by David Lodge
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘Oh, that she was only under his spell when she was singing, and that otherwise their relationship was that of father and daughter. He wrote me an effusive letter back, saying that I had saved his sanity – the idea of the odious Jew having his wicked way with Trilby had been driving him mad.’
‘And was it really a father-and-daughter relationship – in your own imagination, I mean?’ Henry asked.
‘Oh yes, of course.’ Du Maurier looked surprised, even shocked, at the suggestion that anything else could have been the case.
‘But at the beginning of the story Svengali seems to have designs on Trilby,’ Henry pointed out. ‘He rebukes her for ignoring his overtures and threatens her with dreadful consequences. Once he had her in his clutches wouldn’t he use his mesmeric powers for – for purposes other than musical?’
‘Goodness me, Henry, what an imagination you have! You’re as bad as Maupassant! No, no, Trilby would never have submitted to him, mesmerised or not. It would have killed her. There could never be another man in her life after Little Billee.’
He was amused by Du Maurier’s denial of the logical consequences of his own story, but did not pursue the point. They reached the Bench of Confidences and sat down in the pale spring sunshine. A few crocuses showed their buds timidly in the long grass. ‘In spite of this immense – this intrusive and often fatuous correspondence – you must nevertheless be gratified by the enormous success of Trilby?’ he said.
‘Well of course, the tin is very welcome, though I haven’t made as much as everybody seems to think, for reasons you know. But as to the fame and the celebrity – well, frankly it appals me – it almost frightens me. You feel you have no control over your own life any more. Did you know all kinds of products are being sold in America with the name ‘Trilby’ attached to them – like shoes and hearth-brushes and kitchen-ranges? Entirely without permission, of course.’
‘I didn’t know about the kitchen-ranges,’ said Henry, ‘but I hear there is a Trilby sausage.’
‘God in heaven!’ Du Maurier exclaimed. ‘That’s a new one. I wish you hadn’t told me.’
‘I’m afraid it’s a very American kind of vulgarity,’ said Henry. ‘One of the less amiable consequences of our enthusiasm for democracy and capitalism.’
‘I keep getting invitations to go to America, offering me huge fees for a lecture tour, but I’ve no intention of accepting them.’
‘No, you mustn’t,’ said Henry firmly. ‘The journalists there would eat you alive. But it’s interesting that – if I’m not mistaken – Trilby has been even more successful in America than in England.’
‘Absolutely. In fact when the book came out here – if you remember – the reviews were not at all enthusiastic. It was reading in the newspapers about the Trilby boom in America that made people here curious to read it. Then they didn’t care what the reviewers had said.’
‘And you have no theory to account for its extraordinary appeal?’
‘No – have you, Henry? You seem to have given a lot of thought to the matter.’ He smiled to show the question was gently teasing rather than sarcastic.
‘Yes, I have,’ Henry admitted. ‘Obviously the character of Trilby herself is crucial. You’ve done a very remarkable thing, Kiki. You have created a heroine who is – or at least was, at one stage of her life – no better than she should be, and the Anglo-Saxon reading public has taken her to its collective heart. I can’t think of a precedent. Thomas Hardy tried it here with his Tess, George Moore with his Esther Waters. All they got for their pains were brickbats and denunciations from the custodians of morality.’
‘But I make it clear that she’s essentially innocent – a victim of her appalling upbringing,’ said Du Maurier. ‘She had no conventional moral education. She went with those artists in her youth out of simple generosity – she really didn’t see there was anything wrong in it. And her dreadful mother encouraged her. It’s only when she sees how upset Little Billee is at discovering her sitting for the figure that she develops a sense of modesty. From that moment on, she is chaste.’
