The Dangerous Years

by Richard Church

  His benevolence had by now cooled. It was in process of being replaced by that implacable business instinct which had made him so successful an impresario.

  “But it is irrational!” exclaimed Mary with a touch of asperity. “She cannot thrust her opinions into our lives. She has no hold upon Tom. She left him because she did not approve of his giving up his career in the Army. That was worldly enough. She cannot appeal to Heaven to support her in that. It is not only irrational; it is dishonest.”

  “Quite so,” said Mr. Sturm, his voice quieter and slower than usual, “quite so, Mrs. Winterbourne. But you, Colonel, will recognise, since you have been in so close a contact with a Catholic mind, that your wife may regard the matter as being outside her control.”

  There was a deadlock for some time after this. Mary was indignant. She was also momentarily frightened. She looked at Tom again and again, but he sat there, evasive, sinking again into that passivity from which she had believed him to be already rescued under the assurance of their passion, and the pride it had brought him, and of which he had told her again and again.

  “Oh well,” she said finally, drawing on her gloves, rather as a snub to the American than as a signal for departure, “all that is a matter to be arranged. Surely you would agree, Mr. Sturm, that it would be advantageous if Colonel Batten and I went over in charge of the boy? It would certainly induce his parents to agree to the tour that you want to arrange.”

  This was a direct attack, and Mr. Sturm was prepared to admire her for it. But he looked at her again, carefully estimating her purpose and her character before he spoke, sadly shaking his head.

  “That won’t be for some time yet, dear lady. Not for another ten years, in fact. You see, it is like this. I am interested in other artists too. My journey to St. Moritz was not, as you presumed,” and he gave an admonitory accent in that reference to her presumption, “in chase of the infant prodigy, wonderful as he may be. I went to contact an already world-famed artist. And it is he who has refused to allow me to promote young Adrian Batten at present. He says that the boy needs ten years’ quiet work, with no outside interference or glamour-stuff. It’s a counsel of perfection, but he persists in it, and has threatened to break with me as his own promoter, if I persist. I can’t afford to do that, Mrs. Winterbourne, for the artist is none other than Artur Schnabel.”

  He delivered the name as though expecting Mrs. Winterbourne to be annihilated by it. She was not, for her interest in the world of music was quite conventional and perfunctory. She had heard the name, of course, but merely as one of many professional pianists. She may even have heard Schnabel play; but would not be sure of that. Her concern was with the welfare and future of her lover. She was prepared to fight. For the moment, she said nothing. Her anger was gathering, and she sat looking at Mr. Sturm, now no longer an ally.

  Mr. Sturm saw the antagonism in her eyes. He was professionally expert at reading such scriptures. His world-wide business depended upon that skill.

  “I’ll tell you, dear lady,” he said, speaking softly, ingratiatingly, “that the master has offered to take the boy for the last two of those ten years. You will appreciate what that means, I am certain. You understand, Colonel? It is a big thing, a mighty big thing. And believe me, it is worth waiting for. It will make that boy as safe as Solomon!”

  For a moment, Mary was puzzled by this reference. She thought of the Bible hero, and of the Queen of Sheba. She even wondered if Mr. Sturm was making a point at her and the comparable relation between herself and Tom Batten. But Mr. Sturm added:

  “And Solomon was a child prodigy; open to all the dangers too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Annunciation

  Before Schnabel left, two days after Mr. Sturm’s departure, he had another conversation with John and Joan Boys, instructing them what to say to Adrian’s parents when they took the child back to Paris. On the last afternoon, he invited the boy to his private sitting-room, but no strains of music emerged during that interview. The veteran and the infant sat talking, and looking at music scores. Interrupting the absorbing tête-à-tête, Adrian ran upstairs and returned with his skates, which he had to demonstrate to this new friend. The enthusiasts were very sagacious together, and an observer would have had to be shrewd to ascertain who was the more grave of the two.

  The old musician took Adrian back to his guardians, and had tea with them in an obscure corner of the great lounge. When he said good-bye, he stood contemplating the child, with a hand on the nape of the small neck.

