But the most curious phenomenon which I have observed, one which could not possibly be anticipated by an outsider looking in, is the effect of my setting the clock. There are times when a perfectly innocent shuffling of thirty-four feet in the First Grade assumes proportions far more important than Murder in the First Degree. Then it is that I set the clock. If it does not need setting, I set it forward first, and then back again. The clock is high on the wall, reached by the janitor (all too seldom) from a very high step-ladder. I set it from the floor. I take the yardstick and advance on the clock. It is a nice operation to push up the glass crystal with a pliant stick, haul down the minute-hand, and finally to close the door. The door must first be lifted into its proper position, and then hammered shut. Each bang of the yardstick sounds as if it would be followed certainly by showers of broken glass. I think that this uncertainty is what keeps my pupils' hearts fluttering and their feet still. Deathly silence always accompanies my setting of the clock. An imperceptible sound of relief, like a group-sigh, follows the click of the door in its catch. I can tiptoe back, on that sigh, to quiet industry.
It is true that children, with the best intentions, sometimes bring inappropriate busy-work to school. But teaching them has not dowered me with any disdain for my students. They are beneath me only in years. In fact, I raise my hat to some of them in spirit, as I teach them to raise theirs to me in truth. Here and there I calmly recognize a superior. I am constantly taking care that no youthful James Watt can say to me in later years, “You put out my first tea-kettle which boiled in school.”
I suppose that Pauline will eventually be a gracious hostess, saying just the right thing to her guests and to her husband—charming every masculine acquaintance on sight. Even now, I find that she is engaged, provisionally, to James Henry Davis. Perhaps some day Adamoskow, with his long clever fingers and his dreamy eyes, and no head whatever for “number,” will be charging me five dollars a seat to hear him play. His impresario can count the change for him.
And I know that James Henry Davis, at seventeen, will have the power to break hearts to the right of him, and hearts to the left of him, with the same dimple, the same wonderful pompadour, and the same lifted eyebrow that he now uses for the same purpose in Grade I. I know that he will out-dance his dancing-master at his Junior Prom. I shall wonder, when I see him in his white gloves, how I ever dared to take his acorn pipe away. Therefore I take it away as innocuously as possible, and touch his soft pompadour, in passing, with a reverent hand.
TRIO IMPETUOSO
The first steps of certain things are beautiful; the first flush of buds along a maple branch, for instance, or the first smooth launching of an Indian canoe. But the first steps of music are commonly not so. The first note of a young robin is a squawk. The first piercing note of a young violinist is not in tune with the music of any sphere.
Musicians learn to expect a certain amount of wear and tear in first attempts. Even the professional orchestra makes bad work of a new symphony the first time through. And in an amateur orchestra, where the players are of various grades of proficiency, the playing of a new piece of music is a hazardous affair.
In our own orchestra, when we read a new piece of music for the first time, we usually decide to “try it once through without stopping.” Come what will, we will meet it together. The great thing is to keep going. Sometimes we emerge from this enterprise with all bows flying and everybody triumphantly prolonging the same last note. At other times we come out at the finish one by one, each man for himself, like the singers in an old-fashioned round-song rendering of “Three Blind Mice.”
To enjoy playing in an orchestra like ours, the musician should have a great soul and a rugged nervous system. He should not be too proud to play his best on music that is too easy for him, and he should not be afraid to try music that is too hard. Music within the easy reach of every member of an amateur orchestra is scarce. The first time through, there is usually somebody who has to skirmish anxiously along, experimenting softly to himself when he loses his place, and coming out strong when he finds it again. From among the many desirable notes in a rapid passage, he chooses as many as he can hit in the time allowed, playing selected grace-notes here and there, and skipping the rest. We cannot all have everything.