CHAPTER XIIDISCONTENT
HER first periodic “supervision” by Razounov took place early in the New Year, and once again coincided with an engagement of Razounov to play Chopin at the Bockley Hippodrome.
He puffed serenely at a cigarette while she played the Kreutzer Sonata. At the end he said:
“Nicely, oh yais, quite nicely.... And thees ees—let me see—thees ees Mees—Mees—”
“Weston,” put in Verreker.
“Ah, yais, ... plays quite nicely, eh? ... A leetle more technique, and—more—more—what ees the word?—characterization, eh?”
Verreker nodded.
But Catherine was disappointed. For it was perfectly evident not only that Razounov had failed to recognize her, but that her name when told him had recalled nothing in his mind.
At her next lesson with Verreker she said: “Razounov didn’t remember me, apparently——”
Verreker replied quite casually: “Oh no, why should he?”
She coloured slightly.
“Well,” she said, with some acerbity, “considering he took the trouble to send for me after hearing me play at that club concert, I think he might at least——”
Verreker faced her suddenly.
“What’s that?” he said.
“What’swhat?”
“What you’ve just been talking about. I don’t understand in the least.... You say he heard you at a concert?”
“Well, I presume so, anyway. What remarkably short memories you musical people have! Razounov apparently heard me at the concert, and sent me a message to come and see him the next day. You ought to remember that: it was you yourself who brought it. You tracked me down to the Forest Hotel.”
“Yes, yes. I remember that.... But the concert?”
She was becoming more and more sarcastic as his mystification increased.
“Oh yes, the concert. I played Liszt’s Concert Etude in A flat (the one you don’t like). As I remarked before, presumably Razounov heard me, or else why should he send for me to——”
“I am afraid you have presumed falsely,” he interrupted. (She shivered at the stateliness of the phrasing: it reminded her of “I know of no reason at all.”) “Razounov could not possibly have heard you play. He never attends local concerts. Besides, he must have been on at the Hippo——”
“Then why did he send for me?” she cried shrilly.
He scratched his chin reflectively. She hated him for that gesture.
“I believe—I think hedidtell me once.... I fancy it was something rather unusual. Somebody—I can’t tell you who, because I believe I’m pledged to secrecy—wrote to Razounov offering to pay for a course of lessons for you. His name was to be kept out of it. I mean, the name of the person.”
He frowned irritably at the slip of his tongue, and still more at the rash correction which had given prominence to it.
“A man?” she ejaculated.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I know it was. Because you said ‘his.’”
“Then why did you ask me?”
She swung round on the stool and clasped her hands below her knees. Her eyes were fiercely bright.
“What are Razounov’s fees?” she said quietly.
“Three guineas a lesson.”
“And yours?”
“For purposes of musical instruction I am Razounov. He only supervises. It is a fortunate arrangement, because I am a much better teacher than he.”
She looked at him a little amazed. For the first time she caught herself admiring him. She admired the calm, straightforward, unqualified way he had said that he was a much better teacher than Razounov. It was not conceit. She was glad he knew how to appraise himself. She admired him for not being afraid to do so. In her eyes was the message: “So you too have found out that overmodesty is not a virtue? So have I.”
But it was impossible to remark upon it. She plunged into the financial side of the question.
“So somebody has been paying three guineas a week for me?” (And she thought: “Whoever is it?”)
“Certainly. You don’t imagine Razounov would give lessons for nothing, do you?”
“That is to say,youwouldn’t give lessons for nothing, isn’t it?”
“Certainly. I am not a philanthropist. I have other interests besides music. Music is only my way of getting a living. I never even reduce my fees except—except—well——”
“Yes?—except when?”
He turned away his head as he replied: “Except in cases where the pupil has no money yet supreme musical genius.”
She flared up passionately.
“Look here,” she said, “why d’you keep on rubbing it in? How do you know I shan’t be a great pianist? I say, how do you know? I tell you, I don’t believe you. You wait; you’ll see me at the top before long. And then you’ll have to eat your words. You’re got a good opinion of yourself, haven’t you? Well, so have I. See? ... And I tell you Iwillget to the top! I’ll show you you’re wrong! See?”