  “Ah!” he said, “young man! You must not let your skates rust; not a speck! Not a pin-point!” He shook hands, surprisingly gently, with the adults, touched the boy again on the shoulder, turned with an almost military precision, and stumped away. Little Adrian sat down beside John, opposite Joan. His face had gone pale, and his eyes shone so brilliantly that Joan feared he had taken a chill.

  “I think we’ll go up, Adrian,” she said. For once he did not object. He stood up, without a word, and waited for her to lead the way. When she did not move, he put his hand in hers so confidingly that she felt a spasm of maternal agony. It was absurd, she told herself. To shake off the untoward mood, she took the boy away, leaving John to seek the billiard-room.

  “What is it, Joan?” said the infant, while she was undressing him. He was still deceptively distrait, after his session with Schnabel.

  “What is what?” she demanded, sharply, for she felt that one of his almost supernatural remarks was coming. Her abruptness of tone made him glance up at her mischievously.

  “What has made you so different since we came?” he added.

  “But I am not different,” she lied. It was impossible to let this go on.

  “Oh yes,” he said, shaking his head solemnly. “I can’t tell you what it is. But I could play it. Yes, I could play it.” He shut his eyes, and made pianistic gestures with his fingers and outspread hands. “It would be in an open key, and a long phrase, oh, so lovely, Joan, just as I love you too. It would be wonderful, like smelling flowers, oh … oh …” Suddenly he seized her and clung with his arms round her neck, burying his face in her hair just above the ear. She felt him panting, his breath hot, sweet. “I wish you were my mother too, Joan. You ought to be my mother. I want you, I want you!” He began to weep, still clinging to her with animal intensity.

  She was at a loss what to do. She dared not repulse him. For a few moments she let him remain thus, long enough to realise that she was responding with a passion that terrified her because it was so unaccountable. It was even more primitive than the newly-released sensations which had brought happiness between her and her husband. Those were almost self-conscious in comparison. But she knew, as well, that they were augmented and in part explained, and doubled, by this response to Adrian’s emotion. But the child was certainly abnormal, she told herself guiltily, and must not be encouraged for another instant.

  “There, Adrian. Gently, old fellow.” She was groping for words, trying to accept his dreadful adultness while abstracting it from him, to make him a child again, without that burden of passion, or genius; whatever it was. “You mustn’t upset yourself just at bed-time, Adrian. Why, it will make you dream.” She slowly unclasped the boy’s arms, and drew them down to his sides, still holding them in case he grew violent again. “You’ll be over-tired to-morrow. And if the weather changes, as John says it will, we have planned to go skating in the morning. That will be grand; all three of us. John has promised us that. Why, we’ve been indoors for nearly a week, haven’t we, while the gale has been blowing and loosening the snow?”

  Gradually she succeeded in quietening the boy. But after she had got him to bed, and seen about a supper-tray, he had the parting word.

  “I wish somehow that we were going home again soon. There’s so much I want to play; all the snow, and the rink, and the toboggan run, and the shining mountains. And I want to play what I told you just now, Joan; to show you how … how you smell so lovely, so love
ly.” He stared at her unbelievingly, and she retreated backwards, oddly shy, and not daring to let him look at her from behind as she left his room.

  She did not go downstairs at once. She did not even enter her own room, but walked slowly up and down the corridor, lost in a rumination beyond her understanding. She felt hot, besieged. Something was clamouring at her mind, and she was afraid. Putting her hands to her cheeks, she felt them burning. Her breath laboured. Then someone left the lift, and turned the angle of the corridor. It was John.

  “Hallo, old girl, got him to bed?” He spoke before he had observed any disturbance. Then, approaching closer, he saw.

  “Anything wrong, Joan? You look hot. What’s …?”

  “It must be this central heating. I feel I’m being boiled alive. Oh, I wish we could get out. This begins to frighten me, John.”

