The Judas Tree

by A. J. Cronin

  When in the Graben he had vainly used all the subtlety he possessed to induce her to accept a gift – a necklace, simple in design but set with emeralds – which, unthinkingly and with slight knowledge of the price, she had admired.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she had answered, with a shake of her head, ‘but it is not for me.’

  And nothing would move her. Nevertheless, though as yet she remained unaware, he meant to have his way.

  His greatest surprise lay in the realisation that his money counted for so little with her. She had not responded to the luxury of the hotel, rich and elaborate meals were becoming merely an embarrassment to her, and he sensed that she had preferred the little hired car to the silent comfort of his Rolls. Once, indeed, when he dropped a hint on the subject she had unexpectedly replied:

  ‘But, David, money can’t buy any of the things that really matter.’

  Disappointed and somewhat chagrined by this lack of appreciation, he was nevertheless comforted by the thought that he would be loved or, as he now dared to hope, was being loved for himself alone. And since the simplicities of life so obviously pleased her, he decided to divert her attention towards Switzerland and the restful quiet she would find there. Vienna had not been a mistake; not only had he got to know her better, he had made progress, great progress, in these last few days. Intimacy had been positively established, a current of vibrations now passed between them. Though she herself might still be unaware, he knew from her sudden changes of colour, the touch of her hand, the brightening of her eye when he appeared, that she was passing the point of no return. Every instinct told him so. And to see and feel this shy, intense young girl gradually expanding under the novel compulsions of love was the most delicious experience of his life.

  On Saturday morning, when they had finished breakfast, he remarked lightly, but with an undertone of consideration:

  ‘It begins to look as though we’ve had enough of the city for the time being. Would you like to leave tomorrow for Schwansee? If this cold continues we’ll undoubtedly have snow in the Oberland and that’s something you shouldn’t miss.’

  The warmth of her response gave immediate confirmation of his intuition.

  ‘I’d like it better than anything – that is, if it suits you to go. I do so love the country. Not,’ she added quickly, ‘that I am not happy to be here.’

  ‘Then that’s settled! We’ll take the Sunday afternoon plane. I’ll send Arturo on ahead today – the journey by road across the Arlberg would be much too trying for you at this time of year. But before we leave,’ he paused and smiled, ‘there is just one more hurdle for you to clear, I think you’ll find it a pleasure and not a penance.’

  ‘Yes?’ she queried rather uncertainly.

  ‘There is a gala at the Opera House tonight – Madame Butterfly … but a quite exceptional performance, since Tebaldi is singing. And the décor is by Benois. It’s been practically impossible to get tickets but I’ve succeeded by a stroke of luck. As I’m sure you’ll enjoy this particular opera, will you come?’

  ‘Yes, David,’ she answered with only a scarcely perceptible hesitation. ‘But I’m worried at the way you keep putting yourself about for me.’

  ‘Don’t give it a thought.’ He did not tell her that only by the payment of an enormous premium, effected through the concierge, had he been able at this late date to secure a loge. ‘By the way, we’ll take it easy today so that you’ll be fresh for tonight.’

  Both were glad of the rest, especially since the sky had become overcast and a keen wind blowing down from Semmering made passage through the streets a chilly business. However, after giving Arturo his instructions to leave for home he was out and about in the afternoon, on some affair of his own. At his suggestion they had an early dinner in the sitting-room: no more than a cup of strong turtle soup, omelette fines herbes with pommes pont neuf, pêche melba and coffee: by design a light meal, but good.

  When they had finished he stood up.

  ‘It’s a nuisance, my dear little Puritan, but we have to dress up a bit for this affair. Luckily I knew your size, so you’ll find something in your room. I had your nice Anna lay it out for you.’ He put a comradely arm about her shoulder, bent forward close to her in his most winning manner. ‘Please wear it – for my sake.’

