I divine it in every gesture. Presently he introduces himself in his simple English way. He is Lewis Dodd!
At that moment the savage youth himself strolled round the corner of the house. Catching sight of Trigorin he retreated hastily and went to talk to a man who was watching a cow graze in a field. He was less afraid of this kind of person than of any other, and was almost affable to it. The conversation lasted until it was time to catch the train.
Trigorin was a little surprised that any gentleman should desert him for a cow-herd, but he was not resentful, since this was Lewis Dodd and The Great have queer ways. He wrote:
Lewis Dodd travels like one of the people, his knapsack on his back. He is even now talking to a poor peasant with the greatest cordiality. With me, I must confess, he was a little abrupt (un peu bourru), but I set it down to nervous sensibility. I did not let it trouble me.
This was a good thing since Lewis was not the first of his kind to snub Mr Trigorin. They often did. But he did not deserve it. Indeed, he merited their pity, if all were known.
He had entertained in his early youth an ardent desire to compose music. He could imagine no keener joy. But his gifts were not upon a scale with his ambitions. He could write nothing that was at all worth listening to, and, being cursed with unusual intelligence, he knew it. So he gave it up and took to arranging ballets, a business at which, almost against his will, he was eminently successful. He had a choreographic talent which hardly fell short of genius, and which was at first something of a consolation to him; though it was poignant work interpreting the music of other men. Falling in with La Zhigalova he designed for her a series of surpassingly beautiful ballets. She was a fine dancer, but no artist, and it was he who discovered to her the full possibilities of her own person and talents. Out of gratitude she married him, a little to his astonishment, and secured his services for life.
While thus saddled with a profession which he had not entirely chosen, Trigorin still thought sadly sometimes of his dead hopes, worshipped his flame in secret, reverenced deeply all composers who came in his way and persisted in seeking the company of musicianly people. Unfortunately they seldom took to him, regarding him as something of a mountebank and undeniably vulgar. They were deceived by his air of metropolitan prosperity; he looked too much like the proprietor of an Opera House. They could not see into the humble, disappointed heart beneath his magnificent waistcoats, or guess how sacred was the very name of music in his ears. Moreover, he was never at his best in their company; he lost all his impressive urbanity in his eagerness to be liked, talked too much, and, betrayed by his ardent heart, often appeared ridiculous.
Sanger, however, had reason to be grateful to him. They had met in Prague, in the preceding Autumn, while the composer was staging his opera ‘Akbar’ and driven to the verge of insanity by the stupidity of producers. He confided his difficulties to Trigorin. He had intended to present the dawn of Eastern history, young, primitive and heroic, in contrast to the splendour of its mysterious decay. Nobody could be made to see this; the ballets were languid and decadent with a stale aroma of the Arabian Nights. Conventional odalisques were introduced everywhere, even into his spirited hunting scenes. Could Trigorin help him? Trigorin could. He designed dances and a décor which caught that inflection of buoyancy suggested by the music. Sanger was charmed. He borrowed fifty pounds from his new friend and invited him to the Karindethal next Spring.
The delight of Trigorin was unbounded. This was the first advance ever made to him by a composer of importance. He accepted in a passion of gratitude. When the Spring came he had some difficulty in persuading his wife that he must be allowed to go, for she rated musicians a little lower than dressmakers. She would only permit it on condition that he would make Sanger write a ballet for her. Though doubtful of his ability to make such a request, he was so anxious to go that he was really ready to promise anything. He now added a postscript to his letter:
Rest assured, my angel, that I am not forgetting your ballet. But it is better that I do not immediately importune Mr Sanger with these requests. It is not that I forget but that I am tactful.
2
Lewis found the journey up to Weissau better than he had expected. His companion was indeed horribly talkative, making intelligent comments upon the grandeur of the scenery all the way, but in the choice of his topics he showed a certain respect for Mr Dodd’s nervous sensibility. They agreed that the chestnut and oak of the valley had now given way to pine woods, and discussed the names of some of the peaks towering above them. As the little train panted its way into the Alpine pastures, Lewis was even so affable as to point out several waterfalls to his companion.
