Complete Works of George Moore

by George Moore

  The wonder of the scene she was acting — she never admitted she acted; she lived through scenes, whether fictitious or real — quickened in her; it was the long-expected scene, the scene in the third act of the “Valkyrie” which she had always played while divining the true scene which she would be called upon to play one day. It seemed to her that she stood on the verge of all her future — the mystery of the abyss gathered behind her eyes; she threw herself at her father’s feet, and the celebrated phrase, so plaintive, so full of intercession, broke from her lips, “Was the rebel act so full of shame that her rebellion is so shamefully scourged? Was my offence so deep in disgrace that thou dost plan so deep a disgrace for me? Was this my crime so dark with dishonour that it henceforth robs me of all honour? Oh tell me, father; look in mine eyes.” She heard the swelling harmony, every chord, the note that gave her the note she was to sing. She was carried down like a drowning one into a dim world of sub-conscious being; and in this half life all that was most true in her seemed to rise like a star and shine forth, while all that was circumstantial and ephemeral seemed to fall away. She was conscious of the purification of self; she seemed to see herself white and bowed and penitent. She experienced a great happiness in becoming humble and simple again.... But she did not know if the transformation which was taking place in her was an abiding or a passing thing. She knew she was expressing all that was most deep in her nature, and yet she had acted all that she now believed to be reality on the stage many times. It seemed as true then as it did now — more true; for she was less self-conscious in the fictitious than in the real scene.

  She knelt at her father’s or at Wotan’s feet — she could not distinguish; all limitations had been razed. She was the daughter at the father’s feet. She knelt like the Magdalen. The position had always been natural to her, and habit had made it inveterate; there she bemoaned the difficulties of life, the passion which had cast her down and which seemed to forbid her an ideal. She caught her father’s hand and pressed it against her cheek. She knew she was doing these things, yet she could not do otherwise; tears fell upon his hand, and the grief she expressed was so intense that he could not restrain his tears. But if she raised her face and saw his tears, his position as a stern father was compromised! She could only think of her own grief; the grief and regret of many years absorbed her; she was so lost in it that she expected him to answer her in Wotan’s own music; she even smiled in her grief at her expectation, and continued the music of her intercession. And it was not until he asked her why she was singing Wagner that she raised her face. That he should not know, jarred and spoilt the harmony of the scene as she had conceived it, and it was not till he repeated his question that she told him.

  “Because I’ve never sung it without thinking of you, father. That is why I sang it so well. I knew it all before. It tore at my heart strings. I knew that one day it would come to this.”

  “So every time before was but a rehearsal.”

  She rose to her feet.

  “Why are you so cruel? It is you who are acting, not I. I mean what I say — you don’t. Why make me miserable? You know that you must forgive me. You can’t put me out of doors, so what is the use in arguing about my faults? I am like that ... you must take me as I am, and perhaps you would not have cared for me half as much if I had been different.”

  “Evelyn, how can you speak like that? You shock me very much.”

  She regretted her indiscretion, and feared she had raised the moral question; but the taunt that it was he and not she that was acting had sunk into his heart, and the truth of it overcame him. It was he who had been acting. He had pretended an anger which he did not feel, and it was quite true that, whatever she did, he could not really feel anger against her. She was shrined in his heart, the dream of his whole life. He could feel anger against himself, but not against her. She was right. He must forgive her, for how could he live without her? Into what dissimulation he had been foolishly ensnared! In these convictions which broke like rockets in his heart and brain, spreading a strange illumination in much darkness, he saw her beauty and sex idealised, and in the vision were the eyes and pallor of the dead wife, and all the yearning and aspiration of his own life seemed reflected back in this fair, oval face, lit with luminous, eager eyes, and in the tangle of gold hair fallen about her ears, and thrown back hastily with long fingers; and the wonder of her sex in the world seemed to shed a light on distant horizons, and he understood the strangeness of the common event of father and daughter standing face to face, divided, or seemingly divided, by the mystery of the passion of which all things are made. His own sins were remembered. They fell like soft fire breaking in a dark sky, and his last sensation in the whirl of complex, diffused and passing sensations was the thrill of terror at the little while remaining to him wherein he might love her. A few years at most! His eyes told her what was happening in his heart, and with that beautiful movement of rapture so natural to her, she threw herself into his arms.

