But a few days after that night, when Basil suggested that they go to the Catskills, she had been relieved at the prospect of leaving the city, of being alone, cut off from everyone, so she could think it through. Of course, Basil was with her most of the time – except for two weeks in August when he had conducting dates at several summer concerts. Being with Basil had been different, though, had been almost the same as being alone, they had been a part of each other. Her harpsichord and Basil’s piano had been transported to the cabin, and they split the days between themselves: in the morning she practised and he did what he liked, in the afternoon Basil read manuscripts and played critical passages while she went up the mountain sides in search of laurel or found a brook in which she could splash and wade. At night they had been together, driving along the twisting mountain lanes or lying back on the dewy grass, their eyes on the stars, their arms about each other.
She had never thought it through. She had made several false starts. One time she had decided that she would go to Dr Danzer, whom she was supposed to have called but had not, and tell him everything. On another occasion she had decided that this would be useless, that Dr Danzer would say what he had said before. He would tell her that this had not happened, that it was an hallucination, a figment of her neurosis that arose out of another, older guilt. But she had believed this for only a little time. Then the other aspect of her self, the sceptical part of her, had scoffed. She knew that whatever had happened that last night with Shad, had happened; it was real. It had not been a dream. Shad was dead, and his death had been recorded in the newspapers. What was more – and the strange thing was that she could formulate the thought, could think of it coldly as a fact, without alarm – it was more than likely, it was probable, that she had killed him.
‘I’ve always said that there was something in the case that never came to light.’ Nancy’s remark sounded like a trumpet to her ears. Abruptly, her reverie was shattered, and she became electrically aware of Nancy and the danger of her chatting tongue. ‘The police said this woman was jealous of him. They found witnesses who had seen them quarrelling, who had heard her accuse him of infidelity only the night before she killed him. But they never mentioned who she was jealous of, never a word leaked out as to who it was he was carrying on with – they made a real mystery of that!’ Nancy tossed her head to emphasize her point. Jack, her pallid companion, nodded his perfunctorily – he was plainly bored with the conversation.
She could not decide whether Nancy actually suspected anything or not. But she did seem to keep coming closer and closer to the truth – if she were really clever, this might be a test. ‘Oh, I think the police knew!’ she exclaimed, trying to make her voice seem exasperated, as if she were tired of talking about an old, sordid crime. ‘They undoubtedly questioned the person, found she was innocent and didn’t release her name. Would you want to see an innocent woman’s reputation ruined?’
Nancy looked at her closely and smiled slightly. ‘Why, Ellen,’ she said, ‘what a horror you must think I am! Of course, I shouldn’t want to see this mysterious person’s name in print. I’d just like to know who she was, that’s all. You see, Jim Shad was my friend. I can’t help but be curious, and I should think you would be. Didn’t you meet him at my house the very day before he was murdered?’
She opened her mouth to speak, to say something, anything, to keep off the silence and allow herself time to think. But before she could speak, Mrs Smythe, wraith-like, materialized at her side. Her brittle fingers clung to her elbow, her wrinkled face smiled coaxingly. ‘Darling Ellen, I am loath to tear you away from these charming people, but dear Jeffry is waiting to see you. He attended your concert, you know, and he is going to do a little piece about it in tomorrow’s paper. But, darling, he wants to see you first; he wants to have a little discussion, and he has a deadline to meet. So I’m sure your kind friends will excuse you!’
