Chapter VI: An Academy Student

Before Celia had been at the Academy a month, she came to the conclusion that musicians generally were the most jealous and conceited species of the human race. It amused her greatly to hear the students--and especially the girl students--condescendingly speak of Paderewski’s “no mean abilities,” and Madame Patti’s “ofttimes faulty vocalization.” To her such musical giants as these were beyond criticism; but then, of course, she was a new student, and correspondingly unsophisticated.

She gradually came to divide these girl critics into two classes--those who raved over the latest long-haired musician and designated him as “such an artist, don’t you know!” and those belonging to the _nil admirari_ set, who methodically pulled to pieces every one who possessed more talent than themselves. Celia herself was prepared at that time to admire everybody and everything. She had not yet overcome her first feeling of awe at actually having become an Academy student--of being able to meet in person those “lions” of the musical profession, whom hitherto she had regarded but as names. She sat in the concert-room, and listened to the orchestra almost reverently, for there was no saying how many embryo Beethovens and Mozarts there might not be among that medley of players. Then she managed to lose herself in the labyrinth of passages with which the Academy abounds, and was obliged to ask a dyspeptic-looking youth the way back to the entrance hall. He was lanky and narrow-shouldered, but he might be a genius for all that--perhaps a second Wagner even,--so Celia addressed him with respect accordingly.

Her first singing-lesson--to which she had looked forward with much trepidation--was not such an ordeal as she had expected it to be. She had been told that Lambert was a bully and a boor; and when she noticed the pupil who came before her quit the room in tears, her spirits sank to zero. Lambert, however, received Celia quite graciously, and leered at her in a manner which he seemed to consider irresistible. He was a little man with shaggy white hair, and a face reminiscent of a bull terrier; and he had a way of grunting his remarks, which considerably strengthened the canine effect of his personality.

Had Celia been of a more nervous temperament, she would certainly have been disconcerted by his repeated attempts to flurry her, but his caustic remarks only served to put her on her mettle, and she was determined not to be over-awed.

“Who did you say was your master?” he asked for the fourth time, as she prepared to take her leave. “Bemberger? H’m. Don’t think much of his method. Too much _tremolo_; sounds like shaking a water-bottle. Practise those exercises I gave you; don’t attempt a song for six months. Good-day!”

Celia was aghast. Not attempt a song for six months. What a decree! All her visions of fame as a successful singer melted into thin air; she was a humble little student at the bottom of the ladder, and nothing more.

Her fellow-pupils, however, thought she had got on capitally. She could not possibly have expected Lambert to present her with a laurel wreath straight off, they said; and as he had not thrown the music at her, or told her to go and keep a tripe and trotters shop in preference to entering the musical profession, as he had been known to do to others, they thought she had done very well.

“Wait until you’ve seen him in a royal rage, my dear!” said one of them, encouragingly. “He was just as mild as butter to-day.”

In spite of her reserve, Celia had already made several friends at the Academy. There were half a dozen little cliques of girls--either vocalists, pianists, or violinists--who pretended to adore each other, and formed a mutual admiration society amongst themselves. They competed for the same prizes and scholarships; and although the lucky winners were congratulated and fêted by their associates, they were quite aware that behind it all lay a vast amount of jealousy and heart-burning.

Celia became the centre of one of these cliques by reason of her striking personality. Her fellow students would turn round and stare at her as she passed up and down the stairs, and, when she had gone, they would argue as to whether her hair was dyed and her complexion artificial. Then, when it became known that she was one of Lambert’s pupils, they vested her with a certain amount of prestige on that account, for Lambert only troubled to take exceptionally gifted vocalists.

One day, as she was coming up from her harmony lesson, trying not to look self-conscious under the keen scrutiny of her companions, one of the girls, also a Lambert pupil, accosted her, and, after having cross-examined her as to her name, age, and place of abode, introduced her to the clique of the “elect.” Celia found herself surrounded by would-be friends after that, and eventually became one of the most popular students at the Academy.

There was only one among all her numerous acquaintances, however, whom she ever considered a friend in the true sense of the word. This was Enid Wilton, the girl who was staying next door to the Friedbergs in Maida Vale.

Enid did not belong to the “elect,” for she was neither smart nor brilliant, but there was something so sweet and _spirituelle_ about her, that Celia fell in love with her at their first introduction. Whenever the hours of their lessons tallied, the two girls went to and from the Academy together; and although neither of them was inclined to be communicative, they were in possession of each other’s family history before they had been acquainted a week. Enid was two years older than Celia, and the second daughter out of a family of eight. Her father was a solicitor, and lived near Brighton; and her eldest brother Ralph was curate at a poverty-stricken church in the East End of London. Mrs. Brooke, with whom she was staying, was her mother’s sister. Enid took Celia home with her one day to be introduced to her aunt and cousins, and, in due course, Celia received a formal invitation to Mrs. Brooke’s “At Home” on the first Wednesday in the month.

Celia wanted to take one of the girls with her when the day came round, but Maud and Di were otherwise engaged, and Lottie declined with thanks.

“I am not fond of the Brookes,” she said in explanation. “They are very cordial one day and snub us the next, and I don’t like people of that description. Besides, their ‘At Homes’ are so dreadfully stiff. I went once with Ma just after Adeline’s wedding. There were several visitors there, and nearly all the chairs were occupied, but Harold managed to find one for Ma. It was a stupid little spindle-legged thing--I believe the wicked boy chose it on purpose,--and directly Ma sat down, it went bang; you know Ma’s weight. Fortunately, she didn’t hurt herself; but her bodice was tight, and split at the seams, and her bonnet went all awry. She looked just as if she had been having a fight; and we both vowed that we would never go there again.”

