A Note in Music

by Rosamond Lehmann

  There was Gerald, now, she thought, jumping on to her tram and settling herself in a corner—Gerald, so fastidious and high-minded, abhorring all forms of bodily indulgence—but Gerald was not free, not calm and balanced: quite the reverse—a tangle of passionate conflicts and repressions. What good to anybody was his idealism? First, the boys would be alarmed and alienated; then, by the force of reaction, plunged into excesses; then immediately disowned. … Oh, dear! …

  She wished Hugh had not gone away—dear Hugh, so happily at home on earth, looking outward, not always at himself; encouraging one to believe that the gaiety of life had not perished from the world, nor the flavour departed: but had only passed out of one’s own reach.

  It was extraordinary (seeing how rarely one had seen him), but an undoubted fact, that since his departure there had been a change for the worse in the texture of existence, a failure of elasticity, an onset of aridity. If one listened when one woke up in the morning, one could hear as it were the sound of a prosaic voice, hollow, droning on. … Yes, he had made a difference. He had been most unsettling.

  She experienced a sudden anxious pang, a momentary misery and void, thinking that only herself knew how near she’d been to—being silly about him; in spite of having thought herself long past such disturbances. Well … but one needn’t feel too guilty and unfaithful. Gerald had quite lost his head over Clare. Did he ever think of her now? He never spoke of her. Yet sometimes one wondered. … Wasn’t there a new—a rather horrid—expression on his face? Wasn’t he behaving as if—as if he’d scored somehow, without one’s knowing it?

  The tram stopped. She roused herself and saw that she had reached the top of Grace’s terrace.

  On an impulse, she jumped out, suddenly wanting the queer stimulus of Grace’s presence, her odd sanity, her impersonal smile. They had not met for months.

  It was Grace herself who opened the door. Her face was altered somehow—worn down, transparent. If it were not so very improbable, one would have said she had been crying.

  “Norah!” Unwonted pleasure and affection rang in her voice. Her face had lit so suddenly that one realized, thought Norah, how sad it had been before. “I’m so glad to see you. Come in and talk to me.”

  And she took her arm and led her into the sitting-room, saying, as she pushed up the armchair:

  “You’re the very person I wanted. Tell me the nicest place to send a person to have a baby.”

  It was nearly supper-time when Norah started to walk home. The rain was over, and the sky was fairing—wind-swept, starry, dramatic. The gleaming white mast of the crescent moon went tossing and dipping through hurrying rollers of dark and pallid cloud. A lovely night.

  As she hurried home, she thought of Grace: how fond of her she was, how enduring it had been, if never intimate, this bond between them: so that after ten years it was plain truth to say, as she had said at parting—putting on her hat again and sighing comfortably:

  “Well, good-bye, Grace. You’re a great comfort to me, really—very soothing. I often wonder what I’d do without you.”

  To-night they had got on better than ever before—made, as it were, a sudden step together. In fact, they had had a good old gossip.

  They had discussed everybody: first Annie, with Grace giving an imitation of her, and being funny about her as well as sympathetic; then Hugh and Clare, and all the people and the incidents of that far-off day in summer. Norah remembered remarking, with assumed carelessness:

  “By the way, Hugh’s gone for good”—and Grace answering in the same offhand way:

  “I know. He came to say good-bye.”

  A pair of old pretenders they were, thought Norah; for surely the way Grace had added, “Have you heard anything of him?”—trying unsuccessfully to conceal a blush—surely that went to show that even unsusceptible old Grace had felt a flutter. … It was an amusing thought.

  Then, Norah remembered, she had told her about her afternoon—described her experiences, tried to give her a sketch of Miss Roberts.

  “Norah, why do you do these awful things?” she’d said.

  “I suppose to keep myself from the unhealthy habit of thinking.”

  “Mm. I suppose I ought to, too. But I shan’t. I’ve never yet disciplined myself, and I’m not going to start. My vices are my only consolation. You’re a much more moral character than I am, Norah. I should think the chastest star might peep.”

