by George Moore
At Blackpool Mr. Williams’s pimply face was the first thing that greeted them. There was the usual crowd of landladies who presented their cards and extolled the comfort and cleanliness of their rooms. One of these women was introduced and specially recommended by Mr. Williams. He declared that her place was a little paradise, and an hour later, still plunged in conscientious regrets at having eaten a luncheon that had not been paid for, Kate sat sipping her tea in a rose-coloured room.
XIII
BUT NEXT MORNING at Blackpool Kate woke up languid, and seeing Dick fast asleep, she thought it would be a pity to awaken him, and twisting her pretty legs out of bed, she went into the sitting-room, with the intention of looking after Dick’s breakfast, and found it laid out on the round table in the rose-coloured sitting-room, the napery of exceeding whiteness. The two armchairs drawn by the quietly burning fire inspired indolence, and tempted at once by the freshness of her dressing-gown and the warmth of the room, she fell into a sort of happy reverie, from which she awoke in a few minutes prompted by a desire to see Dick; to see him asleep; to awaken him; to talk to him; to upbraid him for his laziness. The room, full of the intimacy of their life, enchanted her, and half in shame, half in delight, she affected to arrange the pillows while he buttoned his collar. When this was accomplished she led him triumphantly to the breakfast table, and with one arm resting on his knees watched the white shapes of the eggs seen through the bubbling water. This was the great business of the morning. He would pay twopence apiece to have fresh eggs, and was most particular that they should be boiled for three minutes, and not one second more. The landlady brought up the beefsteak and the hot milk for the coffee, and if any friend came in orders were sent down instantly for more food. Such extravagance could not fail to astonish Kate, accustomed as she had been from her earliest years to a strict and austere mode of life. Frequently she begged of Dick to be more economical, but having always lived Bohemian-like on the money easily gained, he paid very little attention to what she said, beyond advising her to eat more steak and put colour into her cheeks. And once the ice of habit was broken, she likewise began to abandon herself thoroughly to the pleasures of these rich warm breakfasts, and to look forward to the idle hours of digestion which followed, and the happy dreams that could then be indulged in. Before the tea-things were removed Dick opened the morning paper, and from time to time read aloud scraps of whatever news he thought interesting. These generally concerned the latest pieces produced in London; and, as if ignorant of the fact that she knew nothing of what he was speaking of, he explained to her his views on the subject — why such and such plays would, and others would not, do for the country. Kate listened with riveted attention, although she only understood half of what was told her, and the flattery of being taken into his confidence was a soft and fluttering joy. In these moments all fear that he would one day desert her died away like an ugly wind; and, with the noise of the town drumming dimly in the distance, they abandoned themselves to the pleasure of thinking of each other. Dick congratulated himself on the choice he had made, and assured himself that he would never know again the ennui of living alone. She was one of the prettiest women you could see anywhere, and, luckily, not too exacting. In fact, she hadn’t a fault if it weren’t that she was a bit cold, and he couldn’t understand how it was; women were not generally cold with him. The question interested him profoundly, and as he considered it his glance wandered from the loose blue masses of hair to the white satin shoe which she held to the red blaze.
‘Dick, do you think you’ll always love me as you do now?’
‘I’m sure of it, dear.’
‘It seems to me, if one really loves once one must love always. But I don’t know how I can talk to you like this, for how can you respect me? I’ve been so very wicked.’
‘What nonsense, Kate! How can you talk like that? I wouldn’t respect you if you went on living with a man you didn’t care about.’
‘Well, I liked him well enough till you came, dear, but I couldn’t then — it wasn’t all my fault; but if you should cease to care for me I think I should die. But you won’t; tell me that you won’t, dear Dick.’
At that moment the door opened; it was Montgomery come to see them. Kate jumped off Dick’s knees, and, settling her skirts with the pretty movement of a surprised woman, threw herself into a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. The musician had come to speak about his opera, especially the opening chorus, about which he could not make up his mind.
