by James Hilton
“That’s very kind indeed of you, Mr. Freemantle, but really, you know, I haven’t the slightest intention of going back. You mustn’t think I’m repentant or anything like that. I’d like to be on good terms with them if it’s possible—that’s why I wrote to you—but I can’t alter my plans.”
He faced her solemnly for a long moment and then said: “I hope you realise that unless you do go back, your parents arc quite determined to have nothing more to do with you—ever.”
“Well, I suppose if they take up that rather silly attitude, I’ll have to make the best of it, that’s all.”
“Make the best of it and go back?”
“No. Make the best of it and stay away.”
She spoke so calmly that he just stared at her in amazement and then replied: “You really mean that—quite finally?”
“Why, of course. I do Hope you haven’t made a special journey here just to try to argue me round.”
“Oh, no, no—not at all.” He seemed tremendously eager to convince her of that. “Oh no, you see, I had to come to London to make arrangements for a new heating apparatus we are having installed in the chapel—it was just an idea of mine that, since you were in London also, we might meet and talk things over. I’m sorry you’re so determined—I had hoped, you see—” And all the time he was stammering these and similar things, he felt: You’ve failed, You’ve bungled it all, You can do nothing with her! Where’s that marvellous eloquence you were going to employ? You’re no use, and why, in Heaven’s name, should you ever have imagined you could be? Does anybody decide on a course of action as important as hers is and then give it up because a parson comes along with a few tea-table platitudes? And suddenly, with a new note in his voice, he leaned towards her across the table and began to speak, not with his usual easy flow of words, but in sharp, broken sentences and in a voice husky with disappointment: “My dear girl, I’m not preaching at you—don’t think that—I don’t want you to think I’m talking to you as a parson just, shall we say, as a friend—a friend rather older than you—though even that I won’t plead too strongly, because in some ways I’m nearly as much a stranger to life as you are. Perhaps you don’t know what I mean by that—well, never mind, it doesn’t matter—it’s a side issue. What I feel is that I want to talk to you—perhaps impertinently, in a way—I want to tell you how this course that you’re taking strikes me, as a complete outsider. It’s difficult, really, for me to express what I mean; I don’t want to bring in the question of morals; I’d rather put it to you as a matter of wisdom—after all, you probably believe in wisdom—you don’t look at all the sort of person to act recklessly, without thinking things out beforehand—”
“I’ve thought out everything beforehand, I assure you.”
“I know, I expected you to say that. All the same, there are times when one’s thoughts aren’t very reliable, when imagination loses its proper perspective, runs riot, as it were—do you know what I mean? It’s like all this new mathematics—I’ve been reading a book about it lately. Normally we live in a Euclidian sort of world—straight lines, everything very logical, just the ordinary life that we all grow accustomed to—then, suddenly, without any warning, something gets hold of us and we go switching over into an Einstein world full of curved space and parallel lines that do meet in the end—all very marvellous and perhaps truer, in a way, than the other sort of world, but we can’t afford to think so, because it wouldn’t work. All I want is for you to ask yourself whether what you are going to do will work—will it be a practical success—will it—will it—do you—are you going to—” He stopped abruptly and continued, after a pause and with a slight smile: “I wonder if you really understand what I’m talking about?”
“I think I probably do,” she answered cautiously, “though I’m puzzled to know why you’re talking about it.”
“Because I must, whether I offend you or not. To be quite frank, this man whom you know, whom you’re proposing to go to Paris with—is he—”
Her eyes widened incredulously. “A man?” she interrupted. “What man? And you say I’m going to Paris with him? Really—”
“Please don’t be offended. As I told you at the beginning, I don’t intend to preach—”
She suddenly laughed. “But, Mr. Freemantle, it’s all so utterly ridiculous! Oh, how absurd it is!” She laughed again, a little helplessly. “I can’t imagine how you got hold of such an idea. There’s no man at all. I’m not going with anybody.”
“You mean to say it’s all untrue? You’re not going to Paris with—with that man—”
“I am going abroad, certainly, but not with that man, or any man. And not, incidentally, to Paris, either. But I wish you’d tell me who that man is. I’m quite curious about him.”
His eyes, watching her and her amusement, half-filled with tears, he did not know why, and all the world around him seemed drowned in the most shattering and unspeakable loveliness. “I—I don’t know what to say,” he stammered. “Of course I’m only going by all the talk in Browdley; how people find everything out I can’t think. Someone, I believe, saw you getting into the train at Manchester with this man—a musician, I understood—”
Her laughing was almost hysterical now. “Oh, poor Isaac—how funny he’d think it all if he knew! He plays the fiddle at a cinema in Manchester; he’s married and has three children, I think—or perhaps four. He’s a dear old man, and a very great friend of mine. He saw me off at the station because I had a lot of luggage to handle, and before the train started we sat in the compartment together and talked. I suppose that must have been when people saw us.”
Howat could only stammer: “You must forgive me, forgive me.”
“Why, of course, if there were anything to forgive. It’s Browdley that’s to blame, not you. Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. It all makes me rather more determined that ever not to go back.”
“You’re not going back? You still say that?”
