Masters were found in a preparatory school for my home education. Happy
to escape from the schoolroom, I worked as never maiden worked before,
loving my summer desk in the apple tree in the garden, loving my winter
desk beside the blazing wood in my uncle's office, passionately loving
my music, and interested in the other studies assigned me. With no
competitive examinations to stimulate me, I yet made good progress.
Before I reached my thirteenth year, I had learned to read French
easily. I had wept over the tender story of Picciola and the sorrows
of Paul and Virginia. I had sailed with Ulysses and trod the flowery
fields with Calypso. My aunt had beguiled me into a course of history
by allowing me as reward those romances of Walter Scott which are
founded on historical events. My love of music and desire to excel in
it made me patient under the eccentric itinerant music teacher, the one
pioneer apostle of classic music in all Virginia, who was known, more
than once, to arrive at midnight and call me up for my lesson; and who,
while other maidens were playing the "Battle of Prague" and "Bonaparte
crossing the Rhine," or singing the campaign songs of the hero of the
log cabin, taught me to love Beethoven and Liszt, and to discern the
answering voices in that genius, then young, whose magic music fell
not then, nor ever after, upon unheeding ears. I had read with my aunt
selections all the way from "The Faerie Queene" through the times of
later queens,—Elizabeth and Anne,—and had made a beginning with the
queen for whom I had a sentiment, and who has given her name to so fair
an age of fancy and of elegant writing. Alas, for the mental training
I might have had through the study of mathematics! Were it not that
the lack of this training must be apparent to all who are kind enough
to listen to my story, I might quote Joseph Jefferson, as Mr. William
Winter reports him: "Why, look at me! I seem to have managed pretty
well, but I couldn't for the life of me add up a column of figures." The
only figures I know anything about are figures of speech. Fortunately, I
have had little use for addition. My knowledge has been quite sufficient
for my needs.
My French teacher, Mr. Mertons,—a square-shouldered, spectacled German,
with an upright shock of coarse black hair, literally pounded the
French language into me. With a grammar held aloft in his left hand, he
emphasized every rule with his right fist, coming down hard on my aunt's
mahogany. If success is to be measured by results, I can only say that,
although I perceived some charm in Mme. de Sévigné and in Dumas, I was
rather dense with Racine and Molière; and as to the spoken language!
I can usually manage to convey, by gesture and deliberate English,
a twilight glimmer of my meaning in talking to a polite Frenchman,
but blank darkness descends upon him when I speak to him in "a French
not spoken in France." The gift for "divers kinds of tongues" was not
bestowed upon me.
The music teacher deserves more than a passing notice. He was unique.
Mr. William C. Rives found him somewhere in France, and promised
him a large salary if he would come to America, live near or in
Charlottesville, and teach his daughter Amélie. He was the incarnation
of thriftlessness; with no polish of manner, no idea of business,
or order, or of the necessity of paying a debt, but he was also the
incarnation of music! My uncle again and again satisfied the sheriff
and released him from bonds. Finally, he could not appear in town at
all by daylight, and often arrived at midnight for my lesson. Gladly my
aunt would rise and dress to preside over it. My teacher would disappear
before the dawn. He owed money all over town which he had not the
faintest intention of ever paying. More than once his defenceless back
could have borne witness to a creditor's outraged feelings. But he was
resourceful. Thereafter he carried all his music, a thick package, in a
case sewed to the lining of his coat. His back, rather than his breast,
needed a shield. It was amusing to see him pack himself up, as it were,
before venturing into the open.
But with all this, we prized him above rubies. He was a brilliant
pianist, a great genius; had studied with Liszt, early appreciated
Chopin, adored Beethoven. One of his animated lessons would leave me in
a state "which fiddle-strings is weakness to express my nerves," and
yet no summons to duty ever thrilled me with pleasure like his "Koom
on ze biahno." Once there, absolute fidelity to the composer's writing
and the position of my hands exacted all my attention. The margins of
my music were liberally adorned with illustrations of my fist—a clumsy
bunch with an outsticking thumb.
I always felt keenly the charm of music, even when it was beyond my
comprehension. One day, happening to look up from his own playing,
he detected tears in my eyes. He was enraged in three languages.
