Dominie Dean: A Novel

by Ellis Parker Butler

Father Moran chuckled in his black beard and his eyes twinkled. He loved to have anyone pretend to bulldoze him; he was a beloved autocrat among his own people.

“You're afraid!” declared Benedict. “You're afraid that when we get our new organ and Miss Hurley learns to play it your Mademoiselle will be overshadowed. We'll show you!”

“Afraid!” chuckled Father Moran. “You heard Mademoiselle play, and you say I am afraid! Bon! Ex-cellent! Come, we will interview Mademoiselle!”

So it was arranged. Mademoiselle would take no remuneration. She patted little Miss Hurley on the thin shoulder and smiled, but she would not hear of payment.

“N', no!” she declared. “I teach you because I like you, because I like all praise music shall be good music. N', no! We will not think about money; we will think about great, grand music. You will be my leetle St. Cecilia; yes?” Not until she had consulted David, and had been assured that accepting such a favor from the niece of the priest was not at all wrong, would Miss Hurley agree. Then the lessons began, Miss Hurley always “my leetle St. Cecilia” to Mademoiselle. They were a strongly contrasted pair: Mademoiselle Moran stout, black-haired, with powerful arms and fingers; Miss Hurley a mere wisp of humanity, hair already gray, and with scarce strength to handle the stops and keys.

When first she entered the huge St. Bridget's Miss Hurley cringed, as if she entered a forbidden place. The great stained windows permitted but little light to enter; here and there some woman knelt low on the floor, crossing herself. Mademoiselle walked to the organ loft with a brisk, businesslike tread and Miss Hurley followed her timidly. From somewhere Father Moran appeared, smiling, and patted Miss Hurley's shoulder. No man had patted Miss Hurley's shoulder for many years, but she was far from resenting it. It was like a good wish. Then Mademoiselle reached up and drew the soft green curtains across the front of the organ loft and lo! they were alone. The lesson began.

It needed but that one first lesson to tell Mademoiselle that her “leetle St. Cecilia” would never play “great, grand music” on a large pipe organ. It was as if you were to undertake to teach a child trigonometry and discovered he did not know the multiplication table beyond seven times five. Miss Hurley hardly knew the rudiments of music; harmony, thoroughbass and all the deeper things, that Mademoiselle had learned so long ago that they were part of her nature now, were absolute Greek to Miss Hurley. But, worse than all this, Miss Hurley had not the physique of an organist. She was physically inadequate.

Such news invariably leaks out. Long before Lucille Hardcome had managed to coax the pipe organ out of Sam Wiggett's purse it was known that Miss Hurley was “taking lessons” from Mademoiselle and that she was not strong enough to play a pipe organ properly. For her part, had Miss Hurley been any other person, Mademoiselle would have thrown up her hands and turned her back on the impossible task, but she liked Miss Jane sincerely. I think she loved the little old maid. It must be remembered that St. Bridget's was Irish and in those days many of the Irish in Riverbank were fresh from the peat bogs and potato fields, and Mademoiselle, before coming to care for her uncle's house, had lived in the midst of France's best. It is no wonder she craved even such crambs of culture as Miss Hurley had gathered or that she loved the little woman. In return she gave Miss Jane all she could.

There were intricacies of stops and keys, foot pedaling and fingering, that must be explained and practiced, but Mademoiselle early told Miss Hurley:

“St. Cecilia, you are not, remembair, the grand organist; you are the sweet organist. For me”—she made the organ boom with a tumult of sound—“for me, yes! I am beeg and strong. But, for you”—she played some deliciously dainty bit—“because you are gentle and sweet!”