CHAPTER IXNOTHING BUT THE TRUTH
“CLAREMONT,” the Ridgeway, was a corner detached house well set back from the road. A high evergreen hedge impeded the view from the footpath, and a curving carriage drive overhung with rhododendron bushes hid all suggestion of a house until the last possible moment. Then all that you saw was a tiny porch and a panorama of low-hanging eaves, diamond window-panes and russet-brown roofs of immense steepness. A telephone bracket affixed to one of the rafters and an electric bell in the porch convinced you that all this parade of antiquarianism was really the most aggressive modernity. A motor-garage, suitably disguised, stood at one side of the house. Behind was a vista of tennis-courts, conservatories, and an Italian pergola.
Beneath the tiny porch in the middle of a hot Sunday afternoon Catherine paused and pressed the button of the bell. She was excited. Her visit savoured of the miraculous. This was the house of the famous Emil Razounov The famous Emil Razounov had arranged this appointment to meet her. She was actually ringing the bell of Emil Razounov’s house. In another minute she and Emil Razounov would be face to face.
A maid opened the door. “What name, please?” she asked pertly, and Catherine replied.
Catherine passed into a wide hall, furnished with all sorts of queer furniture that she contrasted mentally with the bamboo hall-stand and the circular barometer that had graced the hall of No. 24, Kitchener Road. At one side a door was half open, and through this Catherine wasushered into what was apparently the front room of the house.
It was a long, low-roofed apartment, with dark panelling along the walls and rafters across the ceiling. The furniture was sparse, but bore signs of opulence: there were several huge leather armchairs and a couple of settees. Apart from these there was nothing in the room save a small table littered with music in manuscript, and a full-size grand piano. At first Catherine thought the room was unoccupied, but two winding coils of smoke rising upwards from two of the armchairs—the backs of which were towards her—seemed to proclaim the presence of men.
“Miss Weston,” announced the maid, and closed the door behind her.
One of the coils of smoke gyrated from the perpendicular. This was the preliminary to a slow creaking of one of the armchairs. A figure rose from the depths, and its back view was the first that Catherine saw of it. It was tall, attired in a light tweed jacket, grey flannel trousers, and carpet slippers of a self-congratulatory hue. Altogether, it was most disreputable for a Sabbath afternoon. It was difficult to recognize in this the spruce, well-groomed man of the world who had pushed his way into the Forest Hotel on the previous night. Yet Catherine did recognize him, and was rather astonished at her own perception in so doing. He faced her with the graceless langour of one who has just got out of bed at an early hour. Yet in his extreme ungainliness perhaps there was a certain charm. And as for his face—Catherine decided that it was not only lacking in positive good looks, but was also well endowed with extremely negative characteristics. To begin with, the lie of his features was not symmetrical. His hair was black and wiry, lustreless and devoid of interest. The whole plan and elevation of his face was so unconventional that he would probably have passed for being intellectual....
He bowed to her slightly. There was no doubt of his ability to bow. Whether he were ungainly or not, his bowing was so elegant as to savour of the professional. It was consciously a performance of exquisite artistry, as if he were thinking: “I know I’m ugly, but I’ve masteredthe art of bowing, anyway. Put me in evening clothes, and I’ll pass for an ambassador or a head-waiter.”
He did not offer his hand.
“Ah,” he said, “M’sieur Razounov will be ready in a moment. Please take a seat.”
Catherine sat down in one of the easy chairs. From this position she could see that another chair contained the recumbent form of Emil Razounov. He was reading a Sunday paper and taking occasional puffs at a large cigar. Catherine had heard much gossip about Razounov’s eccentricities, yet compared with his companion he seemed to her to be disappointingly ordinary. For several moments the two men sat in silence, while Catherine made ruthless mental criticisms. She was piqued at the lack of enthusiasm accorded her.
Suddenly Emil Razounov spoke. The voice came from the depths of the chair like a female voice out of a gramophone horn. It was almost uncanny.
“I say, Verreker, hass not the young lady come?”
The man addressed as Verreker replied somewhat curtly: “Oh yes, she’s here.”
“Zhen perhaps she weel go to the piano and play.”
Catherine left her chair and went to the instrument. Before sitting down she took off her hat—which was a species of tam-o’-shanter—and placed it on the table beside the piano. She did this from two reasons: first, she did not feel comfortable with it on; and second, she was proud of her hair, and conscious that it was the most impressive thing about her.
“What shall I play?” she asked nonchalantly. She could not help betraying her annoyance at her unceremonious reception.
