by Ann Bridge
The Brahms ended with a light unemphatic snap. After the applause people coughed, rustled their programmes, shifted in their seats and began to talk. Mrs. Carshalton made some rather trite comments on the second movement—Rose murmured vaguely in response. She had not been aware of a single note. How that would have shocked Antony—he loved Brahms. She really would listen to the next thing. What was it? She too rustled her programme. Oh yes, Schumann’s Second Symphony—she didn’t know it at all.
To the Schumann Rose did listen, in her own rather unmusical way—that is to say that the music aroused in her mind a series of pictures and of conceptions. She neither summoned them nor chose them; they came; they were what the music said to her mind and her emotions, expressed in forms which had meaning for her, as the pure formal structure of music had not. They gathered force and precision as the Symphony proceeded, and the music worked on her; by the time the last movement opened they flowed in as direct and clear as the words of a song. There was a romantic young lady, invested by delightful melodies with a rather silly charm—and there were prim and much older ladies, who minced up and down watching the romantic young lady critically. Oh, but now something more was coming in, something deep and vast; this was important. More, it was in some strange way final—more final and more important even than what was between her and Antony. What was it? Beyond love—beyond the romantic young lady, who slipped in again to point the contrast—yes, something as near finality as humanity can achieve. Was this the thing that Lady Harriet had got? Those deep chords—they asked a profound question, and lo, it was its own answer. Oh, now, the assured marching movement, the steady step, knowing where it puts its feet—yes, like Lady Harriet. Oh yes, something beyond love, this, beyond the agonies and passions—up in the region above one’s head, where part-singing takes place, and even beyond that—stronger, more born of effort and a sort of faithfulness; something quite final, something that could float out into these lovely harmonies, and swim in peace and assurance, as Lady Harriet swam. And yet could sing on—oh, as it was singing now, with such a human urbanity, gaiety even—as she was human and urbane and gay; and then crash out into this—oh, this noble and triumphant splendour of sustained glory! Oh, this answered everything—this bore the spirit up; “though weary is not tired, though pressed is not straitened.” And then back again from those heights to humanity and civilised ease, in gentle notes that spoke of daily life. Yes, this was civilisation itself, in the most real sense—and with the thought there slipped into her mind a sentence from a modern translation of the Apocalypse: “I saw”—not the Holy City—“I saw the Holy Civilisation coming down from God out of Heaven.” She sat, her eyes shut, breathing lightly, as the great chords closed in completion. This gave her the link that had been lacking. She had seen what she had to do, but she had not seen how to do it, nor been willing to see why it must be done. Now she saw. The music turned the key in the lock behind which lay real inner comprehension. Her head strained farther and farther back, unconsciously, as the knowledge flowed in with the sound. Yes—now everything was connected, everything was linked together: the “Imitation”, the wonder of Antony’s love, what he had said about the things in which her spirit was at home, and that her decision must be brave and righteous, Lady Harriet, and her loss and her courage and her acceptance—even poor Henry, his love and what it had taught her, his gallant departure—all flowed together, all was one—one immense harmony. Of this same sort was the Holy Civilisation.
Her part in it became clear too—through the din of applause that never reached her at all, her part became visible—small, but utterly clear. To go back, and then to go straight on; to give Charles his life, and to give it without grudging or counting; to relinquish the joyful thought of Antony, and join her life, all there was of it, to Charles; and to do this, not with sad eyes and a set mouth, like the resigned women with the impossible husbands, but with interest and curiosity and gaiety and zest, as Lady Harriet did. She saw it now, and that it was possible. It was more—it was wonderful; it drew her with power and beauty, as the passage from the “Imitation” had drawn her when Antony repeated it in the Lilac Temple. She had wanted a positive aspect as she waited for Mrs. Carshalton; this was more than positive, it was like an army with banners. Through the short final item she held to this vision, this conception, this vital realisation—held to it with such concentration that she was quite surprised, at last, to find herself outside the hall, on the steps, the cold air striking her face.
“Come back and have some tea,” Mrs. Carshalton said. “I always need tea terribly after a concert.”
“Oh, thank you—do you know, I think I won’t, if you don’t mind,” Rose said. “I”—she was too far from everyday life still to think of any excuse but the truth—“I want to get off a telegram.”
“You look pale, my dear—do come and get some tea first, or sherry or something.”
“Oh, thank you—but really I think I won’t. I want to get this off.” She spoke vaguely. “Thank you so much,” she said, with an effort recalling her manners. “I have enjoyed it—it was lovely. Goodbye.” She slipped away into the crowd, edged through the traffic, and walked along towards Welbeck Street, fast and lightly, through the yellowish darkness and the blurred moon-y shapes of the lamps—a slender, well-dressed young woman, pretty and graceful, walking along a London street. One sees no more than that. In Welbeck Street she turned into the big Post Office, went over to a grille marked “Telegrams”, and waited till she could attract the attention of the girl behind it. “Yes?” said the girl at last, looking bored as only Post Office officials can look.
“I want to send a telegram to Egypt,” said Mrs. Pelham. “Can I have a form?” When the form was pushed under the grille to her she went over to a desk, and with a tethered pencil scribbled a telegram to her husband.
A bus took her most of the way home—part of her was aware of the people in it, the cold, the weary whistling of the conductor, but those impressions were quite unconnected with the thing within her. The Holy Civilisation—an army with banners. Hold on to all that—keep the vision clear, till it had imprinted itself so deeply that it could never be lost—not through all the coming years, however long, however slow. Banners—they must fly—banners of gaiety and curiosity and interest.
She opened the door with her latchkey and slipped upstairs. She threw off her coat and hat and sat down at her little writing-table, moving almost like a person under the orders of a hypnotist. She turned back the flap of the large block, and wrote the date. She paused, then wrote—
MY DARLING ANTONY.
She paused again, and sat staring ahead of her. Inner and outer were met now—the grey block, the pen in her hand, were the instruments of the hidden vision; they had their place in her small, small part in the Holy Civilisation. She laid down the pen for a moment, and her right hand went up, as if of itself, and touched the Mizpah brooch. Then she took up the pen again, and went on writing her letter.
A Note on the Author
Ann Bridge was born in 1889 in Hertfordshire. Bridge’s novels concern her experiences of the British Foreign Office community in Peking in China, where she lived for two years with her diplomat husband; her works combine courtship plots with vividly-realized settings and demure social satire.
Bridge went on to write novels based around a serious investigation of modern historical developments. In the 1970s Bridge began to write thrillers centred on a female amateur detective, Julia Probyn, as well as writing travel books and family memoirs. Her books were praised for their faithful representation of foreign countries which was down to personal experience and thorough research. Ann Bridge died in 1974.
Discover books by Ann Bridge published by Bloomsbury Reader at
www.bloomsbury.com/AnnBridge
A Lighthearted Quest
A Place to Stand
Emergency in the Pyrenees
Enchanter’s Nightshade
Frontier Passage
Julia in Irel
and
Moments of Knowing
Singing Waters
The Dangerous Islands
The Dark Moment
The Episode at Toledo
The Ginger Griffin
The Malady in Maderia
The Numbered Account
The Portuguese Escape
The Tightening String
For copyright reasons, any images not belonging to the original author have been removed from this book. The text has not been changed, and may still contain references to missing images.
This electronic edition published in 2014 by Bloomsbury Reader
Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP
First published in Great Britain 1939 by Chatto & Windus
Copyright © 1939 Ann Bridge
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eISBN: 9781448214051
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