The next morning saw me awake in a sullen disposition and reluctant to descend the stairs and face the distractions beneath. This was partly because of the lingering effects of three pints of alcohol, but mostly from concentration of purpose. My single-minded focus on any endeavour has always resulted in a mood intolerant to distracting stimuli, even in my youth, and this trait was only to intensify in the following years--as you are well aware. The problem of the Smith pond may have benefited from this attention, but the good graces of my hosts suffered from a touch of neglect.

Silently, I suffered through a light lunch, and could think of nothing but an afternoon’s seclusion with the violin in preparation for the upcoming weekend. In passing the sun-room on my way to ask the lady’s leave, however, the shining tea service arranged on the glossy tea table jolted the memory:

Jane had been invited for tea.

I leaned heavily against the doorway, squinting at the gleaming silver teapot, which threw a blinding, accusatory sunbeam into my face. I acquiesced, turned and headed for the library to soften my mood with a bit of mindless fiction until tea-time.

–––––

The consecutive placement of over-sized, uncovered windows in the back parlour nicely dissolved the barrier between our tête-à-tête and the shining, gently dancing garden outside, with only the roof to shield the two women and myself from the harshness of the wind and sun, and hold in the odours of sweetened tea and freshly polished wood. Quite to my surprise, the niceties of the ladies’ conversation on the genius of the French masters, and the pleasing effect of Jane’s green and ivory-yellow costume, slowly wove a transitory spell over me until, incredibly, I had effectively forgotten both the violin and the Smith affair. I most enjoyed seeing Jane’s tiny smile blossom into a joyful curl as she enthused over the grace of a Watteau painting and expressed her admiration for the elegance of a Constable canvas.

With the clearing of the tea, however, the fog was sufficiently lifted from my mind to feel the twitching of my bowing hand. As Lisette took away the tray an awkward emptiness remained in its place, which produced expectant, questioning glances from the two ladies, their fingers now fidgeting from lack of occupation and their lips suffering from a drying of conversation.

My mind, as usual, had no trouble filling the silence. Notes swirled through my head like a ring of dancers around a room: three B’s falling down to a G, rising up then sweeping down, pulling higher, then circling around again. I observed the piano as it stood under an arch of light, its lid raised, the strings hovering silently, the violin case resting near the front stand like a question mark. In a burst of self-indulgence I offered a blithe suggestion:

"Perhaps we could put on our own music recital, with selections performed by each person in turn."

The two women exchanged looks of surprise. Madame, of course, rose eagerly, quickly selected a music-book and assaulted the piano with gusto, spinning out a Schubert song, whilst Jane sat frozen and pale in her chair, unsure whether to enjoy the tune or succumb to the terror which flickered in her eyes. I puzzled over her obvious discomfort, wondering why she would worry herself over another refusal to perform; this recital was purely for selfish reasons, and I had not intended to apply pressure to any other.

When the song reached its end I offered requisite praise to Madame and shifted to stand, when I was startled by the rustling of Jane’s skirts as she left her chair. She glided across to the piano and settled on the bench almost before Madame had vacated it.

Madame came to sit beside me with wide eyes and brows raised; I could only shrug my shoulders in surprise and bemusement.

Jane sat at the keyboard, her head lowered, her hands folded in her lap. I settled into my chair and, for the moment, reined in my performing focus. Leaning back with narrowed eyes, flexing my fingers, I hoped that her contribution would be brief and painless so as not to weaken my concentration.

When it did not begin, I looked up. Jane was still. Madame was twitching with uneasiness.

"Perhaps, my dear, you would like to look through the music? I have many etude books, or if you would like--"

The tiny murmur of a voice was like an echo from across a valley.

"I...I have a difficulty with my hand, you know, and it is very hard for me to play, because of..." Her hands wrung together, and her head sunk lower.

"It’s not just the pain, you see, but...the...the restriction, the lack of motion, that is so difficult. So I decided, then, not to fight it anymore, not to worry about what I could not play, but to discover what I could play."

I could see her hands twist slowly, and watched her gently pull the gloves from her fingers. Then she raised her arms up, still gazing downward, and began to roll her fingertips gently over the keys.