“I hope you will,” he said quietly. And added: “I’m glad my criticism doesn’t discourage you. It isn’t meant to.”
To which she was on the point of replying: “But ithasdiscouraged me. There have been times when——” She did not say that. There came a pause. Then she reverted to the financial side of the business.
“So somebody’s already paid nearly a hundred pounds for me.”
“Sixty, I believe. The last quarter has not been paid yet.”
(And then the idea came to her immediately—George Trant!)
“Aren’t your fees payable in advance?” she asked sharply.
“As a general rule, yes.”
“Then why did you make an exception in my case?”
“Because I know the person fairly well, and am confident of being paid soon. That’s all.”
“Is it?”
“Certainly,” he replied brusquely. “If your anonymous benefactor doesn’t pay up within the next couple of months the arrangement between you and me will terminate on the first of March. As I said before, I am not a philanthropist.”
“Obviously not.”
“I hope it is obvious. I have often been mistaken for one.”
“Curious! I can scarcely believe it.... Have you the address of my anonymous benefactor?”
“I dare say I have it somewhere about. Why?”
“Because I want you to write and tell him something.”
“Indeed? And what am I to tell him?”
“Tell him he needn’t trouble to pay the last quarter’s fees. I will pay them myself.”
“I hope you can easily spare the money——”
“Of course I can. I shouldn’t offer to pay if I couldn’t. I’m not a philanthropist.”
“Very well, then. I will write and tell him what you say.”
Pause. He was beginning to look rather annoyed.
“And there’s just one other thing,” she said, putting on her hat ready for departure.
“What’s that?”
“Our arrangement will not terminate on the first of March. I shall continue and pay myself.”
“As you wish....” He shrugged his shoulders.
And she thought as she went out: “That was a neat stroke for me. But it’s going to be confoundedly expensive....”
Henceforward Catherine assumed that George was her anonymous benefactor. His inability to pay the last quarter’s fees synchronized with his encounter with the Bishop’s Stortford magistrates, resulting in a bill, including costs and all expenses, of nearly twenty-five pounds. Undoubtedly it was George who was financing her. And the question arose: Why? And the only possible answer was that this quixotic and expensive undertaking was done out of love for her. Catherine did not particularly like it. She was not even vaguely grateful. She almost thought: He had no right to do it without asking me. And if he had asked me I shouldn’t have let him. Anyway, it was done behind my back. Treating me like a little child that doesn’t know what is best for itself....
At times she became violently angry with him for his absolute silence. Does he intend to carry the secret with him to the grave? she asked herself. The absurd ease with which he parried any attempts to entangle him in a confession intensely annoyed her. “I don’t believe he intends ever to tell me,” she thought. “And if I’m ever a well-known pianist he’ll congratulate himself in secret by thinking: ‘Istarted her.Igave her her first chance. She’d have been nothing but for me.And she doesn’t know it!’” The thought of George’s romantic self-satisfaction at such a juncture oppressed her strangely.
There was also the subtle disappointment of discovering that Razounov had not “found” her as great pianists are supposed to “find” promising talent. But she was becoming accustomed to the shattering of her idealist creations. Besides, she was at this time deriving a good deal of hard satisfaction from her rapid and steady advancement, and no amount of retrospective disillusionment could cast a shadow across the future. Only she was annoyed at the quixotism of George Trant.
One evening she asked him point-blank:
“Did you pay for my first quarter’s lessons with Razounov?”
She expected the blow by its very suddenness would tell. He started very slightly.
“Me?” he said, in a tone of bewilderment which, if not genuine, was at least consummate acting. “Me?—I don’t understand. What do you——”
“Well, somebody did,” she replied curtly, annoyed that her blow had been parried. “And I thought it might be you.”
“Good heavens, no!” he said, and at that moment she did not know whether to believe him or not.
He had been clever up to then. Afterwards he became too clever. One of those periodic spasms of brilliance overwhelmed him.
