by George Moore
For Mr. Innes’s ambition was to restore the liturgical chants of the early centuries, from John Ockeghem, the Flemish silver-smith of Louis XI., whose recreation it was to compose motets, to Thomas da Vittoria; and, after having made known the works of Palestrina and of those who gravitated around the great Roman composer, he hoped to disinter the masses of Orlando di Lasso, of Goudimel and Josquin des Près, the motets of Nannini, of Felice Anerio, of Clemens non Papa.... He would go still further back. For before this music was the plain chant or Gregorian, bequeathed to us by the early Church, coming down to her, perhaps, from Egyptian civilisation, the mother of all art and all religion, an incomparable treasure which unworthy inheritors have mutilated for centuries. It was Mr. Innes’s belief that the supple, free melody of the Gregorian was lost in the shouting of operatic tenors and organ accompaniments. The tradition of its true interpretation had been lost, and the text itself, but by long study of ancient missals, Mr. Innes had penetrated the secret of the ancient notation, vague as the eyeballs of the blind, and in the absence of a choir that could read this strange alphabet of sound, he cherished a plan for an edition of these old chants, re-written by him into the ordinary notation of our day. But impassable obstacles intervened: the apathy and indifference of the Jesuits, and their fear lest such radical innovations should prove unpopular and divert the congregation of St. Joseph’s elsewhere. He had abandoned hope of converting them from their error, but he was confident that reaction was preparing against the jovialities of Rossini, whose Stabat Mater, he said, still desecrated Good Friday, and against the erotics of M. Gounod and his suite. And this inevitable reaction Mr. Innes strove to advance by his pupils. Many became disciples and helped to preach the new musical gospel. He induced them to learn the old instruments, and among them found material for his concerts. Though a weak man in practical conduct, he was steadfast in his ideas. His concerts had begun to attract a little attention; he was receiving support from some rich amateurs, and was able to continue his propaganda under the noses of the worthy fathers in whose church he was now serving, but where he knew that one day he would be master.
But, unfortunately, Mr. Innes could only give a small part of his time to these concerts. Notwithstanding his persuasiveness, there remained on his hands some intractable pupils who would not hear of viol or harpsichord, who insisted upon being taught to play modern masses on the organ, and these he could not afford to refuse. For of late years his wife’s failing health had forced her to relinquish teaching, and the burden of earning their living had fallen entirely upon him. She hoped that a long rest might improve her in health, and that in some months — six, she imagined as a sufficient interval — she would be able to undertake in full earnestness her daughter’s education. To do this had become her dearest wish; for there could now be little doubt that Evelyn had inherited her voice, the same beautiful quality and fluency in vocalisation; and thinking of it, Mrs. Innes held out her hands and looked at them, striving to read in them the progress of her illness. Evelyn wondered why, just at that moment, her father had turned from the bedside overcome by sudden tears. But whoever dies, life goes on the same, our interests and necessities brook little interference. Meal-times are always fixed times, and when father and daughter met in the parlour — it was just below the room in which Mrs. Innes was dying — Evelyn asked why her mother had looked at her hands so significantly.
He said that it was thus her mother foreshadowed Violetta’s death, when Armand’s visit is announced to her.
In the silence which followed this explanation their souls seemed to say what their lips could not. Sympathies and perceptions hitherto dormant were awakened; he recognised in her, and she, in herself, an unsuspected inheritance. Her voice she had received from her mother, but all else came from her father. She felt his life and character stirring in her, and moved as by a new instinct, she sat by his side, holding his hand. They sat waiting for the announcement of the death which could not be delayed much longer, and each thought of the difference the passing would make in their lives! It was her death that had brought them together, that had given them a new and mutual life. And in those hours their eyes had seemed to seal a compact of love and fealty.
This was three years ago; but since Mrs. Innes’s death very little had been done with Evelyn’s voice. The Jesuits had spent money in increasing their choir and orchestra, and Mr. Innes was constantly rehearsing the latest novelties in religious music. All his spare time was occupied with private teaching; and discovering in his daughter a real aptitude for the lute, he had taught her that instrument, likewise the viola da gamba, for which she soon displayed even more original talent. She played both instruments at his concerts, and as several pupils offered themselves, he encouraged her to give lessons — he had made of her an excellent musician, able to write fugue and counterpoint; only the production of the voice he had neglected. Now and again, in a fit of repentance, he had insisted on her singing some scales, but his heart was not in the lesson, and it fell through.