‘My boy,’ said Dick, ‘don’t be afraid of making it too long. There’s nothing like having a good strong number to begin with — something with grip in it, you know.’
Montgomery looked vaguely into space; he was obviously not listening, but was trying to follow out some musical scheme that was running in his head. After a long silence he said:
‘What I can’t make up my mind about is whether I ought to concert that first number or have it sung in unison. Now listen. The scene is the wedding festivities of Prince Florimel, who is about to wed Eva, the daughter of the Duke of Perhapsburg — devilish good name, you know. Well then, the flower-girls come on first, scattering flowers; they proceed two by two and arrange themselves in line on both sides of the stage. They are followed by trumpeters and a herald; then come the ladies-in-waiting, the pages, the courtiers, and the palace servants. Very well; the first four lines, you know— “Hail! hail! the festive day” — that, of course, is sung by the sopranos.’
‘You surely don’t want to concert that, do you?’ interrupted Dick.
‘Of course not; you must think me an ignoramus. The first four lines are sung naturally in unison; then there is a repeat, in which the tenors and basses are singing against the women’s voices. By that time the stage will be full. Well, then, what I’m thinking of doing, when I get to the second part, you know— “May the stars much pleasure send you, may romance and love attend you,” is to repeat “May the stars.”’
‘Oh, I see what you mean,’ said Dick, who began to grow interested. You’ll give “May the stars” first to the sopranos, and then repeat with the tenors and basses?’
‘That’s it. I’ll show you,’ replied Montgomery, rushing to the piano. ‘Here are the sopranos singing in G, “May the stars”; tenors, “May the stars”; tenors and sopranos, “Much pleasure send you”; basses an octave lower, “May the stars — may stars.” Now I’m going to join them together— “May the Stars.”’
Twisting round rapidly on the piano-stool, Montgomery pushed his glasses high up on his beak-like nose, and demanded an opinion. But before Dick could say a word a kick of the long legs brought the musician again face to the keyboard, and for several minutes he crashed away, occasionally shouting forth an explanatory remark, or muttering an apology when he failed to reach the high soprano notes. The lovesong, however, was too much for him, and, laughing at his own breakdown, he turned from the piano and consented to resume the interrupted conversation. Then the plot and musical setting of Montgomery’s new work was discussed. The names of Offenbach and Hervé were mentioned; both were admitted to be geniuses, but the latter, it was declared, would have been the greater had he had the advantage of a musical education. Various anecdotes were related as to how the latter had achieved his first successes, and Montgomery, who questioned the possibility of a man who could not write down the notes being able to compose the whole score of an opera, maintained it was ridiculous to talk of dictating a finale.
Kate often asked herself if she would ever be able to take part in these artistic discussions; she was afraid not. Even when she succeeded in picking up the thread of an idea, it soon got tangled with another, and she began to fear she would never know why Hervé was a better composer than Offenbach, and why a certain quintette was written on classical lines and such-like. She asked Montgomery to explain things to her, but he was more anxious to speak of his own music, and when the names of the ladies of the company were being run over in search of one who could take the part of a page, with a son
g and twenty lines of dialogue to speak, Dick said:
‘Well, perhaps it isn’t for me to say it, but I assure you that I don’t know a nicer soprano voice than Mrs. Ede’s.’
‘Ho, ho!’ cried Montgomery, twisting his legs over the arm of the chair, ‘how is it I never heard of this before? But won’t you sing something, Mrs. Ede? If you have any of your songs here I’ll try the accompaniment over.’
Kate, who did not know a crotchet from a semiquaver, grew frightened at this talk of trying over accompaniments, and tried to stammer out some apologies and excuses.
‘Oh, really, Mr. Montgomery, I assure you Dick is only joking. I don’t sing at all — I don’t know anything about music.’
‘Don’t you mind her; ’tis as I say: she’s got a very nice soprano voice; and as for an ear, I never knew a better in my life. There’s no singing flat there, I can tell you. But, seriously speaking,’ he continued, taking pity on Kate, whose face expressed the agony of shame she was suffering, ‘of course I know well enough she don’t know how to produce her voice; she never had a lesson in her life, but I think you’ll agree with me, when you hear it, that the organ is there. Do sing something, Kate.’