The next morning she received a letter, typewritten, plain paper and envelope, with the non-committal postmark: London, W. It ran:
The person who has undertaken the expenses of Miss Weston’s musical training wishes it to be understood that he desires to remain anonymous. Should he be questioned on the point by anyone he will feel himself justified in adopting any attitude, even one involving departures from the truth, which seems to him best calculated to preserve the anonymity he so earnestly desires. Hence it is obvious that enquiry, however persistent, can elicit no reliable information.
The person who has undertaken the expenses of Miss Weston’s musical training wishes it to be understood that he desires to remain anonymous. Should he be questioned on the point by anyone he will feel himself justified in adopting any attitude, even one involving departures from the truth, which seems to him best calculated to preserve the anonymity he so earnestly desires. Hence it is obvious that enquiry, however persistent, can elicit no reliable information.
When Catherine read this she laughed outright. The absurdity, the sublime ridiculousness of the thing tickled her. She knew now beyondall doubt that it was George Trant. For this note had “George Trant” written all over it. Only he could have devised something so inanely clever and at the same time so incredibly stupid.
The fact of its being posted only three hours after their interview of the evening before was enough to convince her. He must have gone home direct, written it (he had a typewriter at home, she knew), and gone up to London, W., immediately to catch the eleven o’clock post. She pondered on his choice of London, W. Probably he thought a London postmark would be least likely to give a clue. E.C., the most common, would suggest Leadenhall Street, so he chose W. That, probably, was his line of argument.
It was not a bad joke, she agreed. Yet if he acted upon it she could conceive herself getting angry....
Her opinion of George went up somewhat after the receipt of this letter. She was immensely struck by its absurdity, yet she had to admit that in addition to being a joke it was quite a clever joke. For several weeks she did not mention the affair, and he too avoided all reference to it. Then she began again to be annoyed at his silence. Besides, she was immensely curious to know what his attitude would be. The full flavour of the joke had yet to be tasted.
An incident—trivial in itself—lowered her opinion of him incalculably.
She had gone for her usual weekly lesson from Verreker. It was springtime, and “Claremont” was being painted, both inside and out. The music-room in which she took her lessons was crowded with furniture from other rooms, and for the first time she saw the evidences of Verreker’s labours apart from the world of music. Large book-cases had been dumped anyhow against the walls, and tables littered with papers filled up the usually spacious centre of the room. The piano had been pulled into a corner. She had several minutes to wait, and spent the time perusing the titles on his bookshelves. There was a fairly large collection of modern novels, including most of the works of Wells,Bennett, Conrad, Hardy, Chesterton and others; complete sets of the works of Shaw and Ibsen, most of the plays of Galsworthy, Granville Barker and Henry Arthur Jones; and some hundreds of miscellaneous French novels. A complete bookcase was occupied by works on economics and economic history—she read the names of Cunningham, Ashley, Maitland, Vinogradoff, Seebohm and Money. Then there was a shelf entirely devoted to Government Blue-Book publications, Reports of Commissions, quarterly and monthly reviews, loose-leaf binders full to bursting with documents, and such like. It was a very impressive array. She was conscious of her own extreme ignorance. Scarcely anything that was here had she read. She was not particularly fond of reading....
On the table near his desk she saw a yellow-backed copy of Ibsen’sGhosts....
One result of their frequent bickering was that their conversation had acquired a good deal of familiarity....
“Rather a muddle,” he commented, as she was preparing to go after the lesson. He waved a hand comprehensively round the room.
“You’ve a lot of books,” she said.
“Yes; and I read them.” (As much as to say: “If you had a lot of books you wouldn’t read them.” In other words, a purely gratuitous insult. But she ignored it.)
“ReadingGhosts?” she remarked, taking up the yellow-backed book from the table.
“Re-reading it,” he corrected.
Something erratic and perfectly incomprehensible prompted her next utterance.
“Absolute biological nightmare,” she said casually. (It was something she had once heard George say.)
He looked at her queerly.
“Have you read it?”
“No,” she said, and blushed. She knew his next question would be, “Then how do you know?” so she added: “I once heard somebody say that about it.” She plunged further in sheer desperation. “Don’tyouthink it’s rather a biological nightmare?” she persisted, with passionateeagerness, as much as to say: “Please don’t make a fool of me. Please let the matter pass this once.”