He was suspicious that she knew she could not learn singing from him; but an avowal of his inability to teach her would necessitate some departure from his own ideas, and, like all men with a mission, Mr. Innes was deficient in moral courage, and in spite of himself he evaded all that did not coincide with the purpose of his life. He loved his daughter above everything, except his music, and the thought that he was sacrificing her to his ambition afflicted him with cruel assaults of conscience. Often he asked himself if he were capable of redeeming his promise to his dead wife, or if he shirked the uncongenial labour it entailed? And it was this tormenting question that had impelled him to light the candle, and raise it so that he could better see his wife’s face.
Though an indifferent painting, the picture was elaborately like the sitter. The pointed oval of the face had been faithfully drawn, and its straight nose and small brown eyes were set characteristically in the head. Remembering a photograph of his daughter, Mr. Innes fetched it from the other end of the room, and stood with it under the portrait, so that he could compare both faces, feature by feature. Evelyn’s face was rounder, her eyes were not deep-set like her mother’s; they lay nearly on the surface, pools of light illuminating a very white and flower-like complexion. The nose was short and high; the line of the chin deflected, giving an expression of wistfulness to the face in certain aspects. Her father was still bent in examination of the photograph when she entered. It was very like her, and at first sight Nature revealed only two more significant facts: her height — she was a tall girl — and a beautiful undulation in her walk, occasioned by the slight droop in her shoulders. She was dressed in dark green woollen, with a large hat to match.
“Well, darling! and how have you been getting on?”
The vague pathos of his grey face was met by the bright effusion of hers, and throwing her arms about him, she kissed him on the cheek.
“Pretty well, dear; pretty well.”
“Only pretty well,” she answered reproachfully. “No one has been here to interrupt you; you have had all the afternoon for finishing that virginal, and you’ve only been getting on ‘pretty well.’ But I see your necktie has come undone.”
Then overlooking him from head to foot —
“Well, you have been making a day of it.”
“Oh, these are my old clothes — that is glue; don’t look at me — I had an accident with the glue-pot; and that’s paint. Yes; I must get some new shirts, these won’t hold a button any longer.”
The conversation paused a few seconds, then running her finger down the keys, she said —
“But it goes admirably.”
“Yes; I’ve finished it now; it is an exquisite instrument. I could not leave it till it was finished.”
“Then what are you complaining of, darling? Has Father Gordon been here? Has he discovered any new Belgian composer, and does he want all his music to be given at St. Joseph’s?”
“No; Father Gordon hasn’t been here, and as for the Be
lgian composers, there are none left; he has discovered them all.”
“Then you’ve been thinking about me, about my voice. That’s it,” she said, catching sight of her own photograph. “You’ve been frowning over that photograph, thinking” — her eyes went up to her mother’s portrait— “all sorts of nonsense, making yourself miserable, reproaching yourself that you do not teach me to vocalise, a thing which you know nothing about, or lamenting that you are not rich enough to send me abroad, where I could be taught it.” Then, with a pensive note in her voice which did not escape him, she said —
“As if there was any need to worry. I’m not twenty yet.”
“No, you’re not twenty yet, but you will be very soon. Time is going by.”
“Well, let time go by, I don’t care. I’m happy here with you, father. I wouldn’t go away, even if you had the money to send me. I intend to help you make the concerts a success. Then, perhaps, I shall go abroad.”
His heart went out to his daughter. He was proud of her, and her fine nature was a compensation for many disappointments. He took her in his arms and thankfully kissed her. She was touched by his emotion, and conscious that her eyes were threatening tears, she said —
“I can’t stand this gloom. I must have some light. I’ll go and get a lamp. Besides, it must be getting late. I wonder what kind of a dinner Margaret has got for us. I left it to her. A good one, I hope. I’m ravenous.”
