A Mixture of Frailties tst-3

by Robertson Davies

  It was when Diane had gone to bed that Meg confided one of her chief worries. “She was less than eight when we left home,” said she, jerking her head upward to indicate the child, “and more than two years is a long time for a kiddy. In spite of all we can do she’s just getting to talk like all the kids around here, and the other day she said, “Mommy, when are we going back to America?” America! Get it! Well, I just dropped everything, and I must have talked to her for fifteen minutes about home, and how she must always make it clear to the people here that there’s all the difference in the world between Canada and the US. But where do you suppose she picked up an expression like that? From her teacher, of course! Gosh, they don’t seem to be able to distinguish—I mean, you’d think they’d realize we were part of the Commonwealth, wouldn’t you? I mean, when we’re the granary of the world, and all through the war we were the Arsenal of Democracy, and everything?” Meg became almost tearful as she thought of this instance of British indifference to Canadian individuality.

  “Diane’s young,” said Monica, trying to think of words of comfort for these exiles. “You won’t have to worry about her; she’s so pretty; I don’t know when I’ve seen such a pretty complexion. There’s something good that England has given her; all the children here have a lovely high colour.”

  “Yeah, and they’ve got broken veins in their cheeks by the time they’re thirty,” said Meg, who was so plainly resolved not to take comfort in anything that Monica decided not to try again.

  After the conversation had passed through an embittered discussion of the scandalous price of fruit in England—”Didja ever try to buy a peach in Fortnum and Mason’s? Half-a-crown each, and taste like wet kleenex! We bring everything in from home”—the McCorkills turned their attention to what Monica was doing in this desperate land. To her surprise, they did not assert that she could have learned to sing just as well in Canada; when she told them about Sir Benedict Domdaniel, and about Murtagh Molloy and his insistence that she should be able to call up the memory of any emotion at will (she did not tell them about making love to a chair) they were impressed, and said what luck it was that she should have a chance to study with such people. In the realm of the unknown they were quite happy to acknowledge English, or European, supremacy: it was in the things which touched their daily life that they were impossible to please. It came to Monica suddenly, in the midst of a tirade about the utter impossibility of eating English bread—they baked their own, though it was a nuisance—that the McCorkills’ vast disrelish for England meant no more than that they were uprooted, afraid, and desperately homesick. It was not a very remarkable flash of insight, but she was only twenty-one, not at all accustomed to knowing things about people which they had not fully recognized themselves, and it did much to soothe her self-esteem, which had been badly bruised during her five months in London.

  Monica was not, in fact, accustomed to thinking anything which was contrary to the opinion of any older person with whom she was talking, and it was the McCorkills who first made this adult luxury possible to her. Thus it was that, when Lorne had walked her back to the Underground Station—”You should never walk around in this city by yourself at night. Do you ever look at the Sunday papers? God, the things that go on! And even ministers in awful cases! Wouldn’t it just rot your socks, though?”—she was in high spirits and very well pleased with herself. She had enjoyed the accustomed food, and the cleanliness, and the genuine kindness and warmth of heart which Lorne and Meg had shown her, but she did not feel in the least committed, on that account, to acceptance of their opinions. A Thirteener upbringing had until now denied her the delights of social hypocrisy, and these came with a special sweetness. She had even let the McCorkills think that she would join them at some future meeting of a Canadian Club of which they were members—”Hard to keep it going, though; so many people seem to lose interest, or they get mixed up with people who live here, and don’t seem to want to get together with their own folks”—though she was determined in her heart that she was not going to spend another evening talking about English dirt and wondering why the English could never learn to make coffee. This new freedom to say one thing and think another came to Monica all the more sweetly for coming late, and she liked the McCorkills all the better for not feeling it necessary to agree with them in her heart.

  During her long ride back to Earl’s Court on the Underground she felt happier than at any time since leaving home. The warmth of the late spring night and the beauty of the city were hidden from her as she sped through the earth in the rattling tube, but she felt them in her heart. If it was to be a fight between England and Canada for the love of Monica Gall, she knew that England would win. Some of the folk songs that she had latterly been studying with Molloy were so powerfully present in her mind that she had to sing them under her breath, unheard by the other passengers because of the noise of the train.

  William Taylor was a brisk young sailor,

  He was courting a lady fair—

  William Taylor had probably eaten a lot of fish that had been exposed to the air on marble slabs, too, but it had not apparently diminished his joy in life.

  As I went out one May morning,

  One May morning betime,

  I met a maid, from home had strayed,

  Just as the sun did shine.

  This maid unquestionably had one of those superb strawberries-and-cream complexions which degenerated into broken veins after she was thirty, but at the time dealt with in the song she was breathing a wonderful, fresh muhd, and that was what really mattered.

  From the Underground Station Monica walked slowly to Courtfield Gardens, happy in the moonlight and without a thought for the clerical rapists who might lurk in every areaway.

  How gloriously the sun doth shine,

  How pleasant is the air,

  I’d rather rest on a true love’s breast

  Than any other where.

