{"id":7929,"date":"2022-04-08T21:39:06","date_gmt":"2022-04-09T01:39:06","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=7929"},"modified":"2022-04-08T21:39:08","modified_gmt":"2022-04-09T01:39:08","slug":"katherine-mansfield-the-singing-lesson","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/katherine-mansfield-the-singing-lesson\/7929\/","title":{"rendered":"Katherine Mansfield: The Singing Lesson"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

With despair\u2014cold, sharp despair\u2014buried deep in her heart like a wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton, trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried, skipped, fluttered by; from the hollow class-rooms came a quick drumming of voices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, \u201cMuriel.\u201d And then there came from the staircase a tremendous knock-knock-knocking. Some one had dropped her dumbbells.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Science Mistress stopped Miss Meadows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGood mor-ning,\u201d she cried, in her sweet, affected drawl. \u201cIsn\u2019t it cold? It might be win-ter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Meadows, hugging the knife, stared in hatred at the Science Mistress. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You would not have been surprised to see a bee caught in the tangles of that yellow hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt is rather sharp,\u201d said Miss Meadows, grimly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The other smiled her sugary smile.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou look fro-zen,\u201d said she. Her blue eyes opened wide; there came a mocking light in them. (Had she noticed anything?)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, not quite as bad as that,\u201d said Miss Meadows, and she gave the Science Mistress, in exchange for her smile, a quick grimace and passed on….<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Forms Four, Five, and Six were assembled in the music hall. The noise was deafening. On the platform, by the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss Meadows\u2019 favourite, who played accompaniments. She was turning the music stool. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning \u201cSh-sh! girls!\u201d and Miss Meadows, her hands thrust in her sleeves, the baton under her arm, strode down the centre aisle, mounted the steps, turned sharply, seized the brass music stand, planted it in front of her, and gave two sharp taps with her baton for silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSilence, please! Immediately!\u201d and, looking at nobody, her glance swept over that sea of coloured flannel blouses, with bobbing pink faces and hands, quivering butterfly hair-bows, and music-books outspread. She knew perfectly well what they were thinking. \u201cMeady is in a wax.\u201d Well, let them think it! Her eyelids quivered; she tossed her head, defying them. What could the thoughts of those creatures matter to some one who stood there bleeding to death, pierced to the heart, to the heart, by such a letter\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