“I confess,” he replied coldly, “it never appeared to me in that, light.... But, of course ...”
(Truly he was a master of stately phrasing!)
Naturally she regarded it as George’s fault primarily. It was clear she had overestimated George’s critical faculties....
She was so annoyed with George on the way home that she arrived at the astonishing decision: I will not marry him....
That evening, under the trees of the Bockley High Road, she produced the typewritten anonymous letter and asked him point-blank: “Did you write this?”
“No,” he said immediately.
“Did you type it, then?” (It showed her mean opinion of him that she judged him capable of such a quibble.)
“No.”
“Do you know its contents?”
“How should I?”
“Then please read it.” She handed it to him.
“If you like,” he said, and read it. “Well?” he remarked, after doing so.
“How am I to know if you are telling the truth?”
“You have only my word.”
“But, according to the letter, you may be telling me a lie.”
“That is presuming that I wrote it.”
“And you didn’t?”
“No.”
Pause. Then suddenly she stopped and faced him defiantly.
“I don’t believe you!” she snapped.
“Well——”
“Look here. Youdidwrite this thing. Tell the truth. Own up to it. It’s very clever and all that, but it shouldn’t be kept up seriously like this. I’m certain you wrote that letter.”
“You don’t take my word for it?”
“Not in this case.”
“In other words, I’m a liar. Eh?”
“I suppose it comes to that.”
“Well, you’re very polite, I must say. Perhaps you’ve a few more things you’d like to say about me?”
“Don’t try to be sarcastic. But there is one thing if you really want to know.”
“What’s that?”
She paused, and then hurled it at him with terrible effect.
“I don’t love you a bit.... Not a tiny bit....”
She saw him whiten. It was thrilling to see how he kept his emotion under control. She almost admired him in that moment.
“Is that so?” he said heavily.
“Yes.”
He bit his lip fiercely.
“Then our engagement, I presume, is—is dissolved?”
“Presumably.... Here’s your ring.”
Here occurred a touch of bathos. She tried to get the ring off her finger, but it would not pass the first joint.
“Let me try,” he said humbly, and the episode became almost farcical. It came off after a little coaxing. But the dramatic possibilities of the incident had been ruined.
“Well,” he said stiffly, “I suppose that’s all. It’s your doing, not mine. You’re breaking up our prospects without the least shadow of reason.”
It did seem to her an incredibly wanton thing that she was doing. And at this particular moment, if he had uttered her name slowly and passionately she would have burst into tears and been reconciled to him. But he missed the opportunity.
“I shall return your letters,” he continued coldly. (There were not many of them, she reflected.)
“Good-bye,” she said.
They shook hands. And she thought: “Fancy having been kissed every night for months and months and suddenly turning to a handshake!” That, more than anything, perhaps, indicated to her the full significance of what had happened. That and the peculiar sensation of chilliness roundher finger where the ring had been.
As she turned into Gifford Road she asked herself seriously the question: “What has come over me? Am I mad? ...”
More than once during the next few weeks she wished for a reconciliation with George. It was not so much a desire for him as a sense of despair at being once more wholly alone and adrift. Now she was back again where she was when she first came to Gifford Road. With redoubled energy she laboured at her music, and soon the idea of a recital in a London concert hall began to dance attractively in her vision. She extended her reputation by playing in other suburbs; she thought even of setting up as a private teacher of the pianoforte. With the surplus earnings of a few months she bought an upright piano of decent tone and installed it in the basement sitting-room at Gifford Road.
George wrote to her once, a long letter of mingled pleading and expostulation. He mentioned that he had not yet told his parents what had happened, so that if she desired to change her mind it would be easy to do so. He laid stress on the difficulty he should find in giving Helen and his father and mother an adequate explanation of their separation.
After the receipt of this letter Catherine ceased her vague misgivings. She replied immediately in a letter, short by comparison with his, whose every sentence was the result of careful excogitation:
It is no good thinking of our ever becoming engaged again, because if we did we should soon quarrel. We simply aren’t made for one another, and however kind and sympathetic we try to be there’ll always be something lacking that sooner or later we shan’t be able to do without....I am bound to confess that the idea of marriage with you always struck me as fantastic and improbable. I never, I believe, considered it seriously. I knew something would happen to put an end to our plans....