‘Yes, it was very clever of you to place all her sexual indiscretions in the past, and focus on her posing in the nude in the main story,’ Henry said. As was his wont when thinking aloud with a walking stick in his hand, he began to scratch lines in the earth, using the stick as if it were a pen. He recalled Fenimore when he first met her in Florence, fresh from the Midwest, confessing her ‘difficulty in appreciating the nude’. ‘I think the great American public finds that a tremendously daring and shocking thing to contemplate – a woman disrobing in front of men – but not too shocking. It’s something they can forgive her for, especially as Trilby promptly gives it up on falling in love with the hero. So one might perhaps say that her sexual sin is – I mean of course in the consciousness of your readers – her sin is, as it were, displaced on to her posing for the figure, and thus made redeemable.’
‘That’s all too subtle for me, Henry,’ said Du Maurier, shaking his head, ‘and as far as my being “clever” goes, I just wrote the whole thing spontaneously, as it came to me. But I must admit that American readers – the ones that write to me, anyway – are uncommonly interested in Trilby’s sitting for the figure. A gentleman in Chicago offered me ten thousand dollars for a signed drawing of Trilby in “the altogether”.’
‘Ten thousand dollars!’ Henry exclaimed. ‘And did you oblige him?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Du Maurier.
‘I admire your principle,’ said Henry. ‘In your position I admit I should be tempted.’
‘It’s not just principle,’ said Du Maurier, with a laugh. ‘I should have to hire a model to sit for the figure, and Emma wouldn’t allow it.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Pem is a very prudish soul, God bless her.’ Du Maurier paused, and made a small inarticulate sound, an exhalation of breath that was half wistful sigh, half amused grunt, as a memory seemed to rise from the past. ‘When we were first married I asked her one day if she would sit for me – pour l’ensemble, tu as compris? But she wouldn’t. I promised her the drawing would be for my eyes only, and that she could destroy it if she didn’t like it, but it didn’t make any difference. Nothing would persuade her. And she was quite right, of course,’ he concluded.
‘Why do you say that?’ Henry asked.
‘The relationship between artist and model should be quite impersonal, like doctor and patient. Otherwise . . . inappropriate feelings are likely to arise. And I mean arise.’ Du Maurier gave a sly sidelong glance to see if the double entendre was appreciated. Henry was aware that he had something of a reputation in the Punch coterie for risqué quips of this kind, but was seldom a recipient himself. He dutifully smiled, and said: ‘I’m told that Leighton’s house has a special side-door for the models, which is, I suppose, a little like a doctor having a separate entrance for his surgery.’
‘Quite so. By the way, you mustn’t let Pem know I told you about that episode in our early married life,’ said Du Maurier.
‘My dear chap, of course not,’ Henry said.
As it happened, Emma was not feeling well that day, and retired to bed shortly after they had finished their dinner. When she had gone, Du Maurier picked up a second bottle of his favourite claret from the sideboard and, with a wink to Henry, carried it into the studio, where a cheerful fire glowed in the hearth. Wine after dinner was an indulgence that Emma seldom allowed him these days.
‘Fi! de ces vins d’Espagne,’ Henry quoted, as Du Maurier filled his glass.
‘Indeed – though this cost me more than quatre sous,’ said his friend. He seated himself at the piano, and played a few jaunty bars of the song, singing the words:
‘Fi! de ces vins d’Espagne.
Ils ne sont pas faits pour nous . . .’
then stopped. ‘I mustn’t disturb poor Pem.’
‘Play me the Chopin piece that Trilby sings just before she dies,’ Henry s
aid.
‘The Impromptu in A flat? Yes, that’s quiet enough. You won’t expect me to vocalise the notes as she does, I hope?’ He found the sheet music and played the piece, very effectively as far as Henry could tell.
‘Bravo!’ he said, when Du Maurier had finished.
Du Maurier shook his head as he got up from the piano stool and seated himself in an armchair. ‘I made several mistakes.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t notice. You remember the occasion all those years ago when you offered me the story of Trilby?’
‘Of course – how could I ever forget? That conversation started me on my career as a novelist—’
‘And I said I couldn’t do it, because I didn’t have the musical knowledge? Well, I was quite right – the book is saturated in music. That’s part of its charm.’
