Miss Hargreaves

by Frank Baker

  ‘But this is mere versifying.’

  ‘I shouldn’t bother about it —’ began the Colonel. Lady Hargreaves broke in on him quickly.

  ‘Well, well–since you all insist. But you must not laugh at me. Thank you, Mrs Cutler’ (for Mrs Cutler had again got hold of the book, preferring to read than to be read to) ‘Oh, you have spilt a little wine over it! Oh, no, it does not matter at all ! Wine and poetry are old lovers, are they not? I was merely thinking of your loss. Austen, fill Mrs Cutler’s glass–’

  ‘Nice thing if we’re on the air,’ said father, ‘and everybody waiting everywhere.’

  ‘What shall I give you?’ Lady Hargreaves turned over the pages, running the ends of her spectacles along the lines. ‘Well,’ she announced, ‘I will give you “Halcyon Days”.’

  She paused a moment, put on her spectacles, moved a lamp a little closer to her, cleared her throat and began:

  ‘Halcyon days, halcyon days, wrapped in high–’

  The Colonel’s siphon chose that moment to start working. Lady Hargreaves stopped reading, frowned at him over her spectacles, and waited. The Archdeacon nudged him. There was silence. Lady Hargreaves proceeded:

  ‘Halcyon days!

  Halcyon days!

  Wrapped in high summer’s indigenous haze!

  Peacocks and muscovy; jellies and jam;

  Flannelled young athletes patrolling the Cam;

  Hearts beating high, the barometer up–

  Did we know then that there’s many a cup

  ’Twixt the slip and the lip and the tangerine pip?

  In those far-away days when a crank was a quip

  And never a handle for turning a car–

  When Collects on Sunday were read by Papa

  And spice could be found in a parish bazaar–

  Oh, where have they gone to, those comfortable, far-away

  Halcyon, halcyon days?’

  ‘Look here,’ said father, ‘if she doesn’t give the order for this music soon, I shall go out and start on my own. Come on, Norman. Let’s get going on my tune.’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ I snapped. ‘Can’t you let her enjoy herself?’ (I wanted the evening never to end for her.)

  ‘Ilove that piece about the tangerine,’ Miss Linkinghorne was saying.

  ‘Quite charming,’ said the Dean. ‘Full of youth’s impulse. You must read us another.’

  ‘Yes–another–another!’

  ‘Well, what shall I choose? Remember, these are all trifles, seeds thrown out at random, ships that have, long ago, passed into my night. Perhaps you will find a thought here and there; no more. Christina Rossetti was good enough to say this one contained beauty. A strange thing. I wrote it at night on some tower–I cannot now remember where. It is very brief.’

  Again she read:

  ‘I came, I go, I breathe, I move, I sleep,

  I talk, I eat, I drink, I laugh, I weep,

  I sing, I dance, I think, I dream, I see,

  I fear, I love, I hate, I plot, I be.

  And yet–

  And yet–

  I sometimes feel that I am but a thought,

  A piece of thistledown, a thing of naught,

  Rocked in the cradle of a craftsman’s story,

  And destined not for high angelic glory.

  And yet–

  And yet–

  I came, I go, I move, I breathe, I sleep,

  I talk, I eat, I drink, I laugh, I weep.’

  There was a long silence. She had read it slowly, with great feeling. I saw her touch her handkerchief to her eyes and I was terribly moved. Did she understand what she was? One line rang in my ears–‘destined not for high angelic glory’. Not with the saints, then! Oh, Connie–where?

  ‘Oh, profound!’ murmured the Dean at last. ‘You have obviously read your Donne.’

  Again I detected the old Miss Hargreaves breaking through the later personality. Slamming the book down on the table, she rose and took off her spectacles.

  ‘I never read a page of Donne in my life!’ she snapped.

  Father, weary of waiting, suddenly stepped out into the drawing-room and walked up to the party.

  ‘Evening, all,’ he said genially. ‘Bit chilly, isn’t it? Hullo, Miss Linkinghorne. How’s Jerusalem looking? Ah, Colonel–wondered where the whisky was. Hey there, bring me a glass, will you?’

