Yet he did come back, upon the day that Kate was born. He had left a number of manuscripts in his wife’s keeping and wanted to collect them from her. She told him, not unkindly, that she was dying, and it soon became clear that she spoke the truth. Her constitution had been undermined by past privations; she had made up her mind, fatally, that she should not survive the birth of her baby. She spoke of Evelyn without rancour.
‘That young lady,’ she said, ‘will you marry her when I’m gone?’
Sanger, looking rather foolish, said he did not know.
‘Well, then don’t, Albert,’ whispered Vera. ‘Promise me that you won’t now!’
‘All right,’ he said agreeably.
‘I’ve never known you keep a promise yet,’ the tired voice toiled on, ‘but I’m glad to hear you say it. Not that she wouldn’t be good to my babies; I feel somehow that she would, which is more than I’d say of many women. But she’s no wife for you, Albert She’s been bred soft, poor thing! And I don’t wish her harm. I forgive her. I’d be sorry to think she should come to any harm. Mind you’re not to marry her, Albert.’
The good creature died and Albert immediately broke his promise. He married Miss Churchill in a very few weeks in consequence of a certain pressure from her brothers, who had come out to put an end to the affair and who stayed to pay Sanger’s debts and hurry up the wedding.
Evelyn, whose chief merit was a kind of reckless generosity, readily undertook the charge of Caryl and Kate and continued to love them when her own children came. She was indeed heard to regret that she could not pass off Antonia and Kate as twins; the six months which divided them made it just not possible, and strangers asked so many questions and were so stupidly slow in grasping things, that it would have been convenient. This was how she faced life in those early days – meeting her problems with an audacious levity. Sanger had lost his work, but they had not yet got through all her money.
In the course of time she stopped making jokes. Her lot was the harder because she had been, as Vera put it, bred soft. But she met odds with an uncomplaining courage and always recognised that she had only herself to blame for the dishonour, poverty and pain which were her fate. In a multitude of disasters she revealed a constant fortitude, and to the end, though a little battered by ill-fortune, she never quite lost the carriage of a gentlewoman. After bearing four children in six years she contracted heart disease and died rather suddenly upon the eve of her thirtieth birthday.
The household entered thereafter upon a period of storms and changes until Sanger fell in with Linda, who looked like a permanency. She had the strength of mind to ignore completely her six step-children, and for Caryl she even entertained a vague sort of affection. He had grown up into a handsome boy, very like his mother and sister in temper and complexion. His disposition was excellent; from an early age he managed all his father’s business and financial affairs, kept him out of debt as far as possible, and transcribed his manuscripts. In his rare intervals of leisure he wrote music on his own account, but very little attention was paid by the family to his career. He and Kate propped up the crazy household between them and were privately agreed as to its dreadfulness. Linda was grateful to them and tolerated the others.
Lately, however, a new cause for disturbance had arisen. Linda had begun to feel aggrieved at the ripening beauty of Antonia and disliked having to go about with her. This eldest of Evelyn’s children was by far the most handsome; she was born before retribution had fully overtaken her mother, and did not look as delicate as the rest. She was full of a changeful colour and brilliance, though her bloom was but just beginning and she had still the colt-like movements, the long limbs and loose joints of a very young creature. To the experienced eye her promise was infinite. She had a lovely vivid little face, with strange greyish eyes, sulky brows and a white forehead. Her mouth was childish and unformed, but the long curve of cheek and chin, the tilt of the nostrils, and the smooth modelling of the temples revealed a finely constructed skull, a beauty which was bone deep and which would survive the loss of youth. In character she also resembled her mother: was unbalanced, proud and at times impossibly generous. But she lacked Evelyn’s courage and was reckless rather than intrepid. She could only take a risk by deceiving herself as to its issue, and confronted by a reality she always went to pieces. She cried when she could not get what she wanted, boasted when she was frightened, and was, like her sisters, a deplorable little slattern.
