Young Bloods Page 6

  Dr Buckleby wave his hand. ‘No matter. Let me tell you. I am the man who taught your father to play the violin. A great talent he has. And gone on to great things. I hear that he is Professor of Music at Trinity.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well then, we must ensure that the family tradition is maintained.’ He held out his hands.‘Now let me see what you can do with that instrument of yours!’

  Having already been introduced to the violin by his father Arthur quickly proved to be an excellent student with a natural talent. For his part, Dr Buckleby was a fine teacher, who coaxed the best out of the sensitive child with a firm and friendly manner. Soon, there was nothing Arthur looked forward to more than his weekly lessons in Trim.

  In contrast, school life became almost unendurable, with its scant comforts and harsh disciplines. As autumn gave way to winter, the cold stone walls of the abbey were clammy every morning, and icy blasts of wind found their way through every gap in the windows and doorframes. Curled up beneath his shared blankets, Arthur shivered through each night, and rose wearily to endure day after day of learning by rote. And while his command of maths was tolerable he continued to show no aptitude for the Classics, much to the frustration, and then growing anger, of his teachers. The more he struggled, and was punished for his lack of progress, the more miserable and introverted he became, so that eventually even Dr Buckleby commented on it.

  ‘Arthur, your mind’s wandering.You played the last section as if you were handling a weaving loom.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he mumbled.

  Dr Buckleby saw that the little boy’s lip was trembling, and he leaned forward and gently took the violin and bow from him. ‘Tell me what ails you, child.’

  For a moment Arthur was silent.

  ‘I - I hate school. I want to go home.’

  ‘We all hate school at times, boy. Even I did. It’s part of growing up. It’s what trains us to cope with later hardships.’

  ‘But I can’t bear it!’ Arthur looked up defiantly. ‘Sometimes I . . . I just want to die.’

  ‘Nonsense! Why would anyone want that?’ Dr Buckleby smiled. ‘It’s hard, but you will get used to it, I promise.’

  ‘But I won’t. I’m no good at it,’ Arthur sniffed.‘I’ve no friends. I’m no good at sports. And I’m not clever, like my brothers. I’m just not clever,’ he concluded miserably. ‘It’s not fair.’

  ‘Arthur, we all learn at our own rate. Some skills merely take more time, and application. Some things we learn faster than others. Take your ability with the violin, for example.You’re like your father. It’s a rare gift you have. Take satisfaction in it.’

  Arthur looked up at him. ‘But it is merely an instrument. It is of no account in the world.’

  Dr Buckleby frowned and Arthur at once realised he had caused great offence. He felt ashamed that he might have hurt the feelings of this man who lived for music. It was tempting to surrender to the muse, to devote himself to music. In time he would win some recognition for his ability. But where would that lead? Would the reward be to end up in a small cottage in some provincial town earning his keep from teaching the sons of local worthies? It frightened Arthur. He wanted more from life.

  Dr Buckleby sighed. ‘Is it so terrible a thing to have a gift for music? To be a master of the art that, above all others, distinguishes us from common beasts?’

  Arthur stared at him, heart heavy with sorrow, weighed down by the intolerable burden of an honest nature. He swallowed.‘No, sir. It is not a terrible thing. It is, as you say, a gift.’

  ‘There! You see, all is not lost. Far from it. Come now, let us return to our practice. In years to come men will toast the great Arthur Wesley - maestro!’

  Arthur forced himself to smile. Perhaps Dr Buckleby was right. Perhaps destiny had marked him out for such a career. Perhaps he should accept this. One day he would win some renown for his music.

  In his heart of hearts he dreaded that this might be true.

  Chapter 11

  At Christmas, the Wesley family were reunited at Dangan. Anne was busy arranging the social calendar for the holiday. Besides the big party to be held in the hall for all the minor landlords and their families about the estate, there was the usual round of castles and manors of relatives and friends to be visited. Food and drink had to be ordered in, guest rooms to be dusted down and prepared, clothes to be selected and packed into trunks, and temporary staff to be taken on for the holiday period. Inevitably, due to the shortage of English servants, the temporary staff would be drawn from the Irish community. The prospect of having their sullen coarse features hurrying around Dangan caused Anne some heartache. Their brogue was almost incomprehensible, their posture poor and she regarded them as little better than beasts of burden.

  While she anxiously made her plans at her bureau she could hear Garrett in the music room at work composing a piece for the small concert he had insisted on arranging for the big party. Every so often a brief snatch of melody would issue from the fortepiano, then there would be dark mutterings or an exclamation of surprise, the faint rasp of quill on paper, then another turn at the keys.This, Anne knew, could go on for days at a time, and not for the first time she wished that her husband was not quite so gifted in his musical talents. Now, if he had only become a writer, that would have been far less of an imposition on the family. After all, the costs of being a writer were limited to pen and paper. A composer - as he had liked to style himself since taking that chair at Trinity - spent an inordinate amount of money on instruments, not to mention having to subsidise all the concerts he put on to air his new compositions. If only Garrett could make money from his talents, she considered. But he never would. Music was his first love in life, his true mistress, and he would go on spoiling her until he died. Or as long as the family’s fortune lasted.