  “At its peril!”

  And they had laughed, saying how like a chaste star it was to peep—and gone on from there to talk of literature, and regret their ignorance of it; and agreed to go to some lectures together this winter.

  Grace had said, too:

  “Secret thinking’s as bad as secret drinking. It makes one a living falsehood. But what’s a person in my position to do?”—giving thus the first definite hint she had ever given that her personal life was all awry.

  “But perhaps we’re all deceivers more or less,” she’d said. “I’ve even wondered once or twice lately what goes on in Tom’s head. I dare say his dreams are all disgraceful. I couldn’t blame him. I’m so awful to him”—which was another glimpse, never before vouchsafed. She had added reflectively: “Should I mind, I wonder, if he were unfaithful?” And they had gone on in a quite unprecedented way to speak a little of their husbands, and of married life. Mysterious creature;—from the way she’d talked, it almost sounded as if she must have more concealed in her life than one had given her credit for. It was a pity she had not married somebody less dim and dreary. She had such possibilities.

  She tried to cast her mind back to the young woman of ten years ago—seeing her as she had first seen her, wandering into the cookery school as if she had lost her way—large, mild-browed, dreamy-looking; silent and self-conscious; easily the most bored and inept pupil in the class. When the instructress had said acidly one day, “I am afraid, Mrs. Fairfax, you have no gift for cookery,” how amused she’d been! Her smile, broadening mysteriously, but a little dismayed and guilty, had seemed to spread humour over the whole solemn, painstaking class. They had caught one another’s eye; and made friends after that.

  She had afforded one, thought Norah, a lot of entertainment in those days. She had been so teaseable, with her adolescent awkwardness and seriousness, her laziness and cat-like love of comfort, her funny bursts of energy and eagerness; so nice, with her dreamy sort of unworldliness, her intelligence, her dry little jokes.

  But somehow she had not developed as she might have; she had grown more and more reserved, and dull; or else it was that motherhood coming to one and not the other (had she minded that at all?) had arrested the progress of their friendship. For, undoubtedly it had remained a mere beginning—promising, but with no subsequent fulfilment.

  But to-night it had seemed as if, in her funny way, she was asking for affection. She had seemed pleased—really pleased—to be visited; even a little grateful and pathetic.

  “Oh, don’t go,” she had pleaded. “You needn’t go yet.”

  She looked run down—as if she needed a change.

  And only about her holiday, thought Norah, reaching her own front door, had she been uncommunicative: had said, idiotically, characteristically, that she didn’t know where she’d been or what she’d done—and changed the subject.

  Yes, she must see more of her this winter.

  She shut the door behind her and stood in the hall. There were the boys’ overcoats thrown down in a heap—the kitchen door open again and the smell of onions stealing towards Gerald’s study. As it was in the beginning, she thought, is now and ever shall be. … But why did the images of Hugh and Clare come suddenly, sharply, to mind?

  She heard the boys giggling together upstairs. Well, that was all right. But there was a funny feeling in the house.

  Noiselessly she opened the door of Gerald’s room. He was sitting at his desk, writing, an open letter by
his elbow. He did not hear her.

  She said softly:

  “Hullo, darling!”

  He jumped violently, and made a movement to cover the blotter with his hands.

  “Why do you come in like that?” he said petulantly.

  “I didn’t come in like anything. I didn’t want to disturb you.” She came and stroked his hair in the way he liked. “Angry tom-cat,” she murmured (for that sometimes made him smile). But he shook her hand off and said:

  “You startled me.”

  He waited with his head bent, lowering and watchful, for her to go away again.

  She caught sight of the letter beside him, recognized the sprawling hand, read: Gerald darling… She said:

  “I didn’t see how busy you were. I must apologize. …” Her voice was rather shrill. She added: “Letter from Clare? When did that come? May I read?…” She stretched a hand out.

