On certain days of the week Mademoiselle Ida Henry used to come and give us music lessons. Our house was saturated with an atmosphere of music. My mother played the violin and was a fine concertina player, and almost before I could walk I had violin lessons from no less a person than Mr. Ries. Until I was three I was called _Strad_, and I think my mother cherished the dream that I would be a violinist, but I showed no aptitude.
My first music lesson I received from Mademoiselle Ida over Stanley Lucas’ music shop in Bond Street. I was alone in London with my mother and father, one November, and I suppose about six. Mademoiselle Ida was very encouraging, and—unduly, as it turned out—optimistic, and said: “Il a des mains faites pour jouer le piano,” and soon my _morceau_ was Diabelli’s duets. While I was learning Diabelli’s duets, Susan was learning a Fantasia by Mozart, which I envied without malice. It had one particular little run in it which I learnt to play with one finger. One day I played this downstairs in the drawing-room. A few days later Mademoiselle Ida came to luncheon, and my mother said: “Play that little bar out of the Mozart to Mademoiselle Ida.” I was aghast, feeling certain, and quite rightly, that Mademoiselle Ida would resent my having encroached on a more advanced _morceau_, and indeed, as it became clear to her what the bar in question was, she at once said: “Je ne veux pas que tu te mêles des morceaux des autres.” That was what I had feared. My mother was quite unconscious of the solecism that she was committing, and pressed me to play it. Finally I hummed the tune, which satisfied both parties.
I never liked music lessons then or ever afterwards, but I enjoyed Mademoiselle Ida’s conversation and company almost more than anything. Every word she ever said was treasured. One day she said to Mrs. Christie: “Bonjour, Madame Christé. J’ai bien mal à la tête.” “Je suis très fachée de le savoir, Mademoiselle Henri,” said Mrs. Christie in icy tones, and this little dialogue was not destined ever to be forgotten by any of us. We used often afterwards to enact the scene.
Elizabeth and Susan learnt the piano, and Margaret was taught the violin by Herr Ludwig, a severe German master. John, my eldest brother, was an accomplished pianist and organist; Everard, my third brother, played the piccolo. Cecil sang, and my mother was always bewailing that he had not learnt music at Eton, because his house-master said it would be more useful for him to learn how to shoe a horse. This, alas! did not prove to be the case, as he has seldom since had the opportunity of making use of his skill as a blacksmith. The brothers were all at Eton when I first went into the schoolroom, but they often used to visit us in the evening at tea-time, and sometimes they used to listen when Chérie read aloud after tea.