by George Moore
She knew very well the meaning of the duet, when Siegfried adventures through the fire-surrounded mountain and wakes Brunnhilde with a kiss. That duet meant the joy of life, the rapture of awakening to the adventure of life, the delight of the swirling current of ephemeral things. And the duet that she was going to sing; she knew what that meant too. It meant the desire to possess. Desire finding a barrier to complete possession in the flesh would break off the fleshly lease, and enter the great darkness where alone was union and rest.
But she could not discover the idea in the “Lohengrin” duet? Senta she understood, and she thought she understood Kundry. She had not yet begun to study the part. But Elsa? Suddenly the thought that, if she was going to Dulwich, she must get up, struck her like a spur, and she sprang out of bed, and laying her finger on the electric bell she kept the button pressed till Merat arrived breathless.
“Merat, I shall get up at once; prepare my bath, and tell the coachman I shall be ready to start in twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes? Mademoiselle is joking.”
“No, I am not ... in twenty minutes — half-an-hour at the most.”
“It would be impossible for me to dress you in less than three-quarters of an hour.”
“I shall be dressed in half-an-hour. Go and tell the coachman at once; I shall have had my bath when you return.”
Her dressing was accomplished amid curt phrases. “It doesn’t matter, that will do.... I can’t afford to waste time.... Come, Merat, try to get on with my hair.”
And while Merat buttoned her boots, she buttoned her gloves. She wore a grey, tailor-made dress and a blue veil tied round a black hat with ostrich feathers. Escaping from her maid’s hands, she ran downstairs. But the dining-room door opened, and Lady Duckle intervened.
“My dear girl, you really cannot go out before you have had something to eat.”
“I cannot stay; I’ll get something at the theatre.”
“Do eat a cutlet, it will not take a moment ... a mouthful of omelette. Think of your voice.”
There were engravings after Morland on the walls, and the silver on the breakfast-table was Queen Anne — the little round tea urn Owen and Evelyn had picked up the other day in a suburban shop; the horses, whose glittering red hides could be seen through the window, had been bought last Saturday at Tattersall’s. Evelyn went to the window to admire them, and Lady Duckle’s thoughts turned to the coachman.
“He sent in just now to ask for a map of London. It appears he doesn’t know the way, yet, when I took up his references, I was assured that he knew London perfectly.”
“Dulwich is very little known; it is at least five miles from here.”
“Oh, Dulwich!... you’re going there?”
“Yes, I ought to have gone the day after we arrived in London. ... I wanted to; I’ve been thinking of it all the time, and the longer I put it off the more difficult it will become.”
“That is true.”
“I thought I would drive there to-day before I went to rehearsal.”
“Why choose a day on which you have a rehearsal?”
“Only because I’ve put it off so often. Something always happens to prevent me. I must see my father.”
“Have you written to him?”
“No, but I sent him a paper containing an account of the first night. I thought he might have written to me about it, or he might have come to see me. He must know that I am dying to see him.”
“I think it would be better for you to go to see him in the first instance.”
Lady Duckle meant Evelyn to understand that it would not be well to risk anything that might bring about a meeting between Sir Owen and Mr. Innes. But she did not dare to be more explicit. Owen had forbidden any discussion of his relations with Evelyn.
“Of course it would be nice for you to see your father. But you should, I think, go to him; surely that is the proper course.”
“We’ve written to each other from time to time, but not lately — not since we went to Greece.... I’ve neglected my correspondence.”
Tears rose to Evelyn’s eyes, and Lady Duckle was sorely tempted to lead her into confidences. But Owen’s counsels prevailed; she dissembled, saying that she knew how Evelyn loved her father, and how nice it would be for her to see him again after such a long absence.
“I dare say he’ll forgive me, but there’ll be reproaches. I don’t think there’s anyone who hates a scene more than I do.”
“I haven’t lived with you five years without having found out that. But in avoiding a disagreeable scene we are often preparing one more disagreeable.”
“That is true.... I think I’ll go to Dulwich.”
