Notes On A Page

September 3, 1896
Charles Birchwood

“Take your seats, ladies.” I instructed.

I had been looking forward to the moment all week and at last it was finally upon me. Goldilocks was finally sitting in my classroom. She still wore a beautiful smile and her golden locks would be unmistakable in any crowd. My pulse raced at the thought of having complete and total control of the young woman’s life for the next hour and a half.

Some men would be ashamed of such an impulse. They would deny their instincts and desires in favor of a moral code of behavior best left in the realm of history and the knights of old. Why should I be anything but what I am? I will not deny myself the simple pleasures of my position.

The room was warm and beads of perspiration formed on her forehead. Her bosom raised and lowered in methodical form with every breath. The bodice of her dress seemed tight and I briefly considered mentioning it to her. She would no doubt be embarrassed at my notice and blush a nice pink but there are plenty of days ahead and no reason to rush. It is best to savior the power and in the end I like to think she might beg for me to do with her as I will.

The class became quiet and so I turned my attention from her, forcing myself to appear interested in the other students. Methodically, I took a roll call and learned Goldilocks real name, Penelope Sumter. The name sounded familiar but it took me a moment to recall where I had heard it before; the name on the Dean’s cigars.

“Music means something different to everyone. It is this indefinable quality which makes it a universal language that can appeal to anyone, anywhere. Through music we convey raw emotions from happiest moments of our lives to the saddest days of existence. Each note is crucial to that message, in the way they are arranged, the order in which they flow, and the speed at which they arrive. You may doubt my words today but on the final day of this class you will know the truth of them or I will have failed to do my job.” I said.

There were tiny smiles hidden in down turned faces at my final sentence. It was the same in every class. There exist an irony in a teacher failing that only a student can fully appreciated and I am not beyond using it to my advantage.

“Some of you will undoubtedly find the lessons in this room to be difficult and at times impossible to master. However, in the course of your struggles you will find that each person has their place in the orchestra or the chorus, that each of you possess as singular talent when placed in harmony with that of your peers will allow you to be heard. These lessons can be applied beyond the bounds of this classroom and in fact music itself. So, while some of you may feel this class is a waste of your time or lies outside of your interests, do not rush to judgment, for music is more than notes on a page.”

As I concluded my speech, my eyes fell upon Miss Sumter. To my surprise she was looking at me with wide, attentive eyes. I smiled at her before looking away and focusing on the rest of the ladies in the room.

“Now let us begin.” I said.

The remainder of the class passed in a flurry of routine. Each young lady’s interest and experience was determined and noted for the next class. In turn I issued them instruments and scores to practice before then.

The bell rang signaling the end of class. The ladies exited without haste. I watched Penelope from behind and just as she reached the door she turned and smiled at me. I wonder if she noticed my attention throughout the class or if she simply read my thoughts through the hunger undoubtedly in my eyes.