The birdlike pressure on her arm was surprisingly forceful; she found herself swivelled about by Mrs Smythe and obliquely propelled through the crowd to another part of the room where Jeffry Upman sat, alone and gingerly, upon a gilt chair, tapping at the darker squares of the parquet floor with the ferrule of his tightly-rolled umbrella. He was a thin, palsied, old man whose slight figure was bent into the shape of a question-mark. Whether his bodily posture had anything to do with his aesthetic predilection for the rhetorical question had long been a moot point among the wags of Fifty-seventh Street; however, all his reviews were spotted with indications of interrogation like raisins in bread-pudding. ‘Last night in the august halls of Carnegie,’ he would write, ‘among the accustomed pomps and amid the proper hush, Mr Blizz-Blazz revealed himself to be one of the consummate artists of our time. There was something in his tone that melted, although it at no time lacked the vertebraic rhythm of authority, something that commanded our most subtle emotions and demanded a quality of listener on a level with the quality of Mr Blizz-Blazz’s musicianship. Were there some in the audience who noticed, on occasion, a slight divagation from true pitch? Did others seem to feel that, here and there, inflections could be descried that were untraditional, if not debatable? Perhaps, one or more in the audience were aware of certain inconsistencies of tempi, of an unfortunate tremolo, some ill-chosen retardations? If so, these connoisseurs were the exception, as the cataclysmatic applause that greeted the artist after his second number spontaneously attested to the circumstance that unequivocal recognition and enthusiastic approval were Mr Blizz-Blazz’s due. Later, the programme promised that this unparalleled artist would return to play concertos by Mendelssohn, Tschaikovsky and Sibelius, as well as smaller pieces by Lalo, Debussy and Thomson; but, unfortunately, the lateness of the hour and the excruciating length of modern programmes prevented our further attendance.’
Jeffry had been a music critic in New York since before the days of Gustav Mahler; he was now not only super-annuated, but somnolent, a fact that more than one concert-goer had discovered for himself by glimpsing him drowsing in his seat through the most thunderous of symphonies. Usually he contrived to stay awake through the first number or two, but after that sleep overcame him. To many musicians sleeping critics are not too different from sleeping dogs, and Jeffry’s sleepiness might not have become an object of jest if he had not also been inclined to snore. More than one violinist, while playing an unaccompanied suite of Bach’s or the quiet movement of a Debussy sonata, had become uncomfortably aware of Jeffry’s unintended, but frequently disastrous, obbligato. Curiously, his reputation did not seem to suffer from his habit of catnapping in concert halls; some said this was because of Mrs Smythe’s influence, and it did play a part, but it was more probably just another manifestation of our society’s respect for anything that is old and accustomed. People were used to seeing Jeffry Upman’s signature in the papers, a decade or more ago he had written several books on ‘music appreciation’ that Mrs Smythe had connived to have distributed by a book club, and to the general public he was as much a fixture, a respectable piece of cultural furniture, as an ageing statesman – most people do not read music criticism anyway.
She knew all these things, and she realized that it was useless to feel bitter towards senility. Even so, as she stood before him and saw his trembling head, his dull, heavy-lidded eyes and his pale, blue-veined, old man’s flesh, she felt a desire to laugh at him, to pull him off the gilt chair and onto his feet, to turn him about and display him to the party, to cry out, ‘Here you are! Look at him. This is what passes on the music you hear, this is the person whose review you will read tomorrow to find out if what you heard tonight was good or not!’ But, of course, she did not do it.
Her presence was a formality, as was his. They both knew it, and showed that they knew it to each other as they fumbled for words. Mrs Smythe broke the silence. ‘I was sure, Jeffry, that you would want to speak to dear Ellen. Everyone, simply everyone, was amazed at her brilliance tonight.’ These were Jeffry’s instructions, for which he had been waiting, she kne
w. And she also realized that Mrs Smythe had forced the encounter, that Jeffry had not been ‘eager to see her’, but only waiting to discover what his friend’s verdict would be.
How Mrs Smythe arrived at her verdict no one knew – least of all Jeffry. But it was not irrevocable, and she would have to play the game out, to be polite to the thin, old figure who questioningly tapped with his umbrella as he peered up at her, whose eyes were already all but shut, who wanted nothing better than to get out of this hot, noisy room, away from all these milling people, so that once more he might fall asleep.
‘It was most kind of you to come, Mr Upman,’ she said (what else was there to say?), ‘I am looking forward to reading your notice.’
Jeffry jiggled a bit on his chair, and the umbrella tapped more loudly. He coughed, drily, once, twice. She remembered that he always prefaced his remarks with this ritual. When he spoke, his voice sounded like a piece of chalk drawn across a blackboard or an out-of-tune piccolo. ‘Splendid! Splendid! Splendid!’ he squeaked. Then he looked down at his hand and watched it travel to his vest, cautiously observed it as it plucked a gold turnip from his pocket and snapped the lid to reveal two spidery hands converging on an ivory dial. ‘Splendid!’ he wheezed as he stood up gradually, his knees stiff, his body bent, his feet the dot of the question-mark. ‘It’s late. I must go.’
