Young Bloods (8 page)

‘Quiet! Just suppose that it’s true. And that you did win high office one day. Through sheer resolve and hard work. Wouldn’t that eclipse any achievement of mine, with all my natural advantages?’

Arthur stared at his brother for an instant before his gaze dropped back into his lap and he shook his head. ‘Fine words, Richard, but no more than words. I may be a fool, but even I know the world is not like that. I’m the younger son of a minor aristocrat, and what I lack in social position is made worse by having no compensating talent.’

‘You have your music.’

‘Precisely. I have my music.’ Arthur stood up.‘Now if you don’t mind, I think my presence here is quite pointless. I’m going up to my room. To be with my music. Might as well get used to it.’

He left the hall and his footsteps rapidly diminished in the distance as his older brothers exchanged amused looks.

‘Now, what was that all about?’ asked William.

‘Nothing.’ For a moment Richard stared at the doorway through which his brother had left the hall, hoping that Arthur would change his mind. But there was no sound of returning footsteps. ‘Forget about him. Now then, what’s the score?’

 
Arthur felt tears pricking at the corner of his eyes as he climbed the main staircase. He glanced round quickly but there was no one in sight, so he quickly cuffed the tears away. At the top, on each side of the landing, a corridor ran the length of the house. The rooms to the left were being prepared for guests and the muted voices of servants drifted down the corridor. Arthur turned right and headed for the family rooms. The door to the music room was open and light spilled across the floor. As he made to pass the entrance his father, still at the keys of the fortepiano, saw him.

‘Arthur, not playing with the others?’

The boy shook his head.

Garrett stared at him. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

Arthur shook his head again and made to continue towards his room.

‘Wait. Come in here.’ Garrett stood up and dragged the music stool over to another chair beside a music stand.‘I need your help.’

‘My help?’

‘Yes. Now come over here.’

Arthur slowly entered the music room and crossed to his father, who was busy sorting out some sheet music on the stand.

‘There! That’s the one. I’m including one of the pieces Buckleby has asked you to learn in our Christmas recital.Thought we could play it as a duet.’

‘A duet? Me?’

Garrett laughed. ‘Of course you. Do you think for a moment I’d trust those brothers of yours with something like this? All thumbs. Besides, I think it’s time the public was made aware of your talent. So, I’ve taken the liberty of fetching your violin from your room.There, on the couch. Now, young man, would you do me the honour of accompanying me on this piece?’

He smiled, and Arthur could not help responding in kind.

‘There. That’s better. Now let’s be about it.’

Arthur took up his violin and bow and moved over to the stand and assumed the correct posture under his father’s approving gaze. Garrett seated himself to be on the same level as his son and readied his own instrument. He drew a deep breath, their eyes met and Garret mouthed, ‘One … two … three …’ and nodded.

As he played, Arthur’s mind cleared of all thoughts as he concentrated on his fingers, moving swiftly and precisely along the neck of the instrument. In his other hand his fingers controlled the bow in finely calculated sweeps across the four strings. He had played the piece so many times that he knew it by heart. His eyes closed and his head was filled with the melody. And not just his head. His heart as well, swelling in sympathy to the notes that carried through the air so that the sound became a feeling, a mood that filled him with delight.

The piece came to an end and his bow ceased moving. Arthur opened his eyes and found his father looking at him in surprise and admiration.

‘Why, Arthur, that was beautiful, quite beautiful. I’m so proud of you.’ Then, as if embarrassed by his admission, Garrett shuffled through the sheets on the stand. ‘Shall we play something else?’

‘If you like, Father.’

‘Yes, yes, I’d like that. Here, what about this? You know it?’

Arthur nodded.

‘Ready then?’

They began. It was a light-hearted piece, technically challenging but ultimately quite trivial, and yet it lifted the young boy’s heart. While it lasted he felt good here in the music room, playing with his father, all the time conscious of the pleasure and pride being taken in his musical ability.

It was a pity that he could not play music for ever.

Chapter 12

The Christmas season was over, the parties had ended and once again Dangan had quietly returned to everyday life. The three older Wesley boys were busy packing for the next term at their respective schools. While Richard and William lined the bottom of their trunks with well-worn copies of the classics, Arthur filled the base of his trunk with music manuscripts, borrowed from his father.

Garrett was delighted with the progress his son had made. Buckleby had obviously not lost his touch as a teacher. Arthur would turn out to be a fine musician, that much was certain, and Garrett was already making plans for his further development. Of course, Ireland was already too small a stage for Garrett, and would be for Arthur in years to come. London would provide greater opportunities and a more appreciative audience. Better still, Paris, or even Vienna. Garrett reined in his flight of fancy with a self-deprecating smile. Whatever his talents, and whatever Arthur’s promise, they could not hope to compare with the raw talent, and technical virtuosity of the musicians of Vienna. London maybe, but not Vienna.

So the seed was planted, and after the boys had returned to school Garrett was free to indulge his fancy.The more he thought about it, the more alluring the prospect of moving to London became.The violence that simmered in Ireland was getting worse. There was the ever-present burden of grinding poverty of the peasants, while among the middle classes Irish Catholics found themselves barred from all sorts of privileges and public offices. Increasingly their resentment was finding a voice and the downtrodden were daring to denounce in public the glaring iniquities of Irish society. There were arrests, but the terrible fate of Father Sheehy, who had been hanged, drawn and quartered ten years earlier for daring to speak up for the poor, was losing its effect. Their patience was exhausted and they turned to violence with bloody vengeance in their hearts. Land agents were now travelling the island in the company of armed guards, rightly fearing for their lives. It was only a matter of time, Garrett concluded, before the rebellious spirit of these wretched Irish, translated into open attacks on the aristocracy.

