Mary Westmacott - Giant's Bread

When she had finished, Jane said:

‘It’s a little hard on you. When you first met Vernon, you had no idea of this music business.’

‘I didn’t think it would be like this,’ said Nell bitterly.

‘Well, it’s no good going back to what you didn’t think, is it?’

‘I suppose not.’ Nell felt vaguely annoyed at Jane’s tone. ‘Oh!’ she broke out. ‘You feel, of course, that everything ought to give way to his music – that he’s a genius – that I ought to be glad to make any sacrifice –’

‘No, I don’t,’ said Jane. ‘I don’t think any of those things. I don’t know what good geniuses are, or works of art either. Some people are born with a feeling that they matter more than anything else, and some people aren’t. It’s impossible to say who’s right. The best thing for you would be to persuade Vernon to give up music, sell Abbots Puissants, and settle down with you on the proceeds. But I do know this, that you haven’t an earthly chance of getting him to give up music. These things, genius, art, whatever you like to call it, are much stronger than you are. You might just as well be King Canute on the sea shore. You can’t turn back Vernon from music.’

‘What can I do?’ said Nell hopelessly.

‘Well, you can either marry this other man you were talking of and be reasonably happy, or you can marry Vernon and be actively unhappy with periods of bliss.’

Nell looked at her.

‘What would you do?’ she whispered.

‘Oh! I should marry Vernon and be unhappy, but then some of us like taking our pleasures sadly.’

Nell got up. She stood in the doorway looking back at Jane who had not moved. She was lying back against the wall, smoking a cigarette, her eyes half closed. She looked a little like a cat, or a Chinese idol. A sudden wave of fury came over Nell.

‘I hate you,’ she cried. ‘You’re taking Vernon away from me. Yes – you . You’re bad – evil – I know it, I can feel it. You’re a bad woman.’

‘You’re jealous,’ said Jane quietly.

‘You admit then, there’s something to be jealous of? Not that Vernon loves you. He doesn’t. He never would. It’s you who want to get hold of him.’

There was silence – a pulsating silence. Then, without moving, Jane laughed. Nell hurried out of the flat, hardly knowing what she was doing.

Sebastian came very often to see Jane. He usually came after dinner, ringing up first to find if she would be at home. They both found a curious pleasure in each other’s company. To Sebastian Jane recounted her struggles with the role of Solveig, the difficulties of the music, the difficulty of pleasing Radmaager, the still greater difficulty of pleasing herself. To Jane, Sebastian imparted his ambitions, his present plans, his future vague ideas.

One evening, after they had both been silent after a long spell of talking, he said:

‘I can talk to you better than anyone I know, Jane. I don’t quite know why, either.’

‘Well, in a way, we’re both the same kind of person, aren’t we?’

‘Are we?’

‘I think so. Not superficially, perhaps, but fundamentally. We both like truth. I think, as far as one can say that of oneself we both see things as they are.’

‘And you think most people don’t?’

‘Of course they don’t. Nell Vereker, for instance. She sees things as they’ve been shown her, as she hopes they are.’

‘A slave of convention, you mean?’

‘Yes, but it works both ways. Joe, for instance, prides herself on being unconventional, but that makes just as much for narrowness and prejudice.’

‘Yes, if you’re “agin” everything irrespective of what it is. Joe is like that. She must be a rebel. She never really examines a thing on its merits. And that’s what damns me so hopelessly in her eyes. I’m successful – and she admires failures. I’m rich, so she’d gain instead of lose if she married me. And being a Jew doesn’t count against you much nowadays.’

‘It’s even fashionable,’ said Jane laughing.

‘And yet, do you know, Jane, I always have a queer feeling that Joe really likes me?’

‘Perhaps she does. She’s the wrong age for you, Sebastian. That Swede at your party said something wonderfully true – about being separated in time being worse than being separated in space. If you’re the wrong age for a person, nothing keeps you apart so hopelessly. You may be made for one another, but be born at the wrong time for each other. Does that sound nonsense? I believe when she’s about thirty-five, Joe could love you – the real essential you – madly. It’ll take a woman to love you, Sebastian, not a girl.’

Sebastian was looking into the fire. It was a cold February day, and there were logs piled up on the coals. Jane hated gas fires.

‘Have you ever wondered, Jane, why we don’t fall in love with each other, you and I? Platonic friendship doesn’t usually work. And you’re very attractive. There’s a lot of the siren about you – quite unconscious, but it’s there.’

‘Perhaps we should under normal conditions.’

‘Aren’t we under normal conditions? Oh! wait a minute – I know what you mean. You mean “the line’s already engaged.”’

‘Yes. If you didn’t love Joe –’

‘And if you –’

He stopped.

‘Well?’ said Jane. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I suppose so. You don’t mind talking about it?’

‘Not in the least. If a thing’s there, what does it matter if you talk of it or not?’

‘Are you one of the people, Jane, who believe that if you want a thing enough you can make it happen?’

Jane considered.

‘No – I don’t think I am. So many things happen to you naturally that it keeps you busy without – well – looking for things as well. When a thing’s offered you, you’ve got to choose whether you’ll accept it or refuse it. That’s destiny. And when you’ve made your choice you must abide by it without looking back.’

‘That’s the spirit of Greek tragedy. You’ve got Electra into your bones, Jane.’ He picked up a book from the table. ‘ Peer Gynt ? You’re steeping yourself in Solveig, I see.’

‘Yes. It’s more her opera than Peer’s. You know, Sebastian, Solveig is a wonderfully fascinating character – so impassive, so calm, and yet so utterly certain that her love for Peer is the only thing in Heaven or earth. She knows that he wants and needs her though he never tells her so, she is abandoned and deserted by him, and manages to turn that desertion into a crowning proof of his love. By the way, that Whitsuntide music of Radmaager’s is perfectly glorious. You know – “Blessed is he who has made my life blessed!” To show that the love of a man can turn you into a kind of impassioned nun is difficult but rather wonderful.’

‘Is Radmaager pleased with you?’

‘Sometimes he is. Yesterday, on the other hand, he consigned my soul to Hell and shook me till my teeth rattled. He was perfectly right, too. I sang it all wrong – like a melodramatic stage-struck girl. It’s got to be sheer force of will – restraint – Solveig must be so soft and gentle, but really so terribly strong. It’s like Radmaager said the first day. Snow – smooth snow – with a wonderful clear design running through it.’

She went on to talk of Vernon’s work.

‘It’s almost finished, you know. I want him to show it to Radmaager.’

‘Will he?’

‘I think so. Have you seen it?’

‘Parts of it only.’

‘What do you think of it?’

‘I’ll hear what you think of it first, Jane. Your judgment’s as good as mine any day where music is concerned.’

‘It’s crude. There’s too much in it – too much good stuff. He hasn’t learnt how to handle his material – but the material is there – masses and masses of it. Do you agree?’