‘But it’s also a frustration, because you can’t make your readers hear the music in their heads, unless they happen to know it already,’ said Du Maurier. ‘Now there’s going to be a play of Trilby in America. I rather dread to think what they will do to the story, but at least the audience will be able to hear the music.’
‘Trilby will sing? She will sing the Chopin Impromptu?’
‘Yes – I presume so. Why not?’
‘Well, you describe her voice – under Svengali’s spell – as having a unique, unprecedented range and beauty – and we believe you. But it’s asking a lot of an actress to live up to your words.’
Du Maurier frowned. ‘Hmm. I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘I’m sure they’ll find a way round it,’ Henry said reassuringly. ‘Theatre is all illusion – like any art. You remember that little anecdote you told me – the one I did work up into a story – about the genteel couple who offered themselves as models? The “real thing” in art is never the real thing.’
‘I remember it well.’ Du Maurier began to roll himself a cigarette. ‘When I read your wonderful story I was worried that the couple concerned might read it too, and recognise themselves. You had them off so well, I could hardly believe you had never actually met them yourself.’
‘Ah well,’ said Henry, allowing himself a certain complacency, ‘when you have been at the game as long as I have, a little information goes a long way. Do you think you will write another novel?’
‘I’m already writing one,’ said Du Maurier.
This was news to Henry and not entirely welcome, but he congratulated his friend.
‘I think it will be the best thing I’ve done so far, but it’s going slowly. I always have to start a story by drawing on my own experience and memories, but that unpleasant business with Whistler has made me nervous.’
Henry knew about this affair, but was curious to hear Du Maurier’s account of it. ‘I was in Italy at the time, you know,’ he said. ‘There was a lawsuit, wasn’t there?’
‘Yes, Whistler recognised himself in the character of Joe Sibley in the Harper’s serial, and took offence. You know what a prickly character he is – and litigious as the devil. He sued Ruskin once for a bad review, remember? Anyway, he complained to the newspapers, complained to my club, complained to my publishers – complained to everybody – and threatened to sue me for libel. It completely spoiled any pleasure I might have taken in the success of the serial. In fact there were moments when I thought I might have to withdraw the whole thing. In the end I agreed to drop the character from the book version, and invented another one to take his place.’
‘You had portrayed Whistler then?’
‘I couldn’t deny the resemblance. And I suppose I did make Joe Sibley out to be a bit vain and arrogant. But I thought Jimmy Whistler would take it like a good sport. After all, we were pals once. And none of the others took offence.’
‘The others?’
‘My other friends in the Quartier Latin. Armstrong, Lamont, Poynter . . . and the rest. They could all recognise bits of themselves in my characters, but they didn’t mind. Some more wine?’
‘No thank you. And Trilby herself? Did she have a real-life counterpart?’
Du Maurier filled his own glass and smiled. ‘People are always asking me that. No, she’s a figment of my imagination.’
‘What about Svengali?’
‘He too.’
‘Really? He’s such a wonderfully vivid character. You never knew anyone like him?’
‘Well, there was someone – I tell you this in strict confidence—’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you ever hear of a man called George Lee?’
‘No.’
‘He was a music teacher, who developed a new technique for teaching singing – allegedly based on anatomical principles. He wrote a book about it. He rented a house at the less fashionable end of Park Lane, in the late ’seventies and early ’eighties, where he gave lessons and held musical soirées. I used to go sometimes.’
‘Was he Jewish?’
‘No, Irish, but he looked like a gypsy. A dark complexion, thick black hair worn long, and black whiskers. Handsomer than Svengali, but the same type.’
‘Did he mesmerise his pupils?’
Du Maurier laughed. ‘Not as far as I know, but his teaching method certainly seemed to work best with women . . . He was very friendly with George Bernard Shaw’s mother – she was a protégée of his in Dublin, and followed him to London. Some people say Shaw looks remarkably like Lee. I shouldn’t be telling you this, Henry. The danger of the second bottle.’
‘You can rely on my discretion, cher ami. But Svengali’s mesmerism, his Mittel-European Jewishness – where did they come from?’