She turned up at the Karindehütte on the afternoon of Trigorin’s arrival in a very uncertain state of mind, having been absent for a week. Unsure of the attitude of her family, she would not go in by the veranda for fear of meeting Linda. She slipped round to the back of the house and climbed through a window into the music-room, where she found Teresa and Paulina sitting on the dais step and devouring cherries. Immediately she put on a kind of defensive swagger and strolled carelessly across the room as though she had never been away at all. Her sisters opened their eyes very wide indeed and asked where she had been.
To give herself time she sat down beside them, snatched a handful of cherries from the basket, and stuffed them into her mouth. Then she mumbled.
‘Oh … in München.’
‘München,’ cried the others. ‘Who on earth did you stay with?’
She spat out her stones and would not answer; but, when they asked incredulously whether it was Ikey Mo, she nodded.
‘Himmel!’ gasped Teresa and Paulina together.
They referred to a young man, a friend of Sanger’s, whose real name was Jacob Birnbaum, but whom they had christened Ikey Mo on account of his nose and his shin bones. To this nickname he had not submitted with the best grace in the world. He was, for reasons of his own, naturalised a British subject; he dressed like an American, and talked four languages correctly but without much command of idiom. He belonged to an immensely rich family and had no regular profession, though he dabbled a good deal in finance. The reigning interest in his life was music; he sometimes acted as a sort of entrepreneur in the arts, financing genius if he thought it would repay him. It nearly always did, for his admirable taste was supplemented by the sharp, forcible intelligence of his race.
His connection with Sanger, however, had brought him no financial profit; he had even lost money over his friend’s productions and he was quite content to do so. For he had his ideals. He almost worshipped Sanger; regarded him as the greatest musician of the century – as one of those magnificent, unique figures which do not inspire every generation.
In appearance he was not pretty, being short, fair and very stout. But he had benevolent little eyes, and a fine, thoughtful forehead. The Sanger children knew him very well, for he had a flat in Munich and often came up to the Karindehütte. Also he had spent part of the Spring with them in Italy, giving Sanger advice about some copyrights. Teresa, casting her mind back, remembered that he had looked a good deal at Antonia as he sat entertaining Linda in their Genoese garden.
Paulina was asking:
‘Did you have a good time?’
‘O—oh, yes! A lovely time! Anything I said I wanted, Ike got it for me at once. He just gave me anything I asked for. We used to go along the street and look at all the shops, and if we came to a flower shop he took me in and ordered all I wanted. And once in a sweet shop there was a basket in the window, all made of chocolate with marzipan fruits and gold ribbons; and I said I’d like that. And he said all right, and got it. And then, just to have him on, I said I wanted an enormous wedding cake in three tiers. But he said: “Oh, if you want it you can have it. It will be very …” ’
She broke off and bit her lip.
‘Did you bring any sweets back with you, Tony?’ asked Paulina eagerly.
‘Little greedy! No! I ate so many I got sick. So I gave them all to some children in the cellars. But Ike would have given me more if I’d wanted. He’d have given me anything. And we had lovely meals; sometimes in restaurants and sometimes sent in. Last night we had a vol-au-vent,
and asparagus, and lobsters and an iced bomb and peaches, and Ike had a saddle of mutton as well. And we had champagne. I was drunk every night.’
‘Well, I don’t wonder he’s so fat if he eats all that,’ jeered Teresa.
‘That’s what I told him. I used to say, very loudly, in restaurants and places, “Now I know why you are so fat.” And all the people laughed. I said it in every language I knew. He got quite annoyed. He doesn’t like jokes about his figure.’
‘I wonder he kept you then,’ said Paulina.
‘Well, I said to him: “If you don’t like what I say I’ll go home. I can go this minute if I want to. Nobody can stop me.” So of course he had to put up with it.’
‘Did he give you that hat?’
Antonia wore the very ragged cotton gown in which she had left her home. But she had acquired a fine, flimsy town hat made of black lace with a wreath of gold flowers.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I bought it with my birthday money. Do you like it?’