After a stiff ascent the line ended by a lake and they found a little steamer waiting for them. Mr Trigorin said that the expanse of water lent an agreeable perspective to the mountains rising sharply on the other side. Mr Dodd said that it was so, and that when they got across they would find the same thing to be true of the mountains on this side. Mr Trigorin said he supposed so, and became a little silent and unhappy. They crossed the lake without further conversation.
When they had almost reached the hamlet of Weissau, Lewis exclaimed suddenly:
‘There they are, some of them!’
‘Please?’ said Trigorin anxiously.
‘Two of Sanger’s children. On the landing-stage.’
He pointed to the little group of peasants waiting for the boat. Two young girls, standing rather apart from the crowd, had already recognised him and were waving vehemently. As soon as he got off the boat they flung themselves upon his neck, kissing him with eager delight.
‘Oh, Lewis!’ exclaimed the smaller. ‘We never expected to see you at all. Only some one is probably coming by this boat so we thought we’d come in and buy some sweets and get a ride back.’
‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Sanger got a letter to say this person was coming. And you should hear how he goes on about it. He says he never …’
‘I expect it was Trigorin,’ interrupted Lewis.
‘O—oh, yes! That was the name Sanger said, wasn’t it Lina?’
‘Well then, this is your man. Mr Trigorin. Miss Teresa Sanger; Miss Paulina Sanger.’
Trigorin put down his suitcases and bowed low, beginning:
‘I am most delighted …’
But Teresa cut him short.
‘Lewis! Have you got … you know what?’
‘What? Oh, I know. Yes. I have it in my knapsack.’
‘That’s all right. We’d have lynched you if you’d forgotten. But you’ve been the hell of a time fetching it We’ve only got three days; his birthday’s on Thursday. And he won’t like it unless it’s properly done.’
‘Three days will do if we work hard,’ Lewis assured her. ‘Look! Have you ordered a cart or anything? Because, if not, one of you must leg it up to the hotel and ask for one.’
‘Oh, we’ve got it It’s just behind the shop. It’s got a pig in it that Kate told us to bring up. It’s quite a quiet pig. It’s dead.’
Teresa looked at her sister and they both giggled.
‘Can he eat bacon?’ whispered Paulina in an audible aside, with a glance at Trigorin, who was waiting patiently beside his suitcases until somebody should take notice of him. ‘He looks a little like a Jew. We had an awful time once when Ikey Mo’s uncle was staying with us and we had nothing in the house …’
‘If he can’t eat bacon, there’ll be nothing else for him to eat,’ said Teresa, She turned to Trigorin and enquired baldly: ‘Are you a Jew?’
‘No,’ he said, a little stiffly. ‘I am from Russia.’
‘Well, there are Jews in Russia, aren’t there?’ she argued.
‘They are not as I,’ Trigorin told her.
‘Really?’ she said derisively. ‘We’ve all got something to be thankful for, haven’t we? You have got a lot of luggage. I hope there’ll be room for us all in the cart as well as the pig.’
‘It’s a very heavy pig,’ supplemented Pa
ulina, exploding again into suppressed laughter. ‘Tessa and I had to drag it all the way from the slaughter-house.’
They turned towards the little village shop which stood close to the landing-stage. Lewis walked in front with a girl hanging lovingly on either arm; Trigorin toiled in the rear with his suitcases. Behind the shop they found a very small carriage shaped something like a victoria, and, at the sight of it, the mirth of the children became almost hysterical. They had hoisted the gutted carcase of the pig into an upright position on the back seat Draped in a tartan rug and crowned with Teresa’s straw hat, it was a horrible object but not unlike a stout German lady, when seen from a distance. The children, who thought it irresistibly funny, demanded eagerly if Lewis did not see a resemblance to Fräulein Brandt, the celebrated contralto.
‘Perhaps,’ said Lewis. ‘But do you expect us to sit on these cushions? They are all over pig.’
‘Your clothes won’t spoil, darling Lewis.’
‘They are all I have, darling Tessa. And what about Trigorin? He’s a gentleman.’
