Works of E F Benson

by E. F. Benson

  Just now that meant a good deal to Eva, for it was the type to her of all she had missed. He was, again, distinctly of her own class — he could not offend the most fastidious taste — Eva would never have cultivated a grocer’s assistant, however fresh — and he was extremely handsome and attractive in appearance. Her feeling for him was made out of one large factor, and several small ones; for his pleasant manner, his frank good breeding, his beauty, she liked him; for his serene, stainless youth she had a sort of liking that was quite new to her.

  That the conception he had formed of her was very far from representing her, she knew well. She had deliberately held the reckless, cynical, unprincipled part of her nature rigorously in check when she was with him. She was sympathetic, simple, divinely kind to him because she liked him so much and knew that he would detest the other half of her. But now a mixture of motives led her to determine to let him know all. It had come to this, that she felt that inevitable longing to throw her nature open to him, to drop this elaborate suppression, to let him see her as she was, and judge her. Our deeper emotions are thickly entwined with the fibres of honesty, which makes even those who are least honest, in ordinary life, scrupulously truthful and open when those deeper emotions are touched. To say that Eva was in love with Reggie would be both overstating it and understating it. He was the symbol to her of her lost ideals, which she found she had loved now she had lost them; and, humanly speaking, she found him very attractive as a substantial embodiment of these.

  Eva was sitting in her room one morning, a few days after the talk Reggie had had with his mother, wondering how she had better carry her resolve out, when an idea struck her. She got up and wrote a short note to him: —

  “I wonder if you would care to come to the opera to-night with me,” she said. “Tannhäuser is being played, and I think I remember your saying you thought the overture very pretty. Do come. Dine here first.”

  “Jim Armine shall come too,” thought Eva. “He shall chaperone us. Besides, I can’t be worldly all alone with Reggie. I must have some one to be worldly with. Decidedly that is the best plan.”

  CHAPTER VI.

  The opera began at half-past eight, and Eva, in her note to Reggie, had mentioned “seven sharp” as the hour for dinner, because she wanted to hear the overture. Reggie had routed up an “arrangement” of the music that afternoon, and had got his mother to play it to him, but whether it was that Mrs. Davenport’s musical education had been conducted in her youth on the same principles of æsthetics that used to instil into the young idea the system of “touches” to indicate foliage, or that Reggie did not attend much — in any case, he pronounced it totally unintelligible, and, in his mind, reconsidered his previous verdict of it.

  Reggie’s “seven sharp” partook of the nature of “seven,” but in a less degree of the nature of “sharp,” and Jim Armine had already arrived and was talking to Eva. As he opened the door — he was already sufficiently at home to dispense with the formula of being shown up — Eva felt her resolve waver, but determined, if she could, to do what she had intended. She wheeled her chair a few inches further round, so as to be with her back to the door, and began talking in a hard, cold voice.

  “Of course, there will be a tremendous scandal about it,” she said to Jim, “but you know what the woman is like. Didn’t you see her here a fortnight ago? Hayes thought her divine. Of course, men are always blind in such matters. If a woman is beautiful enough, they think she must be good. Now, women do just the opposite. If a woman is beautiful enough, they think she must be a villain. They are, probably, much more likely to be right than men. Ah! Reggie, you’ve come, have you? I know what your seven sharp is.”

  Reggie shook hands with her, and looked inquiring.

  “Whom were you talking about?” he demanded.

  “Oh! it would have been applicable to most women,” said Eva. “There has been, or will be, a tremendous scandal about most of us, and it seems to me that most women have been here during this last fortnight. We have been having a week of parties, and Hayes will have to sell one of his villas, I expect. The parties have all been very stupid, but so are the villas, for that matter. Come, let’s go in to dinner. Which of you gentlemen will take me in? You’re the nephew of a marquis, are you not, Jim? Then you shall go in first, and Reggie and I will follow.”

