The twins and I had learned that out of a pink book with blue edges. The archer was dressed in red, and the frog was green with yellow tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs.
I could, also, say the catechism from cover to cover, if she would like to hear that, and Who Killed c.o.c.k Robin. I had never supposed that anybody but my mother cared for such things. She loved to have us say them to her.
"And "b"?" Madame Tomaso inquired, staring.
""B" was a Butcher who had a big Dog," I went on, with growing confidence.
I did not feel nearly so frightened now. She was rather nice. If I were very good, maybe she would not eat me after all.
"Don"t you know your letters?" she demanded, in astonishment. "Don"t you go to school?"
"No," I answered, sadly. "I am not strong."
"Ah! Bah!" she cried, in a rude way.
I was sure, perfectly sure, that even a Hottentot would never have said that.
Madame Tomaso taught me my letters that morning, at least the first seven of them, which seemed particularly needed in music. She called for a bottle of ink, and wrote their names on the white keys. She was very patient with me, as I afterwards found out when I was no longer a new pupil to be coaxed along the th.o.r.n.y path. She put each finger where it belonged, and once, when I played five notes without any trouble, she went down through a rent in her skirt which was fastened together with safety-pins, and fished me out a caramel from a hidden pocket. It was very old and hard, and looked as if it had seen much service, but she regarded me with a benevolent expression while I ate it, and I felt that we had made a good beginning. Take it altogether, I thought that I liked music, and I practiced for hours. It was a great deal of fun when Madame Tomaso was not there, for then I did it all with one finger, which made it much easier. As my feet hung in the air, the twins worked the pedals for me, and my mother would come into the parlor with a pleased smile, and fix the curtains so that I might have a good light.
"That child will surely be a musician," I heard her tell my father, in an eager way. "I"ve promised her a ring the day that she can play the Traumerei. It may take a long time, but then she practices _so_ faithfully!"
My father groaned. I think my mother slapped him.
Of all the family it was, perhaps, Norah who was the most delighted with my lessons. She took a very friendly interest in them. She always dusted the parlor when I was there practicing, and she would sometimes put down a big finger herself on the piano keys in an experimental way, and jump when they sounded. There was only one thing about my music which worried Norah, and that was the fact that I knew no tunes.
"Sure it"s time that you were learning something," she would say, suspiciously. "Ain"t she keeping you back? Can"t you play "The Wearing of the Green" yit?"
"No," I answered, humbly.
"You ought to have an Irish teacher," she said, conclusively. "Madame Tomaso! It"s a cat"s name that she has! I never could abide them foreigners."
"Listen, Norah," I urged.
Very carefully, very slowly, with one finger and infinite pains, I played "Home, Sweet Home" for her. She burst into tears, and throwing her arms around my neck, rocked back and forth with grief. For a moment I thought that I had hurt her feelings, but it was all right. Norah was only homesick for old Ireland. She was paying me the highest compliment that I ever received.
Little by little Madame Tomaso came to treat me differently. The coaxing voice grew gruff, and the black eyes savage. No more caramels came out of the rent in her skirt, and sometimes I almost fancied that she was scolding me! I was very little to be scolded. No one had done that before. I tried harder than ever to please her. I practiced with two fingers, and, at last, even with three, one very heavy in the ba.s.s, and two very shaky in the treble. I did not tell anybody about the things which she said, for I was ashamed, but I imagined that granddad suspected. Granddad was always so sharp. It was a wonderful comfort to hide my face on his shoulder, and be petted. He was sorry for me without my saying a single word. He made me draw on the bank every day, and he confided to me all the troubles which he had had when he was a boy.
Once he told me of an awful thing that he did. He puffed out his cheeks before he began to talk, so I knew that it was going to be funny.
"I didn"t get on well with a maid my mother had," he said. "Her name was Polly. Did I ever tell you about Polly, Rhoda?"
"No, granddad," I answered, eagerly.
I was leaning against his chair, and we had the parlor quite to ourselves. It was a time for confidences.
"Polly didn"t like boys," granddad went on.
"But she liked you, granddad," I a.s.serted, loyally.
He shook his head.
"Polly liked me least of all. She may have had her reasons, but it was her fault in the first place, mind you. When I"d bring home a poor stray dog, she would turn it out to starve! And when I brought home stones, and I was always fond of stones, she would dump them out in the road. I felt that I should like to get even."
I nodded at him. I had felt that way myself.
"So I got a lot of pepper, and one day when Polly was going to sweep I scattered it around the house. I rubbed it well into the carpets."
He sc.r.a.ped his foot over the floor to show me just how he did it. For the moment he looked about ten years old.
"I rubbed it in quite hard. It didn"t show. n.o.body could tell that there was anything wrong until she began to sweep. Well, Rhoda, if you could have heard her sneeze, it would have done you good. She sneezed for hours. At first they thought that Polly had a new kind of sickness.
They went flying for the doctor; but my mother had noticed me laugh, and she pounced on me. She shook the truth out of me."
He trembled with laughter at the recollection.
"But what did they do to you, granddad?" I asked, breathlessly.
Sometimes his story would have an anticlimax.
"They put me down in the big black cellar," he declared, impressively.
I rubbed my head against his shoulder. I felt that I could never have treated him in that way if I had been his mother.
"Poor granddad," I said, in a consoling whisper. "They were not good to you!"
He puffed out his cheeks, and his eyes shone.
"That depends," he said, cheerfully. "I didn"t mind, bless you. We lived in the country, and they kept their pies in the cellar."
"Yes?" I questioned, eagerly.
"That night when they took stock they were short three pies."
"Oh!" I gasped.
I gazed at him in indecision. He looked back at me quite gravely, save for a lurking twinkle in his eye.
"Did you eat them, granddad?" I asked, confidentially.
He nodded.
"And twenty doughnuts," he said.
I regarded him with deep admiration. What a dreadful bad boy dear granddad had been!
I used often to wish that Madame Tomaso had granddad to deal with. I did not think that she would be so cross, or, at least, she would not show it so openly. She had a trick of frowning until her eyebrows grew together in one thick, black line. She would frown and beat time, and I would chase after her on the piano, with a blur before my eyes, and my heart in my mouth. Sometimes we arrived at a bar together, both out of breath; sometimes she left me far behind, very weak and miserable, with stumbling fingers which refused to hurry. She always beat time with a large black fan, and when the chase proved exhaustive, she would open the fan, and fan herself even in the depth of winter. While she fanned herself she would say things to me, unkind things.
Once she told me about her other pupils.
"I have ten," she said, "ten little girls. Some of them do not make good music. _I rap them over the fingers with my fan!_"