  Humming a snatch of the love duet from Butterfly under his breath, he changed in leisurely manner: first the electric razor until the smoothness of his cheek satisfied him, then a hot bath followed by a tepid shower, a good rub down, and a dust of plain talcum. The hotel valet had already put out his evening clothes, with the onyx and diamond links and studs in the fresh frilled starched shirt, the black silk socks half folded over, the patent shoes, trees removed and tongues turned back, set nearly by the armchair. Arturo could not have done better, he must remember to tip the man. At last he was ready. A touch of Eau de Muget and a brisk drill with his monogrammed ivory-backed, military brushes – thank God he had kept his hair – completed the picture. He studied himself in the glass. He had always looked well in white tie and tails – no one could touch Caraceni, in the Boncompagni, for perfection of cut – and tonight, in all modesty, he knew unquestionably that he made a handsome, distinguished, and amazingly youthful figure. In a spirit of some anticipation he switched off the light – the habit persisted from his youth – and went into the sitting-room.

  She did not keep him waiting. Presently the door opened and slowly she came out wearing the green dress he had chosen for her and, to his delight, the thin necklet of emeralds that so exactly matched it. Literally, he held his breath as, still slowly, with lowered eyes and cheeks faintly flushed, she advanced and stood before him. If he had thought her ravishing in the lovat suit, now there was no word to fit the case.

  ‘Kathy,’ he said in a low voice, ‘you will not like me to say this, but I must. You look enchantingly and unutterably lovely.’

  He had never in his life spoken such absolute truth. So young, so fresh, and with that warm complexion and reddish gold hair, green undoubtedly was her colour. What he would make of her when he took her to Dior or Balenciaga! But was she trembling? She moistened her lips.

  ‘It is the most beautiful dress,’ she said haltingly. ‘And, after all, you bought me the necklace.’

  ‘Just to go with your frock,’ he said gaily, determined to lighten her mood. ‘A few green beads.’

  ‘No. Anna was admiring them. She says they are cabochon emeralds.’

  ‘Ah, well! I only hope your escort looks good enough to go with them.’

  She looked at him, then looked away.

  ‘I never knew there could be anyone like you.’ He saw that she was seeking a phrase; it came with unusual awkwardness, ‘You’re… you’re just out of this world.’

  ‘I hope I won’t be for some time.’ He laughed. ‘And now let’s be off. It will delight your democratic spirit – since Arturo is away, we must take a taxi.’

  ‘Am I to wear these gloves?’ she asked nervously, on the way down. ‘They seem so long.’

  ‘Wear them or carry them, as you please, dearest Kathy, it makes no difference. You can’t improve upon perfection.’

  The concierge, though shocked that in such splendour they should be denied their usual conveyance, bowed them into a respectable cab. In a few minutes they arrived at the Opera House, passed through the crowded foyer and were shown to the loge he had secured in the second circle. Here, in the privacy of the snug, red-carpeted little box, which was all their own, he felt her relax. Free of her nervousness, she gazed out upon the brilliant scene with increasing interest and excitement while he, seated close behind, looking over her shoulder through his opera glasses, had the delightful consciousness of reproducing that incomparable Renoir on the same theme, not, alas, his own, but one he had always admired.

  ‘This is new, of course, rebuilt since the war,’ he explained. ‘A little too white and glittering perhaps – the Viennese tend to overdo their crystal – but still quite charming.’
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  ‘Oh, it is,’ she agreed unreservedly.

  ‘And as you see, everyone in their best bib and tucker for Tebaldi. Incidentally, as she’ll be singing in Italian I ought to give you an idea of what it’s all about It opens at Nagasaki in Japan where Pinkerton, an officer in the United States navy, has arranged through a broker to marry a sweet little Japanese girl, Cho-Cho-San …’. Concisely he ran through the main points of the story, concluding: ‘It’s very sentimental, as you see, one of Puccini’s lighter offerings, far from being grand opera, but nevertheless delightfully moving and poignant.’

  He had no sooner concluded than a burst of applause announced the appearance of the conductor, Karajan. The lights dimmed, the overture began, then slowly the curtain went up, revealing a Japanese interior of exquisite delicacy.

  Moray had already seen this opera twice at the Metropolitan in New York, where he had been for years a season-ticket holder, and where, in fact, he had several times heard Tebaldi sing. Once he had assured himself that the great diva was in voice, he was able to devote himself to the reactions of his companion, and unobserved, with a strange and secret expectation, he watched the changing expressions that lit then shadowed her intent young face.

