“Now dear, don’t be disappointing. Mr Mathias is counting on you.”
“But I don’t know what music he wants, or anything.”
“We always have very simple services. You’re sure to be able to manage. And think what a thrill it will be for everybody! They all know your things have been broadcast; they’ll think it wonderful, whatever you do.”
“I know, that’s what’s so embarrassing. I don’t want to impose on their ignorance; it’s immoral.”
“Oh Gilly, what nonsense! Very well then, don’t play. I’ve promised Mr Mathias you will, but I suppose I must just swallow my pride and go to him before service and say you won’t. It’s humiliating, but of course I wouldn’t ask you to put yourself out.”
The upshot was that under this maternal blackmail Revelstoke played, and did things with the organ of St Iestyn’s Church which would not have been approved by a Fellow of the Royal College of Organists but which sufficiently astonished and delighted his hearers, who had not heard the pedals of the parish instrument for some years past; Revelstoke even essayed pedal chords from time to time, and contrived a few impressive roars at moments of climax, and was altogether satisfactory. Mr Mathias beamed from the vicar’s stall, and threw in an extra hymn, just to make the best of the occasion. But the triumph of the morning was after the service when, as an organ postlude, he improvised a medley of Welsh airs; the difficulty was that, so long as he continued to play, the congregation would not leave the church, so in the end he had to stop and indicate with a wave of his hand that there would be no more.
His mother was delighted. She stood happily at the door of the Church, beside Mr Mathias, ostensibly to wish everyone a Merry Christmas, but in reality to garner compliments on the brilliance of her son. The Neuadd Goch party walked home bright with reflected glory. Even Ripon recovered from having been given three copies of Welsh in a Week (Monica’s, and one from the squire, and one—unkindest cut—from Ceinwen) and said that he had loved every minute of the service, and felt much nearer to Washington Irving than ever before, but wasn’t the singing a little under par for a Welsh congregation?
“It’s a lie that all the Welsh can sing,” said Mr Hopkin-Griffiths; “the truth is that some can sing but they can all yell. And they were quiet this morning because they were listening to our Canadian visitor; I never was told that you could sing like that, my dear. We’ll want to hear more from you this afternoon.”
“I’m a pupil of Giles’, which should explain it,” said Monica, and once again Mrs Hopkin-Griffiths launched into an account of the fine things that had been said, and how well he had played, and how, perhaps, after all, there might be some sense in his treating music as a profession.
“Mind you, Griff and I couldn’t be more sympathetic about Gilly’s music,” she said to Monica and Ripon, who were walking with her. “We’ve always said it was a wonderful gift, ever since he became so serious about it at school. There was a master there in his time who was wonderfully gifted—quite professional, really. And Gilly has made friends among musicians—one of them is this Sir Benedict Domdaniel, and I’ve heard he’s charming, though of course a Jew—but Jews are wonderfully gifted, aren’t they, and we must always remember it and particularly at Christmas. And some of his things have been broadcast, which is awfully good, too. And of course he’s so deep in this magazine—Lantern, isn’t it—and we thought that might lead to a job with a publisher, or something like that. And even a pupil! You know dear, you could have knocked me down with a feather, as the people say around here, when you came in yesterday, and knew Gilly, and he was your teacher. When Lady Phoebe gave us your name, it meant nothing to us—just that you were a Canadian studying in London, and of course I thought from the London School of Economics, because that’s where the Canadians all seem to go, and the dear knows why, because it seems to make them so gloomy and farsighted about nasty things. Gilly was thunderstruck. Thought I’d asked for you on purpose. He so resents any interference from me in his London life you know. But it was sheer chance; though Lady Phoebe always seems to think we’re musical, though I don’t know why. But music as a profession—well, nobody we know has ever done it, and one hears about the risks, and everything. What do you think, dear? Of course it’s different for you; you’re wonderfully gifted—oh, don’t say you aren’t, because I can tell just by looking at you. And also I expect you’ve your way to make. But Gilly could have such a different life, if he chose, and one does so want one’s son to make the right choice. Tell me what you really think.”