  The family’s finances, like those of many other fine households in Ireland, were strained at present.While the income from land remained steady, the high rents, arrears and evictions were causing considerable unrest across the land. Several land agents had been murdered in the last month and the first ripple of landowners was quitting the island for the greater security of England. So land prices were falling. Worse still, Anne reflected, the trouble brewing in the American colonies was shaking the confidence of the London financial markets. Garrett had received some worrying letters from the family’s banker in the capital, warning him that the combined income of the Wesley investments had fallen sharply and Anne knew that she must trim her household budget to suit. It was all too frustrating. Between the troublesome Irish peasants and those disloyal fools in the colonies, they would ruin the fortunes of their betters. Anne frowned. What right had they to do that? To jeopardise her future, and that of her innocent children?

  Thought of which drew her attention to the faint shouts and laughter drifting up from the hall. Since it was cold and wet outside she had given the children permission to play there. The breakfast table had been dragged to one side, a net set up and the children were busy playing battledore. It should keep them busy for a few hours at least, she sighed, returning to her plans as the rain pattered against the window.

  Richard stood poised, head tilted back and eyes following the arc of the shuttlecock as it reached the apex of its trajectory and fell towards him. On the other side young Arthur simply lowered his racquet in acceptance of his inevitable defeat. For a brief moment Richard considered fluffing the return shot, letting his brother take the point so that defeat would not be quite so severe. Then, before he could help himself, he flicked his racquet with perfect timing and the shuttlecock slammed on to the ground on the far side of the net.

  ‘Game!’ Richard cried out. ‘Who’s next?’

  ‘Me!’ Little Anne jumped up, ran across the hall and snatched the racquet from Arthur as he passed by on the way to the dining chairs at the side where the other children sat. Propped up on the end chair was a small blackboard taken from the nursery. Gerald was busy chalking up Rich
ard’s latest victory. There were no marks beside Arthur’s name. Even Gerald, a year younger, had taken two games. Arthur took the seat at the far end of the line and slumped back.

  Arthur regarded his eldest brother with envy. Richard was a better person than he and Arthur knew he must try to accept that. That was the hand that fate had dealt the Wesley brothers. Richard was far more intelligent, far more popular and no doubt he would carve out a glittering career for himself, while Arthur just remained an unregarded entry on the family tree.

  ‘I need a rest,’ Richard announced. ‘William, you and Gerald can have a game.’ Richard paused a moment before taking his seat beside Arthur.

  ‘Not sulking, I hope.’

  ‘And why would I sulk?’

  Richard shrugged.‘We can’t all be good at everything, Arthur.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve come to offer me your pity.’

  Richard couldn’t help smiling.‘You know, it’s quite churlish to sit there and try to sour the mood. Try to ruin others’ enjoyment of the game. We all have to accept defeat at some point, Arthur.’

  ‘At some point? Or all the time? I think I’d be quite content to have to accept victory at some point. But, of course, you wouldn’t understand that. Nor would William, nor even Gerald. You’re all so clever, so sure of yourselves. Not like me.’

  ‘Come now, that’s not true. I know for a fact that Father thinks you’re something of a musical prodigy.And you should know how much that means to him.You can’t spend your life feeling so sorry for yourself. It would be a criminal waste of whatever ability you have. I know that you are struggling at school. Not everyone has a facility for Latin and Greek.’

  ‘You do,’ Arthur shot back. ‘And William, and Gerald.’

  ‘True,’ Richard conceded.‘And what we find easy, you struggle with. I understand how hard that is to accept.’

  ‘Do you? Do you really?’

  ‘I think so. I may be more intelligent than most, but that is not at the expense of empathy.’

  ‘Well, when you’re the great statesman, or some brilliant general, as I’m sure you will be, then we’ll see the quality of your empathy.’

  Richard reflected a moment before he responded, ‘I don’t deny I dream of achieving some kind of high office, and I will do all in my powers to achieve it. But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t cherish such ambitions.’

  ‘Me?’ Arthur turned to him with raised eyebrows and laughed. ‘Me? Don’t be a fool, Richard. I know I will achieve nothing. So why bother even trying? Why waste my time aiming for success I can never have?’

  ‘You’re wrong.That is precisely why you should aim to achieve it. Just suppose, for a moment, that you will never become my intellectual equal—’

  ‘That’s easy enough.’

  ‘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 teache
r. 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.