Mary Westmacott - Giant's Bread

Sebastian nodded.

‘Absolutely. I’m more sure than ever that Vernon is going to – well, revolutionize things. But there’s a nasty time coming. He’ll have to face the fact that what he’s written isn’t, when all’s said and done, a commercial proposition.’

‘You mean, it couldn’t be produced?’

‘That’s what I mean.’

‘ You could produce it.’

‘You mean – out of friendship?’

‘That’s what I meant.’

Sebastian got up and began to pace up and down.

‘To my way of thinking, that’s unethical,’ he said at last.

‘And also you don’t like losing money.’

‘Quite true.’

‘But you could afford to lose a certain amount without – well, noticing it?’

‘I always notice losing money. It affects – well, my pride.’

Jane nodded.

‘I understand that. But I don’t think, Sebastian, that you need lose money.’

‘My dear Jane –’

‘Don’t argue with me till you know what I’m arguing about. You’re going to produce a certain amount of what the world calls “Highbrow” stuff at the little Holborn theatre, aren’t you? Well, this summer – say the beginning of July, produce the Princess in the Tower for – say, two weeks. Don’t produce it from the point of view of an opera (don’t tell Vernon this, by the way – but there, you wouldn’t. You’re not an idiot), but from the point of view of a musical spectacular play. Unusual scenery and weird lighting effects – you’re keen on lighting, I know. The Russian ballet – that’s what you’ve got to aim at – that’s the – the tone of it. Have good singers – but attractive ones to look at as well. And now, putting modesty in the background, I’ll tell you this. I’ll make a success of it for you.’

‘You – as the Princess?’

‘No, my dear child, as the doll mender. It’s a weird character – a character that will attract and arrest. The music of the doll mender is the best thing Vernon has done. Sebastian, you’ve always said I could act. They’re going to let me sing at Covent Garden this season because I can act. I shall make a hit. I know I can act – and acting counts for a lot in opera. I can – I can sway people – I can make them feel . Vernon’s opera will need licking into shape from the dramatic point of view. Leave that to me. From the musical side, you and Radmaager may be able to make suggestions – if he’ll take them. Musicians are the devil to deal with as we all know. The thing can be done, Sebastian.’

She leaned forward, her face vivid and impressive. Sebastian’s face grew more impassive as it always did when he was thinking hard. He looked appraisingly at Jane, weighing her, not from the personal standpoint, but from the impersonal. He believed in Jane, in her dynamic force, in her magnetism, in her wonderful power of communicating emotion over the footlights.

‘I’ll think it over,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s something in what you say.’

Jane laughed suddenly.

‘And you’ll be able to get me very cheap, Sebastian,’ she said.

‘I shall expect to,’ said Sebastian gravely. ‘My Jewish instincts must be appeased somehow. You’re putting this thing over on me, Jane – don’t imagine that I don’t know it!’

At last the Princess in the Tower was finished. Vernon suffered from a tremendous wave of reaction. The whole thing was rotten – hopeless. Best to chuck it into the fire.

Nell’s sweetness and encouragement were like manna to him at this time. She had that wonderful instinct for always saying the words he longed to hear. But for her, as he constantly told her, he would have given way to despair long ago.

He had seen less of Jane during the winter. She had been on tour with the British Opera Company part of the time. When she sang in Electra in Birmingham, he went down for it. He was tremendously impressed – loved both the music and Jane’s impersonation of Electra. That ruthless will, that determined: ‘Say naught but dance on!’ She gave the impression of being more spirit than flesh. He was conscious that her voice was really too weak for the part, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. She was Electra – that fanatical fiery spirit of relentless doom.

He stayed a few days with his mother – days which he found trying and difficult. He went to see his Uncle Sydney and was received coldly. Enid was engaged to be married to a solicitor, and Uncle Sydney was not too pleased about it.

Nell and her mother were away for Easter. On their return Vernon rang up and said he must see her immediately. He arrived with a white face and burning eyes.

‘Nell, do you know what I’ve heard? Everyone has been saying that you are going to marry George Chetwynd. George Chetwynd! ’

‘Who said so?’

‘Lots of people. They say you go round with him everywhere.’

Nell looked frightened and unhappy.

‘I wish you wouldn’t believe things. And Vernon, don’t look so – so accusing. It’s perfectly true that he has asked me to marry him – twice, as a matter of fact.’

‘That old man?’

‘Oh, Vernon, don’t be ridiculous. He’s only about forty-one or two.’

‘Nearly double your age. Why, I thought he wanted to marry your mother, perhaps.’

Nell laughed in spite of herself.

‘Oh, dear, I wish he would. Mother’s really awfully handsome still.’

‘That’s what I thought that night at Ranelagh. I never guessed – I never dreamed – that it was you ! Or hadn’t it begun then?’

‘Oh, yes, it had begun – as you call it. That was why Mother was so angry that night – at my going off alone with you.’

‘And I never guessed! Nell, you might have told me!’

‘Told you what? There wasn’t anything to tell – then!’

‘No, I suppose not. I’m being an idiot. But I do know he’s awfully rich. I get frightened sometimes. Oh, darling Nell, it was beastly of me to doubt you – even for a minute. As though you’d ever care how rich anyone were.’

Nell said irritably:

‘Rich, rich, rich! You harp on that. He’s awfully kind and awfully nice, too.’

‘Oh, I dare say.’

‘He is, Vernon. Really he is.’

‘It’s nice of you to stick up for him, darling, but he must be an insensitive sort of brute to hang round after you’ve refused him twice.’

Nell did not answer. She looked at him in a way he did not understand – something piteous and appealing and yet defiant in that strange limpid gaze. It was as though she looked at him from a world so far removed from his that they might be on different spheres.

He said:

‘I feel ashamed of myself, Nell. But you’re so lovely – everyone must want you …’

She broke down suddenly – began to cry. He was startled. She cried on, sobbed on his shoulder.

‘I don’t know what to do – I don’t know what to do. I’m so unhappy. If I could only talk to you.’

‘But you can talk to me, darling. I’m here listening.’

‘No, no, no … I can never talk to you. You don’t understand. It’s all no use …’

She cried on. He kissed her, soothed her, poured out all his love …

When he had gone, her mother came into the room, an open letter in her hand.

She did not appear to notice Nell’s tear-stained face.

‘George Chetwynd sails for America on the 30th of May,’ she remarked, as she went across to her desk.

‘I don’t care when he sails,’ said Nell rebelliously.

Mrs Vereker did not answer.

That night Nell knelt longer than usual by her narrow white bed.