MY LADY MELODY.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 63, Issue 172, 3 May 1943, Page 6

MY LADY MELODY.

CHAPTER XVI,

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= Sweet Music. || S A Romantic Story, Moving to 3

| (Copyright). |

| By ARTHUR HARDY. | lllllllllllililllllllllllllllllllllilllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllf

SHEILA’S FIRST LESSON.

The music room was spacious; parquet flooring with some expensive rugs laid upon it. A finei grand piano. A music stand. Some book-shelves. Stacks o£ music set about the walls. Standing against one wall a fine Sheraton bookcase with cupboard below. The shelves for the books had been removed and behind the glass could be seen hanging flve very fine old violins, which instantly attracted Sheila’s attention. Mario Casini’s face lit up when he saw the gleam in her eyes. “They are all mine,” he told her. “I used to play on all in turn.” He produced a bunch of keys and unlocked the glazed doors, taking out one of the violins, which he handled with care and gave to her. “Four of them are from Cremona,'’ he went on. “And this one was my favourite as well as the oldest of the five. It is a genuine Amati. Notice how the corners hang down. Its tone is sweeter and louder than any other Amati I have ever heard. The one on the left in there is a Stradivarxus, but the head is French. The varnish is poor stuff for a Strad, but it has a fine powerful tone. Above it hangs a Steiner tenor, which, too, I liked. On the right atythe top there is a Grancino, but the scrolls are ugly, though the belly and holes are very good. It is a fine viblin. The last one is a Joseph Guarnerius, which I bought in Paris for £4OO. It has a fine deep full tone and plenty of power, though still I prefer the wonderful and unique Amati’.’ »

His face was alight with enthusiasm

“It took me a lifetime to collect these,” he said. “But the finest Guarnerius I have ever seen or heard is to be found in the violin shop of Wills, in Pond Street, Signorina. Its tone is finer than any of the violins I have here, and what a shape, what finely cut holes, what varnish. They ask £SOO for it, but alas, in these days,

when I have to live upon my poor savings and earn nothing, I cannot buy it. If I could, Signorina, I might purchase it and give it to you”—words which Sheila was to remember. He turned over the Amati to show the rich thick unworn varnish, bade her notice the light and graceful head, and the perfect curved ribbon of the scroll.

“You shall play on it,” he said, as he replaced it reverently in the bookcase and locked the doqr, “but not now, for it would take too long to test, and tune it properly, since it has not been used for a long time. And your violin from Birmingham is a splendid instrument.”

He became serious and opening her portfolio selected .a piece for her to play. He lifted her violin from its case and tightned the bow. He tuned the instrument, managing to move his crippled fingers readily enough. He gave the bow and violin to Sheila and seating himself upon the piano stool, talked to her enthusiastically about the violin and those who played it, dwelling at length upon the faults and failings of the majority of teachers, the sterotyped grove into which most players fell to remain there for ever, more often than not, and the manner in which he had lifted himself out of the rut.

“And you,” he said warmly, “you could think ahead of your teachers, you absorbed all they could impart in the way of knowledge. You soon learned to play better than they could, and then —you reached a wall your could not surmount —is it not so?” With shining eyes Sheila confessed modestly that it was so. Mario Casini turned on the stool and rested his knotted hands upon the keys of the piano. “Now, let me hear you play again ‘The Dance of the Goblins,’ as you played it the other night,” he said. Without music and with perfection of touch, althought he moved his hands quite stiffly, he began to strike music from the instrument. Sheila had, set the music stand slightly towards him and pressed open the music sheets. As she played the violin she was able to watch him. He filled her with amazement. Like many other distinguished musicians, he was not only master of one instrument, but of several. She guessed that ordinarily he would have faltered? been unable to play fluently. He knew the accompaniment to the piece by heart and progressed onward so brilliantly as to set her bow moving almost, mechanically. Already he had put something into Hie piece she knew so well, that she had not suspected was there, although she had imagined she had got. out .T it, everything it had. Sometimes he set his shaggy head aside, the eyelids half-lowered, the mouth twisted, the ears strained in listening. *

“Very good,” he said here and there, “Very good.” At the end he turned towards her, his arms folded.

“Now, that was not so bad. But if I could play the violin as I used to be able to. I could show you something more about it.”

He swung himself off the piano stool and reached for her violin and bow. With face twisted rather painfully, he flexed the Angers and thumbs of both bands, turned the screws of the instrument the veriest trifle, then set it to his chin.

The knotted Angers refused to move. Several times he seemed about to move the,bow across the strings, and as often he faltered and delayed. He hummed the tune through shut lips and tapped a foot impatiently on the

rug beneath him. His face hardened and his lips tightened. Fascinated, Sheila watched him, conscious of the battle between the mind and the poor crippled flesh.

Suddenly his face relaxed and his eyes brightened. “Ah, now,” he said, and lie. began to play. There was no faltering now, no sign of weakness. The fingers moved as fluently as if the hands were young again. He walked before her, dropping his shoulders and turning this way or that as he emphasised a note. “Like this,’ he said elatedly. “This is the way you should play those passages, Signorina —like this —and this —and this —so —”

He went on, drawing more tone from the violin than Sheila had ever dreamt was there. She was startled and at the same time deeply moved. He illuminated the Dance with a touch of genius and when he had finished breathlessly and with beads of moisture on his forehead, he gave her back the violin.

“Now try it again, like that,” he said.

She played as he had played. Sheila found herself inspired. Sitting on the piano stool again he clapped his hands together vigorously w r hen she had done.

“Grand! You have got it,” he cried out loudly. “You are quick. Brava! Brava! We shall make you into a grand player, Sheila.” And then his face lengthened, and he seemed to shrink, looking gloomily at his hands.

“I loosened them for a moment, but they are as* bad as ever again,” he mur-' minted. “Bah! My worthless hands are dead.”

They were all knotted and cramped once more and the pallor of his face told eloquently how great the strain had been.

Sheila did not go to Casini on the Tuesday, but she was with him again on Wednesday morning, playing for two hours in his music room and receiving instruction from him. She had taken home with her a. mass of music which he had recommended, including several of his own compositions for the violin, which were as difficult as anything of Paganinis that she had stored.

In her studio at home she played them through again and again, and then she played them before him. He did not interfere unduly, but added breadth to her rendering here and there. His influence upon Sheila’s playing was.almost magical. He had only to hint and she would act as quickly and as truly as an echo. He made her play Bach’s Chaconne, explaining its intricacies to her. She had played it on occasion, but never very seriously. Under his tuition the moment she placed the music on the stand and raised her bow arm she knew that she had it completely mastered. He stood some paces away, nodding his head, tapping his foot, beating time. She played as in a kind of dream. Not only did she play the music, but she listened to it and at the same time she kept her eyes fixed upon Mario Casini, the genius who inspired her, shaking out the notes with aston-. ishing ease and fluency. When she had finished she held her breath, still staring at Mario, for she knew that she had never played the Chaconne like that before. He seemed to know what she was thinking. (To be continued.)

The characters in this story are entirely imaginary. No reference is intended to any living person or to any public or private company.