GEORGE SHAW - The Complete Works

“Ït has a vile taste in music,” she said, when the performance was over. “It is old fashioned in everything. Ah Monsieur Sutherland: would you kindly pass the little one to my mother?”

Madam Madame Sczympliça hastily advanced to forestall Charlie’s compliance with this request, made purposely to embarrass him. But he lifted the baby very expertly, and even gave it a kiss before he handed it to the old lady, who watched him as if he were handling a valuable piece of china.

“There. Take it away,” said Aurélie. “You would make a good nurse, monsieur.”

“What a mother!” whispered Madame Szczympliça. “Poor infant!” and she indignantly carried it away.

“I wish he would grow up all at once,” said Aurélie. “By the time he is a man, I shall be an old woman, half deaf, with gout in my fingers. He will go to hear the new players, and wonder how I got my reputation. Ah, it is a stupid world! One may say so before you, madame, because you are a philosopher.”

Madame Szczympliça soon returned, and was of much service in maintaining conversation, as she was not, like the other three, unable to avoid keeping a furtive watch on her daughter. At dinner, Aurélie, when she found that the talk would go on without her help, said no more, eating but little, and drinking water. In her abstraction, she engaged their attention more than ever. Mary, trying to puzzle out the real nature of Adrian’s wife, considered her carefully, but vainly. The pianist’s character appeared as vaguely to her mind as the face did to her shortsighted eyes. Even Herbert, though he ate with the appetite of a husband, often glanced along the table with the admiration of a lover. Charlie did not dare to look often; but he sought for distorted images of her face in glass vessels and bowls of spoons, and gazed at them instead. At last Mary, oppressed by her silence, determined to make her speak.

“Is it possible that you never drink wine?” she said: “you, who work so hard!”

“Never,” said Aurélie, resuming her volition instantly. “I have in the tip of every finger a sensation of touch the most subtle, the most delicate, that you can conceive. It is a — chose — a species of nervous organization. One single glass of wine would put all those little nerves to sleep. My fingers would become hammers, like the fingers of all the world; and I should be excited, and have a great pleasure to hammer, as all the world has. But I could no longer make music.”

“Aurélie has rearkable theories of what she calls her fine touch,” said Herbert. “Practically, I find that when she is in a musical humor, and enjoys her own playing, she says she has ‘found her fingers’; but when only other people enjoy it, then the touch is gone; the fingers are like the fingers of all the world; and I receive formal notice that Mlle Sczympliça is about to retire from the musical profession.

“Yes, yes, you are very wise. You have not this fine touch; and you do not understand. If you had, ah, how you would draw! You would greater than no matter what artist in the world.”

Mary burned with indignation at Aurélie, knowing how it hurt Herbert to be reminded that he was not a firstrate artist. Aurélie, indifferent to the effect of her speech, relapsed into meditation until they left the table, when she seated herself at the pianoforte and permitted Charlie to engage her in conversation, whilst Herbert became engrossed by a discussion with Mary on painting. and Madame Sczympliça sat still in a corner, knitting.

“What!” said Aurélie, when Charlie had been speaking for some time: “were you at that concert too?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have been at every concert where I have played since I returned to London. Do you go to all concerts?”

“To all of those at which you play. Not to the others.”

“Oh, I understand. You pay me a compliment. I am very — very recognizant, do you call it? — of your appreciation.”

“I am musical, you know. I was to have been a musician, and had lessons from old Jack in the noble art. But I gave it up, I am sorry to say.”

“What presumption! It does not become you to speak of a great man in that fashion, Monsieur Charles.”

“True, Mrs Herbert. But then nobody minds what I say.”

“Tiens!” said Aurélie, with a light laugh. “You are right. You know how to make everything gay. And so you gave up the music, and are now to be a poet. Can you think of no more suitable profession than that?”

“It’s the only one left to me, except the army; and that is considered closed to me because my brother — Phipson’s daughter’s husband, you know — is there already. First I was to be a college don — a professor. Then I took to music. Then I tried the bar, the medical, engineering, the Indian civil service, and got tired of them all. In fact I only drew the line at the church.”

“What is that? You drew a line at the church!”

“It is what you very properly call an idiotisme. I mean that I would not condescend to be a parson.”

“What a philosopher! Proceed.”

“I am now — if the poetry fails, which it most likely will — going into business. I shall try for a post in the Conolly Electro-Motor Company.”

“I think that will suit you best. I will play you something to encourage you.”

She began to play a polonaise by Chopin. Herbert and Mary ceased speaking, but presently resumed their conversation in subdued tones. Charlie listened eagerly. When the polonaise was finished, she did not stop, but played on, looking at the ceiling, and occasionally glancing at Charlie’s face.

“Aurélie,” said Herbert, raising his voice suddenly: “where are those sketches that Mrs. Scott left here last Tuesday?”

“Oh, I say!” said Charlie, in a tone of strong remonstrance, as the music ceased. Herbert, not understanding, looked inquiringly at him. Aurélie rose, took the sketches from her music stand; and handed them silently to Mary.

“I am afraid we have interrupted you,” said Mary, coloring. Aurélie deprecated the apology by a gesture and sat down in a loww chair near the window.

“I wish you’d play again, if you’re not tired, Mrs Herbert,” said Charlie timidly.

She shook her head.

“It is hard that I should have to suffer because my sister has a wooden head with no ears on it,” he whispered, glancing angrily not at Mary, but at Adrian. I was comfortably settled in in heaven when they interrupted you. I wish Jack was here. He would have given them a piece of his mind.”

“Mr Herbert does not like Monsieur Jacques.”

“Monsieur Jacques doesn’t like Mr Herbert either. There is no love lost between them. Adrian hates Jack’s music; and Jack laughs at Adrian’s pictures.

“Maman: ring the bell. Tell them to bring some tea.”

“Yes, my angel.”

“The conversation now became general and desultory. Mary, fearing that she had already been rudely inattentive to her hostess, thought it better not to continue her chat with Adrian. “I see our telegram is of no avail, “ she said. “Mr. Hoskyn has probably dined at his club.”

“The more fool he,” said Charlie, morosely.

“What is that for?” said Mary, surprised by his tone. He looked sulkily at the piano, and did not reply. Then he stole a glance at Aurélie, and was much put out to find that she was tendering him her empty teacup. He took it, and replaced it on the table in confusion.

“And so,” she said, when he was again seated near her, “you have succeeded in none of your professions.”

This sudden return to a dropped subject put him out still more. “I — you mean my — ?”

“Your metiers — whatever you call them. I am not surprised, Monsieur Charles. You have no patience.”