Mildred Pierce (22 page)

‘I think she’s got something.’

‘I always said she had talent.’

‘Saying she has talent and doing the right thing about it are two different things. If you don’t mind my saying so, I think you know more about pies than you do about music. I think she ought to be put under somebody that can really take charge of her.’

‘Who, for instance?’

‘Well, there’s a fellow in Pasadena that could do wonders with her. You may have heard of him – Charlie Hannen, quite well-known, up to a few years ago, in the concert field. Then his lungs cracked up and he came out here. Doesn’t do much now. Organist, choir master, whatever you call it, at our church, leads a quiet life, but takes a few pupils. I’m sure I can get him interested in her. If he takes her on, she’ll be getting somewhere.’

‘When did
you
learn so much about music?’

‘I don’t know a thing about it. But my mother does. She’s been a patroness of the Philharmonic for years and she knows all about it. She says the kid’s really got it.’

‘Of course I never met your mother.’

This slightly waspish remark Monty let pass without answering, and it was some minutes before he went on. ‘And another thing that makes
me
think she’s got it is the way she works at it. All right, all I know is horses, but when I see a guy on top of one, out there in the morning when there’s nobody else around, popping away with a mallet to improve his backhand, I think to myself, maybe one day he’ll be a polo player.’

‘Isn’t
that
something to be.’

‘It’s the same way with her. So far as I know, she never misses a day on that dry-goods box at her grandfather’s, and even when she comes over to Mother’s she does her two hours of exercises every morning, before she’ll even talk about tennis, or riding, or whatever Mother has in mind for her. She
works
, and you don’t even have to be a musician to figure that out.’

In spite of her almost religious conviction that Veda had talent, Mildred wasn’t much impressed: she knew Veda too well to read the evidence quite as Monty read it. Veda’s earnest practising at Mrs Beragon’s might mean a consuming passion for music, and it might mean a consuming passion for letting the whole household know she was around. And Mr Hannen might have been a celebrated pianist once, but the fact that he was now organist at one of Pasadena’s swank churches cast a certain familiar colour over his nomination as teacher. All in all, Mildred was sure she detected one of Veda’s fine schemes. And in addition to that, she resented what was evidently becoming a small conspiracy to tell her what she should do about her child, and
the implication that what she was already doing, by Pasadena standards, wasn’t anything like good enough.

So for some time she said nothing about this subject to Veda. But it kept gnawing on her mind, setting up the fear that perhaps she was denying the child something she really ought to have. And then one night Veda broke into a violent denunciation of Miss Whittaker, the lady whom Mildred had been paying 50c a week to give Veda lessons; but something about the tirade didn’t have the usual phony sound to it. Troubled, Mildred asked suddenly if Mr Hannen, of Pasadena, would be better. This produced such excited dancing around that she knew she was in for it. So she called up, made an engagement, and on the appointed afternoon rushed through her work so she could dash home and take Veda over there.

For the occasion, she laid out some of Veda’s new finery; a brown silk dress, brown hat, alligator-skin shoes, and silk stockings. But when Veda got home from school, and saw the pile on the bed, she threw up her hands in horror. ‘Mother! I can’t be dressed
up
! Ooh! It would be so provincial!’ Mildred knew the voice of society when she heard it, so she sighed, put the things away, and watched while Veda tossed out her own idea of suitable garb: maroon sweater, plaid skirt, polo coat, leather beret, woollen socks, and flat-heeled shoes. But she looked away when Veda started to dress. A year and a half had indeed made some changes in Veda’s appearance. She was still no more than medium height, but her haughty carriage made her seem taller. The hips were as slim as ever, but had taken on some touch of voluptuousness. The legs were Mildred’s, to the last graceful contour. But the most noticeable change was what Monty brutally called the Dairy: that had appeared almost overnight on the high, arching chest. They would have been large, even for a woman: for a child of thirteen they were positively startling. Mildred had a mystical feeling about them: they made her think tremulously of Love, Motherhood, and similar milky concepts. When Monty had denounced them as indecent, and told Veda for Christ’s sake to get a hammock to sling them in, Mildred had been shocked, and pink-faced, and furious. But Veda had laughed gaily, and got brassieres in a completely matter-of-fact
way. It would have been hard to imagine her pink-faced about anything. What with the chest, the Dairy, and the slightly swaying hips, she moved like some proud, pedigreed pigeon.