“Still? Why do you think I ought to change my mind?”
“I—I don’t know—except that I’m sure that your parents, now that this horrible story turns out to be untrue—would be very glad—very glad indeed—to have you back.”
“I’m not sure that they would, and in any case, I wouldn’t be glad at all. You don’t seem to realise that I don’t want to go back. I’ve got all sorts of other plans. I’m going to Vienna to study music. Didn’t you hear that? Weren’t there any true rumours flying about?”
“Music?”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other across the table amidst a curiously fateful silence. She continued, with sudden eagerness: “Oh, I’m so pleased we’ve cleared up all that stupid misunderstanding—we can talk to each other now just as I’ve wanted to for a long time. I was often on the point of telling you during those German lessons, but you never gave me the least encouragement—I had an impression you weren’t interested in me and my affairs. But you’re different now—I can see that—I suppose it’s because you’re out of Browdley. Anyhow, I must tell you all about it now that we’re here together. Do you mind?”
At first she had been aloof, baffling, cordial but on the defensive; now, however, the armour dropped and a warm friendliness took its place and made him exclaim: “Mind? Good heavens, no! I want to be told the whole story—especially about the music. I’m rather interested in music myself, but I’d no idea you were. What is it, the piano?”
“No, the fiddle. I’ve always been keen, ever since I was a child. There was a fiddle at our house that used to belong to an uncle of mine who died, and I taught myself to play on that. I never had any lessons at first; my father didn’t believe in that sort of thing. As a matter of fact, though perhaps you’ll smile and won’t believe it, I have an idea he thought all music, except hymn tunes and funeral marches, rather irreligious.” Howat certainly did smile, and she went on, as though encouraged: “When I was fifteen I wanted to earn a living somehow or other, so I got a job in the town library—the usual graft, y
ou know, father being a Councillor. It wasn’t at all a bad job, and it gave me a chance of reading all sorts of books as well as studying music in my spare time. As soon as I could afford it I began having lessons from Isaac in Manchester—his real name’s Isaacstein, but everybody calls him Isaac—I used to go once a week till he said he’d give me two lessons for the same money. He’s really been awfully kind and generous, and he’s quite a marvellous teacher. I wish you knew him. Well, all this has been going on now for some years; I’ve been improving my playing, I think, and I must admit I’ve been fairly happy all the time, only—only—” Her fluency ceased, and she gave him a queer abrupt smile across the table. “Only it isn’t any longer enough to satisfy me. I could never get anyone to realise that, except Isaac. It’s really not much use, is it, being fairly comfortable in what you’re doing, if there’s something else you want so dreadfully that you’re willing to put up with all the discomforts in the world for it?”
“I know. I think I can understand that.”
“That’s how I feel about music. It’s probably quite ridiculous of me, but I don’t care—other people are constantly doing things which I think ridiculous.”
“It’s a difficult profession, of course.”
“I know that. I’m prepared for all sorts of hardships, because I’m so certain in my own mind that they could never make me as unhappy as staying at home in Browdley. Besides, though it may seem a conceited thing to say, there is something in me. Musically, I mean. Even Isaac thinks there is. If I give myself a chance I might, some day, do something worth doing. Haven’t you ever felt like that about anything?”
He did not answer, but said, instead: “What I’m rather puzzling over is why you didn’t tell all this to your parents before you left. It seems such a pity to have needlessly quarrelled with them.”
“But there was no quarrel—not on my side, at any rate. I told them I was going to live abroad, and I was quite ready and willing to give them the fullest details about it, but they wouldn’t listen. I believe I did tell them a few things, but they obviously didn’t believe me. When I saw it was no use talking to them any more, I just went to bed, packed up my things during the night, and caught the first train in the morning.”
“Wasn’t that rather precipitate?”
“What else could I have done? They wouldn’t believe me or even listen. They never understood how I could be so keen on music, and I don’t think they ever believed that when I went to Manchester so often in the evenings it was only for fiddle lessons. Recently, too, I’ve been doing most of my practising in Manchester, in a room belonging to a music-shop, because they didn’t like the noise of it at home. Of course it is rather an awful noise sometimes, I admit.”
“It seems a pity, though, that you couldn’t have convinced them that it was all quite genuine.”
“I often tried, I assure you. But in the end I just had to give up bothering. After all, if people want to think things of that sort…” She shrugged her shoulders and added: “I’m afraid you must think me very cool and ruthless about it. I dare-say you’d understand better if you knew my parents.”
He said, more gently: “I do know them, a little. I can understand they were not very—sympathetic…Now tell me, what’s given you this idea of going to Vienna?”
“I want to join a school there. Isaac says it’s the best school in Europe, except one in Berlin, which I couldn’t afford. Ail sorts of people attend the classes—men and women of all ages and from all countries. I have to pass a kind of entrance examination first of all, but Isaac says I’ll do that quite easily.”
“Has this Mr. Isaacstein—is that it?—has he been encouraging you in all these ideas?”
“No. He says, as you say, that it’s a fearfully hard profession, and that I’m taking a big risk in giving up home and a job. But he likes my playing, all the same, and thinks there’s about a hundred to one chance that I’ll turn out pretty good.”
