Another tale of the Jumpher family.

From the Relief Society Magazine, April 1950 –

The Recital

By Deone R. Sutherland

On Fridays, Miss Carroway came to give us piano lessons—Richard, Randy, and me.

The doorbell rang, and Mama called from the kitchen, ”See who that can be.”

Richard opened the door. “It’s only Miss Carroway,” he called.

“Good afternoon,” said Miss Carroway, striding in past Richard through the hall to the living room. She set her brief case on a table and unpinned her hat.

“Good afternoon,” said Mama, coming in. “Which of the children would you like to hear first?”

Mama always asked this question, and Miss Carroway always answered, “I think we had better get Richard out of the way first.”

“Richard,” Mama said, her voice gliding upward on the a-r-d.

We sat down, and Richard, dragging his feet, went to the piano. His shoulders slumped. Miss Carroway unfastened her brief case, took out her music, sat down, and leaned her head back.

“Posture!” she said to Richard. “Now the scales.”

Up and down went Richard laboriously, stumbling over the notes. Then he opened his book. He skipped parts of pages now and then, but Miss Carroway didn’t seem to notice. She always noticed though when we tried it. Finally Richard said he was through.

“I should think so,” said Miss Carroway.

Mama always looked very strained during our piano lessons.

“Your practice record book,” said Miss Carroway.

Richard opened it.

“He really practiced the half hour daily,” said Mama, “but he doesn’t seem to concentrate properly.”

Miss Carroway marked the book, assigned the new lesson, arched her hands, and showed Richard how his pieces should go. Thump, thump, went her fingers.

“Now, the girls,” said Miss Carroway. She didn’t seem to mind us so much. Richard sighed with relief as he sat down by Mama. Mama looked at him despairingly.

We were glad when our lessons were over. “A piano lesson spoils the whole day,” decided Richard.

Mama always went through Richard’s music lessons with him, but he didn’t seem to improve.

“Do you think we should give up?” Mama asked Papa.

“Yes,” said Richard.

“No,” said Papa.

Randy and I looked pityingly at Richard. “Your soul isn’t in it,” said Randy, “you have to have depth to play the piano. You don’t have any.”

Richard held his nose.

The next Friday Miss Carroway announced the pieces we were to prepare for the recital. Richard’s was something about spring. “I can’t come,” said Richard.

“Of course he can come,” assured Mama soothingly to Miss Carroway.

”I won’t be able to play,” gasped Richard with earnestness.

“Yes, you will,” declared Mama, looking at Miss Carroway with a strained smile.

‘I’ll break my arm,” said Richard.

”He’s had the piece three months,” Miss Carroway said, “and there are three more weeks before the recital.”

“The recital will be good for him,” said Mama; “his father thinks so, too.”

After dinner Papa made Richard play his recital piece. Richard went up and down on the piano, repeated, stumbled, crouched, hunched, hammered. Papa looked at Mama doubtfully. Richard got up from the piano bench.

“That’s fine, Richard; we’ll practice you every night as well as every afternoon, and you’ll do fine,” Papa promised.

“When do we get to practice?” Randy asked.

“I won’t play,” said Richard, and he went mournfully to bed.

“If he really doesn’t want to?” questioned Mama.

“Nonsense,” said Papa, “though I suppose it means we’ll have to go to hear him.” He sighed and looked at his paper.

Miss Carroway called Mama on Thursday. “I won’t be able to give the children their lessons tomorrow; I have quinsy. Since it’s so near recital time, I’m going to send my niece, Susan Carroway. She’s preparing for concert work, so they’ll have an adequate teacher.” Miss Carroway’s voice faded away entirely so she hung up.

Mama told us that we were to practice especially hard to impress Miss Carroway’s niece. We practiced as usual.

On Friday afternoon Miss Carroway’s niece came to give us our lessons. She wore a kind of pink velvet tam on the side of her head. “Let me take your coat,” Richard said. She wore a pink sweater and a navy blue skirt.

“Thank you,” said Susan Carroway, and she smiled two dimples at Richard. Her hair was light and short and fly-away curly. Richard carried the brief case to the table.

“I usually play first,” Richard said, “but I hate to because I don’t play very well.”

“What an understatement,” murmured Randy, but Richard never noticed her.

“Oh, I think you’ll do fine,” encouraged Susan. She pulled her chair over by the piano. Richard opened to his scales.

“No,” said Susan, “let’s hear the piece.”

Richard had been practicing twice as hard all week, but had shown little improvement until now. There was something gentle about the way he approached the music.

Susan played the passages where he stumbled. Then he played them. “Do you feel the difference?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Richard fervently.

Randy and I were jealous, but when it was our turn Susan helped us the same way.

“How well you play,” said Susan to Randy, “but the run here should go—” and she played it for us. Randy glowed. So did I.

”What a lovely piano lesson,” said Mama. “I don’t feel so discouraged about the recital now.”

”Will you come next time?” asked Richard, standing on one foot.

“If my aunt isn’t well enough,” answered Susan, putting soft pink gloves on her white hands.

“I’ll practice all week,” promised Richard, changing feet eagerly, gazing after Miss Carroway’s niece. He did, too. We fought for the piano. Thursday morning at five Mama had to hold Papa back to keep him from going into the living room to drag Richard back to bed. We could hear Mama arguing with Papa about it. Richard was using the soft pedal, but we could still hear the piano. Mama explained about Susan Carroway.