“Shall you have time?... You’re not in the first act.”
“Dulwich is not six miles from here. We can drive there easily in three-quarters of an hour. And three-quarters of an hour to get back. They won’t begin to rehearse the second act before one. It is a little after ten now.”
“Then good-bye.”
Lady Duckle followed her to the front door and stood for a moment to admire the beauty of the morning. The chestnut horses pawed the ground restlessly, excited by the scent of the lilac which a wilful little breeze carried up from Hamilton Place. Every passing hansom was full of flowered silks, and the pale laburnum gold hung in loose tassels out of quaint garden inlets. The verandahed balconies seemed to hang lower than ever, and they were all hung and burdened with flowers. And of all these eighteenth century houses, Evelyn’s was the cosiest, and the elder of the two men, who, from the opposite pavement, stood watching the prima donna stroking the quivering nostrils of her almost thoroughbred chestnuts with her white-gloved hand, could easily imagine her in her pretty drawing-room standing beside a cabinet filled with Worcester and old Battersea china, for he knew Owen’s taste and was certain the Louis XVI. marble clock would be well chosen, and he would have bet five-and-twenty-pounds that there were some Watteau and Gainsborough drawings on the walls.
“Owen is doing the thing well. Those horses must have cost four hundred. I know how much the Boucher drawing cost.”
“How do you know there is a Boucher drawing?”
“Because we bid against each other for it at Christie’s. A woman lying on her stomach, drawn very freely, very simply — quite a large drawing — just the thing for such a room as hers is, amid chintz and eighteenth century inlaid or painted tables.”
“I wonder where she is going. Perhaps to see him.”
“At ten o’clock in the morning! More likely that she will call at her dressmaker’s on her way to rehearsal. She is to sing Elizabeth to-morrow night.” And while discussing her singing, the elder man asked himself if he had ever had a mistress that would compare with her. “She isn’t by any means a beautiful woman,” he said, “but she’s the sort of woman that if one did catch on to it would be for a long while.”
The young man pitied Evelyn’s misfortune of so elderly an admirer as Owen. It seemed to him impossible that she could like a man who must be over forty, and the thought saddened him that he might never possess so desirable a mistress.
“I wonder of she’s faithful to him?”
“Faithful to him, after six years of liaison!”
“But, my dear Frank, we know you don’t believe that any woman is straight. How do you know that he is her lover? Very often—”
“My dear Cyril, because you meet her at a ball at Lady Ascott’s, and because she has lived with that Lady Duckle — an old thing who used to present the daughters of ironmongers at Court for a consideration — above all, because you want her yourself, you are ready to believe anything. I never did meet anyone who could deceive himself with the same ease. Besides, I know all about her. It’s quite an extraordinary story.”
“How did he pick her up?”
“I’ll tell you presently. She’s got into her carriage; we shall be able to see if she rouges as she passes.”
