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.
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