The recognition was instantaneous, of course, for it was the first movement of Beethoven’s Sonata quasi una fantasia in C-sharp minor, the "Moonlight" sonata; the piece was one of the first I had learned to play, as indeed had most who have ever insulted a piano keyboard. I sighed with some relief, and settled back to digest my tea and let my mind wander over Mendelssohn. But the vibrating strings would not give me leave; each broken chord, each hesitant note sounded with an gentle intention that defied me to ignore it. Something in the rolling arpeggios was different; something about these harmonies which I had heard so many times, some indefinable, exceptional quality haunted my ears. These tender notes were so considered, yet flowing so naturally, so inevitably, that they felt deeply insistent--as though behind each touch of a key was a reason, and behind the reason was a thought, and behind the thought was a feeling. And when the low, last notes of the movement died away, the silence was different than before.

My ringing applause could not have been more spontaneous and enthused. Jane rose and turned to face a gentle nod from me and a beaming smile from Madame; she did not allow a smile herself, but glowed with an ethereal relief and satisfaction. I stood as she approached, searching for an appropriate remark; any of the words I considered seemed inadequate.

"I really must thank you--"

"No, no, please don’t, it was nothing, really--"

"Nonsense; it was profoundly beautiful. Thank you for allowing me to hear the music. I have heard it many times, but I will never hear it quite the same again."

Her lips did not curl, but her eyes glistened. She sat and lowered her head to attend to the fitting of her gloves.

Now it was my turn, with Madame taking her seat at the piano and Jane in the role of the audience. I placed my feet in a square of light on the parquet floor with the instrument under my chin, just as I had in my oldest, fondest memories of this glorious room. I took a moment to tune carefully, narrowing my focus to the end of the fingerboard, taking a breath with the raising of the bow to the string and the sound of the churning piano keys, and facing the terrible, wonderful moment! With the first notes the strings purr perfectly against the bow-hair, the tones ring in the air with an intense singing voice; my muscles flow smoothly and my trembling stomach fades, even as I shift skilfully to recover the shaky pulse from the lady’s merely adequate reading, and breathe deeply to cool the rising heat from my chest, which builds and steams over the course of the next twenty minutes, as if from a long journey. The shimmering notes finally swirl to their apex in a flurry of bowing, and an overwhelming satisfaction fills my ears even before the final chords are pounded out and the soaring, highest E rings to the ceiling.

I released the last note with a flourish, and stood, exhaling deliberately, my eyes turned to the figure in the chair, searching her face for the colour of joy.

Jane’s smile was kind, and proud, and she raised her neatly folded hands to applaud; her ivory gloves produced a muffled, hollow sound. As I stepped toward her, I could not discern a noticeable change in the paleness of her cheeks.

"Oh yes, it was lovely," she announced, easing the rate of her clapping to a gentle stop. The last clap resounded in an empty, awkward silence.

I brought the violin down and let it swing gently from my left hand, as I looked over to the lady with a raised eyebrow.

"Of course, my dear, it was quite remarkable," Madame enthused, twisting on the stool in an attempt to get a good look at Jane, and smiling warmly. "You have been practising a great deal, haven’t you? Now I know what you’ve been up to these many afternoons."

The strange emptiness in the air thickened with each passing moment. Their vapid remarks were not the direct cause of my discomfort; I was concerned by the words left unsaid.

"Was it--" I cleared my throat with a attempt at humility--"was it not as good as my tutor’s performance?"

A cascade of negations followed, dusted with a flurry of compliments from both women; I recall the words "impressive", "magnificent", and "admirable", but these words contained neither a quivering of emotion nor radiance of expression.

I leaned forward, and spoke directly to Jane. "Perhaps, then, because you have already heard it once, it is not so--provocative, now?"

Her mouth hung slightly open as she carefully considered my question, a touch of blush coming to her cheeks.

"I...I don’t think so. But I really cannot say." She lowered her head and inspected a possible tiny hole in a glove finger.

I swung the violin up and cast a penetrating gaze at the bridge of my instrument as though inspecting the flecks of rosin deposited there, but focusing my thoughts inward. The penultimate, piercing E resounded in my inner ear as I searched to define its quality and the quality of all tones proceeding it. The intonation was certainly beyond criticism. The tempi were varied and stimulating, and the rhythms very steady. Dynamics were wide-ranging; articulations were precise.* Standing in that sanctuary of a room, bathed in sunlight and towering over their heads as both a physical figure and an intellectual presence, it was not difficult for me to dismiss their wan reaction as naivete. But, as I would come to understand, many years into the future, my brilliant performance of the Mendelssohn-Bartholdy Concerto for Violin in E minor was not quite the great achievement that my foolish heart believed it to be. As a technical exercise it caused me no difficulty; as a cohesive, moving, deeply musical experience, it had slipped through my fingers. The naivete was my own.