‘Jeffry, you can’t,’ Mrs Smyth said firmly and, as he continued to stand, showed that she meant what she said by pushing him down again on to the fragile chair. ‘Ellen has promised to play for us, and I know you will want to listen.’
The old man’s chin sagged and his lips trembled querulously. But all he said was, ‘Splendid! In that case. By all means. Splendid!’
The conversation, if it could be called that, ended as peremptorily as it had been begun by Mrs Smythe’s inexorable pressure on her elbow. Meekly, she turned away from Jeffry and allowed herself to be urged by her persistent hostess into the crowd of guests. This time she was directed towards the far end of the great room, towards a raised platform that was decorated with velvet drapes and bedecked with two tall vases of roses and upon which sat the harpsichord Mrs Smythe had foresightedly provided for the occasion. Throughout the evening the drapes had been drawn, the instrument concealed, and even now the butler was still occupied with tying back a flounce, adjusting the position of the rose-filled vases. As they proceeded among the guests, they became gradually the centre of attention. What signal had Mrs Smythe given to invoke this miracle, this sudden, unexpected quieting of talk, this concentrated curiosity? Perhaps none, or perhaps the butler had been instructed to open the drapes when he saw them talking to old Jeffry, or, most likely yet, the entire evening had been planned to conform to a strict time schedule. Whatever her method, the fact remained that Mrs Smythe’s receptions always featured these swift, appropriate changes-of-scene, always betrayed the presence of an experienced stage director, no doubt Mrs Smythe herself.
As she thought this, she caught sight of a diminutive person, a slight bowed figure in watered silk – Madame Tedescu. She was standing a little to the left of a group of two men and a vivacious woman that they were to skirt. Forgetting Mrs Smythe, she swerved in the other direction and pushed her way to the smiling old lady whose solitary presence meant so much to her. Madame Tedescu was in her sixties, her face had shrunk with age and weakness required that she lean upon a gold-headed ebony cane. Her hair was white and fell softly upon her shoulders, but her eyes were as bright and her smile as witty as the first day Ellen had come to her studio.
Madame saw her coming. The smile widened and her eyes glistened. She remembered that Madame had many times earnestly told her that she was her favourite pupil, ‘the only one to whom I wish to entrust my tradition’. Knowing this, she also knew that Madame would not lie to her, that Madame would tell her sincerely whether she had played well tonight.
Mrs Smythe, surprised at her escape, caught up with her just as she reached her old friend and teacher. As if she sensed that Ellen had a particular reason for breaking away, she managed to place herself between them and to speak first. ‘You should be very proud of our Ellen tonight, Madame. Dear Jeffry was telling me only a moment ago that this recital was one of the great events of his lifetime. Of course, you will read his piece tomorrow to find out all he says, but I can tell you now, confidently, that it will be a paean.’
She had thought that she was accustomed to Mrs Smythe’s rudeness and her arbitrary statements, but she had also thought that even Mrs Smythe would not be so crass. If she blushed, if she felt her throat go dry, it was not only out of embarrassment, but because she quickly realized that one reason why Mrs Smythe had not wanted her to see her old friend, and why she was now attempting to influence her opinion as she had Jeffry’s, might be that even Mrs Smythe, whose taste in music was appalling in its absence, had known that tonight something had been wrong.
‘You do not need to tell me about Ellen.’ Madame Tedescu spoke slowly and with still a trace of a Viennese accent. ‘I was at the concert. I listened.’ She nodded her head solemnly, but then she looked at her and smiled. Her eyes were grave and her smile was kind, but by means of a simple change of expression, an admission of melancholy, she conveyed to her that she was concerned. ‘I have not seen you in years, Ellen,’ she said, but there was no reproach in her voice. ‘Could you come to my studio tomorrow? Some time in the morning would be best. We can talk better there.’ And, still smiling, she reached out and stroked her shoulder.
The butler had finished with the drapes and the vases – Mrs Smythe was eager to manoeuvre her prize on to the stage. ‘Ellen has consented to play for us, Madame. In just a few minutes.’ She shifted her feet restlessly, the grey veils of her frock moving mysteriously, as if to imply a haste she was too polite to mention.
