simply unable to grasp the concept. “You say that the little blob on the parchment is C. How could it be? This”—and she struck a key—“is C.”
Catherine sighed mentally and started over. “The notes on the paper represent the notes that you play,” she explained with praiseworthy patience. “When you see that note on the paper, you know that you are supposed to play C.”
Jennifer’s brow was still furrowed, so Catherine added, “It’s somewhat like reading out loud. The letter A stands for a specific sound, or a limited number of sounds. The letter A has no innate meaning—it’s a symbol that represents a sound. These notes are like letters. They represent the sounds you make when you strike the keys.”
Jennifer nodded slowly. “I think I see,” she said, then added, “but why bother to write it down at all?”
“So you can remember it, of course.”
“How could you forget it?”
Irritably, Catherine started to snap at the girl for asking foolish questions, but she caught herself. It was evident from the guileless expression on Jennifer’s face that she had meant the question quite seriously. Perhaps, having once heard a piece of music, she was incapable of forgetting it.
Intrigued by the notion, Catherine began to test her hypothesis. “Play this,” she said, playing a simple melody.
Jennifer listened carefully, her head tilted to one side, her eyes half-shut in pleasure. “That is beautiful,” she breathed when Catherine finished. “Did you compose it?”
“Hardly,” Catherine said, in awe of Jennifer’s reaction. She had never seen Jennifer show so much delight in anything. For that matter, she had rarely seen Jennifer show any emotion at all. Clearly the girl had a genuine love for music. “I am not a composer. It was written by a man named Corelli.”
Jennifer played the tune haltingly, then played it a second time with perfect accuracy, obviously entranced by the melody. “How lovely,” she whispered. “I wish I could write something like that.”
“Perhaps you can,” Catherine said, “when you know more about music. But I have never heard of a woman composer.”
Jennifer looked at her in surprise. “Never?”
“Never that I’ve heard of. It is considered a ladylike accomplishment to play the harpsichord, but not to write music.” She remembered Jennifer’s enthusiastic description of the tunes she heard in her mind, her longing to create new tunes. “However,” she added kindly, “perhaps you will be an exception to that rule.”
“Perhaps. After all, I am not a lady.”
Catherine looked at her and smiled. “Not yet.”
And perhaps not ever
, Jennifer thought. But, not wanting to distress Catherine, she did not say it aloud.
A few hours later, Jennifer walked slowly along the winding dirt path that sliced through the woods on theGreyson property. At the Pine Tree Ordinary, she had scurried along on whatever errand she had as rapidly as possible, so as to avoid her uncle’s wrath. At times she still found herself almost running from sheer habit. But today she walked slowly, head held high, partly because Catherine had taught her that ladies never looked as though they were in a hurry, and partly because her voluminous skirts tended to prevent running anyway. Her rose overskirt and ivory petticoat were draped over whalebone-and-canvas panniers, and the front of the skirt was flattened by a system of cords. If she forgot herself and tried to walk too hastily in such a gown, she would tumble to the ground in a graceless heap.
She had left the house because Catherine had tired of the lessons. Jennifer would have happily plunked at the keys of the harpsichord all day, but at last Catherine had driven her from the parlor, and Jennifer had decided to come for a walk. Due to the unseasonably warm May weather, it was cooler in the shade of the tall pines and oaks that graced the forest than it was inside the great brick house.
For months Catherine had tried in
Catherine sighed mentally and started over. “The notes on the paper represent the notes that you play,” she explained with praiseworthy patience. “When you see that note on the paper, you know that you are supposed to play C.”
Jennifer’s brow was still furrowed, so Catherine added, “It’s somewhat like reading out loud. The letter A stands for a specific sound, or a limited number of sounds. The letter A has no innate meaning—it’s a symbol that represents a sound. These notes are like letters. They represent the sounds you make when you strike the keys.”
Jennifer nodded slowly. “I think I see,” she said, then added, “but why bother to write it down at all?”
“So you can remember it, of course.”
“How could you forget it?”
Irritably, Catherine started to snap at the girl for asking foolish questions, but she caught herself. It was evident from the guileless expression on Jennifer’s face that she had meant the question quite seriously. Perhaps, having once heard a piece of music, she was incapable of forgetting it.
Intrigued by the notion, Catherine began to test her hypothesis. “Play this,” she said, playing a simple melody.
Jennifer listened carefully, her head tilted to one side, her eyes half-shut in pleasure. “That is beautiful,” she breathed when Catherine finished. “Did you compose it?”
“Hardly,” Catherine said, in awe of Jennifer’s reaction. She had never seen Jennifer show so much delight in anything. For that matter, she had rarely seen Jennifer show any emotion at all. Clearly the girl had a genuine love for music. “I am not a composer. It was written by a man named Corelli.”
Jennifer played the tune haltingly, then played it a second time with perfect accuracy, obviously entranced by the melody. “How lovely,” she whispered. “I wish I could write something like that.”
“Perhaps you can,” Catherine said, “when you know more about music. But I have never heard of a woman composer.”
Jennifer looked at her in surprise. “Never?”
“Never that I’ve heard of. It is considered a ladylike accomplishment to play the harpsichord, but not to write music.” She remembered Jennifer’s enthusiastic description of the tunes she heard in her mind, her longing to create new tunes. “However,” she added kindly, “perhaps you will be an exception to that rule.”
“Perhaps. After all, I am not a lady.”
Catherine looked at her and smiled. “Not yet.”
And perhaps not ever
, Jennifer thought. But, not wanting to distress Catherine, she did not say it aloud.
A few hours later, Jennifer walked slowly along the winding dirt path that sliced through the woods on theGreyson property. At the Pine Tree Ordinary, she had scurried along on whatever errand she had as rapidly as possible, so as to avoid her uncle’s wrath. At times she still found herself almost running from sheer habit. But today she walked slowly, head held high, partly because Catherine had taught her that ladies never looked as though they were in a hurry, and partly because her voluminous skirts tended to prevent running anyway. Her rose overskirt and ivory petticoat were draped over whalebone-and-canvas panniers, and the front of the skirt was flattened by a system of cords. If she forgot herself and tried to walk too hastily in such a gown, she would tumble to the ground in a graceless heap.
She had left the house because Catherine had tired of the lessons. Jennifer would have happily plunked at the keys of the harpsichord all day, but at last Catherine had driven her from the parlor, and Jennifer had decided to come for a walk. Due to the unseasonably warm May weather, it was cooler in the shade of the tall pines and oaks that graced the forest than it was inside the great brick house.
For months Catherine had tried in
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