‘I shall go on high with the driver,’ stated the gentleman firmly.
‘Then,’ said Paulina, ‘Lewis and Tessa can sit on the back seat, and I on Lewis’s knee, and we’ll put the suitcases in front of us with Fräulein Brandt on top.’
With some difficulty they were all packed in, and the little cart started off up the valley at a great pace. Soon the village was left behind and their way lay through pine woods, along a rough, green track. In front of them a straight wall of stony mountain shut out the sky, and they seemed to be driving to the very foot of the barrier.
Teresa and Paulina Sanger were at this time about fourteen and twelve years of age. They were the children of Sanger’s second wife, who had been of gentle birth; from her they had inherited quick wits and considerable nervous instability. Both these qualities were betrayed in their eager, stammering speech and in the delicate impudence of their bearing. They had pale faces and small-boned, thin little bodies, fragile but intrepid. They had high, benevolent foreheads from which their long hair was pushed back and hung in an untended tangle down their backs. Teresa was the fairer and the plainer; her greenish eyes had in them a kind of secret hilarity as though she privately found life a very diverting affair. But she had begun lately to grow out of everything, especially jokes and clothes, and she really saw no prospect of getting new ones. Still, she laughed pretty often. Paulina was less inclined for compromise, a brilliant child, sometimes tempestuous, sometimes vividly gay, never sensible and always incurably wild. She had an extravagant and untutored taste in dress, and wore on this occasion a ragged gown of a brilliant red and green tartan which she had somehow managed to acquire. It was much too long for her, so she had kilted it up at intervals with pins, and in front it hung in vast folds over her flat little chest, being cut to fit a full bust. She used the space as a sort of pocket, stuffing in apples, sweets and handkerchiefs, which gave her figure a very lumpy look. Teresa wore the peasant dress of the country, a yellow frock, brief and full, with a square cut bodice and short sleeves. This she had touched up with a magenta apron. Both girls were barefoot. Both contrived to have, at unexpected moments and in spite of their rags, a certain arrogance of demeanour which proclaimed them the daughters of Evelyn Sanger, who had been a Churchill.
They chattered, incessantly all the way up the valley, and Paulina, producing peppermints from the bosom of her bright gown, refreshed the whole party, including Trigorin on the box.
‘You heard about Sebastian getting lost on the way up?’ she said. ‘You know at the place where he got left behind he met some Americans. And he told them he’d been kidnapped by anarchists and that he was really a Russian prince. I don’t expect they believed him. But they liked him. He said they kept telling each other how cute he was. They brought him on with them to Innsbruck, and he had a lovely time stopping with them at their hotel. When he got tired of it, he went to the manager of the Opera House, who’s a friend of Sanger’s, and borrowed enough money to get on here.’
‘And what did the Americans say?’
‘Oh, he left a note behind to say he’d made a mistake about who he was, but he’d had a blow on the head when quite a child which confused his memory. He said it had come to him all of a sudden that he was the son of Albert Sanger, and that he’d gone home. Bv the way, you didn’t see Tony anywhere in the town did you?’
‘Antonia? No I didn’t. Is she there?’
‘We don’t know where she is,’ said Teresa. ‘She’s been gone nearly a week now. She left a note to say she was going to stay a bit with a friend, but she’d be back for Sanger’s birthday.’
‘We can’t think what friend she can have gone to,’ added Paulina. ‘Sanger is quite annoyed about it He says he’ll belt her soundly when she gets back.’
‘And Linda says that if Tony gets into the habit of going off like this, it’s odds she’ll be bringing him home a grandchild one of these days,’ pursued Teresa. ‘And Sanger says she can take herself off for good if she does as there’s quite enough to support in our family as it is.’
‘He doesn’t mean half he says,’ commented Lewis.
‘I know,’ said Teresa, in a slightly lower voice. ‘He says he won’t stir out of his room while that fellow up there,’ she nodded at Trigorin’s broad back, ‘is in the house. He says that he never thought the fool would be such a fool as to come.’
‘Linda may like to talk to him,’ suggested Lewis.