  Thus sang Monica, and when two men returning from a pub called “very nice” from the other side of the street, she waved her hand to them, feeling neither shy nor frightened. It was the first time, since coming to England, that she had sung simply because she was happy. She was not thinking of George Medwall. He came into her mind once, but she dismissed him. He would not do here. He was not a McCorkill, but he did not fit into the new world which she had decided to make her own.

  4

  At the end of June a report was forwarded to the Trustees of the Bridgetower estate by Jodrell and Stanhope, as follows:

  In re the Bridgetower Beneficiary

  Dear Sirs and Madam:

  As reported to you in our communication of January 3 the beneficiary of the Bridgetower Trust, Miss Monica Gall, is comfortably lodged at 23 Courtfield Gardens, SW5. In reply to the specific inquiry of Miss Laura Pottinger, Miss Gall is visited on the first business day of each month by our Mr Boykin, who reports that the landlady, Mrs Merry, says that Miss Gall has at no time entertained a visitor in her quarters other than a Miss Margaret Stamper, a student at the Slade School of Art. If it is thought necessary to appoint a moral guardian for Miss Gall, we cannot undertake such duties, though we will approach Sir Benedict Domdaniel in this matter if so instructed by you.

  Attached is a report on Miss Gall’s musical studies from Sir Benedict Domdaniel (Encl. 1) and also a statement of disbursements made by us on your behalf (Encl. 2). Assuring you of our advice and service at all times,

  Yours truly,

  Miles Peter Andrews

  (For Jodrell and Stanhope

  Plough Court

  Fetter Lane London EC4)

  The first enclosure may be given in full:

  To the Bridgetower Trustees Salterton, Ontario, Canada

  Sirs:

  Since your protégée, Monica Gall, came to England to work with me, I have seen her twice. On the first occasion I heard her sing, and was frankly not as impressed with her possibilities as I was when I heard her in Toronto. The voice was very muffled and somewhat l
ifeless. Therefore I sent her to a first-rate coach, Mr Murtagh Molloy, who has been working with her several days a week since then, and who has been able to do a good deal with her. I heard her again about a week ago, and her voice is at last beginning to declare itself.

  It is a good soprano—promises to be really good—but is somewhat “veiled” or “covered”—Humphrey Cobbler can explain these terms to you—for a little more than an octave in the lower part. But the range is a fine one, from b below middle C to g’.

  However, as you are well aware, there is more to singing than the possession of a pleasant tone and a big range. The voice must be interesting, and this is a matter of brains, or temperament, or both, and so far Miss Gall, though a nice girl, has not shown anything out of the ordinary in either of these departments. Perhaps her biggest handicap, as I believe I said to you before, is that she has virtually no general cultivation, and though she seems to have some imagination, she has had nothing with which to nourish it.

  With a view to remedying this difficulty I am packing her off to Miss Amy Neilson, who lives in St Cloud—an American lady who takes two or three girls into her house for coaching in history and literature, and shows them a good time in Paris—sights, shopping and whatnot. I have known Miss Neilson for many years and can vouch for her. Three months there should make a great difference to Monica; I have written to Amy, asking her to give special attention to the girl’s musical background, and have had a copy of Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians sent there for that purpose. When she returns in the autumn we shall see what we shall see.

  Murtagh Molloy, on whose judgement I place great reliance, says that Monica is young for her age and needs waking up. We shall see what can be done.

  Yours sincerely,

  Benedict Domdaniel

  Dean’s Yard

  Westminster SW1

  It was Enclosure 2 which startled the members of the Bridgetower Trust, assembled one hot July night to consider these communications.

  “I must say they’re very cool about our money,” said Solly, who had been having trouble meeting some bills, and was sore on the subject.

  “We may rely on Jodrell and Stanhope,” said Mr Snelgrove, sticking up for the profession.

  “Perhaps we may, but what about Domdaniel?” said Solly. “He’s ‘packing her off’ for three months in France without so much as by-your-leave. Have we given him an absolutely free hand?”

  “Yes, and look at this,” said Miss Puss, who had secured the itemized account as soon as Snelgrove had laid it down. “Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians, forwarded from Bumpus to France—nine volumes, twenty-seven guineas—one hundred and fifty dollars! For books, of all things! Can’t she learn from anything less than that?”

  “Not a hundred and fifty dollars, Miss Pottinger,” said Snelgrove; “you are forgetting the rate of exchange.”

  “So far as I am concerned, a five-dollar bill and a pound note are the same thing,” said Miss Puss. “If there is any drop in the value of the pound, I am sure it is merely temporary.”

  “And look what Domdaniel is paying himself,” said Solly. “He’s seen her twice, and he’s soaking us ten guineas a time. And this fellow Molloy—five lessons a week at three guineas each! Svengali would have been glad of such fees. We’ll have to protest. This is ridiculous.”

  “We’re making a beggar on horseback of this girl,” said Miss Puss, “and she’ll ride to the Dee. Mark my words.”

  It was Dean Knapp who undertook the ungrateful task of being the Voice of Reason.

  “We must bear in mind that we are simply appointed to carry out the terms of the Trust,” said he, “and the income from your mother’s estate, Solomon, is very large. Indeed, if what is spent to maintain and instruct the girl during the next six months is no more than we shall have to pay to settle this statement, it will not disperse one-quarter of the total in a year. Have we any right to accumulate money?”

