For the occasion, she laid out some of Veda’s new finery: a brown silk dress, brown hat, alligator-skin shoes, and silk stockings. But when Veda got home from school, and saw the pile on the bed, she threw up her hands in horror. “Mother! I can’t be dressed up! Ooh! It would be so provincial!” Mildred knew the voice of society when she heard it, so she sighed, put the things away, and watched while Veda tossed out her own idea of suitable garb: maroon sweater, plaid skirt, polo coat, leather beret, woollen socks, and flat-heeled shoes. But she looked away when Veda started to dress. A year and a half had indeed made some changes in Veda’s appearance. She was still no more than medium height, but her haughty carriage made her seem taller. The hips were as slim as ever, but had taken on some touch of voluptuousness. The legs were Mildred’s, to the last graceful contour. But the most noticeable change was what Monty brutally called the Dairy: two round, swelling protuberances that had appeared almost overnight on the high, arching chest. They would have been large, even for a woman: for a child of thirteen they were positively startling. Mildred had a mystical feeling about them: they made her think tremulously of Love, Motherhood, and similar milky concepts. When Monty had denounced them as indecent, and told Veda for Christ’s sake to get a hammock to sling them in, Mildred had been shocked, and pink-faced, and furious. But Veda had laughed gaily, and got brassieres in a completely matter-of-fact way. It would have been hard to imagine her pink-faced about anything. What with the chest, the Dairy, and the slightly swaying hips, she moved like some proud, pedigreed pigeon.
Mr. Hannen lived just off the Pasadena traffic circle, in a house that looked usual enough from the outside, but which, inside, turned out to be one gigantic studio, with all the first floor and most of the second given over to it. It startled Mildred, not only by its size, but by its incredible bareness. There was nothing in it but a big piano, long shelves of music, a wooden wall seat across one end, and a bronze bust, in one corner, labelled BAUER. Mr. Hannen himself was a squat man of about forty, with bandy legs, thick chest, and big hands, though a slight stoop, as well as streaky white hair, hinted at the illness that Monty had mentioned. He was quite friendly, and chatted with Mildred until she was off guard, and grew gabby. When she mentioned the restaurant, Veda tossed her head impatiently, but Mr. Hannen said “Ah!” in a flattering way, remembered he had heard of it, copied down the address, and promised to come in. Then, rather casually, he got around to Veda, had a look at the music she had brought, and said they might as well get the horrible part over. Veda looked a little set back on her heels, but he waved her to the piano and told her to play something — anything, so it was short. Veda marched grandly over, sat down on the bench, twisted her hands in a professional way, and meditated. Mr. Hannen sat down on the wall seat, near Mildred, and meditated. Then Veda launched into a piece known to Mildred as Rachmaninoff Prelude.
It was the first time, in recent months, that Mildred had heard Veda play, and she was delighted with the effect. The musical part she wasn’t quite sure about, except that it made a fine noisy clatter. But there could be no mistaking the authoritative way in which Veda kept lifting her right hand high in the air, or the style with which she crossed her left hand over it. The piece kept mounting to a rousing noisy climax, and then inexplicably it faltered. Veda struck a petulant chord. “I always want to play it that way.”
“I’ll tell Mr. Rachmaninoff when I see him.”
Mr. Hannen was slightly ironical about it, but his brows knit, and he began eyeing Veda sharply. Veda, a little chastened, finished. He made no comment, but got up, found a piece of music, and put it in front of her. “Let’s try the sight-reading.”
Veda rattled through this piece like a human pianola, while Mr. Hannen alternately screwed up his face as though he were in great pain, and stared hard at her. When silence mercifully stole into the room, he walked over to the shelves again, got out a violin case, set it beside Mildred, opened it, and began to resin the bow. “Let’s try the accompanying. What’s your name again?”
“Miss Pierce.”
“Ah—?”
“Veda.”
“Have you ever accompanied, Veda?”
“Just a little.”
“Just a little, what?”
“—I beg your pardon?”
“I might warn you, Veda, that with young pupils I mix quite a general instruction, in with the musical. Now if you don’t want a clip on the ear, you’ll call me sir.”
“Yes sir.”
Mildred wanted to kick up her heels and laugh at a Veda who was suddenly meek and humble. However, she affected not to be listening, and fingered the silk of Mr. Hannen’s violin cover as though it was the most interesting piece of sewing she had ever seen. He picked up the violin now, and turned to Veda. “This isn’t my instrument, but there must be something for you to accompany, so it’ll have to do. Sound your A.”
Veda tapped a note, he tuned the violin, and set a piece of music on the piano. “All right — a little briskly. Don’t drag it.”
Veda looked blankly at the music. “Why — you’ve given me the violin part.”
“—?”
“Sir.”
“Ah, so I have.”
He looked on the shelves for a moment, then shook his head. “Well, the piano part’s around somewhere, but I don’t seem to see it at the moment. All right, keep the violin part in front of you and give me a little accompaniment of your own. Let’s see — you have four measures before I come in. Count the last one aloud.”
“Sir, I wouldn’t even know how to—”
“Begin.”
After a desperate look at the music, Veda played a long, faltering figure that ended somewhere up in the tinkle notes. Then, thumping a heavy bass, she counted: “One, two, three, four and—”
Even Mildred could detect that the violin was certainly not Mr. Hannen’s instrument. But Veda kept up her bass, and when he stopped, she repeated the long figure, thumped her bass, counted, and he came in again. This went on for a short time, but little by little, Mildred thought, it was getting smoother. Once, when Mr. Hannen stopped, Veda omitted the long figure. In its place, she repeated the last part of the air he had been playing, so that when he came in again it joined up quite neatly. When they finished, Mr. Hannen put the violin away and resumed staring at Veda. Then: “Where did you study harmony?”
“I never studied harmony, sir.”
“H’m.”
He walked around a few moments, said “Well” in a reflective way, and began to talk. “The technique is simply God-awful. You have a tone like a xylophone that fell in love with a hand organ, but that may respond to — whatever we do about it. And the conceit is almost beyond belief. That certainly will respond. It’s responded a little already, hasn’t it?”
“Yes sir.”
“But — play that bit in the Rachmaninoff again, the way you said you always wanted to play it.”
Rather weakly, Veda obeyed. He was beside her on the bench now, and dropped his big paw on the keys as he played after her. A tingle went through Mildred at the way it seemed to reach down into the vital of the piano, and find sounds that were rich, dark, and exciting. She noted that it no longer seemed hairy and thick, but became a thing of infinite grace. He studied the keys a moment, then said: “And suppose you did play it that way. You’d be in a little trouble, don’t you think?” He played another chord or two. “Where would you go from there?”