Evelyn had noticed the men as she stood trying to explain as much of
the way as she could to her somewhat obtuse coachman. Her bow was gracious as the chestnuts swept the light carriage by them; the young man pleased her fancy for the moment, and she tried to recall the few words they had exchanged as she left the ball. The elder man was a friend of Owen’s. But his face was suddenly blotted from her mind. For if her father were to refuse to see her, if he were to cast her off for good and all, what would she do? Her life would be unendurable; she would go mad, mad as Margaret. But the picture did not frighten her, she knew it was fictitious; and looking into her soul for the truth, she saw the trees in the Green Park and the chimney pots of Walsingham House, and she realised that the nearest future is enveloped in obscurity. She had always dreaded the journey to London; she had been warned against London, and ever since she had consented to come she had been ill at ease and nervous — of what she did not know — of someone behind her, of someone lurking round her. She argued that she would not have had those feelings if there was not a reason. When she had them, something always happened to her, and nothing could convince her that London was not the turning-point in her fortune. The carriage seemed to be going very fast; they were already in Victoria Street; she cried to the coachman not to drive so fast, he answered that he must drive at that pace if he was to get there by eleven.... Surely her father would not refuse to see her. He could not, he would not take her by the shoulders and turn her out of the house — the house she had known all her life. Oh, good heavens! if he did, what would happen afterwards? She could not go back to Owen and sing operas at Covent Garden, and her soul wailed like a child and a deadly terror of her father came upon her. It might be her destiny never to speak to him again! That fate had been the fate of other women. Why should it not be hers? He might not send for her when he was dying, and if she were dying he might not come to her; and after death, would she see him? Would they then be reconciled? If she did not see her father in this world, she would never see him, for she had promised Owen to believe in oblivion, and she thought she did believe in nothing; but she felt now that she must say her prayers, she must pray that her father might forgive her. It might be absurd, but she felt that a prayer would ease her mind. It was dreadfully hypocritical to pray to a God one didn’t believe in. There was no sense in it, nor was there much sense in much else one did.... She had promised Owen not to pray, and it was a sort of blasphemy to say prayers and lead a life of sin. She did not like to break her promise to Owen. She must make up her mind.... Her father might be at St. Joseph’s! and it was with a sense of refreshing delight that she called the coachman and gave the order. The chestnuts were prancing like greyhounds amid heavy drays and clumsy, bear-like horses; the coachman was trying to hold them in and to understand the policeman, who shouted the way to him from the edge of the pavement.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BUT SHE OUGHT not to go to St. Joseph’s. She had promised Owen to avoid churches, priests — all that reminded her of religion. He had begged that until she was firm in her agnosticism she should not expose herself to influences which could but result in mental distress, and without any practical issue unless to separate them. She had escaped once; next time he might find it more difficult to win her back. How kind he was. He had not said a word about his own suffering.
It had happened nearly three years ago in Florence, and an accident had brought it all about. One afternoon she was walking in the streets; she could still see the deep cornices showing distinct against the sky; she was admiring them when suddenly a church appeared; she could not tell how it was, but she had been propelled to enter.... A feeling which had arisen out of her heart, a sort of yearning — that was it. The church was almost empty; how restful it had seemed that afternoon, the rough plastered walls and the two figures of the nuns absorbed in prayer. Her heart had begun to ache, and her daily life with its riches and glories had seemed to concern her no longer. It was as if the light had changed, and she had become suddenly aware of her real self. A tall cross stood oddly placed between the arches; she had not seen it at first, but as her eyes rested upon it she had been drawn into wistful communion with her dying Redeemer. And all that had seemed false suddenly became true, and she had left the church overcome with remorse. That night her door was closed to Owen; she had pleaded indisposition, unable for some shame to speak the truth. On the next day and the day after the desire of forgiveness had sent her to the church and then to the priest, but the priest had refused her absolution till she separated from her lover. She had felt that she must obey. She had written a note — she could not think of it now — so cruel did it seem, yet at the time it had seemed quite natural. It was not until the next day, and the day after was worse still, that she began to plumb the depths of her own unhappiness; every day it seemed to grow deeper. She could not keep him out of her mind. She used to sit and try to do needlework in the hotel sitting-room. But how often had she had to put it down and to walk to the window to hide her tears? As the time drew near for her to go to the theatre, she had to vow not to cry again till she got home. He was always in his box — once she had nearly broken down, and, pitying her, he came no more. But not to see him at all was worse than the pain of seeing him. That empty box! And all through the night she thought of him in his hotel, only a street or two distant. She could not go through it again, nor could she think what would have happened if they had not met. Something had prompted her to go out one afternoon; she was weak with weeping and sick with love, and, feeling that there are burdens beyond our strength, she had walked with her eyes steadily fixed before her ... and somehow she was not surprised when she saw him coming towards her. He joined her quite naturally, as if by appointment, and they had walked on, instinctively finding their way out of the crowd. They had walked on and on, now and then exchanging remarks, waiting for a full explanation, wondering what form it would take. Cypresses and campanili defined themselves in the landscape as the evening advanced. Further on the country flattened out; there were urban gardens and dusty little vineyards. They had sat on a bench; above them was a statue of the Virgin; she remembered noticing it; it reminded her of her scapular, but nothing had mattered to her then but Owen. He said —
“Well Evelyn, when is all this nonsense going to cease?”
