CHAPTER XIV

It is not easy to write—­even on such a simple topic as ’How to Retain a Husband’s Love’—­if your attention is being distracted by a conscientious rendering of Czerny’s 101 Exercises in an adjoining room.  I could get no further with my article than the opening lines (they like an introductory couplet on the Woman’s Page):—­

  It is the little rift within the lute
  That by and by will make the music mute!

whereas The Kid, having disposed of all the major and minor scales and a goodly slice of Czerny, had now started her ‘piece,’ ’The Blue Bells of Scotland.’  It was too much.  I flung down my pencil and strode to the door.  ‘Moira,’ I shrieked, ‘stop that practising instantly.’

‘Yes, Mama, dear.’

‘Don’t you understand I’m writing and want to be quiet?’

‘Yes, Mama, dear.  May I go on when you’ve finished writing?’

’I suppose so; but when I’ve quite finished it will be about your bedtime,’ I said, trying not to feel exasperated.

’Then, may I get up an hour earlier in the morning to practise, Mama, dear?’

There is something almost unnatural in the way that child fights her way through all obstacles to the piano and the monotony of Czerny.  All the other parents in the world seem to be bewailing the fact that they can’t get their children to practise.  I know I ought to be proud and glad that The Kid is so bent upon a musical career, but even as the lion and the lamb cannot lie down together, neither can a writer and an incipient musician dwell in the same house in amity.

Through almost illimitable difficulties (for when at work Henry can no more stand piano practice than I can) The Kid has got to the Variations of ‘The Blue Bells of Scotland.’  Nevertheless she is yearning for the day when she will arrive at the part where she crosses hands (Var. 8)—­a tremendous achievement in her eyes, but viewed with cold aloofness by Henry and me.

As I returned to my writing Henry entered the room.

‘Will you as a Scotsman tell me,’ I inquired before he could speak, ’what English people have done that they should be so unduly annoyed by the bells of Scotland, why those bells should be blue, and who was responsible for bringing the said blue bells (with variations) across the Border?’

‘I see The Kid’s been annoying you again,’ he commented.  ’It’s a pity she gets no chance of practising.’

I looked at him sternly.  ’No chance!  On the contrary, she never lets a chance escape her.  I think it’s the fierce Northern strain she inherits from you, Henry, that makes her so persistent.  She reminds me of Bannockburn——­’

‘Bannockburn!’ ejaculated Henry.

’King Bruce and the Spider and all that, you know.  Didn’t he go on trying and trying until he succeeded?  That’s what The Kid does with her scales.  I think I understand why in 1603 we put a Scotch King on the English throne—­you wouldn’t have given us any peace if we hadn’t.’