  “Frighten you? What d’you mean, old dear? Dancing, and music, and jolly good meals? I should have thought that would appeal to a woman. I’m the one to be frightened. It’s making me soft. Too infernally comfortable, all this kind of life. I don’t know. But I’m not grumbling, for once. Look here, Joan, I’ve been happier with you during this holiday than ever before. I’ll say that. You know what I mean. We’ve started something, eh, old girl? And it’s been fun having that kid along with us. An eye-opener, really. I’d not given a thought to that sort of thing before. You see? But look here, you’re not feeling too good, are you? Come in and lie down for half an hour before dinner. I’ll read to you.”

  “No, we must let Adrian get off to sleep. He’s overexcited already. If he hears our voices he’ll want to join in. You know what he’s like. He’s just been frightening me again. That’s what has upset me, perhaps. I can’t describe what happens. But he works himself up suddenly into an emotional state.” She frowned, then laughed nervously, as John took her round the waist and persuaded her into her room. “John. If I were mad, I might fancy he is as old as you—and in love with me.”

  John looked at her, relinquishing his grasp. Then he spoke, softly, thoughtfully, a man coming to a belated conclusion.

  “I shouldn’t blame him for that, my dear. No, Joan, I shouldn’t. But I might want to cut in, you know. I might raise a few objections, as your husband, especially as your husband, after what I’ve learned lately.” He chuckled, and put his arm round her again, kissing her hair, and then suddenly turning her face up with one hand, kissing her on the mouth and pausing to whisper:

  “Is that what the little rascal wanted, eh, Joan?”

  “I don’t know; I don’t know!” she replied, her voice broken with distress, or eagerness. “But it’s what I want, John. I feel lost. What is happening to me? Stay with me while I change my dress. I can’t be left alone.”

  “I’ll stay with you, my dear. I’m a bit off-side too. Is it something to do with the row we had, or is it the influence of this boy we’re in charge of? He’s got me too, I must admit.” Then he approached her again, and she felt his hand trembling when he touched her bare shoulder. “But it’s the future now, Joan. It’s the future. But you ought to lie down a bit. I’ll stay here. I was coming up to do a bit of work. But I’ll stay with you. Let’s lie down now, and take it easy.” No sound came from the next room. Adrian must have fallen asleep immediately.

  Later, when they were dressing, with the communicating door open, Joan went in to her husband, for him to fasten the zip of her dress at the back.

  “John,” she said, reaching up and touching the tip of his ear with her lips, “this is different now. We are really together. Does it mean … Oh, I hope it means …” and she indicated, with a glance over her shoulder, the room beyond her own, where the infant lay.

  “It wouldn’t be unnatural, would it?” he said. “But where should I be, then?”

  “Oh, you fool, you dear fool,” she whispered, rich with unutterable laughter, “you will always be the youngest, the most obstinate, the difficult baby.”

  They went down to dinner, after peeping in at Adrian, who lay asleep with one arm outside the bedclothes. Joan tenderly moved it, and covered it up. He murmured something, half-opened his eyes, but was off again, turning with a sensual sigh into the pillow.

  “He’s put on a bit of colour since we brought him here,” whispered John. “Don’t wake him up.” He drew Joan away, but she was reluctant. The sleeping boy magnetised her, and she looked back again at him before they shut the door.

  After dinner, they joined the dancers in the salon for the rest of the evening, returning to their room, and to Joan’s bed, just before midnight.

  Next morning the weather had changed. The wind had dropped, and the temperature too. The sun rose along the valley, on a world once more glittering and crystalline.

  “Look at this,” said John, turning from the window, “we’re free again, Joan. Now’s the test. We’ll see what this week indoors has done to us. I’d like to take that boy for a short climb. Good to introduce him to something tough. You remember what the old musician said about teaching him to climb, to brace up his muscles? I think that old boy must regard the piano as a kind of marathon!”

  Joan did not think he was serious about taking a child of nine climbing. She did not even bother to reply, but lingered about, her mood still indulgent, luxuriant. She looked at her clothes critically, and disliked them. “What a sight I’ve been,” she said, half to herself. John heard, and disapproved. “Good enough for me, Joan. But let’s think about to-day. What are we going to plan? We might all three climb a little way. It will give Adrian no end of a kick to think he’s doing something grown-up. Though heaven knows he doesn’t want encouraging in that way. But we ought to test ourselves, Joan. We’ve been letting ourselves go, don’t you think?”

