A portrait of Lucy Deane

Authors

Barbara Hardy

Date of this Version

2011

Document Type

Article

Citation

The George Eliot Review 42 (2011)

Comments

Published by The George Eliot Review Online https://GeorgeEliotReview.org

Abstract

The young woman lifted her hands from the keys, and swivelled on her piano-stool to smile at the large bald-headed man comfortable in a crimson armchair.

'Well, sir, was that to your liking?'

'I seem to remember the piece, my dear, but not the composer. Is it something you haven't played for a long time? By one o’ your Germans? You know I never was musical, though I played the flute when I was a young man. Trade opened my eyes and sharpened my wits but I didn't have your expensive schooling.'

'No, papa, not one of my Germans but an Englishman, who lived in the seventeenth century. Henry Purcell. It is something I haven't played for a long time. I'm pleased you remember. And flattered you stayed awake. I'll make a music-listener of you yet.'

'Lucy, you learned puss, playing your old music has brought back your old laugh and that is the sweetest music to my old ears.

You have put off the dismal look with the black dresses.

'Yes, papa, it was time to shed mourning. Mourning garments.'

She left the grand piano to kneel on a footstool by her father.

'Bless me, child, I remember you sitting on that stool with the purple pansies and trying to open this silver box, when you could scarcely talk. It seems like yesterday. You used to make faces when 1 took my snuff.'

'I still do. I always detested the smell, and the dirty bits on your red whiskers.'* 'Yes, they were red.'

'I remember. 1 remember stroking this prickly velvet on your chair - I'm still not sure if 1 like or dislike it. But Papa, please to take your second glass of port wine, and tell me why you're fretting instead of having your nap. I know it's not Purcell keeping you awake. 1 can always tell when there's something on your mind, you know.'

He put out a hand to touch her glossy light-brown ringlets.