‘I do hope she won’t,’ whispered Teresa. ‘Because that might make him stay. But if nobody takes any notice of him he might go away pretty soon. Why ever did Sanger invite him?’
‘Oh, you know what he is! He’d invite the Pope if he met him after dinner.’
‘Yes, I know. But the Pope wouldn’t come.’
‘What is this guy anyway?’ asked Paulina.
‘He dances in a ballet,’ Lewis told them.
This they took as a tremendous joke, but he assured them with gravity that it was so.
‘Well! I’ve heard of dancing elephants,’ declared Paulina at last.
She poked Trigorin in the back and he turned round, smiling benignantly down at her.
‘He says,’ she pointed at Lewis, ‘he says that you dance in a ballet. Do you?’
‘Ach no! I cannot dance.’
Both children turned indignantly on Lewis, crying:
‘Liar!’
But he, quite unabashed, declared that he had confused Trigorin with La Zhigalova, conveying an impression that Sanger’s unwelcome guest had been invited solely upon her account and could lay no other claim to distinction. Trigorin said nothing and turned away from the group in the carriage, not without a certain grotesque dignity. The children, aware that Lewis had scored in some way, and regarding this as the first step in the routing of an interloper, exchanged gleeful glances. Teresa’s mirth, however, was a little forced; she found herself wishing, absurdly, that Lewis had been kind to the poor fat person on the box. As if Lewis was ever kind to anybody!
With a sudden spasm of alarm she stole a look at him, and saw that he was smiling sleepily to himself. Paulina, tranquilly sucking a peppermint lozenge, was curled up on his knee. Thus often, in thoughtless security, had Teresa sat, when she was a little girl; when, with a child’s hardness, she found his cruelty funny and saw nothing sinister in his perversities.
Now she was afraid of him, apprehending dimly all that he might have it in his power to make her feel. And yet she loved him very completely – better than anyone else in the whole world. An odd state of things! She was inclined to regard these uneasy qualms as peculiar to her age, like the frequent growing pains in her legs which made her quite lame sometimes.
They drove out of the pine woods into an open meadow which formed the end of the valley. It was an almost circular space of short grass enamelled all over with little brilliant flowers. Many cows strayed across it, and the clear, sunny spaces were full of the music of their bells. An amphitheat
re of mountains rose upon every side, shutting out the world behind stony walls. At the further end of the meadow a low ridge with a faint bridle track zigzagging across it marked the pass.
The Karindehütte was just visible about half-way up; a long, low chalet built upon a flat shelf which caught more sun than fell to the share of the valley meadow.
They drew up at the foot of the pass beside a little group of herdmen’s huts. Lewis and the girls jumped out at once and began to climb the mountain track, leaving Trigorin to pay for the carriage and arrange with a cowherd for the transport of his suitcases and the pig. He then followed pantingly, finding the sun very hot, his clothes very heavy and his boots very tight. As he toiled round each bend of the zigzag path he saw the others well in front of him, the little girls skipping over the rough stones on their hard, bare feet, and Lewis swinging steadily forward with his knapsack hitched up on his shoulders. They got past the good shade of the trees into a region of scorching, blue air where the wind blew warm upon them, smelling of myrtle and Alpine rose.
At length the party in front, rounding the last corner, reached the ledge of meadow where the Karindehütte was built. They paused for a moment to look over the valley and saw empty air in front of them, and, far below, the tops of trees and little cows and their carriage crawling back along the valley road. Cow bells rose very faintly like single drops of music distilled into this upper silence,
‘I suppose,’ ventured Teresa, ‘that we ought to wait.’
‘He’s getting very blown,’ said Lewis, going to the edge to look over at Trigorin on the path below.
Teresa halloed kindly to the labouring figure and told him that he was very nearly at the top. Her brother Sebastian, who had joined them from the house, added encouraging shouts and besought the stranger to take it easily.
‘Is he this person Sanger said was coming?’ he asked his sisters.
Teresa nodded.
‘His name’s Trigorin,’ she said.
The Constant Nymph Page 3