  “I’ve been making my mother play the overture to me,” remarked Reggie, as they sat down, “and I can’t understand a note of it.”

  “Oh! the overture is the epitome to the play,” said Eva; “you have to know the plot, and then the overture is easy enough. Let’s see, I’ll give you a little sketch of it. Tannhäuser is a good young man, Reggie — something like you — and he goes to Venusberg. Well, Venusberg is not at all the place for a good young man. There is no propriety of any sort observed there, and they are very lax about etiquette and other things. Never go to Venusberg, Reggie, or, if you do, take Mrs. Reggie with you. If she won’t come — and I don’t expect she will — you had better not go at all. It is said to be very unsettling.”

  Jim Armine laughed. Lady Hayes was inclined to be talkative, and he always thought it worth while listening to her when she was talkative, because she always had something to say whenever she said anything. He wondered a little why she had taken it into her head to say this just now, but she always talked with a purpose, and he was content to assume the purpose. But Reggie was wofully puzzled. He had not known her like this, and he very much wanted explanations.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “You know I’m very stupid. Do tell me what you mean.”

  Eva cast one look at his anxious, frowning face, and trifled with her fish.

  “I must do it,” she said to herself; “I cannot let things continue as they have been.”

  “Oh! it gets easier further on,” she continued, “as Humpty Dumpty said; and you’ll understand it all when you hear the overture again, according to your new lights. Of course, the Venusberg is only an interlude in Tannhäuser’s life, and everyone has interludes in their lives, or else they would not be human. Tannhäuser is a pilgrim, and the pilgrims march about to slow music all the time. Venus, of course, does not go about to slow music — quite the contrary, in fact; and, when you hear the two together, the contrast is very striking. Tannhäuser goes away from Venusberg, you know, before the end, and dies in the odour of sanctity.”

  Eva stopped for a moment, and Jim Armine laughed again.

  “You are admirably lucid,” he said. “You seldom explain yourself so well.”

  “Thanks for the compliment,” said Eva. “And you, Reggie, do you find me lucid?”

  Reggie was listening to her with a puzzled air.

  “I expect I shall understand better when I’ve seen it,” he said.

  “Yes; you can’t fail to understand it then,” said Eva, “or, if you don’t, you will be even more charming than I thought you. I wonder if you are capable of it. I am talking nonsense to-night; you must forget it to-morrow.”

  “As long as you remember it just during the opera,” said Jim maliciously.

  Eva’s mind was thoroughly made up, and she choked the rising misgivings.

  “He must know some time,” she thought, “and it is best I should tell him.”

  “You are going to be Adam in the garden of Eden, possibly for the last time,” she said with mock solemnity, which covered her own earnestness; “to-night the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil will be offered you—”

  “By the woman?” asked Jim, indicating Eva.

  “On the contrary,” said she, “by Augustus Harris. Every man since Adam has had it offered him sooner or later, Reggie, and the majority of them eat it. The apple, in this case, is Tannhäuser, accompanied by my comments on it. It’s a funny sort of apple. I’m giving you the core first, which is rather dry, probably, and the fruit comes afterwards, like dessert after savouries.”

  “The core is rather hard,” remarked Reggie unceremoniously.

&n
bsp; “Oh, it will taste quite different when you chew it up with the fruit.”

  “Give us some more of the core,” asked Jim.

  “Well, there’s Venus, of course,” said Eva, “about whom I haven’t told you anything yet. She is just the opposite to the pilgrim’s march; she regards things from an entirely different standpoint, you know. I’m always a little sorry for Venus. Tannhäuser goes away just when she has got very fond of him.”

  Eva stopped a moment and looked at Reggie.

  “But, of course, you mustn’t consider her at all. Tannhäuser is usually done on Saturdays, you know, and Venus would not go at all well with Sunday morning service. Poor dear, how the Litany would bore her! She stops in the porch, when you go into church, and when you come out she is gone. She hasn’t gone, really, you know; she is only having a stroll, and she always comes back, very often before Monday. If she doesn’t come back, most men go to look for her, and they usually find her again.”