Monica could not conceive of anyone who had it in him to be a composer being anything else, nor was she interested in promoting a marriage between Revelstoke and Ceinwen. Her reply was a model of modesty and tact; she was not a proper judge, she said, but she knew that Sir Benedict had a very high opinion of Giles’ work, and especially his songs. She could have spared her breath, for Mrs Hopkin-Griffiths was not really listening; she had her eyes on Revelstoke and Ceinwen, who were ahead of her, and who seemed to have nothing to say to one another.
After luncheon the squire and Mrs Hopkin-Griffiths retired to their rooms, he for a frank sleep, and she for what was more delicately called “my usual rest”; Ripon was doing his best to find the way into Ceinwen’s climate of feeling, and Monica was too full of happiness to want to disturb them, for her adventure of Christmas Eve had made her generous and charitable; she had some hopes of a talk with Revelstoke, but he too vanished, so she went for a walk by herself, up the hill behind the house, and over a moor which was wild and romantic enough to satisfy the most eager heart. She wandered there for almost two hours, thinking over and over again that she was now a woman, and that she had a lover, and that life was sweeter than she had ever known it to be. Not a thought had she for the Galls in Salterton, who would at this time be sitting amid the ruins of Mrs Gall’s calorifically murderous Christmas dinner, fighting, in the name of Christian charity, a losing fight against their mounting ennui and repletion. She returned to Neuadd Goch just in time for tea, and found herself the only member of the party who was in a really good temper.
After tea the squire asked her to sing. “Music at Christmas, always,” said he; “I will remember as a boy, in this room, my pater always sang at Christmas—just one song, Gounod’s Nazareth, Wonder if anybody sings it now? And my Aunt Isobel sang The Mistletoe Bough. Can’t have Christmas without music.”
Somewhat to Monica’s surprise Revelstoke moved to the piano to play for her, which was not his custom at lessons. She sang The Cherry Tree Carol, which she had learned from Molloy, and he improvised an accompaniment of considerable beauty, using the simple tune as a point of departure for harmonies remote from any that might have been expected by a conventional ear, but evocative of an atmosphere wonderfully congruous with the simple legend of the song. To Monica it was a delight, and she sang well, but the listeners received it with apathy. She sang Blow, Blow Thou Winter Wind, and this time Revelstoke confined himself to a piano part which respected the intentions of Dr Thomas Augustine Arne. But Monica wanted to return to the adventure of improvisation, so she sang Jésu Christ en Pauvre, trying to interest the Hopkin-Griffiths by saying that it was a folksong of her native land.
“Really, dear?” said her hostess, “and I suppose it reminds you of home and familiar things. How sweet.”
“Yes, it does,” said Monica. It was the first in a series of lies which she was to tell during the next few days, all calculated to throw her Canadian past into a pleasing and romantic light. For she had never heard Jésu Christ en Pauvre until she learned it from Molloy, and certainly the singing of wistful French-Canadian folksongs had never been a Christmas pursuit of the Gall family, or anyone they knew. But pretence is wonderfully stimulating to the artistic mind, which is why some people lie for fun, rather than from necessity. The tender feeling and insight with which Revelstoke had illumined The Cherry Tree Carol he brought in greater measure to the naive, spare little legend of Christ disguised as a poor man, and
when the song was done he and Monica were well content with it.
“Good, good,” said the squire, in a voice which made it plain that he had felt and understood nothing. “Now, Ceinwen, tune your pipes. Let’s have a Welsh song. Always like a Welsh song at Christmas.”
“Where are those Welsh songs I sent you last year, Uncle Griff,” said Ceinwen; “I’ll sing you one of those.”
A brief search discovered them in the music bench. “I wanted you to have them because I helped edit these two collections,” said she. “My name is in the introduction—”Our thanks are also due to”—me, along with a few others. So you see you’re not the only one to get your name on a bit of music, Gilly.”
This was plainly meant to be a pleasantry, but Giles was not willing to take it so. “More weeping little modal tunes; I can’t bear the way the Welsh folksong people arrange their stuff,” said he.
“We heard what you like done with Welsh tunes this morning,” said Ceinwen, without good humour.
She sang Y Gelynen, explaining that it was in praise of the holly bush; her voice was small, pure and sweet, and prettily suited to the rippling, trilling refrain of the song. She did not sing in any way as well as Monica, but there was an individual quality and a justness of musical feeling about her singing which gave it charm. From Revelstoke’s expression as he played it was plain that he did not like the accompaniment, and by the fourth verse he had begun to guy it, so slightly that only Monica noticed.