There was a pause. It seemed almost as if both men were struck dumb with astonishment at her amazing question. Then Verreker said carelessly, as if it were a matter of no consequence at all: “Oh, whatever you like.” She took several moments to adjust the music-stool to her final satisfaction and prepare for playing. The time wasuseful to decide what she should play. Strange that she should not have decided before! She had decided before, as a matter of fact: she had decided to play some Debussy. But since entering the room she had changed her mind. She would play Chopin.
She played “Poland is Lost.” She played it well, because she was feeling defiant. She played with the same complete disrespect for her audience as had won her the first prize at the musical eisteddfod. Where she wanted to bang, she banged. She did not care that she was in a low-roofed dining-room and not a concert hall. She did not care if she pleased or displeased them. They were contemptuous of her: she would be contemptuous of them. The result was that she was not in the least nervous. Yet when she had struck the last note she could not help remarking to herself: “Ididplay that well. Theymusthave been rather impressed.”
An awkward pause ensued. Then Verreker said very weakly: “Thank you.” His “thank you” was almost ruder than if he had said nothing at all.
“Well?” said Razounov.
Catherine thought he was speaking to her. She was meditating something in reply when Verreker spoke, showing that the word had been addressed to him. A feeling of exquisite relief that she had not spoken came over her.
“She oughtn’t to play Chopin,” remarked Verreker.
“No,” agreed Razounov.
Catherine’s face reddened. It was the subtle innuendo of their remarks that hurt her. Also, by all the standards she had learnt at the Bockley High School for Girls there was something impolite in their criticizing her coolly in the third person as if she were not present. She resented it. She was not a stickler for etiquette, but she would not be insulted. “I don’t care who they are,” she thought rebelliously, “they’ve no right to treat me like that. I’m as good as they are, every bit!”
A long pause seemed to intensify the sinister significance of their previous remarks.
“Look here,” cried Catherine, breaking in raucously upon the silence,“why don’t you tell me straight out I can’t play?”
After she had said it she regretted her hastiness. She perceived it was a foolish thing to say. She blushed fiercely.
Verreker raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. Razounov beamed beatifically.
“My dear lady,” he began caressingly, “I will be perfectly fhrank with you. Eet is best to be fhrank, is eet not? ... You will neffer be a first-class player. Perrhaps a second, ohr a third, pairhaps you may eahrn plenhty of money at eet, but you will never be a—you know what I mean—a ghreat—a suphreme pianiste.” (He meant obviously: “You will never be what I am.”) ... “Why? ... Ah, I cannot tell. Why is zhe ghreat gift given to sohm and not to othairs? ... Eet is that you haf not it in you, that zohmsing, that spark that is cault ghenius ... you understand?”
Catherine understood. But she could not disguise her humiliation, her mortification, her disappointment.
“Do you agree with me, Verreker?” asked Razounov, as if desiring confirmation of his verdict.
Verreker said curtly: “I don’t profess to prophesy these things. Still, in this case, I believe you’re right.”
That was worse! There was something contemptuous in those words, “in this case.” Catherine hated him.
“Still,” purred Razounov, “you would improve with a course of instruction. You will make a good player if you are careful. I cannot give you lessons myself, as I am engaged all my time, but I will supervise. And Mr. Verreker will gif you a lesson once a week. Efery month I will supervise. Is zhat plain?”
Catherine could not answer. She was struggling with tears. The second time that day that tears had troubled her. Yet what a different variety of tears! These were tears of rage and disappointment, of blinding disillusionment, of sullen mortification. She dare not trust herself to reply. If she had attempted a word she would have been caught in a maelstrom of burning indignation.
“I will drop you a card when I can give you a first lesson,” saidVerreker, quietly.... “Well ... er ... thank you for coming ...”
Catherine took the hint and put on her hat. She did not say a word as she left the room. But her eyes were furiously blazing: there was in them that danger glint of which Verreker, if he had seen it, would have done well to beware.
Out in the Ridgeway, Catherine decided one thing. She would never take lessons off Verreker; she would never go near that house again....