Kate cast a beseeching glance at her lover, and murmured some unintelligible words, but they did not save her. Montgomery crossed himself over the stool, and, after running his fingers over the keys, said:
‘Now, sing the scale after me — do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, la — that’s the note; try to get that clear — sol, do!’ and Kate, not liking to disoblige Dick, sang the scale after Montgomery in the first instance, and then, encouraged by her success, gave it by herself, first in one octave and then in the other. ‘Well, don’t you agree with me?’ said Dick. ‘The organ is there, and there’s no fluffing the notes; they come out clear, don’t they?’
‘They do indeed,’ replied Montgomery, casting a warm glance of admiration at Kate; ‘but I should so much like to hear Mrs. Ede sing a song.’
‘Oh, I really couldn’t—’
‘Nonsense! Sing the song of “The Bells” in the Cloches,’ said Dick, taking her by the arm. She pleaded and argued, but it was no use, and when at last it was decided she was to sing, Montgomery, who had in the meantime been trying the finale of his first act in several different ways, stopped short and said suddenly:
‘Oh, I beg your pardon; you’re going to sing the song of “The Bells.” I’ll tell you when to begin — now, “Though they often tell us of our ancient masters.”’
When Kate had finished singing Montgomery spun round, bringing himself face to face with Dick, and speaking professionally, said:
‘‘Pon my word, it’s extraordinary. Of course it is a head voice, but as soon as we get a few chest notes — you know I don’t pretend to be able to teach singing, but after a year’s training under my grandfather Beaumont wouldn’t be in the same street with you.’
‘Yes, but as he isn’t here,’ replied Dick, who always kept an eye on the possible, ‘don’t you think it would be as well for her to learn a little music?’
‘I shall be only too delighted to teach Mrs. Ede the little I know myself. I’ll come in the morning, and we’ll work away at the piano; and you know,’ continued Montgomery, who began to regret the confession of his inability to teach singing, ‘although I don’t pretend to be able to do what my grandfather could with a voice, still, I know something about it. I used to attend all his singing-classes, and am pretty well up in his method, and — and — if Mrs. Ede likes, I shall be only too happy to do some singing with her; and, between you and me, I think that in a few lessons I could get rid of that throatiness, and show her how to get a note or two from the chest.’
‘I’m sure you could, my boy; and I shall be delighted with you if you will. Of course we must consider it as a matter of business.’
‘Oh, nonsense, nonsense, between pals!’ exclaimed Montgomery, who saw a perspective of long hours passed in the society of a pretty woman — a luxury which his long nose and scraggy figure prevented him from indulging in as frequently as he desired.
