Pierre La Houssaye
Morency rattled the paper angrily. “Arrogant swine. Rest assured, Monsieur La Houssaye, I will do the right thing.”
Morency called to his assistant. “Bertran, who is the leading dealer in musical instruments in Paris?”
Chapter 11
Luthersville, West Virginia, Fall 1981
After his Saturday music, Ailey practiced extra long. He felt guilty for having missed part of it. Since he’d gone beyond what Miz Bentley could teach him, hours of daily practice was as close as he got to having a lesson. He thought about going back to the mountain. He liked his uncle Luther. He listened better than anyone he knew. But playin’ the fiddle for him, he wasn’t sure about that. He’d never played for anyone, not even Miz Bentley, though she been after him for a long time. He practiced in his room on the third floor of her house, but he didn’t actually play listening music for her.
She wanted him to perform at the school for all the students and parents. He’d told her a hundred times he wasn’t good enough. Seems like she’d understand that. He thought he’d play for Uncle Luther. He’s family. He didn’t say anything about it to Miz Bentley.
During the week Luther went down to the Barkwood farm and talked with Sammy Sue. After that she allowed as how there really wasn’t anything wrong with Luther at all, he just liked living off by himself on his mountain.
Before he left he made an arrangement with Sammy Sue. He’d give her some money for the boy, for clothes and other necessities. He went to Elkins and bought Ailey a bike and brought it back to the farm for Ailey when he came for the weekend.
Ailey began to go up the mountain whenever he had a chance. He liked the feeling. It was the same as having a real family.
Six months passed before he brought his violin. Luther, like Sammy Sue, asserted nothing, demanded nothing. Ailey figured he’d listen, and that would be that.
After supper Ailey got out the violin and tuned it. Luther sat at the old oak table cleaning his shotgun.
Ailey was shy.
“If you want, I’ll play something.”
“That’d be fine, boy. You go ahead.”
Luther wasn’t ready for what followed. He figured it’d be some childish songs he’d learned at school.
Ailey with the violin tucked into his shoulder, stopped being an eight year old boy who liked to fish at Blair’s Pond, chase squirrels, and sing at the top of his voice.
Awkwardness disappeared. He changed before Luther’s eyes. As he played, he leaned forward and the tension transmitted by his small, wiry body filled the room.
Not having any idea what Luther would like, he played a series of practice pieces by Vieuxtemps. He made mistakes, held the bow incorrectly and some of his fingering was creative to say the least, but the music was powerful and compelling.
It was mediocre instrument, but he drew from it every ounce of sound. Luther had no experience to measure the extent of Ailey’s genius. But he sensed the thing that made Ailey great. His focus was total, and he loved the making of every note.
When Ailey finished it took Luther a moment to respond.
“That was mighty fine, Ailey. You’ve done real good to teach yourself.”
Ailey smiled shyly. “I ain’t” -- he hesitated -- “I’m not nowhere near good enough. I have a tough time figuring out from the books how some of the songs should be played. They’s all kind of Italian words on the music and I don’t know what they mean.”
Luther chuckled. “I wish I could tell you, but I don’t even know English that good. I don’t guess there’s anyone who could teach you, is there?” Luther asked.
“No, Miz Bentley give up teaching me a year ago. I done” —he corrected himself— “I learned everything she knew.”
“Lord, I imagine so. I doubt there’s anyone in West Virginia who could teach you very much.”
After Ailey had gone down the mountain Luther sat in front of the cabin, havin’ his sunset. This was a situation that required some thought.
“What’s to become of him,” Luther wondered. “It’s like keeping a butterfly in a room full of moths. If he’s left, he’ll become like them.”
Luther went to his book shelf, now lined with books from floor to ceiling. He selected a book of essays by the Englishman, Bulwer Lytton. He thumbed through the pages searching for a remembered quotation. His finger came to rest on the piece he was looking for. He read out loud.
“Talk not of genius baffled. Genius is the master of man.
Genius does what it must, talent does what it can.”
“I think I ought to go down and have a talk with that teacher, Miss Bentley. No reason genius shouldn’t have a little help now and agin.”
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