  Very slowly he took up Clare’s letter, folded it and put it in his breast-pocket.

  “No,” he said, finally. He added after a silence: “Why should you read my letters? I never ask to read yours, do I?”

  “No,” she said. “Because you don’t need to. I give you them to read—any that could conceivably interest you. I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “How do I know that?” he shot at her.

  She might have known, she told herself, that he would not simply remain on the defensive; that he would attack at once, thrusting, as he always did, with weapons so skilful and unkind that doubtless he counted on her retiring now, as usual, from the unequal contest.

  A small voice said reasonably in the back of her mind: “His question is pertinent. Have you nothing to hide?” But no. Time enough to see his point of view afterwards, when the worst of the disaster was known.

  “Gerald,” she said, “I don’t wish to make a fuss, but I would like to know what is going on between you and Clare.”

  “May I ask what exactly you mean by that phrase?” His withering voice accused her of vulgarity, made her feel ashamed. But she retorted:

  “It’s no good treating me like that, Gerald—not this time. You can’t get out of it this time by trying to make me feel a fool.”

  He raised his eyebrows, stared at her with fixed, bright, pin-point eyes, smiling a little.

  “If you would kindly control yourself,” he said politely, “I could follow you better.”

  She went a violent red, then white; waited some moments and said, in a flat monotone:

  “Will you show me that letter?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my letters are private and do not concern you.”

  “I see. Now I know what to do.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Write to Clare. A letter that does not concern you.”

  “A truly dignified resolve!” He added, still smiling: “Personally, I should prefer not to give myself away. Jealousy’s not a very pretty emotion.”

  “I don’t care what you say.” Her voice rose hysterically. “I’ll say what I like, and I’ll shout at the top of my voice if I like. I’ve stood it long enough. …”

  He laughed—a series of dry, cackling sounds.

  “Go on,” he said softly, “go on.”

  “I will go on! You want to drive me mad—you want to … I’ve stuck it for years—tried to put up with your temper, your meanness, the way you’ve treated me and the children. … But you shan’t make a fool of me—having affairs with my friends behind my back … I won’t stand that … I’ve finished with you.”

  Still he sat at his desk, playing with a paper-knife, watching her with glittering cat’s eyes.

  “So now we know where we are,” he said quietly. “As you will. This is the end.”

  Well, now they had both said it. The issue was forced, the crisis reached. Was it true, what he said—that this was the end? It had come so suddenly. …

  He leapt up, hurled back his chair, sent books and paper-knife flying and crashing, faced her, whispered through thin lips:

  “I’ve had enough too. Wonderful, it’s been for me, my married life, wonderful! ‘Such a good wife! So patient! So unselfish! So self-sacrificing! Such a lot to put up with from that man—and always so cheerful!’ Can’t you hear them? Oh, yes, you’ve heard them all right! Trust you! ‘I’ll do my duty to the bitter end!’ Loud applause! But nothing to what you’ve given yourself. Such conscious virtue! Never was such virtue! You’ve nothing to reproach yourself with! … not you! Never had an undutiful thought. Have you? Nothing to hide!” He came closer, said with soft, icy emphasis: “You think I don’t know who fills your thoughts, your dreams … always, from the beginning. …”

  “No,” she gasped, out of a nightmare.

  “Have I ever been necessary to you—ever? No! I’ve had your duty to me—your duty! What’s that worth? You’ve never been unfaithful;—no!—you’d never go to another man’s bed. Because your whole soul’s bound up in me, I suppose! … Why shouldn’t I have something for myself for once—something of my own? You’ve always left me out. I’ve seen your plots and your conspiracies! But as you say, the worm will turn! It doesn’t really matter, does it, whether the object of one’s passion is alive or dead?” He laughed loudly. “Dead! What a loss! We must all pray to be like him. Though who could hope to emulate such virtue? So fine, so noble! So faithful to you, I’m told—so devoted! …”

  She flung herself at him, shrieking:

  “You devil! You devil! I hate you!”

