preserved. Lady Anne was considered to have been most kind to her eccentric cousin; I was most obliging in helping to retrieve the situation. And, as I was clearly not
being paid to play, it was possible to regard me (for this night at least) as a gentleman amateur. My dish of tea cooled on the table as I disposed myself on the harpsichord stool, and Le Sac bent
to fetch out his music. He swung with a flourish and a smile for his audience, and presented me with the harpsichord part; his eyes met mine and I saw by their glitter that there was one person in
the room who was not appeased.
I say one, but there was another also. As I glanced across at Esther Jerdoun, I saw her cast her cousin a look of annoyance and reproof. Lady Anne lounged in her chair, one leg crossed mannishly
over the other, swinging a slippered foot and smiling a smile of triumph. I had seen that look before, on a dozen of my older pupils; it was the enjoyment of a chance to cause consternation.
It was not an evening I care to remember, although the harpsichord was excellent. Le Sac was determined to make life as difficult as possible for me. He speeded up and slowed down outrageously,
drew out melodic phrases to a perfectly ridiculous extent then unexpectedly galloped away at top speed. He cut sections out of the music and repeated others that were not meant to be repeated so
that I constantly appeared to be unsure of my place. In short, he was every accompanist’s nightmare.
But his audience – with the exception of Mr Heron, who sat stony-faced throughout – loved every moment. They gasped at every rapid dash of notes, every dramatic flourish, no matter
how coarse and meaningless. In truth, there was nothing of worth in the entire piece – it being one of Le Sac’s own compositions – and my only consolation was that the harpsichord
part had been copied out by George and was therefore eminently readable. Unlike Le Sac’s part which, I saw over his shoulder, was an illegible scrawl.
He came at last to the end and enjoyed the applause with great flourishing bows in the continental style. I did not share the applause; not only would it not have pleased Le Sac but it would
have underlined my status as a performer and I was still trying to walk that fine line between guest and hired help. But as Le Sac turned to his music case for another solo, Esther Jerdoun stood up
and spoke in a voice that cut through the conversation.
“Monsieur le Sac, I am sorry to inconvenience you but I must reclaim my guest. We have not yet concluded our business.”
Le Sac looked outraged but he was powerless to object. I was tempted, as I bowed to him, to point out that he should have brought his own accompanist. But he was as much a victim of Lady
Anne’s playfulness as I was; I kept silent.
So Mrs Jerdoun and I withdrew to the far end of the library where we conducted our conversation in low voices while Le Sac fiddled away unaccompanied, with renewed energy. As she lifted down a
music book from the shelves, she said, “Forgive me if I seem abrupt. But my cousin’s habit of setting people at each other’s throats annoys me greatly.”
I opened the book – Geminiani’s Opus 8 – to give credence to our conversing. “It sometimes seems –” I hesitated for fear of offending her – “that
Lady Anne enjoys an uproar.”
She shook her head. “It is something more than that, I think. I have been in France and Italy for some years, you know, and when I returned, a twelvemonth ago, I found Anne greatly
changed. Of course, she was a girl of only ten when I saw her last, so perhaps I should not be surprised. Here, sir, is another book of Italian violin pieces. What do you think of Signor
Vivaldi?”
I winced. “You wish the truth?”
She smiled. “Indeed, sir.”
“Defective in harmony and poor in melody.”
“Alas.” She sighed. “I have always found him a pleasant diversion.”
“Did you not say you found music trivial?”
“I do
being paid to play, it was possible to regard me (for this night at least) as a gentleman amateur. My dish of tea cooled on the table as I disposed myself on the harpsichord stool, and Le Sac bent
to fetch out his music. He swung with a flourish and a smile for his audience, and presented me with the harpsichord part; his eyes met mine and I saw by their glitter that there was one person in
the room who was not appeased.
I say one, but there was another also. As I glanced across at Esther Jerdoun, I saw her cast her cousin a look of annoyance and reproof. Lady Anne lounged in her chair, one leg crossed mannishly
over the other, swinging a slippered foot and smiling a smile of triumph. I had seen that look before, on a dozen of my older pupils; it was the enjoyment of a chance to cause consternation.
It was not an evening I care to remember, although the harpsichord was excellent. Le Sac was determined to make life as difficult as possible for me. He speeded up and slowed down outrageously,
drew out melodic phrases to a perfectly ridiculous extent then unexpectedly galloped away at top speed. He cut sections out of the music and repeated others that were not meant to be repeated so
that I constantly appeared to be unsure of my place. In short, he was every accompanist’s nightmare.
But his audience – with the exception of Mr Heron, who sat stony-faced throughout – loved every moment. They gasped at every rapid dash of notes, every dramatic flourish, no matter
how coarse and meaningless. In truth, there was nothing of worth in the entire piece – it being one of Le Sac’s own compositions – and my only consolation was that the harpsichord
part had been copied out by George and was therefore eminently readable. Unlike Le Sac’s part which, I saw over his shoulder, was an illegible scrawl.
He came at last to the end and enjoyed the applause with great flourishing bows in the continental style. I did not share the applause; not only would it not have pleased Le Sac but it would
have underlined my status as a performer and I was still trying to walk that fine line between guest and hired help. But as Le Sac turned to his music case for another solo, Esther Jerdoun stood up
and spoke in a voice that cut through the conversation.
“Monsieur le Sac, I am sorry to inconvenience you but I must reclaim my guest. We have not yet concluded our business.”
Le Sac looked outraged but he was powerless to object. I was tempted, as I bowed to him, to point out that he should have brought his own accompanist. But he was as much a victim of Lady
Anne’s playfulness as I was; I kept silent.
So Mrs Jerdoun and I withdrew to the far end of the library where we conducted our conversation in low voices while Le Sac fiddled away unaccompanied, with renewed energy. As she lifted down a
music book from the shelves, she said, “Forgive me if I seem abrupt. But my cousin’s habit of setting people at each other’s throats annoys me greatly.”
I opened the book – Geminiani’s Opus 8 – to give credence to our conversing. “It sometimes seems –” I hesitated for fear of offending her – “that
Lady Anne enjoys an uproar.”
She shook her head. “It is something more than that, I think. I have been in France and Italy for some years, you know, and when I returned, a twelvemonth ago, I found Anne greatly
changed. Of course, she was a girl of only ten when I saw her last, so perhaps I should not be surprised. Here, sir, is another book of Italian violin pieces. What do you think of Signor
Vivaldi?”
I winced. “You wish the truth?”
She smiled. “Indeed, sir.”
“Defective in harmony and poor in melody.”
“Alas.” She sighed. “I have always found him a pleasant diversion.”
“Did you not say you found music trivial?”
“I do
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