  “I knew, father, dear, that you’d forgive me in the end. It was impossible to think of two like us living and dying in alienation. I should have killed myself, and you, dear, you would have died of grief. But I dreaded this first meeting. I had thought of it too much, and, as I told you, I had acted it so often.”

  “Have I been so severe with you, Evelyn, that you should dread me?”

  “No, darling, but, of course, I’ve behaved — there’s no use talking about it any more. But you could never have been really in doubt that a lover could ever change my love for you. Owen — I mustn’t speak about him, only I wish you to understand that I’ve never ceased to think of you. I’ve never been really happy, and I’m sure you’ve been miserable about me often enough; but now we may be happy. ‘Winter storms wane in the winsome May.’ You know the Lied in the first act of the ‘Valkyrie’? And now that we’re friends, I suppose you’ll come and hear me. Tell me about your choir.” She paused a moment, and then said, “My first thought was for you on landing in England. There was a train waiting at Victoria, but we’d had a bad crossing, and I felt so ill that I couldn’t go. Next day I was nervous. I had not the courage, and he proposed that I should wait till I had sung Margaret. So much depended on the success of my first appearance. He was afraid that if I had had a scene with you I might break down.”

  “Wotan, you say, forgives Brunnhilde, but doesn’t he put her to sleep on a fire-surrounded rock?”

  “He puts her to sleep on the rock, but it is she who asks for flames to protect her from the unworthy. Wotan grants her request, and Brunnhilde throws herself enraptured into his arms. ‘Let the coward shun Brunnhilde’s rock — for but one shall win — the bride who is freer than I, the god!’”

  “Oh, that’s it, is it? Then with what flames shall I surround you?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve often wondered; the flame of a promise — a promise never to leave you again, father. I can promise no more.”

  “I want no other promise.”

  The eyes of the portrait were fixed on them, and they wondered what would be the words of the dead woman if she could speak.

  Agnes announced that the coachman had returned.

  “Father, I’ve lots of things to see to. I’m going to stop to dinner if you’ll let me.”

  “I’m afraid, Evelyn — Agnes—”

  “You need not trouble about the dinner — Agnes and I will see to that. We have made all necessary arrangements.”

  “Is that your carriage?... You’ve got a fine pair of horses. Well, one can’t be Evelyn Innes for nothing. But if you’re stopping to dinner, you’d better stop the night. I’m giving the ‘Missa Brevis’ to-morrow. I’m giving it in honour of Monsignor Mostyn. It was he who helped me to overcome Father Gordon.”

  “You shall tell me all about Monsignor after dinner.”

  He walked about the room, unwittingly singing the Lied, “Winter storms wane in the winsome May,” and he stopped before the harpsichord, thinking he saw her still there. And his thou
ghts sailed on, vagrant as clouds in a Spring breeze. She had come back, his most wonderful daughter had come back.

  He turned from his wife’s portrait, fearing the thought that her joy on their daughter’s return might be sparer than his. But unpleasant thoughts fell from him, and happiness sang in his brain like spring-awakened water-courses, and the scent in his nostrils was of young leaves and flowers, and his very flesh was happy as the warm, loosening earth in spring. “‘Winter storms,’” he sang, “‘wane in the winsome May; with tender radiance sparkles the spring.’ I must hear her sing that; I must hear her intercede at Wotan’s feet!” His eyes filled with happy tears, and he put questions aside. She was coming to-morrow to hear his choir. And what would she think of it? A shadow passed across his face. If he had known she was coming, he’d have taken more trouble with those altos; he’d have kept them another hour.... Then, taken with a sudden craving to see her, he went to the door and called to her.