Mr Hannen lived just off the Pasadena traffic circle, in a house that looked usual enough from the outside, but which, inside, turned out to be one gigantic studio, with all the first floor and most of the second given over to it. It startled Mildred, not only by its size, but by its incredible bareness. There was nothing in it but a big piano, long shelves of music, a wooden wall seat across one end, and a bronze bust, in one corner, labelled ‘Bauer’. Mr Hannen himself was a squat man of about forty, with bandy legs, thick chest, and big hands, though a slight stoop, as well as streaky white hair, hinted at the illness that Monty had mentioned. He was quite friendly, and chatted with Mildred until she was off guard, and grew gabby. When she mentioned the restaurant Veda tossed her head impatiently, but Mr Hannen said ‘Ah!’ in a flattering way, remembered he had heard of it, copied down the address, and promised to come in. Then, rather casually, he got around to Veda, had a look at the music she had brought, and said they might as well get the horrible part over. Veda looked a little set back on her heels, but he waved her to the piano and told her to play something – anything, so it was short. Veda marched grandly over, sat down on the bench, twisted her hands in a professional way, and meditated. Mr Hannen sat down on the wall seat, near Mildred, and meditated. Then Veda launched into a piece known to Mildred as Rachmaninoff Prelude.

It was the first time, in recent months, that Mildred had heard Veda play, and she was delighted with the effect. The musical part she wasn’t quite sure about, except that it made a fine noisy clatter. But there could be no mistaking the authoritative way in which Veda kept lifting her right hand high in the air, or the style with which she crossed her left hand over it. The piece kept mounting to a rousing noisy climax, and then inexplicably it faltered. Veda struck a petulant chord. ‘I always want to play it
that
way.’

‘I’ll tell Mr Rachmaninoff when I see him.’

Mr Hannen was slightly ironical about it, but his brows knit,
and he began eyeing Veda sharply. Veda, a little chastened, finished. He made no comment, but got up, found a piece of music, and put it in front of her. ‘Let’s try the sight-reading.’

Veda rattled through this piece like a human pianola, while Mr Hannen alternately screwed up his face as though he were in great pain, and stared hard at her. When silence mercifully stole into the room, he walked over to the shelves again, got out a violin case, set it beside Mildred, opened it, and began to resin the bow. ‘Let’s try the accompanying. What’s your name again?’

‘Miss Pierce.’

‘Ah—?’

‘Veda.’

‘Have you ever accompanied, Veda?’

‘Just a little.’

‘Just a little, what?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I might warn you, Veda, that with young pupils I mix quite a little general instruction, in with the musical. Now if you don’t want a clip on the ear, you’ll call me sir.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Mildred wanted to kick up her heels and laugh at Veda who was suddenly meek and humble. However, she affected not to be listening, and fingered the silk of Mr Hannen’s violin cover as though it was the most interesting piece of sewing she had ever seen. He picked up the violin now, and turned to Veda. ‘This isn’t my instrument, but there must be
something
for you to accompany, so it’ll have to do. Sound your A.’

Veda tapped a note, he tuned the violin, and set a piece of music on the piano. ‘All right – a little briskly. Don’t drag it.’

Veda looked blankly at the music. ‘Why – you’ve given me the violin part.’

‘—?’

‘Sir.’

‘Ah, so I have.’

He looked on the shelves for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Well, the piano part’s around somewhere, but I don’t seem to see it at the moment. All right, keep the violin part in front of you and give me a little accompaniment of your own. Let’s see –
you have four measures before I come in. Count the last one aloud.’

‘Sir, I wouldn’t even know how to—’

‘Begin.’

