Giant's Bread (21 page)

‘Haven't I told you that I want to write music more than anything else in the world?'

‘Then why don't you do it?'

‘Because I can't, I tell you.'

He felt exasperated with her. She didn't seem to understand at all. Her view on life seemed to be that if you wanted to do anything, you just went and did it.

He began pouring out things. Abbots Puissants, the concert, his uncle's offer, and then – Nell …

When he had finished, she said:

‘You do expect life to be rather a fairy story, don't you?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Just that. You want to be able to live in the house of your forefathers, and to marry the girl you love, and to grow immensely rich, and to be a great composer. I daresay you might manage to do one of those four things if you give your whole mind to it. But it's not likely that you'll have everything, you know. Life isn't like a penny novelette.'

He hated her for the moment. And yet, even while he hated, he was attracted. He felt again the curious emotional atmosphere that she had created when singing. He thought to himself: ‘A magnetic field, that's what it is.' And then again: ‘I don't like her. I'm afraid of her.'

A long-haired young man came up and joined them. He was a Swede, but he spoke excellent English.

‘Sebastian tells me that you will write the music of the future,' he said to Vernon. ‘I have theories about the future. Time is only another dimension of space. You can move to and fro in time just as you can move to and fro in space. Half your dreams are only confused memories of the future. And as you can be separated from your dear ones in space, so you can be separated from them in time, and that is the greatest tragedy there is or can be.'

Since he was clearly mad, Vernon paid no attention. He was not interested in theories of space and time. But Jane Harding leaned forward.

‘To be separated in time,' she said. ‘I never thought of that.'

Encouraged, the Swede went on. He talked of time, and of ultimate space, and of time one, and of time two. Whether Jane was interested or not, Vernon did not know. She looked straight in front of her and did not appear to be listening. The Swede went on to time three, and Vernon escaped.

He joined Joe and Sebastian. Joe was being enthusiastic on the subject of Jane Harding.

‘I think she's wonderful. Don't you, Vernon? She's asked me to go and see her. I wish I could sing like that.'

‘She's an actress, not a singer,' said Sebastian. ‘A good sort, Jane. She's had rather a tragic life. For five years she lived with Boris Androv, the sculptor.'

Joe glanced over in Jane's direction with enhanced interest. Vernon felt suddenly young and crude. He could still see those enigmatical slightly mocking green eyes. He heard that amused ironical voice. ‘
You do expect life to be a fairy story, don't you?
' Hang it all, that hurt!

And yet he had an immense desire to see her again.

Should he ask her if he might …

No, he couldn't …

Besides, he was so seldom in town …

He heard her voice behind him – a singer's voice, slightly husky.

‘Good night, Sebastian. Thank you.'

She moved towards the door, looked over her shoulder at Vernon.

‘Come and see me some time,' she said carelessly. ‘Your cousin has got my address.'

Jane Harding had a flat at the top of a block of mansions overlooking the river in Chelsea.

Here, on the evening following the party, came Sebastian Levinne.

‘I've fixed it up, Jane,' he said. ‘Radmaager is coming here to see you some time tomorrow. He prefers to do that, it seems.'

‘
Come, tell me how you live, he cried
,' quoted Jane. ‘Well, I'm living very nicely and respectably, entirely alone! Do you want something to eat, Sebastian?'

‘If there is anything?'

‘There are scrambled eggs and mushrooms, anchovy toast and black coffee if you'll sit here peaceably while I get them.'

She put the cigarette box and the matches beside him and left the room. In a quarter of an hour, the meal was ready.

‘I like coming to see you, Jane,' said Sebastian. ‘You never treat me as a bloated young Jew to whom only the flesh pots of the Savoy would make appeal.'

Jane smiled without speaking.

Presently she said: ‘I like your girl, Sebastian.'

‘Joe?'

‘Yes, Joe.'

Sebastian said gruffly: ‘What – what do you really think of her?'

Again Jane paused before answering.

‘So young,' she said at last. ‘So terribly young.'