Then there was his growing frustration with the sheer provincialism of the place. Already the boys were picking up accents that placed their origins quite precisely, and Garrett knew well enough that if the process continued his family would be looked down on by London society. And that would be an intolerable burden, particularly for young Arthur, who lacked the wit and sophistication of his brothers. The boys would benefit from a better education, Anne would have a more exciting social life, and he would have a much bigger audience for his compositions. With that happy thought, he set about making his initial enquiries.

 
Even though it was the depth of winter, the school at Trim seemed far less foreboding to Arthur on his return from Dangan. Though he had few friends, most boys seemed happy to see him again and he felt the warm glow of acceptance, of finding a place for himself in the small world of the school. But only with Dr Buckleby did he feel free to express himself more openly, and only then because what passed between them was sufficiently far removed from the school that there was no prospect of any word of their discussions filtering back. The music teacher - as music teachers must be - proved to be an excellent listener and sat quietly as the child told of his despair that he would never master his school studies and achieve anything worthy of acclaim.

‘Why do you crave acclaim so much, Arthur?’ Dr Buckleby asked him one time.

‘Why?’ Arthur stared back at him. ‘What else is there?’

‘What do you mean, young man?’

‘I have only this life.When it is done, I will look back and ask myself what I have achieved. I want to be able to give a satisfactory answer.’

‘Don’t we all?’ Dr Buckleby smiled. ‘And the question is somewhat more pressing for a man of my advanced years.’

‘I see.’Arthur looked at him intently.‘And how will you answer it, sir?’

‘Putting aside the youthful impertinence of such a query, I should say that I have done the thing that most matters to me. Each time I pick up an instrument I create a moment of sublime order and beauty. What better thing can a man achieve in this world?’

Arthur frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

Dr Buckleby sighed. ‘I have the blood of a commoner and am therefore precluded from any hope of making my mark on the world. Faced with that, what can a man like me achieve? My talent with the violin was once the talk of London. But what was the value of that? I did not change the world. The only arenas where my class is permitted to parade its achievements are the arts and sciences. And why? Because the former provides pleasure for our rulers, and the latter sundry comforts and the tools of power. So, I have retreated from the world, and live here in Trim, where my needs are satisfied and my achievement is my own. Does that answer your question?’

Arthur considered this for a moment before replying, ‘Not entirely. How can you be sure an achievement is worthwhile unless other men agree that it is? What if you were wrong? What if you were fooling yourself that you had achieved something worthwhile when you hadn’t? How could you ever know?’

‘I know I have achieved greatness with my music. That is all a man of my background could do.’ Dr Buckleby patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s much harder for you, Arthur. You’re an aristocrat. You have opportunities that I never had. You can choose your path to greatness. You don’t have to be a musician. But at the end of the day you will have to account for your decisions. And then live with the perpetual anxiety of making the wrong decision … All you will have to ease that anxiety is the word of other men. Now, then, are you still so sure of the value of such acclaim?’

Arthur stared at Dr Buckleby for a moment, and reflected. For the first time Arthur gained an insight into the character of his father, who had chosen to compose an ordered universe about himself from which ugliness and discordance were banished. He looked down at the rich veneer of his violin and then raised it to his shoulder and prepared his bow.

‘Can we continue the lesson now, sir?’

Dr Buckleby nodded. ‘I should be delighted to.’

 
Before the end of the term Arthur received a letter from his father informing him that a house had been found for the family in London. His mother was busy transferring the household from Dangan. As soon as they were settled in London they would find schools for the children and then send for them. Arthur was shocked by the news, and not certain how he felt about it. The idea of living in London was undeniably exciting. But it would mean leaving behind the house and grounds at Dangan, places he had known for as long as he remembered and which felt like a part of him. He would be leaving the school at Trim as well, a matter of some regret since he now felt comfortable there and would have to repeat the whole agonising experience of entering some new school in London. But worst of all the move would mean losing Dr Buckleby.

Arthur kept the news to himself and continued attending the violin lessons, concentrating on improving his technique as far as possible before it was time to quit Trim for the distant cosmopolitan world of London. For his part, the music teacher was bemused by the boy’s sudden intense concentration, but the rapid improvement in his skill diverted Dr Buckleby’s attention from anything that might be amiss. So, in the few months that remained to them Arthur continued to master the violin and his teacher continued to delight in the boy’s progress.

Until one day Arthur turned up at the small cottage and knocked at the door. The heavy tread of shoes announced Dr Buckleby’s approach on the far side and the door was opened. From the expressionless features on the man’s face Arthur knew at once that something was wrong. Something had changed. His teacher led him through to the music room without a word and sat heavily on his chair while Arthur took out his instrument.

Dr Buckleby coughed.‘As this will be our last lesson, I thought we might try something a little different.’

Arthur felt the blood chill in his veins. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Our last lesson, Arthur. You know what I’m talking about. I received a letter from your father yesterday. To thank me for teaching you and to settle accounts. It seems you are shortly to leave Trim for London. Of course, I shall be sad to lose such a promising student. Boys of your calibre are few and far between.’

‘I - I shan’t forget what you have taught me.
Everything
that you have taught me.’

‘I sincerely hope not. Now, then …’ Dr Buckleby leaned forward, removed Arthur’s sheet music and replaced it with a new composition. ‘We’ll try this.’

Arthur’s eyes scanned the sheets and at once realised the challenge that had been set for him. The fingering and timing were far more sophisticated than anything he was used to.Yet, he had read enough music to pick up the sense of the melody and was immediately struck by its melancholic tone.

‘I don’t recognise this.’

‘I’m not surprised. Come, let us see how you cope with it.’

After an hour of struggling with the composition Dr Buckleby finally relented and permitted his student to set down his instrument.

‘It would seem that there’s still much to learn.’