So Celia went alone, and, although she was not of Mrs. Friedberg’s dimensions, she avoided the spindle-legged chairs and sat on the sofa, next to Enid Wilton, holding a diminutive cup of tea in one hand, and a minute piece of cake in the other.

The Brookes were freezingly polite at first, but unbent just a little when, in the course of conversation, they discovered that Celia was related to Mr. Herbert Karne, R.A., whose picture, “The Dawn of Love,” they had seen at the New Gallery last year. The younger Miss Brooke was quite enthusiastic about it, for she liked knowing celebrated people or their relatives. She herself possessed some little ability for painting, and showed Celia some plaques on which she had painted some impossible birds on the wing.

“I can really do better work than that,” she hastened to explain, as Celia did not appear to be overcome with admiration, “only the worst of it is that I feel most inspired in the middle of the night, when I am in bed, and mother does not like me to get up and paint then. By the time morning comes, I haven’t a single idea left.”

“That’s because you are such a geni_ass_, Mildred,” said her brother Harold. “Geniuses are always supposed to burn the midnight oil, are they not, Miss Franks?”

“I really don’t know,” answered Celia. “My brother always works in the morning; but then, perhaps, he isn’t a genius.”

“I wish you would tell me all about Mr. Karne’s method of work,” said Miss Brooke, eagerly. “It is so very interesting to know the ideas of a well-known artist.”

“Herbert has written a little book on ‘Modern Art’ which may interest you. I believe I have a copy of it somewhere. I will look it out for you if you like,” returned Celia, always anxious to please.

Mildred Brooke effusively expressed her thanks; and that she might not forget her promise, Celia searched for the book directly she arrived home.

She did not know exactly where to look for it, but, after some amount of rummaging, found it at the bottom of a trunk, underneath a pile of old music. It was very dusty, and looked as if it had not seen daylight for some time. Celia dusted it carefully, and shook the leaves. As she did so, a small sheet of foreign writing-paper dropped out on to the floor. She picked it up and examined it. It was evidently a note of some description, but was not addressed to any one by name. The calligraphy was English in character but was barely legible, and the ink was faded. With difficulty Celia made out the following words:--

“9, Rue d’Alençon, Neuilly. Longchamps an utter frost. Auteuil ditto. Bonne Bouche a dead cert this time. Hurry up, old man, and send a hundred by return, or I come to England for change of air.--NINETTE.”

She read it over twice, but could make nothing of it. To whom was it addressed, and who was “Ninette”? _Ninette_--the name seemed strangely familiar, yet she was unable to remember where or when she had heard it before. Perhaps Herbert had lent the book to somebody, and the note had been inserted as a bookmark. She would ask him about it some day, if she did not forget. Meanwhile she locked it away in her desk, and gave the book to Montie to take to Mildred Brooke.

Then she sat down to write a letter to her brother. Mrs. Friedberg had asked her if she intended to take a seat in the synagogue for the forthcoming _Yomtovim_,[4] and she wished to have Herbert’s advice. She was undecided whether to observe the holydays or not. Hitherto she had never done so, for lack of opportunity; but now that she was living with a Jewish family, within easy reach of several synagogues, she had no such excuse.

This was a matter which had caused her some serious thought of late. It was not only the question of keeping the approaching holydays, but of practising the Jewish faith as a whole. If, a month ago, anybody had asked her what religion she professed, she would have replied, without a moment’s hesitation, “Judaism.” She was not so sure now. She had come to the conclusion that, if she would be a true Jewess, she was bound to observe all the ceremonial laws, honestly and thoroughly. It would not do to keep some and reject the others. Either she must place herself under the yoke of the law, or she must cast it off altogether. The question was, which was right in the sight of God?

Herbert Karne answered her letter by return of post. “This is a matter in which you must decide for yourself, dear sis,” he wrote. “You know my views. I do not believe in revealed religion, according to the Pentateuch, at all; and still I call myself a Jew. I worship God only as I find Him in nature, in art, in all that is beautiful; this is the grandest of all creeds. If, however, you think that these Jewish ceremonial observances will help and comfort you, use them by all means, and get all the good you can out of them. If, on the other hand, you find them but meaningless and empty forms, do not submit to them under any consideration, but shake them off for ever. Whatever you do, Celia, be true, be sincere. Shun hypocrisy as you would a pest, for there is nothing more weakening to the whole moral and spiritual nature. At the same time, I do not want you wilfully to offend Mr. Friedberg’s religious susceptibilities; it is not at all necessary to tell every one what you think and believe. In any case, it will not hurt you to go to the synagogue on New Year’s Day, and the Day of Atonement. It will be a new experience for you, and if you have any religious feeling in you at all, you ought to be profoundly moved by the intensity and solemnity of the services. I have promised, as usual, to assist at the services for the men at Mendel’s factory on those days. It seems strange, but although my views are to them so heretical, they always ask me to give the lecture.”

He then passed on to other subjects, and asked several questions about her Academy work. Celia put the letter away, and went down to tell Mrs. Friedberg that she would like to have a seat in the synagogue for the holydays.

Mrs. Friedberg was pleased. “Lottie said you didn’t care about _Yiddishkeit_[5] at all,” she said. “But I think you do, don’t you, Celia?”

“Yes, I think I do,” answered the girl, slowly. “I am afraid that I have been very lax in the past, but I am going to try to be a true Jewess now.”