  At first she seemed confused by the novelty of the experience and the oriental strangeness of the scene. But gradually she became absorbed. The handsome Pinkerton, whom he had always found insufferable, obviously repelled her. He could sense her rising sympathy for Cho-Cho-San and a worried precognition of impending disaster. When the curtain fell at the end of the first act she was quite carried away.

  ‘Oh, what a despicable man,’ she exclaimed, turning to him with flushed cheeks. ‘One knows from the beginning that he is worthless.’

  ‘Vain and self-indulgent, perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘But why do you dislike him so much?’

  She lowered her eyes as though reflecting, then said:

  ‘To me, it’s the worst thing – never to think of others, but only of oneself.’

  The second act, opening on a note of tender sadness, sustained by an undertone of hope deferred, would, he knew, affect her more acutely than the first. As it proceeded, he did not look at her, feeling it an intrusion to observe such unaffected swelling of the heart. But towards the end of the scene, as the lights dimmed upon the stage and Cho-Cho-San lit her lantern by the doorway to begin her nightly vigil, while the haunting melody of the aria ‘Un bel di’ swelled then faded from the darkening room, he took one swift glance at his companion. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘Dearest Kathy.’ He bent towards her. ‘If it is upsetting you, we will leave.’

  ‘No, no,’ she protested chokingly. ‘It’s sad but it’s wonderful. And I must see what happens. Just lend me your handkerchief, mine is useless now. Thank you, dear, dear David – you are so kind. Oh, that poor, sweet girl. That any man could be so inhuman, so – so beastly.’ Her voice failed, yet she willed herself to be composed.

  Indeed, during the third act, rising through unbearable pathos to the final shattering tragedy, she retained control. When the curtain fell and he dared look towards her she was not weeping, but her head had fallen forward on her breast, as though she could endure no more.

  They left the theatre. Still overcome, she did not speak until they were in their taxi; then, secure from observation, she said, in a muffled voice:

  ‘I shall never forget this evening … never …’

  He chose his words carefully.

  ‘I knew you had feeling, a great capacity for emotion. I hoped you would be moved.’

  ‘Oh, I was, I was.… And the best thing of all, dear David, was seeing it with you.’

  No more than that, but enough for him to sense through her still quivering nerves a melting softness towards him. Silently, gently questing in the closed intimacy of the cab, he took her small hand in his.

  She did not withdraw it. What had happened to her? Nothing, ever, like this, before. Oh, she had naturally had attentions paid her. While attending her nursing classes, a student at the University, working for his M.A. degree, had been strongly attracted to her. She had not responded. At the hospital during the previous Christmas festivities, the young asistant doctor had tried to kiss her under the mistletoe, succeeding only in clumsily reaching her left ear. She had passed off the attempt with indifference, and refused, later, when he asked her to go to the New Year’s dance. She knew herself to be a serious-minded person, not interested in young men, sharing indeed her mother’s view, so often forced upon her until it had become her own, that they were brash, inconsiderate and undependable.

  But David was none of these things, instead his qualities were exactly opposite. And his maturity, oddly reassuring, had from the first appealed to her. He was still holding her hand, quietly and soothingly, as they reached the hotel. Nor did he relinquish it then. The night concierge was half asleep at his desk as they entered and took the lift to their floor. In the corridor he paused, opened the door of their sitting-room, conscious of a quick thread of pulse in her imprisoned fingers, his own heart beating fast.

  ‘I ordered hot chocolate to be left for us. It would restore you, dearest Kathy.’

  ‘No.’ Half turned away from him, she shook her head. ‘Nothing… please.’

  ‘You’re still upset. I can scarcely bear to let you go.’

  He led her, unresisting, into the room where, as he had said, a Thermos jug, with fruit and sandwiches covered by a napkin, had been placed upon the table. The room was faintly lit by a single shaded light that cast a soft glow on the carpet while the walls remained in shadow, and they too were in shadow as they faced each other.

  ‘Dearest Kathy,’ he said again. ‘ What can I say? What can I do for you?’