My index finger brushed at the rosin dust; the powder clung stubbornly to my skin. I felt at a loss for words, a feeling which was not familiar to me and did not suit me well. At long last, I lifted my head and spoke with a voice which seemed to come from lips other than my own.

"It is a lovely day out, and a pity to spend it all inside. Perhaps it would be a good opportunity for Miss Elton and myself to take a stroll in the garden, so that she may observe your handiwork."

This proposal was almost commensurate with cruelty, for it nearly caused Madame to boil over with joyful excitement, and I found myself fighting to suppress a scowl at her glowing face and shining eyes as I escorted Jane to the door.

The air was fresh and the sky was frosted with milk-white clouds, allowing a haze of brilliant sunlight to fill the garden and radiate around the face of sedate Jane, who displayed a tinge of warm colour and the hint of a smile.

"Madame is very talented," she murmured, as we moved slowly past the burgeoning botanical displays, and I had to keep a close distance to catch each of her gentle words. "I can’t imagine being able to produce beauty like this, not only in the garden, but also on the easel." She stopped, looking down absently. "Do you paint, as well?"

"Oh, no. I have only a propensity for mixing chemicals, not pigments."

I also stared down into the flower bed, observing the symmetry of the leaves and the evidence of satiated, departed insects. "It would be quite fascinating to discover a chemical solution which would discourage plant-eating creatures, and yet do no harm to the plant itself. This bush is a little the worse for parasites."

Jane held her right arm in her left hand, still looking downward. "When I have painted flowers, I ignored the damage of ruinous insects, and coloured them as unblemished and perfect. The way that God created them. Paintings should show things as they should be, not just as they are."

I took a slow, deep breath, pretending to revel in the piquant fragrance, while attempting to shake the uncomfortable, creeping feeling that had come over me.

"And do you have any plans for your artistic talent?"

"Plans?"

"You do plan to continue painting, do you not?"

Her head gave the slightest shake, and my voice rose.

"Now, don’t even think of raising a protest--you have no excuse, right hand be damned. Say you will continue to paint. Say it!"

A genuine smile threatened to crack her face. "I will continue to paint."

"Now, then, that’s better. I know you have suffered a serious injury, but you are on the right track; you have admitted your pain so that you can better assess it, and so you can determine how to work around it. Perhaps you could learn to paint left-handed. Perhaps you could hold the brush in your mouth--"

She clapped a hand over her lips to stifle a burst of laughter. "Oh, stop!"

"I know that you have an inextinguishable artist’s passion, even if you do keep it well-hidden beneath that muted exterior."

Her freckles were washed with pink. "And you as well?" she queried.

"What do you mean?"

"Your life seems to be guided by passion. Passion for music, and for ideas--for understanding things that other people don’t understand."

"Ah-ha. Like yourself, for instance." I peered at her, mockingly. "You are quite mysterious in your own way."

Jane ignored my gaze, her eyes fixed on the flower beds. "It is so astounding that you, or anyone, can play an entire violin concerto from memory. All of those notes; it’s quite beyond me. How do you do it?"

Her remark struck me as rather an off-handed compliment, but a sincere one.

"Basically, it is a matter of analysing the form of a piece; starting with phrases, linking them together, absorbing the harmonic structure--but I would bore you to tears with all the details. Besides, you played the Beethoven sonata from memory yourself."

"Oh, I don’t think of it as memorising notes, really, so much as remembering the sound and the feeling of it. After I understand what it’s supposed to sound like, my fingers just know what to do. And it is a slow and simple piece, not with thousands of notes flying by. You have a remarkable, special talent, and I’m sure you will be a great violinist, or scientist, or whichever you decide."

"My feeling is that it is the choice, not the profession, which will be most difficult."

"You’ll make the right choice. You will be successful at whatever you choose to do, because you will dedicate yourself wholeheartedly to it." Her eyes turned toward me briefly, but then angled down and fixated on my shirt-cuff. "I wish I had that kind of perseverance."

"What nonsense. You possess everything you need. It is merely a matter of execution! Find your resource, take control of your faculties, and use them as you see fit."

The faint smile disappeared. "We are not all made of the same fabric, maestro. Mine is more delicate than yours, and it has been torn too many times."

I could not prevent a smile of my own. "Oh, mademoiselle," I implored, half seriously, "please accept my apology. Don’t let the sun set before its time and darken your lovely face. Besides, most great artists suffer from moods. It seems to be a requirement for a painter to possess as many despairing emotions as paints and brushes."