"Himmel! Zis is not bathétique! Zis is _scherzo_! Eh, bien! I blay him
_adagio_." And under shut teeth a sibilant whisper sounded very much
like "_imbécile_," as he hung his head to one side, arched his brows,
and drawled out the theme in a ridiculous manner. Once I was so carried
away by a delicious passage I was playing that I diminished the _tempo_,
that the linked sweetness might be long drawn out. He literally danced!
He beat time furiously with both hands. "Ach! is it _you_ yourselluf,
know bedder zan ze great maestro," and sweeping me from the piano stool
he rendered the passage properly.
One summer my aunt, in order that I might have lessons, took board in
a country place where he lived. I was pleasing myself one day with a
little German song I had smuggled from town:—
"The church bells are ringing, the village is gay,
And Leila is dressed in her bridal array.
She's wooed, and she's won
By a proud Baron's son,
And Leila, Leila, Leila's a Lady!"
Proceeding gayly with the chorus, and exulting in Leila's ladyship and
good fortune, I was startled by thunderous claps through the house. Mr.
Meerbach was fleeing to his own room, slamming the doors between himself
and my uneducated voice!
Of course he lost his scholars. At last only Amélie Rives, Jane Page,
Eliza Meriwether, and myself remained. We had to make up his salary
among us. "I hope you'll study, dear," said my kind uncle; "I am
now giving eight dollars apiece for your lessons." Jane Page played
magnificently. This rare young genius, a niece of Mrs. William C. Rives,
died young. The rest of us played well, too. My teacher wished to take
me to Richmond to play for Thalberg his own difficult, florid music,
and was terribly chagrined at my aunt's refusal to permit me to go.
The little Episcopal church and rectory were just across the street,
and the rector, Mr. Meade, allowed me free access to the gallery, where
I delighted to practise on the small pipe organ. I was just tall enough
to reach the foot notes. The church was peculiarly interesting from the
fact that Thomas Jefferson, who is supposed to have been a free thinker,
had insisted upon building it and had furnished the plans for it.
Before it was built, services were held in the Court House, which Mr.
Jefferson regularly attended, bringing his seat with him on horseback
from Monticello, "it being," says Bishop Meade, "of some light machinery
which, folded up, was carried under his arm and, unfolded, served for
a seat on the floor of the Court House."
I was thirteen years old when Mr. Meade sent for me one evening to come
to him in his vestry room. He told me that the Episcopal Convention was
to meet in his church in two days, and he had just discovered that Miss
Willy (the organist) had arranged an entire new service of chants and
hymns. He had requested her not to use it, urging that his father the
bishop, the clergy, and all his own people knew and loved the old tunes,
and could not join in the new. Miss Willy had indignantly resented his
interference and threatened to resign, with all her choir, unless he
yielded. "I shall certainly not yield," said the rector. "I have told
her that I know a little girl who will be glad to help me. Now I wish
you to play for the convention, beginning day after to-morrow (Sunday),
and every evening during its session. This will give you evening
services all the week, beginning with three on Sunday. I will see that
familiar hymns are selected, and you need chant none of the Psalms
except the Benedictus and Gloria in Excelsis."
I began, "Oh, I'm afraid—" "No," said Mr. Meade, "you're not afraid;
you are not going to be afraid. Just be in your place fifteen minutes
before the time, and draw the curtain between you and the audience. I
shall send you a good choir."
I practised with a will next day. On the great day, when I passed the
sable giant, Ossian, pulling away at the rope under the belfry, and
heard the solemn bell announcing that my hour had come, my heart sank
within me. But Ossian gave me a glittering smile which showed all his
magnificent ivories. He was grinning because he was going to pump the
organ for such a slip of a lass as I!
On arriving at the organ gallery, I found my choir,—several ladies whom
I knew, and a group of fine-looking students from the University. They
looked down kindly on the small organist, with her hair hanging in two
braids down her back. I resolutely kept that small back to the drawn
curtain! Only the tip of one of Miss Willy's nodding plumes, and I
should have been undone!
All went well. The singing was fine from half a dozen manly throats,
supplementing two or three female voices and my own little pipe. I was
soon lost to my surroundings in the enjoyment of my work. When, on the
last day, the good bishop asked for the grand old hymn, "How firm a
foundation, ye saints of the Lord," it thrilled my soul to hear the
church fill with the triumphant singing of the congregation, led by
little me and my improvised choir.