Sebastian chuckled.

‘She'd be very angry if she heard you.'

‘Probably.' After a minute she said: ‘You care for her very much, don't you, Sebastian?'

‘Yes. It's odd, isn't it, Jane, how little all the things you've got matter? I've got practically all the things I want, except Joe, and Joe is all that matters. I can see what a fool I am, but it doesn't make a bit of difference! What's the difference between Joe and a hundred other girls? Very little. And yet she's the only thing in the world that matters to me just now.'

‘Partly because you can't get her.'

‘Perhaps. But I don't think that's so entirely.'

‘Neither do I.'

‘What do you think of Vernon?' asked Sebastian, after a pause.

Jane changed her position, shading her face from the fire.

‘He's interesting,' she said slowly, ‘partly, I think, because he is so completely unambitious.'

‘Unambitious, do you think?'

‘Yes. He wants things made easy.'

‘If so, he'll never do anything in music. You want driving power for that.'

‘Yes, you want driving power. But music will be the power that drives
him
!'

Sebastian looked up, his face alight and appreciative.

‘Do you know, Jane?' he said. ‘I believe you're right!'

She smiled but made no answer.

‘I wish I knew what to make of the girl he's engaged to,' said Sebastian.

‘What is she like?'

‘Pretty. Some people might call it lovely – but I'd call it pretty. She does the things that other people do, and does them very sweetly. She's not a cat. I'm afraid – yes, I am afraid now, that she definitely cares for Vernon.'

‘You needn't be afraid. Your pet genius won't be turned aside or held down. That doesn't happen. I'm more than ever sure, every day I live, that that doesn't happen.'

‘Nothing would turn
you
aside, Jane, but then you have got driving power.'

‘And yet, do you know, Sebastian, I believe I should be more easily “turned aside” as you call it, than your Vernon? I know what I want and go for it – he doesn't know what he wants, or rather doesn't want it, but
it
goes for
him
 … And that
It
whatever It is,
will
be served – no matter at what cost.'

‘Cost to whom?'

‘Ah! I wonder …'

Sebastian rose.

‘I must go. Thanks for feeding me, Jane.'

‘Thank you for what you've done for me with Radmaager. You're a very good friend, Sebastian. And I don't think success will ever spoil you.'

‘Oh! success –' He held out his hand.

She laid both hands on his shoulders and kissed him.

‘My dear, I hope you will get your Joe. But if not I am quite sure you will get everything else!'

Herr Radmaager did not come to see Jane Harding for nearly a fortnight. He arrived without warning of any kind at half-past ten in the morning. He stumped into the flat without a word of apology and looked round the walls of the sitting-room.

‘It is you who have furnished and papered this? Yes?'

‘Yes.'

‘You live here alone?'

‘Yes.'

‘But you have not always lived alone?'

‘No.'

Radmaager said unexpectedly:

‘That is good.'

Then he said commandingly:

‘Come here.'

He took her by both arms, and drew her towards the window. There he looked her over from head to foot. He pinched the flesh of her arm between finger and thumb, opened her mouth and looked down her throat, and finally put a large hand on each side of her waist.

‘Breathe in – good! Now out – sharply.'

He took a tape measure out of his pocket, made her repeat the two movements, passing the tape measure round her each time. Finally he pocketed it and put it away. Neither he nor Jane seemed to see anything curious in the proceedings.

‘It is well,' said Radmaager. ‘Your chest is excellent, your throat is strong. You are intelligent – since you have not interrupted me. I can find many singers with a better voice than yours – your voice is very true, very beautiful – very clear, a silver thread. But if you force it, it will go – and where will you be then, I ask you? The music you sing now is absurd – if you were not pig-headed as the devil you would not sing those roles. Yet I respect you because you are an artist.'