Next Ceinwen sang a Christmas carol, Ar Gyfer Heddiw Bore, and this time he treated the accompaniment to please himself. Ceinwen was put off by his improvisation; she was a good singer, but she was not up to that. And it was clear to Monica that Revelstoke’s treatment of the theme was clever but unsympathetic; he was not helping the singer, he was showing off. The colour had left Ceinwen’s cheeks, and her green eyes seemed to darken.
The squire beat time to the Welsh songs with his hand, and nodded from time to time to show that, while he might not understand the words, he was sure they were full of Welsh Christmas cheer.
“The last song I’ll sing is a particularly fine one,” said Ceinwen; “it is called Hiraeth.”
“Aren’t you going to tell us about it?” asked Ripon. “Please do. This is wonderful, really it is. I’m living in a novel by Peacock,” he said, beaming at the squire, who accepted the remark with a smile, having learned by now that it was a compliment.
“It is about the longing for what is unattainable, which is called ‘hiraeth’ in Welsh. The singer is someone very old, who begs the wise and learned men of the earth to say where hiraeth comes from; all the treasures of the earth perish, gold, silver, rich fabrics and all the delights of life, but hiraeth is undying; there is no escape from it even in sleep; who weaves this web of hiraeth?”
“Splendid,” said Ripon; “real Celtic magic.”
“Oh I don’t know,” said Revelstoke. The Welsh make a fuss about their hiraeth as if they’d invented it; it’s common to all small, disappointed, frustrated nations. The Jews have used it as their principal artistic stock-in-trade for two thousand years. It’s the old hankering to get back to the womb, where everything was snug. Whimpering stuff.”
“Now that you’ve made it seem so delightful, I’ll sing it,” said Ceinwen.
The accompaniment was a simple but effective succession of chords, played in harp-like style, against which the tune appeared almost as declamation. Revelstoke played it thus for the first verse, and then he began to experiment; his arpeggios whined, they groaned, they shivered piteously. It was cruel caricature of the deep feeling of the words and the simple beauty of the air, and it made Monica’s flesh creep with embarrassment. Ripon, though no musician, could understand the import of this right enough, and even the Hopkin-Griffiths knew that all was not well.
What will she do, thought Monica. He’ll break her down. There’ll be tears in a minute, and what had I better do?
Ceinwen was not the weeping sort. She finished the song, and, as Revelstoke was bringing his accompaniment to a close in a series of sour chromatic progressions she whipped off her left shoe and hit him over the head with it. Then she struck at his hands again and again, bringing from the old Broadwood yelps and twanglings which mingled with his extravagant and astonishing curses.
There was an alarming scene, in which everybody accused and nobody apologized. There was a general withdrawal to bedrooms, and some slamming of doors. But to the amazement of Monica and Ripon everyone turned up at dinner apparently in excellent spirits, and Ceinwen and Giles pulled a cracker together with that extra, clean-hearted goodwill which is seen in people who have had a thoroughly satisfactory quarrel.
After dinner they rolled up the rug in the drawingroom, the maids and outside men came in, and there was dancing to the gramophone.
“The Welsh are rather a hot-tempered race,” said Revelstoke to Monica, as they danced.
And that was all that was ever said about it.
13
The week which followed was passed in walks, visits to neighbouring country-houses, and motor jaunts to special places of beauty, including a day of great glory when the young people drove through Gwalia Deserta and explored the gorge at Devil’s Bridge; Monica sat in the front seat of the car with Revelstoke all that day. She met several Welsh people, and was astonished by the vivacity and genial spite which they brought to social conversation, and which was unlike anything she had experienced among the people of England. But Monica was more astonished by herself than by anything external. She began to talk about her family; she was often alarmed by what she said, for she found that she was weaving a legend around the Galls. The Welsh had a national character, or at least they were strongly under that impression. Very well; if they chose to play the Celt, she would play the Canadian. She spoke of Canadian Christmasses, finding in them pleasing and picturesque qualities which would surely have astonished her mother, or even those nationalist zealots, the McCorkills. She deepened the snow, intensified the cold, and enthused retrospectively about winter sports in which she had never taken part. Driving in cutters on the frozen waters of the harbour at Salterton, for instance; she had never done it, but neither did she claim to have done so; she simply described it as if at first-hand. And ice-boating—there was excitement! When she talked of these things her tongue ran away with her, and though she spoke no clear untruths, she implied a whole world which had no counterpart in her past. She did not suppress the Glue Works or the Thirteeners; she simply did not feel a necessity to mention them.