“I don’t know, Owen; I’m very unhappy.”
The sense of reconciliation which overtook her was too delicious to be resisted, and she remembered how all the way home she had longed for the moment when she would throw herself into his arms. He had not reproved her nor reproached her; he had merely forgiven her the pain she had caused him. There were sounds of children’s voices in the air and a glow of light upon the roofs. Their talk had been gentle and philosophic; she had listened eagerly, and had promised to shun influences which made her uselessly unhappy. And he had promised her that in time to come she would surely succeed in freeing herself from the tentacles of this church, and that the day would come when she would watch the Mass as she would some childish sport. “Though,” he added, smiling, “it is doubtful if anyone can see his own rocking-horse without experiencing a desire to mount it.” Nearly three years had passed since that time in Florence, and she was now going to put the strength of her agnosticism to the test.
“They have not built a new entrance,” she remarked to herself, as the coachman reined up the chestnuts before the meagre steps. “But alterations are being made,” she thought, catching sight of some scaffolding. As she stepped out of her carriage she remembered that her dress and horses could not fail to suggest Owen’s money to her father. She paused, and then hoped he would remember that she was getting three hundred pounds a week, and could pay for her carriage and gowns herself. And, smiling at the idea of dressing herself in a humble frock suitable for reconciliation, she entered the church hurriedly. She did not care to meet him in open daylight, in the presence of her servants. The church would be a better place. He could not say much to her in church, and she thought she would like to meet him suddenly face to face; then there would be no time for explanations, an
d he could not refuse to speak to her. Looking round she saw that Mass was in progress at one of the side altars. The acolyte had just changed the book from the left to the right, and the congregation of about a dozen had risen for the reading of the Gospel. She knew that her father was not among them. She must have known all the while that he was not in church. If he were at St. Joseph’s, he would be in the practising room. She might go round and ask for him ... and run the risk of meeting one of the priests! They were men of tact, and would refrain from unpleasant allusions. But they knew she was on the stage, that she had not been back since she had left home; they could not but suspect; however they might speak, she could not avoid reading meanings, which very likely were not intended, into their words.... And she would see the practising room full of faces, and her father, already angry at the interruption, opening the door to her. It would be worse than meeting him in the street. No, she would not seek him in the practising room — then where — Dulwich? Perhaps, but not to-day. She would wait in the church and see if the Elevation compelled her to bow her head.
And in this intention she took a seat in full view of the altar where the priest was saying Mass. Every shape and every colour of this church, its slightest characteristics, brought back an impression of long ago; the very wording of her childish thoughts was suddenly remembered; and she felt, whether she believed or disbelieved, that it was pleasant to kneel where she knelt when she was a little girl. It was touching to see the poor folk pray. The poor Irish and Italians — especially the Irish — how simple they were; it was all real to them, however false it may have become to her. Her eyes wandered among the little congregation; only one she recognised — the strangely thin and crooked lady who, as far back as she could remember, used to walk up the aisle, her hands crossed in front of her like a wooden doll’s. She had not altered at all; she wore the same battered black bonnet. This lonely lady had always been a subject of curiosity to Evelyn. She remembered how she used to invent houses for her to live in and suitable friends and evenings at home. The day that Owen came to St. Joseph’s before he went away on his yacht to the Mediterranean, he had put his hat on this lady’s chair, and she had had to ask him to remove it. How frightened she had looked, and he not too well pleased at having to sit beside her. That was six years ago, and Evelyn thought how much had happened to her in that time — a great deal to her and very little to that poor woman in the black bonnet. She must have some little income on which she lived in a room with wax fruit in the window. Every morning and evening she was at St. Joseph’s. The church was her one distraction; it was her theatre, the theatre certainly of all her thoughts.
