“It’s such a good chance,” Mrs. Hudson had said, “for Eileen to get a good foundation.”
So the young visiting teacher at the College had Eileen placed on his list, and after a few lessons he marked her down as a “non-trier.”
Up the country she used to play by “ear” on an old piano that had long since seen its best days, and now scales and such like were doubly trying.
“No, Miss Eileen, not that way. Wrong! Wrong!” the teacher would cry, impatiently, as wrong notes were struck or hands were placed in the wrong position; and Eileen, who simply hated the humdrum, hammering exercises, would grow sullen and wade through the rest of the lesson.
Things reached a climax after about a month of lessons.
“No, Miss Eileen, you’re no better now than when you commenced. It’s agonising to have to listen to you. No time, no expression—you simply have no ‘soul,’ no ear for tone, no——”
But Eileen turned on him with flashing eyes. “No soul,” “No ear,” rankled in her mind.
“I’ve got as much soul and as much ear as you have!” she cried. “You think yourself, with your old music, don’t you? Well, let me tell you that there’s plenty of cleverer people than you that don’t know a note of music, and if I can’t play I can do lots of other things—yes, I can!—and I’d like to see you up the country, trying to ride a horse, and see where your ‘soul’ and ‘ear’ would come in.”
She banged up her music and jumped up from the piano.
The teacher was simply petrified. To be spoken to like that by a little country girl! Preposterous!