England, of good family and in line for a peerage. Grandcourt would suit. Klesmer, the music teacher in their paid employ, a foreigner and, worse, a Jew, though perhaps a first-rate musician, was not the right sort.
Klesmer was summoned and told that Catherine would be disinherited were he to marry her. Neither he nor she viewed that as much of a threat. He told them it was not in the power of them or their fortune to confer anything on him he valued. He had earned success as a musician, would change his career for no other, had enough money to support Catherine and sought no alteration to his life but her lifelong companionship.
Mr Arrowpoint threatened him with a duel and ordered him to leave the house. My note arrived in the middle of all this.
Apparently, so as not to disappoint me, he stayed on at Quetcham as a most unwelcome guest for another day. At Offendene I set the scene for his arrival. I coiled my hair and, to look demure, dressed in black with no jewellery. I strewed music sheets on top of the piano and instructed mamma I wished to receive Herr Klesmer alone.
He was shown into the drawing room. I was direct. I told him of our loss and my need to provide for mamma to save her from true hardship. I informed him of my plan to study acting and go on the stage. I asked for his help. I said I accepted my voice alone was not good enough for me to succeed professionally, but if I combined it with acting I could perhaps perform like the dramatic soprano Giulia Grisi for whom both Rossini and Donizetti had written.
*
I am embarrassed to remember this. I was young and I aspired to stardom and to save mamma, who looked to me for sunlight. I was her best-loved daughter. I did not know the meaning of talent, how exceptional it is, how it cannot be plucked from the air. I did not know of the gulf between aspiration and achievement, or of the essential of hard work.
*
Klesmer put his hat and gloves on the piano and folded his arms. He spoke in a deliberate manner. He again told me I was beautiful. I had, he said, been brought up in ease. I knew nothing of the demands of an artist’s life, of inward vocation, subduing mind and body to unbroken discipline and of thinking not of celebrity but of excellence, of the work required to achieve any sort of recognition, the disappointments that needed to be endured, the uncertainty of any chance of praise. He said for a long while I should expect to earn nothing and get no engagement.
All of which was merely a gentle preamble. Was I too old, I asked, to set out on such a path, too wanting in talent? Yes, he replied. My voice would never have counted for much, but had I been trained years previously I might have found some minor outlet as a public singer. Seeing me blanch with pain he then compounded his insults by commending my personal charm.
Only because my plight was desperate did I persist. Might I find engagement at a theatre and study singing at the same time? I asked. No, Klesmer said. It could not be done. ‘Glaring insignificance’ was one of his phrases. I could not pitch my voice; I did not know how to move about a stage. However hard I tried, whatever efforts and sacrifices I made, I would never achieve more than mediocrity. I would have to pay a manager to employ me. My beauty, he said, would surely find me a husband, but such beauty had nothing to do with art, it was a substitute when nothing more commanding was to be found.
I had sought Herr Klesmer’s help. I received an exercise in humiliation. He tossed aside my questioning ambition. I had no money, family connections or friends to help me. I wanted to achieve independence and recognition. I had been encouraged to view my beauty as a gift, a work of art in itself, and my singing voice as its accompaniment. Klesmer made both seem meretricious.
He then told me of his intended marriage to Catherine Arrowpoint and of how exceptional she was. If I still wanted, after hearing these truths about myself, to try
Klesmer was summoned and told that Catherine would be disinherited were he to marry her. Neither he nor she viewed that as much of a threat. He told them it was not in the power of them or their fortune to confer anything on him he valued. He had earned success as a musician, would change his career for no other, had enough money to support Catherine and sought no alteration to his life but her lifelong companionship.
Mr Arrowpoint threatened him with a duel and ordered him to leave the house. My note arrived in the middle of all this.
Apparently, so as not to disappoint me, he stayed on at Quetcham as a most unwelcome guest for another day. At Offendene I set the scene for his arrival. I coiled my hair and, to look demure, dressed in black with no jewellery. I strewed music sheets on top of the piano and instructed mamma I wished to receive Herr Klesmer alone.
He was shown into the drawing room. I was direct. I told him of our loss and my need to provide for mamma to save her from true hardship. I informed him of my plan to study acting and go on the stage. I asked for his help. I said I accepted my voice alone was not good enough for me to succeed professionally, but if I combined it with acting I could perhaps perform like the dramatic soprano Giulia Grisi for whom both Rossini and Donizetti had written.
*
I am embarrassed to remember this. I was young and I aspired to stardom and to save mamma, who looked to me for sunlight. I was her best-loved daughter. I did not know the meaning of talent, how exceptional it is, how it cannot be plucked from the air. I did not know of the gulf between aspiration and achievement, or of the essential of hard work.
*
Klesmer put his hat and gloves on the piano and folded his arms. He spoke in a deliberate manner. He again told me I was beautiful. I had, he said, been brought up in ease. I knew nothing of the demands of an artist’s life, of inward vocation, subduing mind and body to unbroken discipline and of thinking not of celebrity but of excellence, of the work required to achieve any sort of recognition, the disappointments that needed to be endured, the uncertainty of any chance of praise. He said for a long while I should expect to earn nothing and get no engagement.
All of which was merely a gentle preamble. Was I too old, I asked, to set out on such a path, too wanting in talent? Yes, he replied. My voice would never have counted for much, but had I been trained years previously I might have found some minor outlet as a public singer. Seeing me blanch with pain he then compounded his insults by commending my personal charm.
Only because my plight was desperate did I persist. Might I find engagement at a theatre and study singing at the same time? I asked. No, Klesmer said. It could not be done. ‘Glaring insignificance’ was one of his phrases. I could not pitch my voice; I did not know how to move about a stage. However hard I tried, whatever efforts and sacrifices I made, I would never achieve more than mediocrity. I would have to pay a manager to employ me. My beauty, he said, would surely find me a husband, but such beauty had nothing to do with art, it was a substitute when nothing more commanding was to be found.
I had sought Herr Klesmer’s help. I received an exercise in humiliation. He tossed aside my questioning ambition. I had no money, family connections or friends to help me. I wanted to achieve independence and recognition. I had been encouraged to view my beauty as a gift, a work of art in itself, and my singing voice as its accompaniment. Klesmer made both seem meretricious.
He then told me of his intended marriage to Catherine Arrowpoint and of how exceptional she was. If I still wanted, after hearing these truths about myself, to try
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