A few minutes after she appeared in the doorway, holding a lamp high, the light showing over her white skin and pale gold hair. “Margaret has excelled herself — boiled haddock, melted butter, a neck of mutton and a rice pudding. And I have brought back a bag of oranges. Now come, darling. You’ve done enough to that virginal. Run upstairs and wash your hands, and remember that the fish is getting cold.”
She was waiting for him in the little back room — the lamp was on the table — and when they sat down to dinner she began the tale of her day’s doings. But she hadn’t got farther than the fact that they had asked her to stay to tea at Queen’s Gate, when her tongue, which always went quite as fast as her thoughts, betrayed her, and before she was aware, she had said that her pupil’s sister was in delicate health and that the family was going abroad for the winter. This was equivalent to saying she had lost a pupil. So she rattled on, hoping that her father would not perceive the inference.
“There doesn’t seem to be much luck about at present,” he said. “That’s the third pupil you’ve lost this month.”
“It is unfortunate ... and just as I was beginning to save a little money.” A moment after her voice had recovered its habitual note of cheerfulness. “Then what do you think I did? An idea struck me; I took the omnibus and went straight to St. James’s Hall.”
“To St. James’s Hall!”
“Yes, you old darling; don’t you know that M. Desjardin, the French composer, has come over to give a series of concerts. I thought I should like him to try my voice.”
“You didn’t see him?”
“Yes I did. When I asked for him, the clerk said, pointing to a gentleman coming downstairs, that is Monsieur Desjardin. I went straight up to him, and told him who I was, and asked him if he had ever heard of mother. Just fancy, he never had; but he seemed interested when I told him that everyone said my voice was as good as mother’s. We went into the hall, and I sang to him.”
“What did you sing to him?”
“‘Have you seen but a white lily grow?’ and ‘Que vous me coûtez cher, mon coeur, pour vos plaisirs.’”
“Ah! that music must have surprised him. What did he say?”
“I don’t think I sang very well, but he seemed pleased, and asked me if I knew any modern music. I said ‘Very little.’ He was surprised at that. But he said I had a very fine voice, and sang the old music beautifully, but that it would be impossible for me to sing modern music without ruining my voice, until I had been taught. I asked him if it would not be well to try to earn a little money by concert singing, so that I might go abroad later on. He said, ‘I am glad that all my arrangements are made, otherwise I might be tempted to offer you an engagement. One engagement leads to another, and if you sing before your voice is properly placed’— ‘posée’ was the word he used— ‘you will ruin it.’”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, that’s all.” Then, noticing the pained look that had come into her father’s face, she added, “It was nice to hear that he thought well of my voice.”
But she could tell what he was thinking of, and regretting her tongue’s indiscretion, she tried to divert his thoughts from herself. His brooding look continued, and to remove it she had to fetch his pipe and tobacco. When he had filled it for the third time he said —
“There is the Bach and the Handel sonata waiting for us; we ought to be getting to work.”
“I’m quite ready, father. I suppose I must not eat any more oranges,” and she surveyed her plate full of skins.
Mr. Innes took up the lamp, Evelyn called to the servant to get another, and followed him into the music-room. The lamps were placed on the harpsichord. She lighted some candles, and in the moods and aspirations of great men they found a fairyland, and the lights disappeared from the windows opposite, leaving them still there.
The wings of the hours were light — weariness could not reach them — and at half-past eleven Mr. Innes was speaking of a beautiful motet, “O Magnum Mysterium,” by Vittoria. His fingers lingered in the wailing chords, and he said —
“That is where Wagner went for his chorus of youths in the cupola. The critics haven’t discovered it yet; they are still talking of Palestrina.”
CHAPTER TWO
JESUITS FROM ST. Joseph’s were not infrequently seen at Mr. Innes’s concerts. The worthy fathers, although they did not see their way to guaranteeing a yearly grant of money sufficient to ensure adequate performances of Palestrina’s finest works, were glad to support, with occasional guineas, their organist’s concerts. Painters and men of letters were attracted by them; musicians seldom. Nor did Mr. Innes encourage their presence. Musicians were of no use to him. They were, he said, divided into two classes — those who came to scoff, and those who came to steal. He did not want either sort.