  I watched Lady Hargreaves anxiously. To my astonishment she showed no signs of annoyance; on the contrary, she was obviously amused by father.

  ‘Nice of you all to come and hear my tune,’ he said. He took a cigarette from a silver box. ‘Got a match on you, Mr Archdeacon? No? I’ll make a spill then–’

  He took up Wayside Bundle as though to tear a page from it. It was a shop habit that he could never get out of.

  Miss Linkinghorne let out a horrified scream.

  ‘The poems! The poems!’

  ‘What poems?’ said father, pausing rather irritably, the book still in his hands.

  I expected Lady Hargreaves to pounce on him. But again she astonished me. Saying nothing, making no effort to rise from her chair, she smiled slowly, shaking her head from side to side. She seemed terribly tired suddenly. And when I realized that, I realized too, with a shock of understanding, that the lassitude of the last few days had gone from me and that I felt full of energy and power.

  The Archdeacon had taken the book from father. ‘An odd way of lighting a cigarette,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ murmured father. ‘Never can remember. So many books about in the shop, y’know; sort of get used to tearing pages out. I suppose nobody’s seen my mute, have they? Some books are much too long, anyhow. Take The Bible in Spain. If that were written to-day he’d reduce it to a middle for the Manchester Guardian. By th’way ever tell you the story about Addison?’

  I turned away, back into the parlour, and drew the curtains to the window which looked out to the front garden. I felt tense, on edge, full of frightening energy. At ten-fifteen Henry was calling for me in the car and we were driving to London to catch the night train for Heysham; my bag was packed, ready for Henry to collect. If the music didn’t start soon, we might miss the train. And if I missed the train I knew with absolute certainty that I should never again be able to bring myself to make that journey to Lusk. Why? Because she was changing–changing back to the Miss Hargreaves I had loved–to the Miss Hargreaves I had flung aside. The day of her independence was spent. I knew it. She was coming back to father and me, back to the people who truly understood what she was, back to the will who had made her and who would be able, yet again, to direct the path that her feet should take. Yes, I wanted her back, under my power. And yet–and yet–could I spend the rest of my life controlling her? It was a whole-time job; many years would have to pass before I could hope to do it perfectly.

  ‘Hurry up,’ I moaned. ‘Hurry up. Let’s get the music over. To Lusk–to Lusk–’

  I heard father talking in the drawing-room. He’d quite forgotten about the music now; as usual, he was in the middle of a story.

  ‘–and there he was, this fellow on the bus, and Mr Justice Sweetheart said to him, “You mustn’t bend over the salvias like that, you know”. Of course, he’d done the murder and Avory knew it.’

  Lady Hargreaves rose very slowly, took her sticks and touched father’s arm.

  ‘Come, Mr Huntley,’ she said, ‘let us start the music. Give me your arm to the piano.’

  ‘Take the other arm, Lady Hurley. That arm’s never quite the same since I had that accident in the National Gallery. Did I ever tell you about that?’

  I came out from the parlour and started arranging music on the piano in a fever of impatience. Lady Hargreaves directed Austen to move her harp nearer to the lamp. She was still resting on father’s left arm.

  ‘Come come, Austen,’ she said, ‘a little this way. That will do.’ She reached the piano and rested one arm upon it, turning and facing the guests. ‘Thank you, Mr Huntley. Austen, see to Mr Huntley’
s violin stand.’ While Austen fixed it up, she addressed the others. ‘We have planned a quite informal little concert. I had hoped that Schnabel would be able–’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Naturally, he has many engagements. However, let that not worry you. We have excellent talent in Cornford. Mr Cornelius Huntley assisted by Mr Norman Huntley and–myself, hope, for a brief space to–’

  The siphon hissed again from the Colonel’s corner.

  Lady Hargreaves glanced sharply over.

  ‘Austen,’ she snapped, ‘get the Colonel a quieter siphon.’

  ‘By the way,’ asked father, ‘are we on the air?’

  ‘Air, Mr Huntley?’

  ‘Yes. Air.’

  ‘I do not quite understand, Mr Huntley.’

