§ 7
On a dull December afternoon, Catherine stood in a tiny room at the back of the Guildhall at Cambridge. She was to play at a combined violin and pianoforte recital, arranged by the University Musical Society. She was tired, for the journey down had been tedious. Verreker was at York: he had discovered a pianoforte genius of twelve years old amongst the northern moors, and was very much engrossed in her. “Superb child,” he had said of her to Catherine, and Catherine, knowing the rarity of his praise, had felt angrily jealous of her. Yet she knew that his enthusiasm was strictly professional: the girl was nothing to him: it was only her genius that counted.
Through the half open door that led to the platform Catherine could see the audience filtering in. Loosely dressed undergraduates and senile professors formed the bulk. From the drab walls the portraits of gaily caparisoned mayors and aldermen looked down in vacuous reproach. Queen Victoria presented her angular profile chillingly at one side of the platform: the only cheerful thing in the entire building was a large open fire, in front of which a crowd of undergraduates were standing.... Slowly the clock at the back of the hall climbed up to three. Catherine sighed. It was not often she felt uninterested in her work. But this afternoon the huge bulk of the Kreutzer Sonata loomed in front of her as burdensome as a cartload of stones to be shifted. She knew that her hands would perform their duty, just as a tired walker knows that his legs will assuredly carry him the last long mile. But at the thought of the Sonata, with all its varying movements and repetitions of theme, the greatest violinist in England scraping away beside her, and a front row composed of doctors and bachelors of music, she shivered. She was annoyed at the ominous fact that she was not the least interested in music that afternoon. She was annoyed at the spiritless architecture of the Guildhall. She was annoyed because she knew she would have to start punctually at three.
Just as the minute hand of the clock was almost on the point of twelve, the door at the back of the room opened suddenly, and she caught a swift glimpse of a man in a huge fur overcoat and gloves. She was about to ask him his business when he turned his face to her. She started. A rush of overmastering joy swept over her. It was Verreker. The moment was delectable. To see him there when she had not expected him, when she did not know why he had come! Never in all her life was she so happy as in that moment. She was too joyful to speak to him. She just looked up into his face smilingly and took the hand he offered.
“Surprised to see me?” he began, and from his tone she knew he was in an unusually good humour.
“Yes. I thought you were at York.”
“So I was till this morning. The child-genius is a fake.... I came down here to give a lecture on Economics ... five o’clock in the Arts School....”
“So you’ll stay to hear me, then?”
“As long as I can stand it.... I’ve heard the Kreutzer till I’m sick of it. Still, it suits a Cambridge audience.... What’ll you play if they ask for an encore?”
“I don’t know ... Debussy, maybe.”