“What a liar you are!” she said one night to her image in the mirror. But the next day her resolve to guard her tongue vanished; she wanted to be as interesting as Ceinwen, whom she liked but whose rapid alternations of temperament began to excite her jealousy. The girl was playing the Gelt all over the place, muttering in Welsh to please Ripon, and teaching him Welsh objurgations, as one might teach a parrot to swear. That affair was going swimmingly, but Revelstoke had not said an intimate word to her since Christmas Eve.
It was what she did to her family which most alarmed Monica in her soberer moments. Ma Gall began to appear as a wonderfully salty character, a lady, of course, but with the strength of pioneer ancestry behind her. Ma Gall was, she told Mrs Hopkin-Griffiths, a natural gourmet, delighting in food and bringing to it family secrets which produced dishes of incomparable savour, unknown in the British Islands. This tower of mendacity was erected on the trifling foundation of a rather dull Indian Pudding which Mrs Gall had learned to make from her mother.
Of course, those who embark on such a game as this must be trapped into lies at last.
Monica’s entrapment, and her punishment, came almost at the end of her stay at Neuadd Goch. It was at dinner, on New Year’s Eve, the night of the County Ball, a festivity which was to be the crown of the entertainment provided by the Hopkin-Griffiths for their guests. Ripon, who was filled with true gratitude toward his hosts, had made them a graceful speech before dinner, saying that their kindn
ess would never be forgotten while he lived, and that he hoped that at some future time he might pass it on, in the same spirit, to visitors to his own land. He did it well, and keeping away from talk of climates of feeling, created an atmosphere of open-hearted friendliness which inevitably led to talk of the bonds which united the English-speaking world. Monica could not contain herself.
She spoke of her admiration for and debt to the British people, and did it in such a way that there was nothing pompous or unseemly about it. But she could not leave it there. This feeling, she said, was not only her own, but had long been that of her family. The Galls, she asserted, were of United Empire Loyalist stock.
This fell rather flat, for nobody present seemed to know what United Empire Loyalists were. So she explained that they were those loyal subjects of King George III, who at the time of the American Revolution, deserted their worldly goods and migrated to Canada, in order that they might keep the inestimable privilege of living under the British flag. Though she did not say so, it could be understood from her words that the descendants of these people formed a vigorous, splendid, but unassuming core of leadership—a kind of democratic aristocracy—in Canada.
In the high and charged atmosphere of the moment—the climate of feeling—this would have been acceptable enough, but Revelstoke fixed her with a sardonic eye.
“What’s so remarkable about that?” said he. “Why should they do otherwise than leave the country if they didn’t like the Revolution? Are you asking us to admire them simply because they were loyal? Surely that’s the least Britain could have expected of them. Honouring people for being loyal is like honouring them for being honest; it’s a confession of an essentially base and cynical attitude toward mankind. It’s either that or it’s just sentimental silliness.”
Perhaps Monica should have hit him on the head with her shoe. But she was, beneath the superficial part of her mind which was boasting and prattling, so conscious of the untruth of what she was saying, that she felt disproportionately rebuked. She felt that everybody at the table was disgusted with her, and ashamed for her, as a foolish little braggart. She felt that she had been sharply and contemptuously put in her place. Of course there was no such general feeling. Mrs Hopkin-Griffiths was thinking how distinguished Giles looked when he was nicely washed and had on his dress suit, and hardly heard what was said. The squire thought the boy was much too rough on the little Canadian; loyalty ought to be encouraged, or where would we all be? Ceinwen thought: well, there’s her reward for laying herself out to charm Master Giles, the dirty English pig (though as she thought this in Welsh the last term was not quite so stinging as it seems in translation). Only Ripon guessed at the truth.
A Mixture of Frailties tst-3 Page 20