Madame Tedescu stopped smiling, and her expression became wholly serious. ‘But you are tired, aren’t you, Ellen? You have played enough tonight.’ Her tone seemed a little severe.
Mrs Smythe showed her presence of mind. She turned about instantly, her manner sympathetic, but her voice firm. ‘I shouldn’t want you to play if you are too tired, Ellen darling,’ she said. ‘I am only too aware of how exhausting your concerts must be! But, darling, Jeffry will be so disappointed!’
Although she did not want to play, although she wanted only to leave this absurd reception, this roomful of outrageous people, to get out of doors and feel the wind on her face, to look up and see the dark sky, to be alone, she understood the threat in her hostess’s words, knew that if she did not comply with her wishes and play, Mrs Smythe was capable of speaking to Jeffry again, of changing her verdict and his. And she was afraid, not as much from what Madame had said as from her manner, that she would need Jeffry’s little ‘paean’ tomorrow.
‘Of course I’ll play,’ she said to Mrs Smythe. And to her old friend, pressing her hand, ‘You’ll see I’m really not too tired. And I promise to visit you in the morning.’
Madame Tedescu was not displeased at her decision, although her nod of acknowledgement was brief and her smile wry. But Mrs Smythe was fairly tugging at her arm, and she knew her reluctance would become obvious if she lingered any longer. So she allowed herself to be led to the platform.
While her hostess raised her voice to announce that she had consented to play, she seated herself at the strange instrument and closed her eyes. In a few moments she would have to place her fingers on the manuals, to arch them and strike notes, to cease thinking about the world of herself and to think only of her world of sound. Or that was the way it should be. It had not been that way, except on a few, scattered occasions, for a very long time. Since the early part of the summer, since the week she left the hospital, she had played some part of every day. Her fingers had played, the notes had sounded as her eyes had read the page or her memory had prompted her. All the old tricks had returned, her virtuosity was if anything greater than it had ever been. But only a few times had it been right. Almost invariably
all the sounds had been there and in the proper places, the tone had been accurate, the phrasing exactly what she wished it to be. Still it seemed to her that her playing had remained but a procession of sounds, an alternation of tones, a ragbag of phrases. There was no whole; it worked, when it worked at all, in fits and starts, inanely. Yet her technique remained impeccable, her fingers responded to her mind’s demands, all the notes were there. If it were her world no longer, if it had ceased to make sense to her – and, truly, it had – where was her fault, what had gone wrong?
Mrs Smythe had concluded her announcement, and now a ripple of applause informed her that they were waiting for her to begin. She opened her eyes and looked at them, at their polished pink faces, their flushed bare arms and backs, their shining white shirt-fronts and flowing dresses, thinking how much they looked like a stiff prosaic collection of porcelain figurines adorning a bric-à-brac shelf. A pattern of sound formed in her head, etched itself precisely, making her feel alive and well: the first measures of Anna Magdalena’s aria. If she could only play it once more the way she heard it! For Madame was listening, would be listening with all her intelligence, and if it came out right and good the way it used to come, she would know it and tell her. She looked for Madame among the pink faces, her eyes roving back and forth across the crowded room. She saw Jeffry, and over there was Nancy, still talking to the pallid man. Near them was a striking auburn-haired girl, a beautiful girl in a lustrous black gown, a girl who was familiar. She was talking to a blond man, talking seriously, quietly, as if she loved him. Who was the man? He looked familiar, too; but, then, she could see only part of him – the rear of his head, his shoulder and his hand raised in a gesture that she was certain she knew, that she surely had seen many times before. The girl stood partly in front of him, turned sidewise to face him, obscuring him from her view. Oh, now they were moving! He had put his arm around her; they were walking towards an alcove, a darker corner, where they would not be seen. They were in love – she was pleased that she had seen them, that her eyes had alighted on them just before she struck the first chord; it was a good sign. But who were they? – why did she feel she knew them? She watched them as they worked their way arm-in-arm back to the alcove, watched them enter, and then saw the man’s face for the first time as he pulled at the velour drape. He was Basil.
Devil Take the Blue-Tail Fly Page 15