“A hundred to one in your favour?”
’No, against me, of course.”
“That doesn’t sound very optimistic.”
“He isn’t optimistic, he just means everything he says.”
“And, assuming he’s correct, are you satisfied with such a chance?”
“I’ve got to be, haven’t I? It’s either that or no chance at all.”
“What exactly will you do in this school?”
“Play the fiddle every day for hours and hours. Have lessons—perhaps from somebody of importance if I’m lucky. Eventually, if the hundred to one chance comes off, I’ll begin giving recitals.”
“Even that doesn’t necessarily mean success. There are scores of recitalists one never hears of.”
“Oh, I know. And you know, too, apparently. We both know.” She laughed.
“I suppose you’ve carefully looked into the financial side of it all?”
“So carefully and so often that I know it by heart. I can live in Vienna—not luxuriously, of course, but then I wouldn’t want to—on a hundred and fifty or so a year. Living’s a little cheaper than it is in England. At the end of six months, if I show promise, the school may grant me a scholarship, and I might also be able to get a few outside pupils. I’ve saved up exactly a hundred and eighty-seven pounds during the past six years, so I can afford at least twelve months at the school, even as an experiment.”
“What if the experiment doesn’t succeed?”
“Then I’ll at least know that I’ve had the chance and failed.”
“You may find yourself back in England penniless and without a job.”
“Possibly. But I’ll manage somehow—I can typewrite and do shorthand, card-indexing, and all that sort of thing. I shan’t need to go back to Browdley.”
“It’s taking a big plunge.”
“I know.”
“And you’re not afraid of doing it?”
“I’m more afraid of not doing it. I’d be afraid of looking back when I’m older and wishing I’d had the nerve when I was young.”
Howat rose abruptly from his chair, picking up the bill that the waitress had placed on the table. “Shall we go?” he said, smiling. “By the way, where are you staying in London?”
“With friends in South Kensington. Till to-morrow. I’m off in the morning.”
“To Vienna?”
“Yes. It’s the middle of term, but I think they’ll probably let me begin. If not, I’ll just wait there till next term.”
He paid the bill downstairs and walked with her into the street. The crowds and traffic had not noticeably subsided in the interval. He reached the kerbside with her; they had neither of them spoken since leaving the shop; and he thought, as he stood there: Shall I say good-bye and wish her luck, or shall I continue an argument that hasn’t the slightest chance of making her alter a single one of her intentions? Finally he adopted neither course, but said, altogether on impulse: “It just occurs to me that I’m feeling hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat since my lunch on the train this morning. What about your own plans? Are you doing anything particular this evening?”
“There was a violin concert I wanted to go to.”
“The one at the Cavendish?”
“That’s it. How did you know?”
“I saw it advertised and rather thought of going myself.”
“Then let’s go together after we’ve had some food somewhere.”
“That sounds a very happy suggestion.”
“I know a place in Soho, quite good and not expensive.”
“Splendid. We’ll go there.”
“It’s near Regent Street. If you’re hungry we’d better take a bus and go there now.”
They crossed the road and waited for a Regent Street bus, but it was full inside and they had to climb to the roof, which was open to the sky and the cold wind. Yet something in that arctic elevation gave all Howat’s perceptions a renewal of acuteness; once again he was caught up in swirls and eddies of enchantment, and as he felt her small tense body at his s
ide, he knew that finding out the real truth about her had set a dizzying crown upon his happiness. She was pure and good; that was everything; and her purity merged with the new hopefulness of his own future into a single celestial harmony. He could not be quite sure how it all fitted in, but he felt, during that short tingling journey: There is nothing wrong with me, in the way I feared, and there is nothing wrong with her, in the way I feared. We are both all right, and the whole world is all right…and the more he thought about it, the more marvellous that simple discovery seemed to him. In the ever-changing pattern of lamplight he observed her profile, the delicate little chin cushioned serenely in the fur collar, the bold slope of the forehead under the close fitting hat—it was a pure profile, he thought, matching her in other ways, too—it looked so eager, intent, and not to be deflected. There was something in the way she stared ahead that put him in mind of a rather lovely figurehead of a ship.
But he still felt it somehow his duty to persuade her to return to Browdley, even though he knew the futility of the attempt. The Vienna idea seemed to him quite hopelessly impractical; even her friend Isaac had not been encouraging. Howat felt that he ought, at least, to stress the uncertainty of it, the risks of ultimate disappointment and failure. On the other hand, he reflected, she knew all the risks quite as well as he did; she was walking into them with her eyes open; and then, glancing towards her momentarily, he saw her as the living symbol of an attitude—that attitude of knowing and taking risks with eyes wide open. And it was an attitude which suddenly, by sheer loveliness of appeal, broke down his last misgiving, so that he said, there on that bus-top, just the opposite of what he felt he ought to say and just the essence of what he felt; he said, stooping a little to her: “My dear girl, I’m going to give you some advice which may rather surprise you. You go. Go to Vienna. Take your chance. Work hard, and may God be with you and reward your courage!”