After a desperate look at the music, Veda played a long, faltering figure that ended somewhere up in the tinkle notes. Then, thumping a heavy bass, she counted: ‘One, two, three, four
and
—’

Even Mildred could detect that the violin was certainly not Mr Hannen’s instrument. But Veda kept up her bass, and when he stopped, she repeated the long figure, thumped her bass, counted, and he came in again. This went on for a short time, but little by little, Mildred thought, it was getting smoother. Once, when Mr Hannen stopped, Veda omitted the long figure. In its place, she repeated the last part of the air he had been playing, so that when he came in again it joined up quite neatly. When they finished, Mr Hannen put the violin away and resumed staring at Veda. Then: ‘Where did you study harmony?’

‘I never studied harmony, sir.’

‘H’m.’

He walked around a few moments, said ‘Well’ in a reflective way, and began to talk. ‘The technique is simply God-awful. You have a tone like a xylophone that fell in love with a hand organ, but that may respond to – whatever we do about it. And the conceit is almost beyond belief. That certainly will respond. It’s responded a little already, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘But – play that bit in the Rachmaninoff again, the way you said you always wanted to play it.’

Rather weakly, Veda obeyed. He was beside her on the bench now, and dropped his big paw on the keys as he played after her. A tingle went through Mildred at the way it seemed to reach down into the vitals of the piano, and find sounds that were rich, dark, and exciting. She noted that it no longer seemed hairy and thick, but became a thing of infinite grace. He studied the keys a moment, then said: ‘And suppose you did play it that way. You’d be in a little trouble, don’t you think?’ He played another chord or two. ‘Where would you go from
there
?’

Veda played a few more chords, and he carefully played them after her. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, it could have been written that way. I really think Mr Rachmaninoff’s way is better – I find a slight touch of banality in yours, don’t you?’

‘What’s banality, sir?’

‘I mean it sounds corny. Cheap. It’s got that old Poet and Peasant smell to it. Play it an octave higher and put a couple of trills in it, it would be “Listen to the Mocking Bird” almost before you knew it.’

Veda played it an octave higher, twiddled a trill, did a bar of ‘Listen to the Mocking Bird’, and got very red. ‘Yes, sir, I guess you’re right.’

‘But – it makes musical
sense
.’

This seemed so incredible to him that he sat in silence for some little time before he went on: ‘I got plenty of pupils with talent in their fingers, very few with anything in their heads. Your fingers, Veda, I’m not so sure about. There’s something about the way you do it that isn’t exactly – but never mind about that. We’ll see what can be done. But your head – that’s different. Your sight-reading is remarkable, the sure sign of a musician. And that trick I played on you, making you improvise an accompaniment to the little gavotte – of course, you didn’t really do it well, but the amazing thing was that you could do it at all. I don’t know what made me think you could, unless it was that idiotic monkeyshine you pulled in the Rachmaninoff. So—’

He turned now to Mildred. ‘I want her over here twice a week. I’m giving her one lesson in piano – my rate is ten dollars an hour, the lesson is half an hour, so it’ll cost you five dollars. I’m giving her another lesson in the theory of music, and that lesson will be free. I can’t be sure what will come of it, and it isn’t fair to make you pay for my experiments. But, she’ll learn
something
, and at the very least get some of the conceit knocked out of her.’

So saying, he took a good healthy wallop at Veda’s ribs. Then he added: ‘I suppose nothing will come of it, if we’re really honest about it. Many are called in this business, but few are chosen, and hardly any find out how good you have to be before you’re any good at all. But – we’ll see . . . God, Veda, but your
playing stinks. I ought to charge a hundred dollars an hour, just to listen to you.’

Veda started to cry, as Mildred stared in astonishment. Not three times in her life had she seen this cold child cry, and yet there she was, with two streams squirting out of her eyes and cascading down on the maroon sweater, where they made glistening silver drops. Mr Hannen airily waved his hand. ‘Let her bawl. It’s nothing to what she’ll be doing before I get through with her.’