Leopold told of his classical training under tutors in England. He had begun to read Latin at eight, added Greek at nine, and he could not remember when he was unable to understand French and German.
“America is giving up foreign languages,” Leopold summed up. “The students will not put the time on them.”
“But I know they will,” Blynn returned firmly, “if the thing is taught reasonably. You began at eight and nine, Leopold; well, that’s the age to do it.”
The conversation threatened to become pedagogic and heavy, but the girls were interested, too. Mary Weston told of some phenomenal pianists who had been developed in just that way.
“The teacher told me she took them young, four to five years; visited them every day. There was no hateful ‘practice.’ ‘Mar-y! have you done your scales today?’ ‘No-m.’ ‘Then come right in this minute and do them!’ I can hear my mother calling me yet. Result: ‘Chapel in the Mountains’ with the left hand over,” she illustrated comically on the table, “‘Dum, dum, dum, twinkle-innkle-ink!’ That’s almost my repertoire.... This teacher got her youngsters over every difficulty without a single growl. Master Stewardson—you heard him, Kate,”—everyone had adopted Blynn’s “Kate”—“at the Willings’—he’s one of them. Wasn’t he slick?”
Mary drew an imaginary bow across her arm and whined the opening of the “Spring Song.”
“Bravo!” applauded Leopold, “that’s bully, you know. Sounds just like a violin—one with a bad throat.”
“I thought she fingered well,” added Davis.
Diccon insisted that he heard an open string. He always abominated the open string.
A burst of imitators overtook the table, violins, flageolets, bassoons, bass-viols. Morris took the prize with the sextette from “Lucia” as done by Sousa on a half-dozen interrupting muted trombones.