§ 3
Doubtless one of the reasons why George’s engagement to Catherine was not opposed very vigorously by the Trants was Catherine’s startlingly rapid musical development, which seemed to prophesy a future in which anything might be expected. Ever since that Conservative Club concert Catherine had been playing regularly in public and acquiring a considerable local reputation. Occasional guineas and two guineas came her way, and at the opening of the winter season she found herself with as many engagements as she could manage. And at a local musical festival she had come out on top in the professional pianoforte entries. A gold medal and a good deal of newspaper prominence were the visible and immediate results of this. Afterwards came the welcome discovery that she was in demand. A concert organizer offered her five pounds for a couple of solos. An enterprising and newly established photographer photographed her gratis and exhibited a much embellished side view (with a rather fine hair exhibition) in his window. And she ceased to play at church socials....
Every Saturday afternoon she went to Verreker for lessons. Though she disliked him personally, she was compelled to admit the excellence of his teaching. He spared her no criticism, however severe, and when he commended her work, which was rare, she knew he meant it. If a good teacher, he was also an irritating one. He selected her pieces, insisted on her learning those and no others, expected from her a good deal more than it seemed possible for her to give, and treated her generally as a rebellious child. He was always asking her when she was going to resign her position at the theatre. She would never be even a moderate pianist as long as she was there, he said.
The time came when it was of financial benefit to her to resign. She did so, and expected him to be very pleased with her. But he merely said:
“H’m! I suppose you waited till it paid you to.”
This was so true that she had no reply ready.
He never disguised from her the fact that, however seemingly she might be advancing on the road to fame and success, she would never become more than a second-rate virtuoso.
“The front rank of the second-raters is as high as you’ll ever get,” he said. But that did not hurt her now.
What did hurt her was once when he said: “You have one abominable habit. You pose with your hair. I should recommend you to have it cut off, then you won’t have it to think about so much.”
“Oh, should you?” she replied angrily. “I should be sensible to cut it off, shouldn’t I, seeing it’s the only good-looking part of me!”
She hadn’t meant to say that. It slipped out.
“Is it?” he said, and for a single fatuous second she had a wild idea that he was going to pay her a magnificent compliment. But he added: “I mean—it never struck me as particularly good-looking. But then I’m no judge of hair—only of music.”
She could discern in every inflection of his voice latent hostility. There was no doubt he disliked her intensely. Latterly, too, she had become increasingly conscious of a mysteriously antagonistic atmosphere when he was with her. It reacted on her playing, causing her at times to give deplorable exhibitions. It was not nervousness. It was something in him that was always mutely hostile to something in her. The sensation, at first interesting, became extraordinarily irksome after a while. Once, when a poor performance of one of Chopin’s Ballades had evoked sarcasm and abuse almost beyond endurance, she suddenly left the music-stool and stood facing him with her back to the instrument.
“It’s no good,” she cried vehemently. “It’s not my fault. I’ve never played as bad as that in my life. It’s you. I can’t play when you’re present. Don’t know—can’t explain it, but it is so.”
He looked surprised.
“Very strange,” he said reflectively—“and unfortunate.”
She had expected him to be witheringly sarcastic. But he took it with urbane philosophy.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose if you feel like that it can’t be helped. We shall simply have to make the best of it.”
Which was irritatingly logical....