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IN A FAINT VOICE
HISTORY
Violet Elizabeth Hamilton, daughter of famed English composer, Francis Abraham Hamilton, former touring pianist and now music teacher, though in her spare time she also composes, especially songs and études. Her mother died when she was little and she grew up with only her father who never remarried. He taught her to play the piano himself and was her sole teacher until they moved from London to France when she was thirteen, where she began taking lessons with several famous French pianists, among others Fauré, and she later enrolled at the conservatory in Paris.
A couple of years after she graduated, her father suddenly died, their finances in great disorder, despite him being a popular pianist and composer all over Europe. She was forced to begin seeking teaching jobs, travelling between households that were open to a music teacher, leaving behind a budding career as a touring pianist, herself.
Now, at thirty, four years later, in 1907, she has recently taken over as piano teacher at the Oberlin family’s old vineyard outside Strasbourg, hired by the parents, Jean-Jacques and Isabelle after the scandalous dismissal of their latest tutor.
She is teaching their 12-year-old son, Marc-Philippe, and their already well-schooled daughter, the 24-year-old Marie-Louise, who is still unmarried because she is of a difficult disposition, they say. She is extremely talented, however, and Violet sees great potential in her.
The two young women fall in love with each other and initiate an affair, Marie-Louise having already had female lovers before which is what deems her ‘difficult’ along with her suffragette beliefs; an affair that they must keep secret from the parents.
We follow them for half a year, from a couple of months into Violet’s stay until shortly after New Year when she is dismissed, because their relationship is found out. Marie-Louise, however, follows her to Paris and they meet up again some months later, Violet beginning to promote Marie-Louise as a young prodigy pianist. Herself, she might not be deemed as successful as her father was, but helping Marie-Louise’s career along is enough for her.
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During her conservatory days, she had a romantic relationship to a young soprano, Noëlle, who inspired Violet to begin writing songs for her. At the time Violet left Paris, her soprano had already gotten engaged to a rich man and was preparing her wedding.A couple of years after she graduated, her father suddenly died, their finances in great disorder, despite him being a popular pianist and composer all over Europe. She was forced to begin seeking teaching jobs, travelling between households that were open to a music teacher, leaving behind a budding career as a touring pianist, herself.
Now, at thirty, four years later, in 1907, she has recently taken over as piano teacher at the Oberlin family’s old vineyard outside Strasbourg, hired by the parents, Jean-Jacques and Isabelle after the scandalous dismissal of their latest tutor.
She is teaching their 12-year-old son, Marc-Philippe, and their already well-schooled daughter, the 24-year-old Marie-Louise, who is still unmarried because she is of a difficult disposition, they say. She is extremely talented, however, and Violet sees great potential in her.
The two young women fall in love with each other and initiate an affair, Marie-Louise having already had female lovers before which is what deems her ‘difficult’ along with her suffragette beliefs; an affair that they must keep secret from the parents.
We follow them for half a year, from a couple of months into Violet’s stay until shortly after New Year when she is dismissed, because their relationship is found out. Marie-Louise, however, follows her to Paris and they meet up again some months later, Violet beginning to promote Marie-Louise as a young prodigy pianist. Herself, she might not be deemed as successful as her father was, but helping Marie-Louise’s career along is enough for her.
PERSONALITY
The human embodiment of the musical term, fil di voce. "Sung in a faint voice."
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YOURHIDDENCONTENT SAMPLE
Never had it been of greater use to her that she was English by birth than the moment she had to cross the border into Alsace-Lorraine.
Reason for stay? Employment. Duration of stay? Unknown.
That was two months ago, and beyond the occasional nationalistic growling in the corners of the vast Villa Oberlin whose guest quarters she was occupying now, an old, discontinued chateau, its vineyards sold off to neighbouring farmers generations ago, located a few hours outside of Strasbourg, you wouldn’t know you ever left France in the first place. The whole household spoke French, down to the last member of staff, it was an unvoiced requirement, although some with a detectable Alsatian dialect.
Violet was not one to judge. After seventeen years of living in Paris, she had yet to fully free herself of her accent. Anyone French enough would always comment on it. Likewise had monsieur Oberlin, which attested to his true allegiance, when he had greeted her upon her arrival in the large sitting room in the west wing of the impressive manor house, along with his wife. It’s good to know your father couldn’t beat the English out of you, mademoiselle, he joked, jovially. My father didn’t beat me at all, which I’m told must surely be the problem, Violet had replied, not joking.
The introduction to her job at hand had followed quickly after that.
The Oberlin children hadn’t been at home at this time, the 13-year-old son, Marc-Philippe, at school and their much older daughter, the 24-year-old Marie-Louise taking private piano lessons from an elderly professor of music in Strasbourg. Have they not been receiving in-house tutoring previously, Violet had asked, an awkward pause the only initial response. Monsieur Oberlin and madame Oberlin had glanced at each other, ill at ease.
