The Hubbard Piano
I remember this lovely old piano well and would pick out tunes as a child, although I was never taught properly.
It is sad now to think how
this lovely instrument was bundled from one house to another whilst we
constantly moved house. Some houses were too small (curate’s dwellings)
so items would be stacked on top of the piano. Some houses were large and damp as we couldn’t heat the large rectories adequately,
but it survived!
The piano was a gift to Emma Hubbard (née Evans) on the occasion of her
marriage to John Waddington Hubbard - 10 Jan 1856. He was a doctor in
Market Bosworth and she the daughter of the headmaster at the
Free Grammar
School, Market Bosworth. They lived in Church Street.
The following is an extract from a letter written by Emma to her
favourite cousin
Arthur Phelps……”I
wish you could see what a pretty drawing room we have 22 yd by 19.
It is over the dining room, which I
dare say you remember, with a much more extended view over just the
quiet cow-feeding home scenery I love.
Inside it is panneled (sic) pink with
white mouldings, dark green curtains, furniture walnut with dark green
Utrecht velvet & a green & grey carpet.
I don't know such a harmonious pretty
room anywhere.
The piano - a Broadwood's square in
light mahogany - is the only discordant piece of colour & it is so
sweet-toned one would forgive it for any inharmony of exterior.
Then there are all sorts of pretty
things about the room & almost everything you see is a gift from some
one or other.”
Aunt Frances writes from
Victorian Hangover
Mother was extremely musical, and could play the piano very well, she
could also compose the most charming little things as easily and
spontaneously as she could invent stories, though unfortunately she
seldom troubled to write them down. She started teaching me the piano
when I was still so small that the music stool had to be twirled to its
highest limit and a couple of thick books placed on top for me to sit on
before my hands could achieve the correct position. I well remember my
thrill when my fingers at last became long enough to strike an octave,
though they eventually lengthened to such an extent that I can easily
strike two notes beyond the octave. I have always had difficulty in
playing passages in octaves, as my natural span is one beyond, which is
disastrous. Mother’s teaching of the piano was as thorough and as old
fashioned as her teaching of all other subjects. Commencing with five
finger exercises, followed by scales in all their variations, and later
by chromatics and arpeggios, I waded stolidly through the lot. I learnt
Hamilton from cover to cover, followed by Czerny, and later by Heller’s
Studies. There were no easy short cuts or tempting by paths along which
children of later generations seem to be lured towards proficiency on
the piano.
I have stated earlier that Mother never spanked me, but there was just
one occasion upon which her musical ear was outraged to the extent of
overcoming her almost unbounded self control. There was a certain horrid
little piece in Hamilton, called “Trab Trab” which I hated, and
therefore found exceedingly difficult. I had to practise for half an
hour, and later on for an hour, every day, and Mother gave me a lesson
once a week. On this famous occasion I persistently played a wrong note
in “Trab Trab”. Over and over again Mother stopped me and made me play
it again, till I was reduced to such a state of nervous terror that I
became completely incapable of striking the right note, try as I would.
I was not being deliberately naughty, I was literally paralysed by the
atmosphere of Mother’s mounting displeasure. Suddenly her patience
snapped, and her hand came down with a smart slap on mine, crashing a
discord on the keys. Laughing about it in later years Mother told me
that I immediately dropped my hands in my lap, and turned and gazed up
in her face, eyes and mouth open in blank amazement. She said that she
was extremely repentant for her outbreak, but my speechless astonishment
was so comical that it was all she could do not to laugh. My main
recollection of the incident is a sense of inward triumph. I had often
read and heard about spanking, but now I had actually experienced it! I
have often thought that a few more spankings would have done me all the
good in the world, and they would certainly have been far less alarming
than the strain of Mothers controlled displeasure.
Our piano was a very old Broadwood, and had been in Father’s family for
generations. It was of the earliest type after the spinet, a type which
is now seldom seen except in an antique shop converted into a writing
desk or cocktail cabinet. A year or two ago, when touring in Northern
Ireland I came across a similar piano in a old small hotel where we
stopped for lunch. It was so exactly like our friend that I spent far
more time purring over it, and trying its soft, sweet tones, than I
devoted to my lunch.
The teaching that Mother gave me was so good that when I went to school
I was the only one in the junior house of about sixty girls who was
advanced enough to take lessons from the music mistress of the senior
school. I loved music as passionately as Mother did, and kept it up for
many years after leaving school, becoming eventually almost good enough
for the concert platform. Later circumstances obliged me to drop it
entirely, and for years now I have hardly ever had the opportunity of
touching a piano, and if ever I do get the chance, my unpractised touch
and forgotten technique are a source of sore misery to me. I still
cling, however, to my dreams of once again possessing a piano, and, more
unattainable, still of having the time and facilities to devote to
recapturing my early prowess. |