Towards the end of his first term, a package arrived from home. It contained a violin in a finely decorated case, and a brief note from his father.
My dear Arthur,
Since you demonstrated such a flair for the instrument at home it would be a great shame not to persist with your lessons. I am sending you the violin I was given at your age. It may be a little on the large size for you at the moment, but won’t be for long! I have made enquiries and have found a suitable music teacher close to Trim - a Mr Buckleby - and have arranged with Father Harcourt that you might attend a private lesson in Trim once a week. I look forward to hearing of your progress when you return to Dangan.
Your loving father
PS. Please take great care of the violin.
So every Saturday, Arthur quitted the abbey and walked into Trim, outsize violin case tucked under his arm. Mr Buckleby lived in a stone cottage with a slate-tiled roof on the edge of town. Arthur found the place readily enough on his first visit and, steeling himself, he lifted the iron door knocker and thudded it home. Almost at once the door was wrenched open so suddenly that Arthur took half a step back in fright.
A huge man in a brown suit filled the entrance. His stockings, once white, were now a misshapen grey and drooped over the top of the pinchbeck buckles on his scuffed shoes. A powdered wig rested at an angle above his wrinkled jowls. He wore spectacles, behind which dark brown eyes scrutinised the young boy.
‘I saw you coming up the path, young man.What can I do for you?’
‘Good day, sir,’ Arthur said quietly. ‘I’m looking for a Mr Buckleby.’
‘Dr Silas Buckleby, at your service.You must be young Wesley, Garrett’s boy. Come in, come in.’
He stood aside and Arthur squeezed past into a small hall.The space was lined with stacks of music, bound and loose, and musical instruments in various states of repair were propped up against the walls. Motes of dust twinkled in the broad shaft of light entering from the door, and abruptly disappeared as Dr Buckleby slammed it shut and turned round, gesturing to a door at the rear of the hall.
‘Through there, sir. We must begin at once!’
He brushed past and pushed the far door open, beckoning Arthur inside. The room behind the hall was in sharp contrast to the hall. It was almost bare, save for a single chair and two music stands. A leaded window looked out over a small overgrown garden and faded tapestries hung over the other three walls.They depicted scenes based on ancient myths and Arthur’s gaze was riveted to the details of a bacchanalian scene. Dr Buckleby’s keen eyes noted the boy’s expression.
‘The hangings are for acoustic purposes only. Try to ignore them.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I find that the quality of some of my students is such that I am obliged to deaden the screams of their tormented instruments as far as possible, else I should go mad.’ He smiled as he slumped his ponderous form down on the chair, which creaked in protest. ‘Now then, young Arthur, do you know who I am?’
‘No, sir.’ Arthur bit his lip. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
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 Richard’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.’