I hate pianos, tenants’ pianos. They can make a landlady suffer so hideously. Lumbering tanks awaiting the touch (often unskilled) that will make them spill horrible noise, spitting it through their black and white teeth.
First the dreadful bump, bump of arrival, cruel gasps of men with backs bent–bruised and nicked woodwork–screech of rollered push-boards. Radios were a new invention then but it seemed every transient lugged around an old tin kettle of a piano.
Prospective tenants said, “You have no objection to a piano, of course.”
“Oh, no,” one lied, because one was dependent on tenants to pay mortgages and taxes.
So the piano was installed and we waited edgily till the performer operated. We did not mind child practice as much as adult jazz.
There was a sweet young girl who aspired to be a professional musician, very much in earnest, trying to unlearn previous faulty tuition. Scales rolled up and scales rolled down, noises leaped or dived or shivered out of her piano all day long. She began at 7 A.M. and laboured at it till 10 P.M. The performance took place just under my studio. Each note might have been pounded on my vertebrae. This was to go on for ever and ever–at least till the girl was made into a musician. Alas! She was very young.
Lower Westers and Doll’s Flatters came to me. “Are they permanent?”
“I am afraid so.”
“The instrument is against my wall.”
“It is underneath me.”
There were heavy supposings “that we shall get used to it in time.”
Get used to it we could not. Every day our nerves got more jangled no matter how we thundered vacuums and carpet sweepers, pots and pans. The scales boomed through every household noise.
The little girl was most persistent. When a bit of her noise went wrong she patiently repeated and repeated over and over till she won out. We were distracted.
After a fortnight we began to resign, as a nose settles down to the smell of frosted cabbage in winter. The bright spot of our day was when the little musician took her daily airing, three to four P.M.
One day we were settling to enjoy this respite when squealing wails pierced walls and floor. What torture equals a violin under the untutored hand! We realized what our peace had been when only the piano had agonized us.
The little girl did not neglect the old for the new either. For the sake of the violin she gave up her daily airing but not her piano practice.
My tenants came again. They sat down, one on either side of me.
“Yi . . . Yi . . . eee . . . ee,” wailed the violin underneath us.
The tenants were as nice as possible, but it was not possible to be entirely nice. We were all agreed that the musician’s family were lovely people-but-under the circumstances . . . well, something must be done about the circumstances. I said, “I will talk with them,” but I shirked.
Days went by. I dodged past the windows of the other tenants quickly. They watched, but I just couldn’t.
High note, low note, run and quiver! I drew the dust sheet over my canvas and rushed for the garden.
I went. Mother opened the door. The girl was seated at the piano. Her pale little hands on the keyboard did not look strong, wicked or big enough to torture a whole household.
I began to talk of everything in the world except musical instruments. After a pleasant visit I sneaked back upstairs without a glance towards my tenants’ windows. I sat at my easel and began to paint. Wail, wail, wail! Every wail wound me tighter. I was an eight-day clock, overwound, taut–the key would not give another turn!
I flew down the stairs.
Mother looked surprised at another visit from me so soon. Father was there and the little girl looking sweeter than ever against the curve of the rich brown violin. I turned my back so that I should not see her. Father understood. Before I got a word out he said, “I know,” and nodded towards the instruments.
Sneakily I stammered, “Other tenants… object…”
“Exactly.”
Papa and Mama exchanged nods.
“Perhaps the violin practice could be arranged for where she learns.”
“Impossible,” said Mama.
“At the home of one of her aunts, then?”
“Both live in apartments where musical instruments are not tolerated!”
“The Park band-stand,” groaned Papa with a nervous glance towards Mama. “I suggest the Park band-stand.” The little girl rushed from the room crying.
“I fear we must look for a house,” said Mama. “An isolated house,” groaned Papa.
Through the open door I heard little, hurt, gasping sobs.
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