the Forest Hotel.”
“Yes, yes. I remember that.... But the concert?”
She was becoming more and more sarcastic as his mystification increased.
“Oh yes, the concert. I played Liszt’s Concert Etude in A flat (the one you don’t like). As I remarked before, presumably Razounov heard me, or else why should he send for me to——”
“I am afraid you have presumed falsely,” he interrupted. (She shivered at the stateliness of the phrasing: it reminded her of “I know of no reason at all.”) “Razounov could not possibly have heard you play. He never attends local concerts. Besides, he must have been on at the Hippo——”
“Then why did he send for me?” she cried shrilly.
He scratched his chin reflectively. She hated him for that gesture.
“I believe—I think he did tell me once.... I fancy it was something rather unusual. Somebody—I can’t tell you who, because I believe I’m pledged to secrecy—wrote to Razounov offering to pay for a course of lessons for you. His name was to be kept out of it. I mean, the name of the person.”
He frowned irritably at the slip of his tongue, and still more at the rash correction which had given prominence to it.
“A man?” she ejaculated.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I know it was. Because you said ‘his.’”
“Then why did you ask me?”
She swung round on the stool and clasped her hands below her knees. Her eyes were fiercely bright.
“What are Razounov’s fees?” she said quietly.
“Three guineas a lesson.”
“And yours?”
“For purposes of musical instruction I am Razounov. He only supervises. It is a fortunate arrangement, because I am a much better teacher than he.”
She looked at him a little amazed. For the first time she caught herself admiring him. She admired the calm, straightforward, unqualified way he had said that he was a much better teacher than Razounov. It was not conceit. She was glad he knew how to appraise himself. She admired him for not being afraid to do so. In her eyes was the message: “So you too have found out that overmodesty is not a virtue? So have I.”
But it was impossible to remark upon it. She plunged into the financial side of the question.
“So somebody has been paying three guineas a week for me?” (And she thought: “Whoever is it?”)
“Certainly. You don’t imagine Razounov would give lessons for nothing, do you?”
“That is to say, you wouldn’t give lessons for nothing, isn’t it?”
“Certainly. I am not a philanthropist. I have other interests besides music. Music is only my way of getting a living. I never even reduce my fees except—except—well——”
“Yes?—except when?”
He turned away his head as he replied: “Except in cases where the pupil has no money yet supreme musical genius.”
She flared up passionately.
“Look here,” she said, “why d’you keep on rubbing it in? How do you know I shan’t be a great pianist? I say, how do you know? I tell you, I don’t believe you. You wait; you’ll see me at the top before long. And then you’ll have to eat your words. You’re got a good opinion of yourself, haven’t you? Well, so have I. See? ... And I tell you I will get to the top! I’ll show you you’re wrong! See?”
“I hope you will,” he said quietly. And added: “I’m glad my criticism doesn’t discourage you. It isn’t meant to.”
To which she was on the point of replying: “But it has discouraged me. There have been times when——” She did not say that. There came a pause. Then she reverted to the financial side of the business.
“So somebody’s already paid nearly a hundred pounds for me.”
“Sixty, I believe. The last quarter has not been paid yet.”
(And then the idea came to her immediately—George Trant!)
“Aren’t your fees payable in advance?” she asked sharply.
“As a general rule, yes.”
“Then why did you make an exception in my case?”
“Because I know the person fairly well, and am confident of being paid soon. That’s all.”
“Is it?”
“Certainly,” he replied brusquely. “If your anonymous benefactor doesn’t pay up within the next couple of months the arrangement between you and me will terminate on the first of March. As I said before, I am not a philanthropist.”
“Obviously not.”
“I hope it is obvious. I have often been mistaken for one.”
“Curious! I can scarcely believe it.... Have you the address of my anonymous benefactor?”
“I dare say I have it somewhere about. Why?”
“Because I want you to write and tell him something.”
“Indeed? And what am I to tell him?”
“Tell him he needn’t trouble to pay the last quarter’s fees. I will pay them myself.”
“I hope you can easily spare the money——”
“Of course I can. I shouldn’t offer to pay if I couldn’t. I’m not a philanthropist.”
“Very well, then. I will write and tell him what you say.”
Pause. He was beginning to look rather annoyed.
“And there’s just one other thing,” she said, putting on her hat ready for departure.
“What’s that?”
“Our arrangement will not terminate on the first of March. I shall continue and pay myself.”
“As you wish....” He shrugged his shoulders.
And she thought as she went out: “That was a neat stroke for me. But it’s going to be confoundedly expensive....”