The fierceness of her indignation brought Catherine face to face with one other thing that she had never hitherto realized. And that was the absurd grandiloquence of her ambition. There was nothing that Razounov has said of which she could legitimately complain. He had even complimented her to the extent of saying that she would make a good player if she were careful, and that she might earn plenty of money as a pianist. Surely that was encouraging! ... No, it was not. For he had also told her that she was not a genius, and would never be supreme in her art. Well, what of that? Had she ever had the conceited effrontery to think shewasa genius? Catherine decided no, not exactly that, but ... The fact was, Catherine, without knowing it, had inclined to give herself the benefit of the doubt. At any rate, she had always been serenely confident of the doubt. Quite unconsciously she had developed an opinion of herself to which there were no adequate frontiers. She was a supreme egoist, and her life had come to be worth living only on false understandings. Every book she read, every speech or sermon she listened to, occasioned in her the feeling: “How does that fit in with me?” At a school prize-giving once the speaker—a local vicar—had given an address to the scholars in which he mentioned the three things which a human being might legitimately desire—fine physique, genius, and strength of character. When he came to the consideration of the second, he said: “Of course, we’re none of us geniuses, but——” Catherine (she was only fourteen then) had been rather contemptuous of this modesty, “Of course, I suppose hehasto say that, and yet how does he know whether ...” she had thought. To her his sweeping declaration savoured of the rash. It had been the same on many occasions. Somewhere at the back of Catherine’s mind had always been the supposition, so patent as to be almost axiomatic, that she was different from other people. That difference was, on the whole, the difference of superiority. She had done things that no other girl of her age and acquaintance had done. She had left home with five and sevenpence half-penny, obtained lodgings on her own, and kept herself by work. She had played at concerts (one concert to be precise). A young man who, whatever his drawbacks, was undeniably clever, had fallen desperately in love with her. Her own father, pining of remorse, had cut his throat to prove to her his undying affection. And the invitation to meet Razounov had at first seemed merely a further rung on the ladder of fame. There was no doubt about it: she was marvellous, extraordinary, a constant surprise both to herself and to other people. Her very faults became demi-virtues. Passionate she felt herself to be. After readingTess of the d’Urbervillesher instinctive thought had been: “Am I like Tess?” And she had frequently asked herself the question: “Am I a genius?” and had shirked a plain answer. The crudity of the question, the awful conceit of replying in the affirmative, drove her to subterfuge. “Not exactly that, perhaps,” she told herself. “At least, how can I tell? I shall have to wait and see. I can’t give a direct answer.” Yet if she had been forced to give a direct answer, there is no doubt what it would have been.
And now, disillusioned, humiliated, self-scornful, the preposterous nature of her ambitions forced itself upon her. For the space of half an hour she was perfectly frank with herself. She did not spare that pitiable self-conceit of hers. She was ruthless. It was as if she thought that if she could wound that self-conceit so that it died of its injuries, so much the better. She employed first of all the cold steel of logic. The facts were these. She had been told frankly thatshe was not a genius. She was hurt and humiliated. Ergo, she must have been cherishing the notion that she was a genius. Absurd creature! Preposterous egoist! Conceited upstart! And all because she had played at a third-rate concert!
She wound up with a bitter piece of advice. You aren’t a genius, she insisted, you’re just an ordinary girl with as much extraordinariness in her as falls to the lot of most people. And the sooner you finish with your absurd dreams and ambitions and wake up to the facts the better.
It was good advice. She tried conscientiously to take it. She did take it—for about five and twenty minutes.
But those five and twenty minutes were among the most difficult and miserable she had ever spent.
She flung herself down on the bed in the attic at No. 14, Gifford Road, and was so wretched that she could not cry. Besides, she was convinced that there was nothing she had a right to cry about. Yet it was the utter horror, the unbelievable loneliness of existence that appalled her. She was quite alone in her struggle with the world, parentless, almost friendless. She knew now why it was that she had not mourned the loss of her parents, why it was that her solitary struggle had been up to then so exhilarating, so pleasant. It was that absurd faith in herself, that fearful egoism, that terrible conceit, that had enabled her to fight on alone. And now her succour, her comfort, her support had suddenly cracked and given way, and she was left clinging to wreckage. The future was simply blank, a dull, drab hereafter of self-effacement. Life was not worth living. For the first time in all her life she felt alone—alone with the wreckage of dead dreams and shattered hopes....
“O God!” she cried, “if I’m only ordinary after all! ...”
Horror upon horror! To think of Gifford Road, of the Victoria Theatre, without the conviction that these were but a means to something infinitely higher! Her ultimate triumph provided the only terms on which life amongst these things was worth living! To think of herself as a mere unit in the society that lived in Kitchener Road, Bockley,in Gifford Road, Upton Rising! To deny herself the privilege of thinking what a good joke it was that she should have been born in Kitchener Road! To realize suddenly that it was no joke at all, but an ordinary, not inappropriate circumstance in which she had no right to discover any irony at all. To regard herself as she knew Mrs. Carbass regarded her, viz. as “the little girl wot plys the pienner at the theayter.”
