Clara Hopgood

'Madge, Madge, I wish you would sometimes save me the trouble of

laboriously striving to discover what you really mean.'

Mrs Hopgood bethought herself that her daughters were talking too

much to one another, as they often did, even when guests were

present, and she therefore interrupted them.

'Mr Palmer, you see both town and country--which do you prefer?'

'Oh! I hardly know; the country in summer-time, perhaps, and town in

the winter.' This was a safe answer, and one which was not very original; that is

to say, it expressed no very distinct belief; but there was one valid

reason why he liked being in London in the winter.

'Your father, I remember, loves music. I suppose you inherit his

taste, and it is impossible to hear good music in the country.'

'I am very fond of music. Have you heard "St Paul?" I was at

Birmingham when it was first performed in this country. Oh! it IS

lovely,' and he began humming 'Be thou faithful unto death.'

Frank did really care for music. He went wherever good music was to

be had; he belonged to a choral society and was in great request

amongst his father's friends at evening entertainments. He could

also play the piano, so far as to be able to accompany himself

thereon. He sang to himself when he was travelling, and often

murmured favourite airs when people around him were talking. He had

lessons from an old Italian, a little, withered, shabby creature, who

was not very proud of his pupil. 'He is a talent,' said the Signor,

'and he will amuse himself; good for a ballad at a party, but a

musician? no!' and like all mere 'talents' Frank failed in his songs

to give them just what is of most value--just that which separates an

artistic performance from the vast region of well-meaning,

respectable, but uninteresting commonplace. There was a curious lack

in him also of correspondence between his music and the rest of

himself. As music is expression, it might be supposed that something

which it serves to express would always lie behind it; but this was

not the case with him, although he was so attractive and delightful

in many ways. There could be no doubt that his love for Beethoven

was genuine, but that which was in Frank Palmer was not that of which

the sonatas and symphonies of the master are the voice. He went into

raptures over the slow movement in the C minor Symphony, but no C

minor slow movement was discernible in his character.