Du Maurier tapped his temple with a forefinger. ‘Out of my head. Out of books. Out of dreams.’
‘And nightmares . . . ?’
Du Maurier nodded assent. They were both silent for a few moments, staring into the fire. Then Henry took out his watch and said he must go. Du Maurier put on his coat and accompanied him a little way down the hill until Henry pleaded with him to go back, on the grounds that he himself would be in Emma’s black books otherwise. He stood still on the pavement watching his friend slowly climb the gradient until he disappeared into the misty gloom. A frail, bowed, rather sad figure he looked. One would never have guessed that he was one of the most famous authors in the world.
Du Maurier’s fame only increased as time passed. Henry went back to Hampstead in April, on a Sunday this time, and found the gathered family in high excitement at the reported success of the stage adaptation of Trilby which had recently opened on Broadway to ecstatic reviews and was already sold out for weeks. Furthermore Beerbohm Tree had seen it on his last night in New York before returning to England from a tour, and had bought the play for a London production, with the intention of playing Svengali himself.
‘The role is perfect for him,’ said Henry. ‘It will be a tremendous success, I’m sure.’ His firm purpose of amendment was certainly being tested to the limit: that Du Maurier should triumph on the stage as well as the page with Trilby was a little hard to take. ‘You will soon be as rich as Croesus, my dear chap,’ he said, forcing a smile.
As usual Du Maurier was at pains to minimise his earnings. ‘I don’t own the American stage rights,’ he said, ‘and I sold the British rights to somebody for a footling sum. But Beerbohm bought them back and I have hopes that he may pay me a small royalty.’ He added: ‘I intend to use my influence to get Gerald a part, anyway.’ That thought seemed to give him more satisfaction than anything else. Charles Millar later gave Henry a more promising account of this business. It seemed that Tree had offered a very reasonable percentage and Paul Potter had also agreed to share royalties on the play.
It was a fine sunny day, and they went on to the Heath in a great crowd – children, grandchildren, perambulators, dogs – and scattered in different directions. Henry and Du Maurier found themselves alone on Parliament Hill, looking down at London, spread out before them in a brown haze of coal-smoke, as they had on one of their earliest walks.
‘I have some news, Henry,’ D
u Maurier said. ‘We’re moving to London.’
‘You mean – permanently? Good heavens, when?’
‘As soon as it can be managed. It’s time. The children are all grown up. New Grove House isn’t really convenient for a couple of old codgers like Pem and me. And now people have found out where we live, they come up here and stand in the street and stare at the windows.’
‘What people?’
‘Readers of Trilby, I suppose,’ said Du Maurier.
‘How very impertinent,’ he said, genuinely shocked. ‘But where will you move to?’
‘We’ve found a suitable house in Oxford Square – near the Park, you know. And if people track us there and stare at the windows there’ll be a constable handy to move them on.’
‘Well, I don’t know what to say, Kiki! It’s the end of an era. Hampstead won’t be worth visiting without you.’
‘You and I will see more of each other, anyway, old chap.’
‘That’s true, though . . .’
‘Though what?’
‘Ironically enough – I’m thinking of moving out of London,’ he said.
‘Good Lord! Where?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve only just had the idea.’ In fact it had been growing inside him ever since the first night of Guy Domville, but in a quiet, secret fashion, hardly acknowledged even by himself. He had certainly not mentioned it to a single soul before. But now it filled him with certainty. He wanted to get away from London, away from people, parties, plays (especially plays); away from the constant jostling for attention and success; away from the noise and the traffic, the sooty fogs of winter and the foetid heat-waves of summer. He wanted a little house somewhere quiet and green, with perhaps a strip of blue sea in the offing, where when you drew the curtains of a morning and raised the sash windows you breathed in fresh air scented with cut hay or a hint of brine, not the odours of coal-smoke and ordure, and heard the sounds of rooks cawing or seagulls mewing instead of the rattle of carriage wheels and the cries of tradesmen. He wanted peace and quiet in which to write, and to be able to take Tosca for a walk over the fields when the day’s work was done.