After some further discussion, it was arranged that Montgomery should call round some time after breakfast, and that Dick should then leave them together to work away at do, re, mi, fa. Hamilton’s system was purchased, and it surprised and amused Kate to learn that the notes between the spaces spelt ‘face.’ But it was in her singing lessons that she took the most interest, and her voice soon began to improve both in power and quality. She sang the scales for three-quarters of an hour daily, and before the end of the week she so thoroughly satisfied Montgomery in her rendering of a ballad he had bought for her that he begged Dick to ask a few of the ‘Co.’ in to tea next Sunday evening. The shine would be taken out of Beaumont, he declared with emphasis. Kate, however, would not hear of singing before anybody for the present, and she gave up going to the theatre in the evening so that she might have two or three hours of quiet to study music-reading by herself. In the morning she woke to talk of Montgomery, who generally came in while they were at breakfast; and when the lesson was over he would often stop on until they were far advanced in the afternoon; and, looking at each other from time to time, they spoke of the next town they were going to, and alluded to the events of their last journey. Kate would have liked to speak much of Dick, but she felt ashamed, and listened with interest to all Montgomery told her of himself, of the difficulties he had to contend against, of his hopes for the future. He spoke a great deal of his opera, and often sprang up in the middle of a sentence to give a practical illustration of his meaning on the instrument. But these musical digressions did not weary Kate, and to the best of her ability she judged the different versions of the finale. ‘Give the public what they want,’ was his motto, and he intended to act up to it. He had written two or three comic songs that had been immense successes, not to speak of the yards of pantomime music he had composed, and he knew that when he got hold of a good book in three acts he’d be able to tackle it. What he was doing now was not much more than a curtain-raiser; but never mind, that was the way to begin. You couldn’t expect a manager to trust you with the piece of the evening until you’d proved that you could interest the public in smaller work. At this point of the argument Montgomery generally spoke of Dick, whom he declared was a dear good fellow, who would be only too glad to give a pal a lift when the time came. Kate, on her side, longed to hear something of her lover from an outside source. All she knew of him she had learned from his own lips. Montgomery, in whose head all sorts of reveries concerning Kate were floating, was burning to talk to her of her lover, and to hear from her own lips of the happiness which he imagined a true and perfect affection bestowed upon human life. Kate had not spoken on this important subject; and Montgomery, for fear of wounding her feelings, had avoided it; but they were conscious that the restraint jarred their intimacy. One afternoon Dick suddenly burst in upon them, and after some preamble told them that he had arranged to meet there some gentleman with whom he had important business to transact. Montgomery took up his hat and prepared to go, and Kate offered to sit with the landlady in the kitchen.
‘I’m afraid you’ll bore yourself, dear,’ Dick said after a pause. ‘But I’ll tell you what you might do — I shan’t be able to take you out to-day. Why not go for a walk with Montgomery?’
‘I shall be delighted; I’ll take you for a charming walk up the hill, and show you the whole town.’
Kate had no objection to make, and she returned to the sitting-room sooner than they expected her. ‘A quick-change artist,’ Dick said.
She wore a brown costume, trimmed with feathers to match; a small bonnet crowned the top of her head, and her face looked adorably coquettish amid the big bows into which she had tied the strings. Her companion was very conscious of this fact, and with his heart full of pride he occasionally jerked his head round to watch the passers-by, doubting at the same time if any were as happy as he.
It was a great pleasure to be alone with Kate in the open air, walking by
her side, escorting her, and telling her as they walked all he knew about Blackpool: that it bore the same relation to the other towns of Lancashire as the seventh day does to the other six of the week; that it was the huge Lancashire Sunday, where the working classes of Accrington, Blackburn, Preston, and Burnley, during a week or a fortnight of the year, go to recreate themselves.
‘The streets are built with large pavements,’ he told her, ‘so that jostling may be avoided, and there are many open spaces where people may loiter and congregate; the bonnets exhibited in the plate-glass windows, you can see, are obviously intended for holiday wear.’ She stopped to look at these. ‘Not one,’ he said, ’is as pretty as the one you’re wearing.’
‘It’s a pretty little hat,’ she answered, and he pointed to the spider-legged piers and to a high headland, a sort of green cap over the ocean.
‘Do you know that the fellow who owns that building has made a fortune?’ said Montgomery, pointing to the roofs which began to appear above the edge of the common.
‘Did he really?’ replied Kate, trying to appear interested.
‘Yes; he began with a sort of shanty where he sold ginger-beer and lemonade. It became the fashion to go out there, and now he’s got dining-rooms and a spirit licence. We went up there last week, a lot of us, and we had such fun; we went donkey-riding, and Leslie had a fall. Did she tell you of it?’
‘No; I’ve scarcely spoken to her for the last few days.’
‘How’s that? I thought you were such friends.’
‘I like her very much; but she’s always on the stage at night, and I don’t like — I mean I should like — but I don’t know that she would like me to go and see her.’
‘And why not, pray?’
‘Well, I thought she mightn’t like me to come and see her, because, I’m — well, on account of Dick.’
‘There’s nothing between them now; that’s all over ages ago, and she’s dead nuts on Bret.’