  Reggie stifled a sudden sense of misgiving with staunch loyalty, and smiled at Eva.

  “I told you I was stupid,” he said, “the first time I saw you, and I confess to being absolutely stupid now. I don’t understand you a bit.”

  Jim regarded Reggie as a successful interloper, and could not resist the temptation to be slightly malicious.

  “After all, it is the most delightful thing in the world to be able to keep up our mysteries,” he said. “Nothing intelligible is so charming as what is mysterious. When you understand anything, the charm is gone.”

  “Nonsense, Jim,” said Eva; “don’t pay any attention to what he says, Reggie. It is very easy to be unintelligible.”

  “Yes, it seems to be,” said Reggie, rather absently, but resenting Jim’s remark, which savoured of patronising.

  Eva laughed.

  “You won’t get any change out of him, Jim,” she said. “He has often assured me he is very stupid, which no stupid person is capable of doing. I must go and put on a cloak. There is just time for you to smoke a cigarette before the carriage comes.”

  Eva got up and left the room, and Reggie lit a cigarette, and strolled to the window. He had no particular liking for Jim Armine, and Eva’s words had disturbed him. He was growing more conscious of the fact that his life was beginning to find a new centre, and a mystery which was quite new to it. His strong, genuine liking and admiration for Gertrude had not diminished a whit, but he did not conceal from himself that he thought with more excitement about Eva. But he felt himself able to retain both these interests without any sense of compromise. He was engaged to marry Gertrude, and he would have been genuinely puzzled if it had been suggested to him that such an engagement, to some minds, limited his liberty in becoming indefinitely interested in another woman. In fact, the extreme simplicity of his character appeared to be going to land him among some perilously complicated and unknown shoals. He was young, ardent and unreflective, and these divine gifts are capable of dealing back-handed blows in the most inopportune and unexpected ways.

  But Eva’s words this evening had startled and perplexed him, and his bewilderment was touched with distrust. He expected, as Eva had told him, to find the key to his perplexity in the opera to-night, and he half realised that the explanation might be appallingly significant. Years afterwards he remembered those few minutes, which he spent looking out of the window, with much greater clearness than he remembered what followed. A mental, like a physical shock, often produces a dimness in the memory. Men who have been in great peril of death will remember with great vividness the most insignificant circumstances just before that peril; how they were walking round the slippery corner of rocks coated with ice, how a little purple gentian grew just above the crevice where they found a handhold, how at their feet was a trickle of water, where the sun had melted the snow. Then came the slip, and the activity of the mind seems suddenly quiescent. As they slid powerlessly down the icy stair, they noticed nothing, even the bitterness of death was passed — they were inanimate arrows from the bow of natural laws.

  In the same way the little details of those few minutes when he waited for Eva to put on her opera cloak were engraved indelibly on Reggie’s mind. Years afterwards the faint, acrid smell of red geraniums brought back the whole evening with a throb of sudden awakening. The window was open, and the flower-box outside was in full scent and colour. A canary creeper climbed the trellis-work at the sides of the windows, and twined its green, muscular stalks round the painted wooden squares. Between, a row of gaudy geraniums grew up from a groundwork of low mignonette, not yet in full flower, and in the front of the box a fringe of dark blue lobelias shivered on their hair-like stalks in the evening air. Beyond lay the grimy, dusty, square garden, and over the road, between the house and it, bowled silent, smooth-running carriages, within which he caught sight of the shimmering of silk and jewels, and over all brooded the hot, weary sky, exhausted with the long, sultry hours, but beginning to grow a little more serene, a little less stifled in the cool of the evening.

  Reggie looked at these things not knowing he was noticing them, and forbearing to guess what Eva meant. He was surprised to hear the door in the room behind open, and to find that Eva was ready, and his cigarette was nearly smoked out. He had not thought that she had been gone more than a few seconds.