… \u201cI feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake. Not that I do not love you. I love you as much as it is possible for me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the conclusion that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but\u2014\u201d and the word \u201cdisgust\u201d was scratched out lightly and \u201cregret\u201d written over the top.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who was waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her cheeks while she breathed, \u201cGood morning, Miss Meadows,\u201d and she motioned towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up, instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said, \u201cThank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two,\u201d what was Mary\u2019s horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made no reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, \u201cPage fourteen, please, and mark the accents well.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang through the music hall.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPage fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. \u2018A Lament.\u2019 Now, girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all together; not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, though, quite simply, beating time with the left hand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary on the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air, and in chimed those young, mournful voices:\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure;
Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear.
Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic\u2019s Gay Measure
Passes away from the Listening Ear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note was a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted her arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. \u201c… I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake….\u201d she beat. And the voices cried: Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly.<\/em> What could have possessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it! It came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak bookcase he had bought for \u201cour\u201d books, and a \u201cnatty little hall-stand\u201d he had seen, \u201ca very neat affair with a carved owl on a bracket, holding three hat-brushes in its claws.\u201d How she had smiled at that! So like a man to think one needed three hat-brushes! From the Listening Ear<\/em>, sang the voices.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOnce again,\u201d said Miss Meadows. \u201cBut this time in parts. Still without expression.\u201d Fast! Ah, too Fast.<\/em> With the gloom of the contraltos added, one could scarcely help shuddering. Fade the Roses of Pleasure.<\/em> Last time he had come to see her, Basil had worn a rose in his buttonhole. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit, with that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. He couldn\u2019t help knowing it. First he stroked his hair, then his moustache; his teeth gleamed when he smiled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe headmaster\u2019s wife keeps on asking me to dinner. It\u2019s a perfect nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut can\u2019t you refuse?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, well, it doesn\u2019t do for a man in my position to be unpopular.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Music\u2019s Gay Measure<\/em>, wailed the voices. The willow trees, outside the high, narrow windows, waved in the wind. They had lost half their leaves. The tiny ones that clung wriggled like fishes caught on a line. \u201c… I am not a marrying man….\u201d The voices were silent; the piano waited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cQuite good,\u201d said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony tone that the younger girls began to feel positively frightened. \u201cBut now that we know it, we shall take it with expression. As much expression as you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imaginations. Fast! Ah, too Fast<\/em>,\u201d cried Miss Meadows. \u201cThat ought to break out\u2014a loud, strong forte<\/em>\u2014a lament. And then in the second line, Winter Drear<\/em>, make that Drear<\/em> sound as if a cold wind were blowing through it. Dre-ear!<\/em>\u201d said she so awfully that Mary Beazley, on the music stool, wriggled her spine. \u201cThe third line should be one crescendo. Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Music\u2019s Gay Measure.<\/em> Breaking on the first word of the last line, Passes.<\/em> And then on the word, Away<\/em>, you must begin to die… to fade… until The Listening Ear<\/em> is nothing more than a faint whisper…. You can slow down as much as you like almost on the last line. Now, please.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. Fast! Ah, too Fast.<\/em> \u201c… and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but disgust\u2014\u201d Disgust was what he had written. That was as good as to say their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. The Science Mistress would not believe it at first. But nobody had been as surprised as she. She was thirty. Basil was twenty-five. It had been a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from church that very dark night, \u201cYou know, somehow or other, I\u2019ve got fond of you.\u201d And he had taken hold of the end of her ostrich feather boa. Passes away from the Listening Ear.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRepeat! Repeat!\u201d said Miss Meadows. \u201cMore expression, girls! Once more!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fast! Ah, too Fast.<\/em> The older girls were crimson; some of the younger ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one could hear the willows whispering, \u201c… not that I do not love you….\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut, my darling, if you love me,\u201d thought Miss Meadows, \u201cI don\u2019t mind how much it is. Love me as little as you like.\u201d But she knew he didn\u2019t love her. Not to have cared enough to scratch out that word \u201cdisgust,\u201d so that she couldn\u2019t read it! Soon Autumn yields unto Winter Drear.<\/em> She would have to leave the school, too. She could never face the Science Mistress or the girls after it got known. She would have to disappear somewhere. Passes away.<\/em> The voices began to die, to fade, to whisper… to vanish….<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked fussily up the aisle, hanging her head, biting her lips, and twisting the silver bangle on her red little wrist. She came up the steps and stood before Miss Meadows.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, Monica, what is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, if you please, Miss Meadows,\u201d said the little girl, gasping, \u201cMiss Wyatt wants to see you in the mistress\u2019s room.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVery well,\u201d said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, \u201cI shall put you on your honour to talk quietly while I am away.\u201d But they were too subdued to do anything else. Most of them were blowing their noses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The corridors were silent and cold; they echoed to Miss Meadows\u2019 steps. The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she did not look up. She was as usual disentangling her eyeglasses, which had got caught in her lace tie. \u201cSit down, Miss Meadows,\u201d she said very kindly. And then she picked up a pink envelope from the blotting-pad. \u201cI sent for you just now because this telegram has come for you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Basil! He had committed suicide, decided Miss Meadows. Her hand flew out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. \u201cI hope it\u2019s not bad news,\u201d she said, so more than kindly. And Miss Meadows tore it open.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought hat-stand to-day\u2014Basil,\u201d she read. She couldn\u2019t take her eyes off the telegram.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI do hope it\u2019s nothing very serious,\u201d said Miss Wyatt, leaning forward.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, no, thank you, Miss Wyatt,\u201d blushed Miss Meadows. \u201cIt\u2019s nothing bad at all. It\u2019s\u201d\u2014and she gave an apologetic little laugh\u2014\u201cit\u2019s from my fianc\u00e9<\/em> saying that… saying that\u2014\u201d There was a pause. \u201cI see<\/em>,\u201d said Miss Wyatt. And another pause. Then\u2014\u201cYou\u2019ve fifteen minutes more of your class, Miss Meadows, haven\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, Miss Wyatt.\u201d She got up. She half ran towards the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh, just one minute, Miss Meadows,\u201d said Miss Wyatt. \u201cI must say I don\u2019t approve of my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school hours, unless in case of very bad news, such as death,\u201d explained Miss Wyatt, \u201cor a very serious accident, or something to that effect. Good news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the wings of hope, of love, of joy, Miss Meadows sped back to the music hall, up the aisle, up the steps, over to the piano.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPage thirty-two, Mary,\u201d she said, \u201cpage thirty-two,\u201d and, picking up the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile. Then she turned to the girls, rapped with her baton: \u201cPage thirty-two, girls. Page thirty-two.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We come here To-day with Flowers o\u2019erladen,
With Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot,
To-oo Congratulate . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStop! Stop!\u201d cried Miss Meadows. \u201cThis is awful. This is dreadful.\u201d And she beamed at her girls. \u201cWhat\u2019s the matter with you all? Think, girls, think of what you\u2019re singing. Use your imaginations. With Flowers o\u2019erladen. Baskets of Fruit and Ribbons to boot.<\/em> And Congratulate.<\/em>\u201d Miss Meadows broke off. \u201cDon\u2019t look so doleful, girls. It ought to sound warm, joyful, eager. Congratulate.<\/em> Once more. Quickly. All together. Now then!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And this time Miss Meadows\u2019 voice sounded over all the other voices\u2014full, deep, glowing with expression.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Bibliographic data<\/h4>\n\n\n\n

Author: Katherine Mansfield
Title: The Singing Lesson
Published in: The Garden Party and Other Stories<\/em> (1922)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

[Full text]<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"Katherine<\/figure><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

With despair\u2014cold, sharp despair\u2014buried deep in her heart like a wicked knife, Miss Meadows, in cap and gown and carrying a little baton, trod the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, rosy from the air, and bubbling over with that gleeful excitement that comes from running to school on … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":7437,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[587,588,582],"class_list":["post-7929","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-katherine-mansfield-en","tag-new-zealand","tag-romance-en","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":587,"label":"Katherine Mansfield"},{"value":588,"label":"New Zealand"},{"value":582,"label":"Romance"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2021\/11\/Katherine-Mansfield-800x457-1.jpg",800,457,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":587,"name":"Katherine Mansfield","slug":"katherine-mansfield-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":587,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":5,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":588,"name":"New Zealand","slug":"new-zealand","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":588,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":5,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":582,"name":"Romance","slug":"romance-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":582,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":15,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7929","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7929"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7929\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/7437"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7929"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7929"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7929"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}