  He caught her arms and held her away from him with a grip that made her speechless with pain.

  “That’s right,” he said. His face was livid. “Louder! Tell the servant! Tell your children! Do!”

  She started to collapse, and he let her go. She ran out of the room, up the stairs; called briskly on the landing: “Get to bed, boys. I’ll come later”; reached her own room, sank weeping on to the bed.

  Hours passed. She lay in the dark, hearing the cathedral clock strike eleven. She began to wonder what she was to do. Lie as she was till morning? She was chilled to the bone, shivering with cold and nausea. Fill a hot-water bottle and undress as usual and go to bed?… And there were the children to see to. Life left no room for crises. Time was flowing on without a check, bringing the day’s last round of habitual duties. Who would perform them, if not she? Who would tell her gently to rest, to cease from worrying—if not Gerald? No one could be so comforting as Gerald; no one—paradox!—bore so tenderly with foolish tears.

  The door creaked open. She did not move; but knew he was standing near her in the darkness.

  After a while he sat down beside her on the bed. He said nothing.

  She sniffed, caught her breath on the tag-end of a sob.

  “You’re shivering,” he said quietly. “Go to bed.”

  “No, I can’t move,” she whispered.

  “Poor girl,” he said pityingly. “You’ll be all right.” He covered her with the eiderdown.

  “I suppose I must go and see the boys. …” She sighed.

  “They’re all right. I’ve been in. They’re both asleep. I left a night-light in case David wakes. Was that right?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Thoughtful of him. …

  He groped for her hand and took it, started to stroke it.

  “I’m so tired,” she whispered faintly. “I don’t know what we’ve done. … Is everything finished?”

  “Anger is finished.”

  “And forgotten, I suppose!”

  “And forgotten.”

  “How can it be? As if we could forget. …”

  “We could, you know.”

  “It’s easy for you to say …” She sobbed. “When you’ve smashed everything for ever. … The thing is, what to do now—for the best. I don’t think I can go on livin
g with you, Gerald. Perhaps you don’t want me to, anyway.”

  He did not answer, but went on stroking her hand with the sapient, soothing touch she knew.

  “I don’t know if Clare … Will she … Oh, God! … to think of Clare—my friend …”

  “It’s all right,” he said softly. “You’ve nothing to reproach her with. I fell just a little in love with her. I told her so. That’s all.” His last words seemed to stab and strangle her. She tried to snatch her hand away, but he held it and went on: “She doesn’t care for me at all. She writes to me now and then—perhaps out of kindness—she’s not unkind, you know; or possibly she’s a trifle flattered: she’s very vain. There’s nothing in her letters—she dashes off half a dozen of the same sort in a morning, I expect …”

  “And you’ve been writing her long letters—all this time. …”

  “Yes.”

  “Love-letters … on the sly. …”

  “Just letters—to the person—the symbol, rather—that she was to me. Quite unreal. You might call it a recreation. I wrote her little verses. There was nothing in my letters that is yours, Norah. No disloyalty.”

  “Oh!” she cried out reproachfully, in bitter disbelief.

  But he repeated softly:

  “Nothing that is yours.”

  How cruel he was, she told herself, wounding her so calmly with blunt facts. But he sounded so sad one had to listen to him, so wise one had to let oneself be persuaded.

  Now and again, not often, in the ten years, she had come to this hidden spring in him, this irresistible wisdom of sensibility, this truth of his nature which cancelled—though only at the worst of their need—all the perverse distortions of the surface. It had led her through their strange, happy, unhappy honeymoon; through child-birth; would lead her, if she died first, through the last extremity of death. It was something that lay deeper than the sympathy learnt from experience—something born with him, one felt, whatever it was: perhaps the tragic sense of life; … so that one told oneself, whatever he might do, he had a noble spirit.