  Still not looking at him, she answered in a stifled voice.

  ‘I’ll be all right in the morning.’

  ‘It’s almost morning now,’ he reasoned gently, despite his pounding blood, ‘and you’re not all right. What really is the matter?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing … I don’t know. I feel lost somehow. I’ve never been like this before – sad and happy at the same time.’

  ‘But how can you be lost when you’re with me?’

  ‘Oh, I know, I know,’ she admitted, then hurried inarticulately on. ‘ That wretched man has made me see how different – but that’s just the trouble. You’re so …’. She broke off, tears coursing afresh down her cheeks.

  Her head was bowed, but placing his fingers beneath her chin he raised her tear-stained face so that they looked into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Kathy darling,’ he murmured in a tone of ultimate tenderness, ‘I’m in love with you. And I believe that you love me.’

  Bending, he kissed her upturned fresh young lips, innocent of make-up – which he abominated – and deliciously salt from her tears. The next instant, with a gulping sob, she was closely in his arms, her wet flushed cheek pressed hard against his breast.

  ‘David – dearest David.’

  But it was only for a moment. With a cry she broke away.

  ‘It’s no use – no use at all. I should have known it from the beginning.’

  ‘But why, Kathy? We love each other.’

  ‘How can we love each other three thousand miles away? You know I’m going away. We’d only break our hearts. Mine is breaking now.’

  ‘You could stay, Kathy?’

  ‘Never – it’s impossible.’

  He had caught her wrist, to keep her from flying to her room. Still straining away from him like a captive bird, she went on wildly.

  ‘I must go. All my life. I’ve been preparing for that one thing – training as a nurse, getting experience at Dalhaven. I’ve thought of nothing else. I’m needed out there.… Uncle Willie expects it.… Most of all, I promised Mother before she died that I would go, and I would never fail her, never.’

  ‘Don’t, Kathy,’ he cut in, fearfully. ‘For God’s sake – you mustn’t do it.’

  ‘I must do it for Go
d’s sake … for both our sakes.’

  She freed herself and, half running towards her room, was gone.

  He stared painfully at the closed door. Resisting an impulse to follow her, he began to pace the soft piled carpet in a state of acute agitation. Yet, with the imprint of her soft lips still lingering on his, gradually his distress passed and his main feeling became one of joy. She loved him, utterly, unmistakably, with all her heart. Nothing else mattered. There were difficulties in the way, but they could be overcome. He must, and would, persuade her. Anything else was unthinkable. At all costs he would have her.

  Suddenly he felt strong, filled with vigour, and an immense potentiality for love. Hungry, too, As his eye fell upon the good things on the table, he became conscious of the hours that had elapsed since dinner – and the meal had not been notably substantial. Seating himself, he poured the chocolate, still steaming hot, folded back the napkin and began the sandwiches. Ah! Caviar, and the real Beluga, too. Absently, yet with relish, he scoffed the lot.

  Chapter Eleven

  He had forecast snow in Switzerland and, as though confirming his infallibility, snow had greeted them – an early, light covering that had frozen hard and now lay glittering under cobalt skies. For almost a week they had been in Schwansee, rigidly conforming to the covenant of restraint which, as a condition of her coming, she had obliged him to accept. Throughout this horrid stalemate of emotion, in a frantic effort to sway her, he had made simplicity and calm the order of the day. Their too theatrical welcome by Arturo and Elena had been quickly suppressed, staidness imposed, and plain meals commanded, served with an absence of formality. Straining to demonstrate the desirability of his picturesque landscape, he took her walking every afternoon in the crisp, tingling air: excursions, conducted mainly in silence, which brought them into the white foothills of the Alps, seen above as soaring pinnacles made rosy by the rising and setting of the sun. In the evenings, seated in the library on either side of the crackling log fire, tired less from their long outings than from persistent strain, he gave her a programme of his records – selecting mainly Handel, Bach, Mozart – which, rising from time, to time, he played upon the stereophonic radiogram, its varnished mahogany skilfully concealed in his lacquer Coromandel cabinet. No one knew of his return, there were no intrusive visitors, no distractions, just themselves alone.