‘It’s rather vulgar,’ said Teresa. ‘But it suits you.’
Antonia took it off and pinched the tawdry flowers lovingly. Her sisters exclaimed in excitement:
‘Why, you’ve got your hair up!’
‘Yes,’ she said carelessly. ‘Ike said I’d better.’
She had drawn it all off her forehead and pinned it at the back of her head. It was a style which revealed the subtle shadows and curves of brow and temple, giving her an appearance of character and intellect which the low-brimmed hat had destroyed. The calm, youthful beauty of her forehead contrasted strangely with the evasive defiance of her eyes, heavy with the weariness of a week’s frantic dissipation. She sat for a while making nervous grimaces, and then announced:
‘We went to the opera every night.’
‘Oh! Was it tolerable?’ asked Teresa, with very fair imitation of Lewis in his least agreeable manner.
‘Of course it was. It was very beautiful music. Only Ike has strange tastes. Just fancy! He likes Wagner! I told him that we don’t. I said that all savage races like loud noises.’
She paused to laugh heartily at this jibe, and Paulina asked in a puzzled voice:
‘But what did he have you there for if you were so rude? I don’t understand. What did he get out of it?’
‘You’d never take him for a lover,’ cried Teresa; then, catching sight of her sister’s face: ‘Oh, Tony! You didn’t!’
‘Yes I did,’ said Antonia, adding hastily: ‘Do you know he says I’ve the loveliest voice he’s ever heard in his life! He says I’m miles better than Kate; he says I’ve got more temperament than Kate and my interpretations are more sympathetic. So that’s one for Kate isn’t it? Always stodging away! She’ll never do anything very much I expect.’
‘He was just making fun of you,’ said Teresa. ‘Or else he’s as mad as you are. Because no sane man, even if he was your lover, could think that you sing better than Kate. But I wonder at your taste, Tony. He’s so fat!’
‘Why shouldn’t he be? There isn’t any law that the first lover anybody takes has to be thin is there?’
‘N—no,’ said Teresa with a rare blush. ‘You know you’ll have a terrible time with Sanger. He said he’d beat you when you came back; and I don’t know what he’ll say when he hears what you’ve done. What will you tell him?’
‘Nothing, or Linda either. I don’t think he’ll ask. He never asks questions unless he’s sure he’s going to like the answer.’
This was true and the little girls nodded. She went on:
‘I expect it will be all right. Ike came back with me, you know. He’s up with Sanger now, and he brought him some cognac for a present. That ought to put him in a good temper. I advised him to bring it and he said it was a good idea, but he was still afraid that Caryl might call him out. So I said: “Caryl never does silly things and that would be silly. Because if he started fighting over us his life wouldn’t be worth a sick headache by the time Soo-zanne’s grown up.” And Ike said that was probably true. I told him I didn’t wonder he was frightened, for he’d make a splendid target. And Caryl’s a good shot. If he fought anybody he’d kill them, I think. I shouldn’t like poor little Ike to be killed. But I don’t see why Caryl should mind, do you? It isn’t as if I was likely to have a baby or anything.’
They rather resented the swagger with which she made this assertion and Teresa said crushingly:
‘Did you walk all about Müchen with that enormous hole in your stocking? I wonder Ike put up with it!’
Antonia turned over her little foot and looked at it. Most of her pink heel stuck out of her stocking. She said instantly:
‘Ike gave me stockings. He gave me twelve pairs, all silk and all different colours.’
‘Fancy taking clothes from him!’
‘I didn’t. I threw them out of the window. I asked him what he took me for. And they all got caught in the telegraph wires, and the people in the street looked so surprised. It was windy, you know, and they waved about like little flags. I laughed till I nearly fell out of the window myself.’
‘Liar!’