  “Evelyn.”

  “Yes, father.”

  “You are stopping to-night?”

  “Yes, but I can’t stop to speak with you now — I’m busy with Agnes.”

  She was deep in discussion with Agnes regarding the sole. Agnes thought she knew how to prepare it with bread crumbs, but both were equally uncertain how the melted butter was to be made. There was no cookery-book in the house, and it seemed as if the fish would have to be eaten with plain butter until it occurred to Agnes that she might borrow a cookery-book next door. It seemed to Evelyn that she had never seen a finer sole, so fat and firm; it really would be a pity if they did not succeed in making the melted butter. When Agnes came back with the book, Evelyn read out the directions, and was surprised how hard it was to understand. In the end it was Agnes who explained it to her. The chicken presented some difficulties. It was of an odd size, and Agnes was not sure whether it would take half-an-hour or three-quarters to cook. Evelyn studied the white bird, felt the cold, clammy flesh, and inclined to forty minutes. Agnes thought that would be enough if she could get her oven hot enough. She began by raking out the flues, and Evelyn had to stand back to avoid the soot. She stood, her eyes fixed on the fire, interested in the draught and the dissolution of every piece of coal in the flame. It seemed to Evelyn that the fire was drawing beautifully, and she appealed to Agnes, who only seemed fairly satisfied. It was doing pretty well, but she had never liked that oven; one was never sure of it. Margaret used to put a piece of paper over the chicken to prevent it burning, but Agnes said there was no danger of it burning; the oven never could get hot enough for that. But the oven, as Agnes had said, was a tricky one, and when she took the chicken out to baste it, it seemed a little scorched. So Evelyn insisted on a piece of paper. Agnes said that it would delay the cooking of the chicken, and attributed the scorching to the quantity of coal which Miss Innes would keep adding. If she put any more on she would not be answerable that the chimney would not catch fire. Every seven or eight minutes the chicken was taken out to be basted. The bluey-whitey look of the flesh which Evelyn had disliked had disappeared; the chicken was acquiring a rich brown colour which she much admired, and if it had not been for Agnes, who told her the dinner would be delayed till eight o’clock, she would have had the chicken out every five minutes, so much did she enjoy pouring the rich, bubbling juice over the plump back.

  “Father! Father, dinner is ready! I’ve got a sole and a chicken. The sole is a beauty; Agnes says she never saw a fresher one.”

  “And where did all these things come from?”

  “I sent my coachman for them. Now sit down and let me help you. I cooked the dinner myself.” Feeling that Agnes’s eye was upon her, she added, “Agnes and I — I helped Agnes. We made the melted butter from the recipe in the cookery-book next door. I do hope it is a success.”

  “I see you’ve got champagne, too.”

  “But I don’t know how you’re to get the bottle open, miss; we’ve no champagne nippers.”

  After some conjecturing the wires were twisted off with a kitchen fork. Evelyn kept her eyes on her father’s plate, and begged to be allowed to help him again, and she delighted in filling up his glass with wine; and though she longed to ask him if he had been to hear her sing, she did not allude to herself, but induced him to talk of his victories over Father Gordon. This story of clerical jealousy and ignorance was intensely interesting to the old man, and she humoured him to the top of his bent.

  “But it would all have come to nothing if it had not been for Monsignor Mostyn.”

  She fetched him his pipe and tobacco. “And who is Monsignor Mostyn?” she asked, dreading a long tale in which she could feel on interest at all. She watched him filling his pipe, working the tobacco down with his little finger nail. She thought she could see he was thinking of something different, and to her great joy he said —

  “Well, your Margaret is very good; better than I expected — I am speaking of the singing; of course, as acting it was superb.”

  “Oh, father! do tell me? So you went after all? I sent you a box and a stall, but you were in neither. In what part of the theatre were you?”

  “In the upper boxes; I did not want to dress.” She leaned across the table with brightening eyes. “For a dramatic soprano you sing that light music with extraordinary ease and fluency.”

