The Singing Lesson

by Katherine Mansfield

With despair – cold, sharp despair – deep in her heart like a knife, Miss Meadows, in her academic gown, walked along the cold corridors that led to the music hall. Girls of all ages, rosy from the air and the excitement that comes from running to school on a fine autumn morning, hurried by. From the hollow classrooms came quick voices; a bell rang; a voice like a bird cried, "Maria."

The science teacher stopped Miss Meadows.

"Good morning," she cried, in her sweet, affected voice. "Isn't it cold? It’s like winter."

Miss Meadows, the knife deep inside her, stared with hatred at the science teacher. Everything about her was sweet, pale, like honey. You wouldn’t have been surprised to see a bee caught in that yellow hair.

"It is rather sharp," said Miss Meadows, grimly.

The other smiled her sugary smile.

"You look frozen," she said. Her blue eyes opened wide; there was mockery in them. (Had she noticed anything?)

"Oh, not quite as bad as that," said Miss Meadows, and she gave the science teacher a quick grimace and walked on...

Classes Four, Five and Six were in the music hall. The noise was deafening. By the piano, stood Mary Beazley, Miss Meadows' favourite pupil. When she saw Miss Meadows she gave a loud, warning "Sh-sh! girls!" and Miss Meadows, her hands in her sleeves, walked to the steps, turned sharply and gave two sharp taps for silence.

"Silence, please! Immediately!" and, looking at nobody, her glance ran over that sea of coloured shirts, with pink faces and hands and music books open. She knew perfectly well what they were thinking. "Meady is in a temper." Well, let them think it! She threw her head back. How could the thoughts of those creatures seem important to someone who stood there bleeding to death, heartbroken, wounded by such a terrible letter...

"I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake. It’s not that I don’t love you. I love you as much as it is possible for me to love any woman but, to tell the truth, I have decided that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but..." and the word "disgust" was crossed out lightly and "sadness" written over the top.

Miss Meadows walked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who was waiting for this moment, moved forward; her curls fell over her cheeks while she breathed, "Good morning, Miss Meadows," and she handed her teacher a beautiful yellow chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had lasted for ages and ages, in fact a term and a half. It was as much part of the lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of picking it up, while she said, "Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two," Miss Meadows ignored the chrysanthemum, made no reply, but said in an icy voice, "Page fourteen, please."

Shocking moment! The tears stood in Mary’s eyes, but Miss Meadows went back to the music stand; her voice rang through the music hall.

"Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. 'A sad, sad song.' Now, girls, you ought to know it by this time. We’ll sing it all together; not in parts, all together. And without feeling. Sing it quite simply."

She tapped the music stand twice. What could be more tragic than that song! Every note was a sob of absolute misery. Miss Meadows lifted her arms in the gown. "...I feel more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake...". What could have made him write such a letter! It came out of nowhere. His last letter was all about a bookcase he had bought for 'our' books. How she had smiled at that!

"Once again," said Miss Meadows. "Still without feeling."

Last time he had come to see her, he had worn a rose. How handsome he had looked in that bright blue suit with that dark red rose! And he knew it, too. First he touched his hair, then his moustache; his teeth shone when he smiled.

"The headmaster keeps on asking me to dinner. It's a nuisance. I never get an evening to myself in that place."

"But can't you refuse?"

"Oh, it’s not good for a man in my position to be unpopular."

"...I am not a marrying man..." The voices were silent; the piano waited.

"Quite good," said Miss Meadows, but still in such a strange, stony voice that the younger girls began to feel frightened. "But now that we know it, we’ll sing it with feeling. As much feeling as you can put into it. Think of the words, girls. Use your imagination. Slow down as much as you like on the last line. Now, please."

Again the two light taps; she lifted her arms again. "...and the idea of settling down fills me with nothing but disgust..." Disgust was what he had written. That was the same as saying their engagement was definitely broken off. Broken off! Their engagement! People had been surprised enough that she had got engaged. The science teacher would not believe it at first. But nobody had been as surprised as she was. She was thirty. He was twenty-five. It had been a miracle, simply a miracle, to hear him say, as they walked home from school one night, "You know, somehow or other, I've got fond of you." And he had taken hold of her hand.

"Repeat! Repeat!" said Miss Meadows. "More feeling, girls! Once more!"

The older girls were crimson; some of the younger ones began to cry. Big spots of rain blew against the windows, and one could hear the trees whispering. "...not that I do not love you..."

"But, my darling, if you love me," thought Miss Meadows, "I don't mind how much it is. Love me as little as you like." But she knew he didn't love her. He didn’t care enough to cross out that word 'disgust,' so that she couldn't read it!

She would leave the school, too. She could never look at the science teacher or the girls after it became public. She would have to disappear somewhere. The voices began to die, to fade, to whisper... to disappear...

Suddenly the door opened. A little girl in blue walked up to her. She came up the steps and stood in front of Miss Meadows.

"Well, Monica, what is it?"

"Oh, please, Miss Meadows," said the little girl, breathless, "Miss Wyatt wants to see you."

"Thank-you," said Miss Meadows. And she called to the girls, "I shall ask you to talk quietly while I am away."

The corridors were silent and cold. The head mistress sat at her desk. For a moment she didn’t look up. She was, as usual, shining her glasses. "Sit down, Miss Meadows," she said very kindly. And then she picked up a pink envelope. "I sent for you just now because this telegram has come for you."

"A telegram for me, Miss Wyatt?"

From him! Her hand flew out, but Miss Wyatt held the telegram back a moment. "I hope it's not bad news," she said, so kindly again. And Miss Meadows tore it open.

"Pay no attention to letter, must have been mad, bought another bookcase today," she read. She couldn't take her eyes off the telegram.

"I do hope it's nothing very serious," said Miss Wyatt.

"Oh, no, thank-you, Miss Wyatt," blushed Miss Meadows. "It's nothing bad at all. It's..." and she gave an apologetic little laugh, "it's from my fiancé saying that... saying that..." There was a pause. "I see," said Miss Wyatt. And another pause. Then... "You've fifteen minutes more of your class, Miss Meadows, haven't you?"

"Yes, Miss Wyatt." She got up. She half ran towards the door.

"Oh, just one minute, Miss Meadows," said Miss Wyatt. "I must say I don't like my teachers having telegrams sent to them in school hours. Unless it’s very bad news, such as death," explained Miss Wyatt, "or a very serious accident. Good news, Miss Meadows, will always keep, you know."

Full of hope, of love, of happiness, Miss Meadows ran back to the music hall, up the steps, over to the piano.

"Page thirty-two, Mary," she said, "page thirty-two," and, picking up the yellow chrysanthemum, she held it to her lips to hide her smile.

Then she turned to the girls, tapped: "Page thirty-two, girls. Page thirty-two."

"Stop! Stop!" cried Miss Meadows. "This is awful." And she smiled at her girls. "What's the matter with you all? Think, girls, think of what you're singing. Use your imaginations.”

Miss Meadows stopped. "Don't look so sad, girls. It should sound warm and happy. Once more. Quickly. All together. Now!"

And this time Miss Meadows' voice was louder than all the other voices – full, deep, shining with feeling.