It is no good thinking of our ever becoming engaged again, because if we did we should soon quarrel. We simply aren’t made for one another, and however kind and sympathetic we try to be there’ll always be something lacking that sooner or later we shan’t be able to do without....
I am bound to confess that the idea of marriage with you always struck me as fantastic and improbable. I never, I believe, considered it seriously. I knew something would happen to put an end to our plans....
... Of course I am in the wrong. You have been very kind to me and from the ordinary point of view you would doubtless have made a very good husband. You are quite entitled to consider yourself shabbily treated. I am wholly in the wrong. But I am not going to make myself everlastingly unhappy just to put myself in the right. And whether you would have made me a good husband or not, I should certainly have made you a bad wife. I am a peculiar person, and I would never marry a man just because he would make a good husband.... Surely you don’t imagine I am going to marry you just to let you out of the difficulty of explaining things at home? ... A thing like that proves at once the complete misunderstanding that exists between us two.... You must tell your parents and Helen exactly what has happened, viz. that I have jilted you. If you were a woman you could claim a few hundred pounds damages for breach of promise.... Tell them I have jilted you because I could not bear the thought of marrying you. Blame me entirely: I am heartless and a flirt, cruel, treacherous and anything else you like. Only I am not such a fool as to marry somebody I don’t want to marry....Don’t imagine I am in love with somebody else. At present I am not in love with anybody. At one time I thought I was in love with you, but I am doubtful if it ever was so really. I think it was just that you hypnotized me by being in love with me yourself. I mean, I was so interested in your experience....I don’t ask you to forgive me. Because forgiving won’t make any difference. I may have done right or I may have done wrong, but I have done what I would do over again if I had to. There is no repentance in me. It is idle to pretend I am sorry. I am extraordinarily glad to have got out of a difficult position....This letter, by the way, is the first sincere letter I have ever written to you. I do not mean that the others were all insincere: I mean that, compared with this one for truth and sincerity, the others were simply—nothing....As to my present attitude towards you I will be offensively straightforward. I do not like you. That ought to convince you finally of the uselessness of answering this letter....
... Of course I am in the wrong. You have been very kind to me and from the ordinary point of view you would doubtless have made a very good husband. You are quite entitled to consider yourself shabbily treated. I am wholly in the wrong. But I am not going to make myself everlastingly unhappy just to put myself in the right. And whether you would have made me a good husband or not, I should certainly have made you a bad wife. I am a peculiar person, and I would never marry a man just because he would make a good husband.... Surely you don’t imagine I am going to marry you just to let you out of the difficulty of explaining things at home? ... A thing like that proves at once the complete misunderstanding that exists between us two.... You must tell your parents and Helen exactly what has happened, viz. that I have jilted you. If you were a woman you could claim a few hundred pounds damages for breach of promise.... Tell them I have jilted you because I could not bear the thought of marrying you. Blame me entirely: I am heartless and a flirt, cruel, treacherous and anything else you like. Only I am not such a fool as to marry somebody I don’t want to marry....
Don’t imagine I am in love with somebody else. At present I am not in love with anybody. At one time I thought I was in love with you, but I am doubtful if it ever was so really. I think it was just that you hypnotized me by being in love with me yourself. I mean, I was so interested in your experience....
I don’t ask you to forgive me. Because forgiving won’t make any difference. I may have done right or I may have done wrong, but I have done what I would do over again if I had to. There is no repentance in me. It is idle to pretend I am sorry. I am extraordinarily glad to have got out of a difficult position....
This letter, by the way, is the first sincere letter I have ever written to you. I do not mean that the others were all insincere: I mean that, compared with this one for truth and sincerity, the others were simply—nothing....
As to my present attitude towards you I will be offensively straightforward. I do not like you. That ought to convince you finally of the uselessness of answering this letter....