  “Well, Reggie,” she said, “have you been thinking it all over? Are you prepared for the great change. I think it is coming to-night, but, of course, there is nothing so easy as prophesying, and nothing so inconclusive. Well! we shall see. At present the carriage is waiting, and we must be off.”

  It was still early when they arrived at the opera house, and the orchestra were just beginning to tune up. The house was still comparatively empty, but it was beginning to fill rapidly, for all London had suddenly discovered that Wagner was worth listening to, and that an overture was not necessarily as dispensable as a preface.

  But at last the tuning was over, the violins had caught their A’s correctly, and had hit the “four perfect fifths,” the drums had been screwed up to the necessary tension, and the wind instruments were in their places, pregnant with the miraculous birth of sound. For these five strings, these tubes of brass were going not to interpret, but to present the actual mysteries which passed through the artist’s brain. Music is, as it were, the speaker in the first person, whereas painting only deals with the vision secondhand. The painter represents a blaze of light by certain pigments — yellow, red, white — but these are only the symbols of what he wishes to tell us. He may not take liquid sunlight and place it on the canvas. His art is but a symbol, an algebra of tints to express certain other things. No colour he can use is in itself luminous, the resemblance it bears to light is only imagined by the spectator, in proportion as the artist presents us with contrasts, with sombre shadows or brooding clouds, and it is only by the aid of what he tries to represent that we can see his vision at all. But with the musician it is different — he deals with his materials direct; he takes sound pure, not a symbol of sound; his vision is woven of the waves of air which are eternal and original, not of chemical combinations of white lead, or the blood of cuttlefish. He mixes pure sound in his thought, and out of it “frames not a sound but a star.” And Wagner, above all other musicians of all time, has taught an incredulous world what can be done with sound, his beautiful slave and master, just as Stevenson taught his faithless generation what could be done with steam. The emotions and passions of humanity are his harp, and this harp, touched by a master’s finger, tells us what it knows. Thus in Tannhäuser he has presented us with the great problem of all time — the war between the lower, the bestial side of man, and something which mankind itself has declared to be higher — the pure, steadfast soul. He tears the hearts out of the breasts of Galahad and Messalina, bleeding and palpitating; he threads them together on his golden string, and then, the artist’s work being over, he tosses them to us, and says “Choose.” The materials for choice are all there, the whole of the data are before us, and as Tann
häuser chose once, so “chance” has ordained that each of us should choose, and the same thing called “chance” ordained that Reggie should choose that night.

  There was a pause, a silence after the conductor had entered, and then the wooden instruments gave out half the problem. The slow, deep notes of the “Pilgrim’s March” rose and fell, walking steadfastly on in perilous place, weary yet undismayed. Then followed the strange chromatic passage of transition, without which even Wagner did not dare to show us the other side of the picture, and then the great animal, which had lain as if asleep, began to stir; its heart beat with the life of its waking moments, and it started up. The violins shivered and smiled and laughed as Venusberg came in sight; they rose and fell, as the march before had done, but rising higher and laughing more triumphantly with each fall — careless, heedless, infinitely beautiful. But below them, not less steadfast than before, moved the pilgrims. The riot was at its highest, the triumph of Venus and her train seemed complete, when suddenly Reggie started up. He stood at his full height a moment, watching the curtain rise on Venusberg.

  “I see, I see,” he cried.

  Then he turned to Eva.

  “You are a wicked woman,” he said, and next moment the door of the box closed behind him.

  Eva had been seated opposite him, and she had watched his face during the overture. Before he spoke, she knew what would happen, but she did not repent of her resolve. As he left the box, she made two hurried steps as if to follow him, and then stopped, turning round again towards the stage. The electric light fell full on her diamonds, on the gleam of her white dress, on her incomparable beauty. The fan that she had held had slipped down and lay at her feet, and her hands were clenched together.