He paused, then went on:

‘Now listen to me. My music is beautiful and it will not hurt your voice. When Ibsen created Solveig, he created the most wonderful woman character that has ever been created. My opera will stand and fall by its Solveig – and it is not sufficient to have a singer. There are Cavarossi – Mary Wontner – Jeanne Dorta – all hope to sing Solveig. But I will not have it. What are they? Unintelligent animals with marvellous vocal cords. For my Solveig I must have a perfect instrument, an instrument with intelligence. You are a young singer – as yet unknown. You shall sing at Covent Garden next year in my
Peer Gynt
if you satisfy me. Now listen …'

He sat down at Jane's piano and began to play – queer rhythmic monotonous notes …

‘It is the snow, you comprehend – the northern snow. That is what your voice must be like – the snow. It is white like damask – and the pattern runs through it. But the pattern is in the music, not in your voice.'

He went on playing. Endless monotony – endless repetition – and yet suddenly the something that was woven through it caught your ear – what he had called the pattern.

He stopped.

‘Well?'

‘It will be very difficult to sing.'

‘Quite right. But you have an excellent ear. You wish to sing Solveig – yes?'

‘Naturally. It's the chance of a lifetime. If I can satisfy you –'

‘I think you can.' He got up again, laid his hands on her shoulders. ‘How old are you?'

‘Thirty-three.'

‘And you have been very unhappy – that is so?'

‘Yes.'

‘How many men have you lived with?'

‘One.'

‘And he was not a good man?'

Jane answered evenly:

‘He was a very bad one.'

‘I see. Yes, it is that which is written in your face. Now listen to me, all that you have suffered, all that you have enjoyed, you will put it into my music not with abandon, not with unrestraint, but with controlled and disciplined force. You have intelligence and you have courage. Without courage nothing can ever be accomplished. Those without courage turn their backs on life. You will never turn your back on life. Whatever comes you will stand there facing it with your chin up and your eyes very steady … But I hope, my child, that you will not be too much hurt …'

He turned away.

‘I will send on the score,' he said over his shoulder. ‘And you will study it.'

He stumped out of the room and the flat door banged.

Jane sat down by the table. She stared at the wall in front of her with unseeing eyes. Her chance had come.

She murmured very softly to herself:

‘I'm afraid.'

For a whole week Vernon debated the question of whether he should or should not take Jane at her word. He could get up to town at the week-end – but then perhaps Jane would be away. He felt miserably self-conscious and shy. Perhaps by now she had forgotten that she had asked him.

He let the week-end go by. He felt that certainly by now she would have forgotten him. Then he got a letter from Joe in which she mentioned having seen Jane twice. That decided Vernon. At six o'clock on the following Saturday, he rang the bell of Jane's flat.

Jane herself opened it. Her eyes opened a little wider when she saw who it was. Otherwise she displayed no surprise.

‘Come in,' she said. ‘I'm finishing my practising. But you won't mind.'

He followed her into a long room whose windows overlooked the river. It was very empty. A grand piano, a divan, a couple of chairs and walls that were papered with a wild riot of bluebells and daffodils. One wall alone was papered in sober dark green and on it hung a single picture – a queer study of bare tree trunks. Something about it reminded Vernon of his early adventures in the Forest.

On the music stool was the little man like a white worm.

Jane pushed a cigarette box towards Vernon, said in her brutal commanding voice, ‘Now, Mr Hill,' and began to walk up and down the room.

Mr Hill flung himself upon the piano. His hands twinkled up and down it with marvellous speed and dexterity. Jane sang. Most of the time
sotto voce
, almost under her breath. Occasionally she would take a phrase full pitch. Once or twice she stopped with an exclamation of what sounded like furious impatience, and Mr Hill was made to repeat from several bars back.

She broke off quite suddenly by clapping her hands. She crossed to the fireplace, pushed the bell, and turning her head addressed Mr Hill for the first time as a human being.

‘You'll stay and have some tea, won't you, Mr Hill?'

Mr Hill was afraid he couldn't. He twisted his body apologetically several times and sidled out of the room. A maid brought in black coffee and hot buttered toast which appeared to be Jane's conception of afternoon tea.