“You’re improving,” Papa said to Richard, “but don’t overdo it.”

“No sir,” answered Richard, exercising his fingers and humming his recital piece.

Susan Carroway rang the doorbell on the next Thursday, also. We were waiting for her, watching through the curtains.

“My, how you’ve all improved,” said Susan. “I think you’ll all play lovely at the recital. You’ll not be late?”

“Oh, no,” said Richard emphatically. We waved goodby.

Afterwards Richard sat and held his music. “I think I’ll be a concert pianist,” he said.

“Richard can’t keep this practicing up much longer,” said Papa. “This Susan Carroway must be something to take a piano lesson from.”

“Yes, she is.” Mama looked worried. “How can this all end?” She began darning our stockings. Richard came in and sat at the piano. It was his turn.

“Richard,” Mama said, “I just want you to play well enough for your own enjoyment.” She bit her thread.

“Do you think she’ll really like this?” Richard asked, playing again.

The Thursday before the recital we made Susan Carroway promise us that she’d be at the recital.

“I wouldn’t miss it,” said Susan, dimpling for us.

“Can I do anything for you?” asked Richard, as Susan was preparing to leave after this last lesson.

“Just play as well Wednesday night as you played for me just now.”

“I will,” cried Richard, hanging out of the door, looking after her.

“We will,” we cried.

“Of course you will,” said Mama. “Now come help me get dinner on. No one is to touch the piano tonight while your father is home. He’s been under quite a strain these past two weeks, and he seemed very nervous about your practicing this morning at five, Richard.”

But Richard didn’t hear her at all, and we hardly heard. We could still smell the perfume of Susan Carroway.

At last it was Wednesday. Randy and I wore ankle-length dresses, which were new. We practiced going to the piano, curtseying to the audience, and then sitting down gracefully. Richard tried on Father’s dress suit, but it was far too big, so he just wore Father’s bow tie and shirt front with his own best black suit.

Mama was doubtful about Richard’s clothes. “The neck on the shirt is too large, Richard.”

“Do I look old?” asked Richard, scowling in the mirror above the fireplace.

“You’d better wear one of your own shirts,” said Mama.

Richard looked at her scornfully. “I’ve never looked better,” he declared. He combed his hair again and wiped the comb on his handkerchief. He had put oil on his hair to hold it straight back and flat. He held his music carefully.

“What on earth did you do to your hair?” Papa asked Richard when we went down to the car to ho. My stomach felt hollow now that we were at last on our way. Richard kept swallowing and wetting his lips with his tongue. Randy’s hands were almost as cold as mine.

Mama and Papa went in through the front door, and we entered a side door. We took off our coats and hung them on hangers. Randy tried to fix Richard’s shirt which was dislodged when he took of his overcoat. Miss Carroway assigned everybody seats on the platform. We couldn’t see Susan.

“Isn’t your niece going to be here?” Richard planted himself in front of Miss Carroway.

“Of course,” said Miss Carroway, who kept dashing back and forth very busily. “She’s going to be in the audience. Everyone ready now?”

We lined up. The audience clapped politely as we went onto the platform. My program was wrinkled from my damp hand. Richard wadded his into a ball.

We stared out at the audience. I picked out Mama and Papa. Papa was staring back hard at us; then I noticed he was staring at Richard. Papa looked very flustered. I looked at Richard. He looked quite odd in Papa’s dress shirt. Richard had to keep pushing it up because of the large neck size. Papa leaned over and said something to Mama; she shook her head and frowned. She didn’t look at us at all.

Miss Carroway was announcing that the program was to be carried out as written on the programs. Then the music began. The less advanced students played first. We had our pieces memorized, but Richard kept looking at his piece which he had brought to review until the last moment. He also kept searching the audience.

The door at the back of the hall finally opened, and Susan Carroway slipped in. A tall man in a tweed overcoat followed. They sat in seats at the rear.

Richard straightened up, stared wildly, and then slumped back in his seat. Randy and I both had to poke him when it was his turn. He went awkwardly to the piano and slouched on the seat. He began, stumbled, and came to a halt. He had forgotten!

Randy picked up his music and took it over to him. “What’s the matter with you?” she hissed. Richard scowled at her and opened his music. I looked at Papa who had slid way down so I could hardly see him. Mama had fixed her eye on a chandelier.

Richard began again and went clear through without a mistake. I played and then Randy, and at last it was all over. Mama and Papa came up to us. “That was fine,” said Papa heartily. “Richard, why don’t you put on your overcoat? Ready to go, girls?”

We were. It was fun now that it was all over. Susan Carroway made her way up to the front where we were. She brought the tall man with her. “My fiance,” she explained. “Why, where is Richard?” He had slipped back into the cloak room.

I went for him. “You have to come out, Richard,” I said.

Richard came out. “You played very well,” said Susan smiling, and she shook hands with him. Richard looked very stiff and pale, but he shook hands.

“Well,” said Papa when we were all going home, “what kind of sundaes do you want?” We chose hot fudge, but Richard didn’t say anything.

“Richard?” asked Papa.

“Not any kind,” said Richard, but when we drove up, he said maybe he’d have a fudge one.

Mama let us have a brief holiday from practicing the piano, and then we had to start again. Thump, thump, went Richard doing his scales.

I’m glad there won’t be another recital for a whole year,” said Mama.

“Me, too,” said Richard tiredly, stumbling over his new piece, keeping one eye on the clock. He was back to practicing one half hour a day.