  ‘Oh, well, never mind. Don’t suppose we are, in that case. Pity. Told Mrs Paton at the Happy Union to listen. Hand me my tune, Norman.’

  ‘We are opening our little concert,’ announced Lady Hargreaves, ‘with an original composition of my own. A slender link between the human consciousness and the untamed voice of nature. It is entitled a Canzona and I think I am betraying no secrets of composition when I tell you that it was inspired by the song of a willow-wren–’

  ‘Give me A, Norman, you devil. Here, what’s this? I said my tune.’

  ‘But she’s announced the Canzona.’

  ‘I don’t care what she’s announced. Give me my tune. And give me A, too.’

  ‘–I shall not easily forget that evening in a valley in my native Rutlandshire when from this elfin bird there poured forth notes which, in the words of a poet I cannot remember whom “plunged th’ incredulous universe to silence”. Much of it was written in my diary on the actual spot. Sir Henry Cowen was kind enough to commend it; it had imagery, he said. A Canzona, inspired–in F sharp major–by a willow-wren.’

  She sat down, not far from the piano, and smiled at father. ‘We are ready,’ she said. ‘Give it legato, Mr Huntley. I beg you not to overlook the repeats.’

  Father overlooked the whole thing. Without a word he started to play his tune for the G string.

  Lady Hargreaves seized her sticks, rose, and made as if she were about to walk towards us. ‘Sit down!’ I muttered suddenly. She looked at me speechlessly, it was almost an appealing look, and slowly returned to her chair. I went on playing uneasily. I could not understand what was happening, except that I knew power was returning to me, slipping from her into me. I watched her. She was deathly still, her head low on her bosom, as she had been that day in the Cathedral when I had turned upon her. I was in anguish. Could I ever find the heart to destroy her?

  Meanwhile, father soared away, suddenly beginning to improvise a cadenza which I was totally unprepared for. Holding a vague chord I waited, knowing that when he felt like it, he would return again to the original theme. So, after a few bars, he did. I don’t think I have ever heard him play so well. I felt proud of him. Every now and again I glanced over to Lady Hargreaves; although her eyes were covered by her hands, I knew she was watching father through the slits between her fingers. I wondered what she would say at the end of the piece, what words she would choose in which to tell the guests that we had not been playing her Canzona.

  Richly, father approached the last bar, drawing, it seemed to me, much more than mere music out of the piece of wood held to his shoulder. Bending low, with his ear near to the strings, he sounded the last, long note. It was like a new sound in the world, as though father himself had discovered it and was loath to leave it. When he finally drew his bow from the violin, still holding it just above the strings, there was a long silence in the room, broken finally by the Dean, who murmured, ‘Bravo, bravo!’

  And still Lady Hargreaves sat inert in her chair.

  ‘Reminded me of Beethoven,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘Thanks,’ said father. ‘Shall we do it again?’

  ‘Again–again!’ cried Miss Linkinghorne.

  This stirred Lady Hargreaves. ‘No. It would be–a great mistake to repeat it.’ Every word now seemed an effort to her. I heard her murmur, ‘Beautiful, beautiful!’

  The Archdeacon laughed. ‘You composers are too modest, Lady Hargreaves.’

  ‘You could hear the willow-wren in every bar, couldn’t you, Canon?’ said Mrs Auty.

  ‘Yes,’ he boomed. ‘One could certainly detect the voice of nature.’

  ‘When Carless next gives a recital,’ said the Dean, ‘I shall ask him to get Mr Huntley to play it in the Cathedral. This is a light, Lady Hargreaves, that must not any longer be hidden under a bushel.’

  Lady Hargreaves looked at father, smiling almost sadly.

  ‘Here,’ I whispered to father, ‘do you realize they all think we were playing her Canzona?’

  ‘Oh? Well, what does it matter? They seemed to like it, that’s all that matters. What’re we doing next?’

  ‘You must tell them it wasn’t her Canzona. You–’

  But Lady Hargreaves came towards us and interrupted me.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Huntley,’ she said, ‘for the most moving performance that I have ever heard.’