  She stared at him. But she said nothing, being determined to have no more recriminations. The touch of fear in her heart, that the old schoolboy athleticism was again in command, must not be recognised. She played for safety, and said nothing except to point out that Adrian had certainly been over-tired the night before, and that his heart was set on being able to go skating as soon as the weather permitted. John was silent for some time after this suggestion. She saw the struggle going on within him, and she dared not interfere. She could not trust herself to say the right thing.

  Not until after breakfast was the subject broached again. Adrian had appeared with skates already in hand. He was excited, and could hardly be persuaded to sit at the table.

  “What about a climb, Adrian?” asked John, innocently, helping the boy to an egg.

  Joan prayed over the reply, which was long in forthcoming. She knew that if the boy welcomed the proposal, she would have to intervene. She was determined, somehow, to stop such a mad adventure. Adrian beat the top of his egg, holding the spoon delicately in those skilful fingers. He frowned, then looked up slyly at John, and smiled, after an equally malicious glance at Joan.

  “I’d like to go skating, if you don’t mind,” he said. “Joan can come with me.”

  “Oh, oh, and what do I do?” cried John.

  Joan saw instantly the gleam of relief in his eyes. She knew that he wanted to get away, to reassure himself that his muscles had not lost their strength. There was nothing to be done. He had to fight this out for himself.

  “You’ll have to go alone,” she said. It was useless to pretend that she was not content with the idea. She was at peace, and confident. Nothing could disturb her now, she believed. She thought of her mother, and realised with dismay that her own recent misery had made her unjust, cruel. “I’ll go up and write a note to Paris,” she said, “and by that time you’ll both have finished your breakfast. Then Adrian and I will go down to the rink and see what’s doing. You go off on your own for this morning, John. Or why not make a day of it with those Cambridge men? I’m sure they’d welcome the suggestion.”

  This offer confirmed her first observation that John was brooding over the recent sweet indulgences. He pretended to look uncertain, but his face was alight with excitement.r />
  “Sure that’s all right?” he asked, rhetorically. “Right, old girl. Jolly good scheme. I’ll hunt out those fellows and see what they have to say about it. It might be a good plan, just to stretch our legs, you know. Can’t do anything serious, of course, after the recent snows. But we could have a look round, and find our bearings. By Jove, I feel like Samson this morning. I could knock a house over. But you never know. A spell like that indoors can get you unawares.”

  With this last remark, he looked gravely into Joan’s eyes; not accusingly, but with an acknowledged fear that made her want to shake him, and to take him in her arms with redoubled tenderness. But instead, she turned to the boy beside her, who was scooping the yolk out of his egg, wholly concentrated on that important task.

  “Wait here, then, both of you, and I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

  She laughed to herself as she stood in the lift. She pictured the two males at the breakfast table, endeared to her by their intense self-absorption. She felt a hundred years older than these two, questing creatures. She could wait now; everything would come to her; the future of the human race. Of that she was confident. In this mood she wrote a conciliatory note to her mother, and returned, dressed for outdoors, to find John and Adrian almost beside themselves with impatience.

  “Good! Here you are. Now then, Adrian, got everything you want? Remember to let your body swing on the hips. Throw your weight forward. But I don’t need to tell you. It’s all a matter of rhythm; like his music, eh, Joan; like his music?”

  John had already got everything organised. He bustled about, supervising Adrian’s preparations for venturing out, helping him with woollens and windjacket, fastening one glove while Joan attended to the other. Then he turned his attention to his wife, approving her appearance and the usefulness of her outdoor clothes. He fetched her skates from the lobby, and made sure that the laces in her boots were in good trim. “Everything O.K.!” he cried, accompanying them to the hotel door. “I’ve fixed things up with the other fellows, and we propose to start off. They think we ought to make a job of it, though. You don’t mind, Joan?”