That was where her ruthless self-mutilation overreached itself. She knew she was not as Mrs. Carbass regarded her. Even if she were ordinary, she was not as ordinary as that. With feverish joy she clutched at this undeniable admission.... Slowly her spirits rose out of utter dejection. Cautiously at first, then with extravagant recklessness, she flung together the wreckage that had fallen. At the end of five minutes a phantom thought flashed by her—a swift, entrancing, wayward, delicious, undisciplined, seductive idea. It was like a breath of heaven upon her darkened soul. It whispered: “Supposing Razounov is wrong? ... After all, why the dickens should he be right? ...”
One effect the sudden (but only temporary) shattering of her ambitions had upon her. It redoubled afterwards her efforts to achieve them. She increased the number of hours devoted to practice. She even made some attempt to get through an elementary book on harmony and counterpoint.
And strangely enough, of all the composers whose works she attempted none nerved her to such a fever of determination as Chopin. For she had been told she oughtn’t to play Chopin....
On the Wednesday following a card reached her, addressed to the Victoria Theatre. It simply said:
Come at two o’clock on Saturday.R. VERREKER.
Come at two o’clock on Saturday.
R. VERREKER.
The writing was sharply angular, rivalling the phrasing in curtness. Nevertheless, Catherine had expected curtness. Of course she was not going to go. She had long ago decided that. As if to symbolize hercontempt, she tore up the card and threw it into the gutter as she left the theatre. After all, what was the use of keeping it, since she was not going to go?
All through the remainder of the week she kept fortifying her determination not to go. And yet dimly, in some strange intuitive fashion, at the back of her mind she felt that it was quite possible shewouldgo. I won’t go, she told herself one moment. Bet you youdogo, after all.... She was surprised, almost fascinated by this charming waywardness of hers. Anyway, she decided, it’s quite a simple matter to settle: I won’t go. I wonder, she said to herself, smiling.
As a matter of fact she didnotgo. But it was from an absurdly accidental reason. She was strolling along the Ridgeway soon after lunch on Saturday when she suddenly reflected that she did not know what time he wished to see her. Was it two o’clock or three? She failed to remember, and of course the postcard had been thrown away. At two o’clock she felt she would not run the risk of being an hour too early. Something in her suggested half-past two as a compromise; but when the half-hour chimed she decided that since that would be wrong in any case she had better wait till three. And at three she felt sure that his card had said two, so she went back to Gifford Road. In a way she was pleased with herself. She had kept her word. She had not gone. The narrowness of her victory seemed to emphasize its magnitude.
At the theatre that evening an introductory film was shown. It dealt with the Napoleonic invasion of Russia. Something in Catherine impelled her to play “Poland is Lost.” ...
On Monday a letter arrived at the theatre for her. The angular script on the envelope told her who had written it. It ran:
I presume you forgot on Saturday. If so, come on Wednesday at seven p.m.R. VERREKER.
I presume you forgot on Saturday. If so, come on Wednesday at seven p.m.
R. VERREKER.
Catherine was conscious that the struggle was not yet over. On the contrary, it was beginning again. The issue was not, Did she want to go or not? It was, Should she keep the vow she had made to herself? She made a great fuss over weighing both sides of this crucial problem, yet she knew it was a foregone conclusion what the result would be. Then she decided she was giving the matter a place out of all proportion to its importance. After all, it was of little consequence whether she went or not. She would wait till Wednesday, and do just what she felt like at the time.
Then she pondered over the precise significance of his phrase “if so.” Did he suspect that her absence on Saturday was not due to forgetfulness?
At the inquest on Mr. Weston the usual verdict was brought in: “Suicide during temporary insanity.”
Catherine found herself in possession of a houseful of cheap furniture and a sum of twenty odd pounds in the Post Office Savings Bank. She retained a small quantity of clothing and a few kitchen utensils; the rest of the stuff at 24, Kitchener Road was sold by auction. It fetched fifty-five pounds when all expenses had been deducted. She had a horror of hoarding vast quantities of lumber in the form of keepsakes and mementoes, so she destroyed everything that had no intrinsic value except the diaries Those she transported to Gifford Road and kept.
After everything had been settled she found herself the richer by a sum of sixty-eight pounds odd. She kept the eight odd and put the sixty in a bank. It struck her as rather ironical that she should benefit by her father’s death. Yet somebody had to have the money, so it might as well be she. With the eight pounds she bought herself some pretty dresses. For the first time in her life she could afford to put the question, “Will it look nice?” before “Will it wear well?” She experienced the keen joy of dressing from the artistic rather than from the strictly utilitarian point of view. She did not believe in “mourning”: herfirst dresses were reddish brown to match her hair, and white to throw her hair into vivid contrast. Always it was her hair that had to be considered....
When you saw her dressed up you would certainly not call her pretty, but you might confess to a sort of attractiveness....