Garrett was delighted with the progress his son had made. Buckleby had obviously not lost his touch as a teacher. Arthur would turn out to be a fine musician, that much was certain, and Garrett was already making plans for his further development. Of course, Ireland was already too small a stage for Garrett, and would be for Arthur in years to come. London would provide greater opportunities and a more appreciative audience. Better still, Paris, or even Vienna. Garrett reined in his flight of fancy with a self-deprecating smile. Whatever his talents, and whatever Arthur’s promise, they could not hope to compare with the raw talent, and technical virtuosity of the musicians of Vienna. London maybe, but not Vienna.

So the seed was planted, and after the boys had returned to school Garrett was free to indulge his fancy.The more he thought about it, the more alluring the prospect of moving to London became.The violence that simmered in Ireland was getting worse. There was the ever-present burden of grinding poverty of the peasants, while among the middle classes Irish Catholics found themselves barred from all sorts of privileges and public offices. Increasingly their resentment was finding a voice and the downtrodden were daring to denounce in public the glaring iniquities of Irish society. There were arrests, but the terrible fate of Father Sheehy, who had been hanged, drawn and quartered ten years earlier for daring to speak up for the poor, was losing its effect. Their patience was exhausted and they turned to violence with bloody vengeance in their hearts. Land agents were now travelling the island in the company of armed guards, rightly fearing for their lives. It was only a matter of time, Garrett concluded, before the rebellious spirit of these wretched Irish, translated into open attacks on the aristocracy.

Then there was his growing frustration with the sheer provincialism of the place. Already the boys were picking up accents that placed their origins quite precisely, and Garrett knew well enough that if the process continued his family would be looked down on by London society. And that would be an intolerable burden, particularly for young Arthur, who lacked the wit and sophistication of his brothers. The boys would benefit from a better education, Anne would have a more exciting social life, and he would have a much bigger audience for his compositions. With that happy thought, he set about making his initial enquiries.

‘Why do you crave acclaim so much, Arthur?’ Dr Buckleby asked him one time.

‘Why?’ Arthur stared back at him. ‘What else is there?’

‘What do you mean, young man?’

‘I have only this life.When it is done, I will look back and ask myself what I have achieved. I want to be able to give a satisfactory answer.’

‘Don’t we all?’ Dr Buckleby smiled. ‘And the question is somewhat more pressing for a man of my advanced years.’

‘I see.’Arthur looked at him intently.‘And how will you answer it, sir?’

‘Putting aside the youthful impertinence of such a query, I should say that I have done the thing that most matters to me. Each time I pick up an instrument I create a moment of sublime order and beauty. What better thing can a man achieve in this world?’

Arthur frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

Dr Buckleby sighed. ‘I have the blood of a commoner and am therefore precluded from any hope of making my mark on the world. Faced with that, what can a man like me achieve? My talent with the violin was once the talk of London. But what was the value of that? I did not change the world. The only arenas where my class is permitted to parade its achievements are the arts and sciences. And why? Because the former provides pleasure for our rulers, and the latter sundry comforts and the tools of power. So, I have retreated from the world, and live here in Trim, where my needs are satisfied and my achievement is my own. Does that answer your question?’

Arthur considered this for a moment before replying, ‘Not entirely. How can you be sure an achievement is worthwhile unless other men agree that it is? What if you were wrong? What if you were fooling yourself that you had achieved something worthwhile when you hadn’t? How could you ever know?’

‘I know I have achieved greatness with my music. That is all a man of my background could do.’ Dr Buckleby patted him on the shoulder. ‘It’s much harder for you, Arthur. You’re an aristocrat. You have opportunities that I never had. You can choose your path to greatness. You don’t have to be a musician. But at the end of the day you will have to account for your decisions. And then live with the perpetual anxiety of making the wrong decision . . . All you will have to ease that anxiety is the word of other men. Now, then, are you still so sure of the value of such acclaim?’

Arthur stared at Dr Buckleby for a moment, and reflected. For the first time Arthur gained an insight into the character of his father, who had chosen to compose an ordered universe about himself from which ugliness and discordance were banished. He looked down at the rich veneer of his violin and then raised it to his shoulder and prepared his bow.

‘Can we continue the lesson now, sir?’

Dr Buckleby nodded. ‘I should be delighted to.’

Arthur kept the news to himself and continued attending the violin lessons, concentrating on improving his technique as far as possible before it was time to quit Trim for the distant cosmopolitan world of London. For his part, the music teacher was bemused by the boy’s sudden intense concentration, but the rapid improvement in his skill diverted Dr Buckleby’s attention from anything that might be amiss. So, in the few months that remained to them Arthur continued to master the violin and his teacher continued to delight in the boy’s progress.

Until one day Arthur turned up at the small cottage and knocked at the door. The heavy tread of shoes announced Dr Buckleby’s approach on the far side and the door was opened. From the expressionless features on the man’s face Arthur knew at once that something was wrong. Something had changed. His teacher led him through to the music room without a word and sat heavily on his chair while Arthur took out his instrument.

Dr Buckleby coughed.‘As this will be our last lesson, I thought we might try something a little different.’

Arthur felt the blood chill in his veins. ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

‘Our last lesson, Arthur. You know what I’m talking about. I received a letter from your father yesterday. To thank me for teaching you and to settle accounts. It seems you are shortly to leave Trim for London. Of course, I shall be sad to lose such a promising student. Boys of your calibre are few and far between.’

‘I - I shan’t forget what you have taught me. Everything that you have taught me.’

‘I sincerely hope not. Now, then . . .’ Dr Buckleby leaned forward, removed Arthur’s sheet music and replaced it with a new composition. ‘We’ll try this.’

Arthur’s eyes scanned the sheets and at once realised the challenge that had been set for him. The fingering and timing were far more sophisticated than anything he was used to.Yet, he had read enough music to pick up the sense of the melody and was immediately struck by its melancholic tone.

‘I don’t recognise this.’

‘I’m not surprised. Come, let us see how you cope with it.’

After an hour of struggling with the composition Dr Buckleby finally relented and permitted his student to set down his instrument.

‘It would seem that there’s still much to learn.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Arthur felt he had let the man down.

‘And now our time is up. Pack up your instrument.’

Arthur placed it back in its case in silence as Dr Buckleby retrieved the new piece from the stand and stood by the door. He escorted Arthur from the room and then held the front door open. Arthur stepped outside of the cottage, then hesitantly turned round and offered Dr Buckleby his hand.

‘Farewell then, sir.’

‘Goodbye, young Wesley.’ The teacher pumped his hand. ‘Remember, keep your back straight and your scroll up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And, er, this is for you.’ Dr Buckleby’s heavy cheeks coloured as he held the new piece of music out to his student. Arthur received it with a nod of thanks.

‘You’re very kind. May I ask who composed it, sir?’

‘I did.’ Dr Buckleby smiled. ‘I wrote it for you. Perhaps one day, when you have mastered it, you might come and play it for me.’

Arthur’s heart ached with gratitude for the man’s kindness. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘Then I’ll bid you good day, sir. I must prepare for my next student.’

Both knew it was a deceit.There were no other students today. Arthur took his leave and turned down the path, hearing the door close gently behind him.