"I may have all of those, but I certainly will never be a great artist--"

"Why shouldn’t you be?"

She gave a little toss of her head and something like a laugh danced in her throat. "Come now, be serious, and don’t tease."

My tone became low and soothing. "I could not be more in earnest. What one wishes and works for, one becomes. Do you really desire it?"

Her lips were parted, but no sound emerged.

"Do you?" I urged, with an fervour that surprised me.

Jane’s mouth softened, and her eyes met mine. For a moment, I could clearly see lines of gold darting through the pools of green iris; her openness and vulnerability were nearly tangible. I was completely unprepared for the intimacy radiating in the small space between us, and I instinctively took a step backward. Then her freckled lids dropped, like a curtain falling.

"Do you want to know what I really wish for?" she whispered.

I nodded a reply even though her eyes were downcast; it seemed that she could simply sense my affirmation.

Her eyes lifted upward to the sky with a squint against the glare, and a wistful look darted across her face. "I would be quite happy to put away my easel, cover my walls with beautiful pictures by the great masters, and spend my days gazing at them, admiring their genius."

I stared in disbelief at her peaceful, far-away expression; I felt I was witness to a needy, hungry child asking for a Christmas present of tinsel.

"And that will fill your days with contentment?"

She failed to notice my incredulity. "Of course, I will have my husband and children to occupy my attention, and the home itself. My greatest wish is to fill a home with art and music, and encircle it with gardens and paddocks, so that anyone may enter and surround themselves with beauty." Her eyes searched the rows of flowers. "If my husband will provide a suitable income and good disposition, I will be happy to create a haven for him."

"And will you ever leave this palace?"

Her wandering eyes froze. "Are you mocking me?"

I held my tongue for a moment and considered my words, shuffling a foot in discomfort. The thickening atmosphere seemed to pull my boots backward.

"You are bringing to mind the wife of Dr. Smith," I offered. "She rarely sees anyone, and never leaves her palatial estate. But money and décor do not automatically produce an idyllic home, and I suspect that no haven exists in that house."

Her mouth formed a slight frown.

"The Smith’s? Do you know them?"

My toes clenched, but my shoes stayed in place. "I have not met them, no. But I have an interest in the problem they are facing with their dangerous pond and its attraction to boys."

She stood, unmoving, and then spoke in a hushed, embarrassed voice. "It’s curious that you should mention Mrs. Smith. I have a feeling about that house that I can’t describe. I believe there is something dreadfully wrong there."

In spite of myself, I released a sigh at the welcome change of subject.

"Even in the absence of facts, this is a reasonable assumption. Indicators point to an unusual predicament. But I can’t put my finger on the essence of the problem."

I could see, almost as if in a mirror, my face hardening and eyes narrowing; I pictured the distant house surrounded by ragged trees, and the deadly pond shadowed by a peering tree-house. After a brief silence, I realised that Jane was staring at my puzzled face as I gazed into the distance, lost in thought.

"Are you still thinking about Mrs. Smith?" she asked, amazed by my sudden reverie.

I shook my head. "I’m going over each fact, one at a time. They must all fall into a logical pattern, and this has to lead to an answer."

"What facts?"

"Five boys in eight years have drowned in Smith’s pond," I intoned, my voice steady and hard. "They swim there because of pennies placed on the bottom to entice them. They gain entry only because someone is signalling to the boys, using a tree-house and window curtains to show when the dogs are penned up. Who is this person or persons, and why does he or she want the boys to swim in the pond?"

"Perhaps someone is signalling for help."

I glared at her, annoyed by the interruption in my train of thought. She was gazing earnestly at the horizon.

"Help?"

"Perhaps Mrs. Smith is trapped, held prisoner on the estate, and she is desperately trying to attract someone who can help her."

I considered this possibility for a moment. "If she is trapped, how could she pen the dogs, obtain a ladder, climb into the tree-house and draw the curtains?"

"Someone could do it for her. Perhaps she is unfaithful to her husband, and her lover is assisting her without her husband’s knowledge."

My eyebrows furrowed to their deepest point. "Are you being quite serious? And how would raggedy boys solve this romantic entanglement?"

Jane's eyelids dropped. "You’re mocking me again."

"You haven’t made a single observation, and you are conjuring fantastic schemes about the infidelities of Smith’s wife!"