A cold May day, so chilly that a fire seemed the most welcome thing on earth. Seven in the evening, and it was the last lesson of the quarter. When she reached “Claremont,” Verreker was not there. He had been up to the City, and a slight accident outside Liverpool Street Station had delayed the trains. The maid showed her into the music-room and left her alone. She sat in one of the big chairs by the fire and feltastonishingly miserable. The room had regained its normal condition; the surplus furniture, the books, papers, writing-desk, etc., had been taken away: but a grandfather clock that had not originally been there now occupied a permanent position in the corner. The embers were burning low, and shadows were darkening all around: the black and white vista of piano keys straggled obscurely in the background; the clock was ticking sleepily away. Far into the dim distance of the ceiling loomed the polished splendour of the raised sound-board....
Why did she feel miserable?
It was something in her soul.
She got up and sat down at the piano.
With no discoverable motive she commenced to play the piece that she now knew was Chopin’s Black Note Etude (in G flat). It was the one she had heard years ago when she stood in the scented dusk of the Ridgeway in front of the house with the corner bay-window. Since then she had learned it thoroughly and played it many times on concert platforms. But as she played it now it sounded new, or rather, it sounded as if she had heard it only once before, and that was many years ago in the summer twilight. All between was a gap, a void which only the Chopin Etude could bridge....
(In her strange mood she was playing it most abominably, by the way.)
She paused in the middle. Her eyes were like dark gems amidst the red glory of her hair.
“I’m not in love withany person,” she told herself with incredible calmness. “I’m not in love with anybody in the world. But I’m in love withSomething. Some Thing! Very deeply, very passionately, I am. And I don’t know what it is.... I keep finding it and losing it again. But it’s in this”—she started the first few bars of the Chopin piece—“it’s all everywhere in that. I knew it was there when I stood and listened to it years ago. Oh, it’s there. And I’ve heard and seen it in other places, too. But as yet it’s been only athing.... But some day, maybe, I’ll tack it on to somebody living, and then ... God help me! ...”
Her fingers flew over the keys, and the great octaves began to sing out in the left hand.
“I’ll have to be careful,” she went on in thought—“careful, or else some day I’ll go mad.... But it’s there, whatever it is.... Something that’s in that and that’s in me as well, and they’re nearly tearing me to shreds to get closer to one another. That’s how it feels.... And I told him I wasn’t in love withanybody... ButifI should catch a glimpse of this something in any living being! Nothing should ever keep us apart! Nothing could! Neither life nor death—nor miles—nor anything.”
She let her hands fall down the keyboard in a great culminating Niagara of octaves. Two chords like the blare of trumpets, and ...
The door opened and Verreker entered.
She paused with her hands poised on the keys.
“Well,” he began cheerily, “it’s the last lesson of the quarter, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said quietly.
He was warming his hands in front of the fire.
“Confoundedly cold for May,” he remarked parenthetically. “You’ve been taking lessons of me for a year now, haven’t you?”
“Just over a year.”
He stood with his back to the fire.
“Well,” he continued, “you’ve not done badly. In fact, you’ve—you’ve improved—er—quite—er—beyond my expectations. I admit that.”
It was the biggest compliment he had ever paid her. Pleasure surged in her blood. She flushed.
“And,” he went on, “I don’t want to go on taking your money when you’re no longer likely to benefit much. As a matter of fact, you’ve come to a point at which my lessons are no longer worth three guineas each to you. You can teach yourself as well as I can teach you. I’ve led you out to the open sea, and now the time’s come for—for dropping the pilot. See?”
She nodded.
“So I don’t recommend you to have another quarter with me. I think it would be money wasted.”
She nodded.
“Of course I shall be glad to help you in any way I can if you need it.”
She nodded.
“And if you ever wish me to give you advice on any point of theory or technique I shall be pleased to do so.”
She nodded.
Pause.
“... I’ve just been up to town to get some new music in manuscript from a new author. It’s quite good stuff and very modern. I’ll run it over if you’d care to hear it.”
“Thanks,” she said, and vacated the stool....
When he had finished it was almost too dark to see the music. She was standing at the side of the piano with her face in the shadows.
“Play ‘Jeux d’Eaux,’” she said softly.
He began....