Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

“I don’t know a thing about it. But my mother does. She’s been a patroness of the Philharmonic for years and she knows all about it. She says the kid’s really got it.”

“Of course I never met your mother.”

This slightly waspish remark Monty let pass without answering, and it was some minutes before he went on. “And another thing that makes me think she’s got it is the way she works at it. All right, all I know is horses, but when I see a guy on top of one, out there in the morning when there’s nobody else around, popping away with a mallet to improve his backhand, I think to myself, maybe one day he’ll be a polo player.”

“Isn’t that something to be.”

“It’s the same way with her. So far as I know, she never misses a day on that dry-goods box at her grandfather’s, and even when she comes over to Mother’s she does her two hours of exercises every morning, before she’ll even talk about tennis, or riding, or whatever Mother has in mind for her. She works , and you don’t even have to be a musician to figure that out.”

In spite of her almost religious conviction that Veda had talent, Mildred wasn’t much impressed: she knew Veda too well to read the evidence quite as Monty read it. Veda’s earnest practicing at Mrs. Beragon’s might mean a consuming passion for music, and it might mean a consuming passion for letting the whole household know she was around. And Mr. Hannen might have been a celebrated pianist once, but the fact that he was now organist at one of Pasadena’s swank churches cast a certain familiar color over his nomination as teacher. All in all, Mildred was sure she detected one of Veda’s fine schemes. And in addition to that, she resented what was evidently becoming a small conspiracy to tell her what she should do about her child, and the implication that what she was already doing, by Pasadena standards, wasn’t anything like good enough.

So for some time she said nothing about this subject to Veda. But it kept gnawing on her mind, setting up the fear that perhaps she was denying the child something she really ought to have. And then one night Veda broke into a violent denunciation of Miss Whittaker, the lady to whom Mildred had been paying 50¢ a week to give Veda lessons; but something about the tirade didn’t have the usual phony sound to it. Troubled, Mildred asked suddenly if Mr. Hannen, of Pasadena, would be better. This produced such excited dancing around that she knew she was in for it. So she called up, made an engagement, and on the appointed afternoon rushed through her work so she could dash home and take Veda over there.

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.”