‘I did. It’s true. I said to Ike: “If I have a hole in my stocking, what’s that to you? My clothes are my own affair, I should hope. If I’m not grand enough for you to take me out, leave me alone and I’ll go home.” And he said I could throw them out of the window if I liked. So I threw them. And he said he didn’t mind. He said he wouldn’t mind if I threw all my clothes out of the window. He said …’
She pulled herself up with a little gasp as if she had again stumbled upon a recollection which terrified her. But she went on, boastfully elaborating the details of her escapade, and heaping insults upon Birnbaum as though by abuse she could revenge the humiliations of her surrender. She seemed to be bent upon representing him in as ridiculous a light as possible, and Lewis, who joined them in time to hear some of her most highly coloured sallies, was struck by their apt cruelty – at the edge which this episode seemed to have put upon her somewhat primitive wit. He sat on the piano stool, applauding her waggery and encouraging her to fresh efforts until something in her desperate spirits made him uneasy. He observed her more closely, got a glimpse of the disaster in her eyes, and laughed no more; turning round abruptly he began to play the piano and ended the conversation. The girls, immediately silent, listened to him with the grave attention which his music merited. He played sitting very stiff and upright, staring thoughtfully at the notes with a faint, preoccupied smile. The immobility of his body seemed to contribute somehow to the violent activity of his hands as he flung them about the keyboard. He had charged into the last movement in the Appassionata, and for some minutes the room was full of its resistless, onward sweep. Then he broke off, commanding Paulina, with some irritation, not to breathe down his neck.
‘Finish it, Lewis,’ cried Antonia. ‘Play the Presto bit.’
‘I can’t play that piece,’ he demurred. ‘It’s too difficult.’
‘Oh, Lewis! How can you? I’ve often heard you.’
‘Well,’ said Teresa maliciously, ‘I must say I’ve heard it better done.’
He spun round on the music stool as if somebody had stuck a pin into him, and looked at her. She gave him such an innocent little grin that he could not help laughing. He said that they had better lose no time in rehearsing ‘Breakfast with the Borgias’ now that Antonia was back, and went off to fetch it. Paulina said:
‘He didn’t like you saying that you’d heard the Appassionata better done, Tessa.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t have said it was too difficult for him in that silly voice. It was just to show off. I can’t help teasing him when he asks for it like that.’
‘I wish,’ said Antonia with a shiver, ‘that he wouldn’t look at a person as if he saw all in one second everything that had ever happened to them.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ stated Teresa. ‘He only thinks of his own concerns. The other things he hastily forgets, so they shan’t get on his mind.’
; Lewis reappeared with the score, which he propped up on the piano, saying:
‘Now I propose to play over the tunes to you until you know them and you can supply your own words. Who will be Cesare Borgia? He’s a tenor.’
‘Roberto,’ said Paulina. ‘He’s got the best voice here.’
‘And Ikey Mo must be Pope,’ broke in Antonia. ‘It will suit him so very well.’
‘Oh! He’s here is he?’ asked Lewis.
‘Upstairs with Sanger.’
‘Good! He can double the parts of Pope and Friar. They don’t come on together. Then the flea trainer … what’s his name … Linda’s follower … Trigorin … he can be the servant, Scaramello. It’ll be just the part for him. He has a good deal of business with a poisoned tooth-pick. Just fetch him, Tessa! You’ll find him, I expect, on the veranda. And you, Lina, produce Roberto for me.’
Teresa ran out and found Trigorin engaged in desultory conversation with Linda. He was looking a trifle crestfallen and uneasy; he had been disappointed not to see Sanger at lunch. Lewis and Kate had discussed ‘The Mountains’ across him, without taking any notice of his attempts to join in. Their conversation reminded him of all his joyful anticipations as he drove up the valley and roused him from the brief delirium occasioned by Linda’s blue eyes. He had not climbed this heavy hill merely to make himself agreeable to a fine woman. She would be very well anywhere else, but here she was not seemly, and to become entangled with her would be to profane the dreams which he had woven about this visit. She found him much less promising after lunch.
He jumped up with alacrity when he heard that Lewis wanted him and followed Teresa as she skipped back into the house. He was radiantly at their service, but his face fell when he heard that they wanted him to sing.
The Constant Nymph Page 5