  “Did I sing it as well as mother?”

  “Oh, my dear, it was quite different. Your mother’s art was in her phrasing and in the ideal appearance she presented.”

  “And didn’t I present an ideal appearance?”

  “It’s like this, Evelyn. The Margaret of Gounod and his librettist is not a real person, but a sort of keepsake beauty who sings keepsake music. I assume that you don’t think much of the music; brought up as you have been on the Old Masters, you couldn’t. Well, the question is whether parts designed in such an intention should be played in the like intention, or if they should be made living creations of flesh and blood, worked up by the power of the actress into something as near to the Wagner ideal as possible. I admire your Margaret; it was a wonderful performance, but—”

  “But what, father?”

  “It made me wish to see you in Elizabeth and Brunnhilde. I was very sorry I couldn’t get to London last night.”

  “You’d like my Elizabeth better. Margaret is the only part of the old lot that I now sing. I daresay you’re right. I’ll limit myself for the future to the Wagner repertoire.”

  “I think you’d do well. Your genius is essentially in dramatic expression. ‘Carmen,’ for instance, is better as Galli Marié used to play it than as you would play it. ‘Carmen’ is a conventional type — all art is convention of one kind or another, and each demands its own interpretation. But I hope you don’t sing that horrid music.”

  “You don’t like ‘Carmen’?”

  Mr. Innes shrugged his shoulders contemptuously.

  “‘Faust’ is better than that. Gounod follows — at a distance, of course — but he follows the tradition of Haydn and Mozart. ‘Carmen’ is merely Gounod and Wagner. I hope you’ve not forgotten my teaching; as I’ve always said, music ended with Beethoven and began again with Wagner.”

  “Did you see Ulick Dean’s article?”

  “Yes, he wrote to me last night about your Elizabeth. He says there never was anything heard like it on the stage.”

  “Did he say that? Show me the letter. What else did he say?”

  “It was only a note. I destroyed it. He just said what I told you. But he’s a bit mad about that opera. He’s been talking to me about it all the winter, saying that the character had never been acted; apparently it has been now. Though for my part I think Brunnhilde or Isolde would suit you better.”

  The mention of Isolde caused them to avoid looking at each other, and Evelyn asked her father to tell her about Ulick — how they became acquainted and how much they saw of each other. But to tell her when he made Ulick’s acquaintance would be to allude to the time when Evelyn left home. So his account of their friends
hip was cursory and perfunctory, and he asked Evelyn suddenly if Ulick had shown her his opera.

  “Grania?”

  “No, not ‘Grania.’ He has not finished ‘Grania,’ but ‘Connla and the Fairy Maiden.’ Written,” he added, “entirely on the old lines. Come into the music-room and you shall see.”

  He took up the lamp; Evelyn called Agnes to get another. The lamps were placed upon the harpsichord; she lighted some candles, and, just as in old times, they lost themselves in dreams and visions. This time it was in a faint Celtic haze; a vision of silver mist and distant mountain and mere. It was on the heights of Uisnech that Connla heard the fairy calling him to the Plain of Pleasure, Moy Mell, where Boadag is king. And King Cond, seeing his son about to be taken from him, summoned Coran the priest and bade him chant his spells toward the spot whence the fairy’s voice was heard. The fairy could not resist the spell of the priest, but she threw Connla an apple and for a whole month he ate nothing but that. But as he ate, it grew again, and always kept whole. And all the while there grew within him a mighty yearning and longing after the maiden he had seen. And when the last day of the month of waiting came, Connla stood by the side of the king, his father, on the Plain of Aromin, and again he saw the maiden come towards him, and again she spoke to him —

  “’Tis no lofty seat on which Connla sits among short-lived mortals awaiting fearful death, but now the folk of life, the ever-living living ones, beg and bid thee come to Moy Mell, the Plain of Pleasure, for they have learnt to know thee.”

  When Cond the king observed that since the maiden came Connla his son spake to none that spake to him, then Cond of the hundred fights said to him —