  ‘But–’ I began. She quickly silenced me, putting her finger on her lips. Turning to the guests, she announced, ‘And now, my friends, another original composition. This time by Mr Cornelius Huntley.’ She whispered to father and me. ‘You will now play my Canzona. Yes, yes–I know I have announced it as your composition. No matter. I am interested to see how it will be received. Norman dear, find the music.’

  She had called me ‘Norman’; she had smiled; I was again dear. I put the Canzona on the music-stand while father tuned his violin. ‘All right, ready,’ he said. He closed his eyes dreamily.

  Lady Hargreaves, with great deliberation, announced it. ‘Mr Huntley, accompanied by his son, will play an original air on the G string.’

  ‘H’m,’ muttered the Colonel loudly, ‘always fancied that was by Bach.’

  ‘Fool!’ I said, half aloud. ‘Fool!’

  And, at the same moment, Lady Hargreaves uttered aloud, with remarkable vehemence, what I should like to have said. ‘Bach, my dear Colonel, did not invent the G string.’ She beckoned to Austen. ‘Austen, take the Colonel another bottle of whisky.’

  A deathly silence fell amongst the guests. Nobody looked at anything except the carpet. Even the Cutler eyes could find no other field for investigation.

  ‘Proceed,’ commanded Lady Hargreaves, with a wave of her hand. ‘Proceed with your air, Mr Huntley.’

  For the second time that evening father played his air on the G string. I often wonder whether he ever intended to do anything else.

  ‘No–no–’ I muttered at him.

  ‘Shut up!’ he hissed. ‘What’s the matter with you? She told me to play it again. Get on, you devil!’

  Lady Hargreaves was beaten; there was almost a startled look in her eyes. Nothing short of an earthquake would have stopped him; and I’m not sure that he would have taken much notice of that. Already we were six bars into the composition.

  I heard the Archdeacon whisper something about ‘this modern stuff’. The Colonel struck three matches over his cigar. The Dean jingled money in his pocket. Canon Auty searched in his beard. Mrs Cutler yawned very loudly.

  When we had finished there was a chilly silence. Presently the Dean said, ‘Very nice. Perhaps a little beyond me.’

  The Archdeacon said, ‘A little too advanced for us, eh, Mr Dean?’

  Miss Linkinghorne said, ‘One would need to hear it several times, of course.’

  The Colonel said, ‘I like tunes, myself.’

  Mrs Auty said, ‘Funny stuff, wasn’t it, Edward?’

  Canon Auty said, ‘It was certainly very well played.’

  Mrs Cutler, who at least was honest, said, ‘I seem to have heard it before somewhere.’

  Suddenly Lady Hargreaves, who all this time had said not a word, rose from her chair, tottered weakly into the little parlour without the use of her sticks, and slammed the double doors upon us all.<
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  Panic seized me. Suppose she had a stroke and suddenly passed out? The thought was too awful.

  I didn’t care a damn now about anything except her. Connie Hargreaves, my creation, was in that room, perhaps suffering, perhaps at the point of death.

  Rushing to the parlour, I hurled open the doors. Austen was striding across the room towards me. I heard the Dean’s angry voice:

  ‘Huntley, stop! Come back!’

  Rage seized me; a burning sense of the truth possessed me. With my back to the doors I turned and faced them all, the people who would never believe.

  ‘You go to hell!’ I cried. ‘Yes–you, Mr Dean–and all of you. She’s mine–mine ! She wants me. She doesn’t want any of you. You’ve –’

  Austen took hold of my arm and tried to swing me away from the door.

  ‘Father!’ I screamed. ‘Help me with this brute. Help!’

  Suddenly Lady Hargreaves cried out from the parlour.

  ‘How dare you, Austen! How dare you! Norman, come to me. Austen, show them all out–at once. I abominate–’ Her voice broke; she could not finish her sentence.

  I ran in. She was half lying on a sofa, her head buried in cushions, her voice choked with sobs. It simply tore my heart out. Oh, yes, call me a hypocrite! Tell me that I’d planned to get rid of her and altogether been unmercifully cruel to her. But I tell you, seeing her there like that simply tore my heart out.