  “We have no right to accumulate funds at all, except what might be dictated by common prudence,” said Mr Snelgrove. “Certainly we cannot withhold money. When Mrs Bridgetower made this will I tried to reason with her, but I am sure you all know how effective that would be. She was determined that her beneficiary should not be stinted.”

  “Not stinted!” said Solly. “And here I am pushed to the very edge of my bank account to settle a bill for a hundred and thirty-two dollars for repairs to Mother’s old car, when I’ve already had to sell my own to get ready money! It’s intolerable!”

  “It is the law,” said Mr Snelgrove. “We are not empowered to build up any large surplus. I fear that we shall have to tell Jodrell and Stanhope to spend more—and get Sir Benedict to spend more. Discreetly, of course. The girl need not actually know.”

  “As I understand it, we have to spend the income on roughly a million dollars, which is invested in three and four per cents, and with taxes deductible,” said the Dean, and when Mr Snelgrove nodded, he looked for a time at the ceiling, and then spoke what was in all their minds. “More than any of us is ever likely to have for himself.”

  “That is one of the difficulties of being a trustee,” said Mr Snelgrove; “that is why trustees often behave so strangely.”

  That night Miss Puss was very severe with her old housekeeper, who had left a light burning needlessly, and Solly went to bed drunk, to Veronica’s great distress. Though the difficulties of their marriage had been many since they came under the Dead Hand of Mrs Bridgetower, this was something new.

  Six

  1

  “There you have it,” said Sir Benedict. “Orders from headquarters: we must spend more money. I must spend more on having you trained. You must spend more, presumably, on your way of living. The lawyers here are doubling your personal allowance.”

  “O dear,” said Monica. “I wish they wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why? Didn’t you learn anything about spending money in Paris? I particularly asked Amy to give you a few pointers about that.”

  “She did. She was wonderful to me, and told me a lot about clothes and make-up and hair-dos and things. But, please, Sir Benedict, I don’t want to get involved in all that kind of thing. It’s not what I’m here for.”

  “But apparently it is what you’re here for. These Bridgetower people want their money spent, and it’s your job to spend it. Most girls would jump at your chance.”

  “No, no. I’m here to be trained as a singer—a musician, I hope—”

  “Why the distinction?”

  “Amy took three of us to a party in Paris that some musical people were giving, and a string quartet played, and afterward I was talking to them, and said I was training to be a musician, and when they found out I was a singer, they laughed. One of them said, ‘Music is a very nice hobby for a singer; it gives him a complete change from his profession’.”

  “I know; musicians are full of jokes about singers. Justified, most of them. But we’ll try to make a musician of you, as well. What’s that to do with all this extra money which must be got rid of?”

  “Well, I can’t escape a feeling that it will make it harder for me to do what I want to do. I mean—it seems to cushion life, somehow. It cuts you off from people, and experiences, and that’s just what I need. I found that out in Paris. Those girls at Amy’s; they were awfully nice, and I had a fine time, but they weren’t serious. They’re just dabblers—in the nicest possible way—but still dabblers. I’m serious. I want to be a professional. If possible I want to be an artist.”

  “And you’re afraid having plenty of cash will cut you off from that?”

  “Yes. Don’t you agree?”

  “Look around you, I’m far from rich, but I’m pretty comfortable, and I take care to keep my fees high. But I’m rather widely regarded as an artist.”

  “Of course. But you’ve made your way. You didn’t begin with all this.”

  “My family were well-off; I was born with a very good weight of silver spoon in my mouth. In my student
days I never missed a meal or wore a shabby suit, and I worked just as hard and agonized just as much as the fellows who hadn’t sixpence. All money can do for a musician is keep him from discomfort and worry about bills—and that’s a very good thing.”

  “Those girls in Paris were all ambitious, until it meant real work. But they all knew they didn’t actually have to work, and that made all the difference.”

  “Had they any talent?”

  “I don’t know. But how do I know that I’ve any talent myself?”

  “You don’t, but you’re industrious. Murtagh says you work like a black. But that has nothing to do with money. You really must shake off these fat-headed nineteenth-century notions you have about musicians being romantic characters who starve in garrets, doing immense moral good to the world through the medium of their art. Now look here: money alone can’t hurt you. If you’re a fool, or if you haven’t any talent, or not enough, it will influence the special way in which you go to the devil. Money is a thing you have to control; it must play the part in your life that you allot to it, and it must never become the star turn. But take it from me, too much money is less harmful than too little. Wealth tends to numb feeling and nibble at talent, but poverty coarsens feeling and chokes talent, and feeling and talent are the important things in your job and mine.”

  “Yes, but—I don’t know whether I have any talent, and neither you nor Mr Molloy will say anything one way or the other. And I do know that I haven’t much feeling. Mr Molloy says so, too. He’s always at me to express more, but I haven’t much to express.”

  “What would you have to express—at twenty-one?”

  “Surely if I have any feeling, any insight into music, it ought to show itself by now?”