Our last teacher had to resign from his position very suddenly, was all they willingly disclosed to her. Graciously accepting that, Violet had her things moved into the guest quarters, warning the parents that within the next couple of days, her father’s old upright piano would arrive as well, and she would be grateful if she could have it moved into her rooms with her. She went nowhere without it.
Monsieur Oberlin, who insisted she should call him Jean-Jacques, had laughed and allowed it without remark. It wasn’t like her accent that required note, apparently. You, musicians, he had muttered, calling for the servants to carry her luggage off.
He seemed familiar with the concept, something which should have prepared her, perhaps, for what was to come.
Still, three days later, her father’s Chappell was installed in the small sitting room adjoining her bedroom, the rich mahogany colour of the cabinet in vibrant contrast to the faint whitish-grey of the floral-printed wallpapers. It was a bright, cloudless day in April, the maid placing on top of the instrument a small vase brimming with newly picked wisteria, after having swept the whole sitting area in wake of the removers. Trampling all over here in their dirty shoes, she’d complained.
As the girl was on her way out the door, Violet had halted by the piano pensively and picked out one of the wisteria branches, turning towards the maid to give it to her, this young woman at least a handful of years younger than herself, with a pleasant, thank you for your trouble, mademoiselle. Blushing bright red, the maid curtsied and clutched the blooms between both hands as she left.
They were sisters of the household now.
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After all, Frenchmen weren’t much welcomed by the Germans who thought the region already saw enough people who perceived themselves as more French than was good for them. While the language was still allowed, largely in private, the Kaiser insisted on a feeling of absolute Germanness in all public affairs. No, Frenchmen weren’t welcome, but Violet was neither French nor a man. The papers of free passage from Berlin found their way into her hands without incident. Almost without question beyond the most routine.Reason for stay? Employment. Duration of stay? Unknown.
That was two months ago, and beyond the occasional nationalistic growling in the corners of the vast Villa Oberlin whose guest quarters she was occupying now, an old, discontinued chateau, its vineyards sold off to neighbouring farmers generations ago, located a few hours outside of Strasbourg, you wouldn’t know you ever left France in the first place. The whole household spoke French, down to the last member of staff, it was an unvoiced requirement, although some with a detectable Alsatian dialect.
Violet was not one to judge. After seventeen years of living in Paris, she had yet to fully free herself of her accent. Anyone French enough would always comment on it. Likewise had monsieur Oberlin, which attested to his true allegiance, when he had greeted her upon her arrival in the large sitting room in the west wing of the impressive manor house, along with his wife. It’s good to know your father couldn’t beat the English out of you, mademoiselle, he joked, jovially. My father didn’t beat me at all, which I’m told must surely be the problem, Violet had replied, not joking.
The introduction to her job at hand had followed quickly after that.
The Oberlin children hadn’t been at home at this time, the 13-year-old son, Marc-Philippe, at school and their much older daughter, the 24-year-old Marie-Louise taking private piano lessons from an elderly professor of music in Strasbourg. Have they not been receiving in-house tutoring previously, Violet had asked, an awkward pause the only initial response. Monsieur Oberlin and madame Oberlin had glanced at each other, ill at ease.
Our last teacher had to resign from his position very suddenly, was all they willingly disclosed to her. Graciously accepting that, Violet had her things moved into the guest quarters, warning the parents that within the next couple of days, her father’s old upright piano would arrive as well, and she would be grateful if she could have it moved into her rooms with her. She went nowhere without it.
Monsieur Oberlin, who insisted she should call him Jean-Jacques, had laughed and allowed it without remark. It wasn’t like her accent that required note, apparently. You, musicians, he had muttered, calling for the servants to carry her luggage off.
He seemed familiar with the concept, something which should have prepared her, perhaps, for what was to come.
Still, three days later, her father’s Chappell was installed in the small sitting room adjoining her bedroom, the rich mahogany colour of the cabinet in vibrant contrast to the faint whitish-grey of the floral-printed wallpapers. It was a bright, cloudless day in April, the maid placing on top of the instrument a small vase brimming with newly picked wisteria, after having swept the whole sitting area in wake of the removers. Trampling all over here in their dirty shoes, she’d complained.
As the girl was on her way out the door, Violet had halted by the piano pensively and picked out one of the wisteria branches, turning towards the maid to give it to her, this young woman at least a handful of years younger than herself, with a pleasant, thank you for your trouble, mademoiselle. Blushing bright red, the maid curtsied and clutched the blooms between both hands as she left.
They were sisters of the household now.
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thewriteway PB Rebecca Hall • CODE