The rare music interested but a handful, and the audience that had come from London shivered in remembrance of the east wind which had accompanied their journey. But this little martyrdom did not seem to be entirely without its satisfactions, and conscious of superiority, they settled themselves to listen to the few words of explanation with which Mr. Innes was accustomed to introduce the music that was going to be played. He was speaking, when he was interrupted by the servant-maid, who whispered and gave him a card: “Sir Owen Asher, Bart., 27 Berkeley Square.” He left the room hurriedly, and his audience surmised from his manner that something important had happened.
Sir Owen, seemingly a tall man, certainly above the medium height, was waiting for him in the passage. His thin figure was wrapped tightly in an overcoat, most of his face was concealed in the collar, and the pale gold-coloured moustache showed in contrast to the dark brown fur. The face, wide across the forehead, acquired an accent in the pointed chin and strongly marked jaw. The straight nose was thin and well shaped in the nostrils. “An attractive man of forty” would be the criticism of a woman. Sir Owen’s attractiveness concentrated in his sparkling eyes and his manner, which was at once courteous and manly. He told Mr. Innes that he had heard of his concerts that morning at the office of the Wagnerian Review, and Mr. Innes indulged in his habitual dream of a wealthy patron who would help him to realise his musical ambitions. Sir Owen had just bought the periodical, he intended to make it an organ of advanced musical culture, and would like to include a criticism of these concerts. Mr. Innes begged Sir Owen to come into the concert-room. But while taking off his coat, Sir Owen mentioned what he had heard regarding Mr. Innes’s desire to revive the vocal masses of the sixteenth century at St. Joseph’s, and the interest of this conversation delay
ed them a little in the passage.
The baronet’s evening clothes were too well cut for those of a poet, a designer of wall paper, or a journalist, and his hands were too white and well cared for at the nails. His hair was pale brown, curling a little at the ends, and carefully brushed and looking as if it had been freshened by some faintest application of perfumed essence. Three pearl studs fastened his shirt front, and his necktie was tied in a butterfly bow. He displayed some of the nonchalant ease which wealth and position create, smiled a little on catching sight of the jersey worn by a lady who had neglected to fasten the back of her bodice, and strove to decipher the impression the faces conveyed to him. He grew aware of that flitting anxiety which is inseparable from the task of finding a daily living, and that pathos which tells of fidelity to idea and abstinence from gross pleasure. A young man, who stood apart, in a carefully studied attitude, a dark lock of hair falling over his forehead, amused him, and the young man in the chair next Sir Owen wore a threadbare coat and clumsy boots, and sat bolt upright. Sir Owen pitied him and imagined him working all day in some obscure employment, finding his life’s pleasure once a week in a score by Bach. Catching sight of a priest’s profile, a look of contempt appeared on his face.
He was of his class, he had lived its life and lived it still, in a measure, but from the beginning his ideas and tastes had been superior to those of a merely fashionable man. At five-and-twenty he had purchased a Gainsborough, and at thirty he had spent a large sum of money in exhuming some sonatas of Bach from the dust in which they were lying. At three-and-thirty he had wrecked the career of a fashionable soprano by inspiring her with the belief that she might become a great singer, a great artist; at five-and-thirty Bayreuth and its world of musical culture and ideas had interested him in spite of his unconquerable aversion to long hair and dirty hands. After some association with geniuses he withdrew from the art-world, confessing himself unable to bear the society of those who did not dress for dinner; but while repudiating, he continued to spy the art-world from a distance. An audience is, however, necessary to a ‘cello player, and the Turf Club and the Royal Yacht Club contained not a dozen members, he said, who would recognise the Heroica Symphony if they happened to hear it, which was not likely. Lately he had declared openly that he was afraid of entering any of his clubs, lest he should be asked once more what he thought of the Spring Handicaps, and if he intended sailing the Medusa in the Solent this season. Nevertheless, his journey to Bayreuth could not but produce an effect. He had purchased the Wagnerian Review; it had led him to Mr. Innes’s concerts, and he was already interested in the prospect of reviving the early music and its instruments. That this new movement should be begun in Dulwich, a suburb he would never have heard of if it had not been for its picture gallery, stimulated his curiosity.