Her voice shrank to a murmur. "Why are you acting this way?"

I passed a hand over my forehead, attempting to smooth the wrinkles away. "I should be able to put the facts together, and the answer is eluding me. I can’t even devise a theoretical explanation--"

"How do you know about pennies in the pond, and a tree-house, and signalling?"

"I have been to the pond; I’ve seen it with my own eyes."

"You went there? You went...in the pond, and..."

"Well, of course. How else would I know? When I found the rock inside the fence--"

"You were trespassing?"

I folded my arms, with a slow burning anger building inside my chest. Jane gazed at me in bewilderment.

"Does anyone know?" She started rubbing her hands tightly, as if in pain. "Does Madame know you were--"

"Why should she know? She wouldn’t be of the slightest help. In fact, the mere existence of that couple is a detriment to almost any pursuit, and they are the very example of the truism, ‘What they do not know will not hurt them.’"

She considered this statement until its appalling ramifications became clear to her, and revulsion consumed her once pretty face.

"And--" her voice was shaking--"are there other things that they don’t know?"

I wondered, for an all-too-brief moment, if there was any possibility of altering the disturbing course of this conversation, and then shrugged.

"Certainly," I stated, with conviction. "I am not one to allow anyone’s misguided personal perspectives to stand in the way of pursuing knowledge, and I never will."

"But how could you?" Her face contorted in horror. "Why would you do something like that?"

"I believe that you are over-reacting. How is this a crime? Aside from the trespassing, of course--a minor infraction."

She struggled to bring the words to her lips, as if they were of unspeakable evil.

"You have lied to them," she whispered.

"It is not a lie. It is an omission of unnecessary detail."

"They are your family! They deserve your truthfulness. Why would you do something behind their backs?"

"And you have no secrets from yours?"

She drew in a sharp, distressed breath, and her eyes welled with tears. "I was punished enough for my jumping! I wouldn’t dare hide anything again."

I spoke in an even, low tone. "There are some things that parents don’t need to know, Jane. In fact, there are many things which one should keep to one’s self. This avoids a great deal of misunderstanding and pain."

She drew her lips in tightly. "So you endorse the use of deceit when it suits your purpose."

I swallowed and took a deep breath, letting it out in a hissing half-whisper:

"If it were not for solitary and secret experiences, I would not have lived half my life. Should I agree that smoking a pipe after a meal is offensive, even though I enjoy it immensely? Or that boxing is a base and undignified pursuit? And must I believe that acting in the theatre is an unacceptable abomination, just because I am told so?" My voice rose to a shout. "And, of course, that music is fine for amusement but should never for a moment be considered as a profession?" I struggled to lower my voice. "When the voices of righteousness oppose your strongest and truest feelings, you must question their virtue."

"But if...if we were..." she gasped and choked out the words--"...married, I could not possibly tolerate any clandestine pursuits, or secrets of any kind, from myself or anyone else. Lying is...an unforgivable thing."

"Consequently, this would prohibit the state of marriage for myself," I retorted, raising both hands to rub my clenched forehead. "I must refuse to live according to other people’s expectations, even yours. The world is too large for me to spend my days in a gilded cage."

I pressed an index finger deeply into each temple, my face surely resembling a horse’s head fitted with blinders. Framed by my hands, the rows of flowers drooped in the afternoon sun, their petals fluttering and swaying gently, seeming to rise and fall with the rhythm of Jane’s laboured breathing.

"You must understand this: I am not committing evil acts; I don’t want to hurt anyone. But I cannot understand life without living it! I want to make some contribution to art, or science, or mankind; I don’t know just what or how yet. It is important that I explore all of the options, without arbitrary restrictions, before I decide. You see?"

There was no reply. I sighed deeply, feeling as though I had somehow scolded a harmless puppy, and softened my tone.

"I am sorry, Jane," I said flatly. "Please forgive my petty indiscretions and my selfish ways, but at least my character is my own, and if it is what God gave me, then it cannot be in vain. Say you will forgive me."

Only the sound of breathing, or the wind, assailed my ears.

"Jane? Come now, you are not in distress, are you?"

"I forgive you," whispered a tiny, trembling voice.

Fingers still obscured my shaded eyes, but I thought I saw the flash of a lone teardrop fall and strike a fold of Jane’s yellow skirt before her face turned away.

I lowered my hands from my eyes and looked back to the windows of the sun-room. Past the glare on the panes I could see Madame deftly drop her head and pretend to study a book of Chopin etudés.