Mary Westmacott - Giant's Bread

‘And you lived through that ? I – didn’t know that such things were.’

Jane said calmly:

‘He was a Russian and a degenerate. It’s hard for an Anglo-Saxon to understand that peculiar refined lust of cruelty. You understand brutality. You don’t understand anything else.’

Vernon said, feeling childish and awkward as he put the question:

‘You – you loved him very much?’

She shook her head slowly – began to speak, and then stopped.

‘Why dissect the past?’ she said, after a minute or two. ‘He did some fine work. There’s a thing of his in the South Kensington. It’s macabre, but it’s good.’

Then she began once more to talk of the Princess in the Tower .

Vernon went to the South Kensington two days later. He found the solitary representation of Boris Androv’s work easily enough. A drowned woman – the face was horrible, puffed, bloated, decomposed, but the body was beautiful … a lovely body. Vernon knew instinctively that it was Jane’s body.

He stood looking down on the bronze nude figure, with arms spread wide and long lank hair reaching out mournfully …

Such a beautiful body … Jane’s body. Androv had modelled that nude body from her.

For the first time for years a queer remembrance of The Beast came over him. He felt afraid.

He turned quickly away from the beautiful bronze figure and left the building hurriedly, almost running.

It was the first night of Radmaager’s new opera, Peer Gynt . Vernon was going to it and had been asked by Radmaager to attend a supper party afterwards. He was dining first with Nell at her mother’s house. She was not coming to the opera.

Much to Nell’s surprise, Vernon did not turn up to dinner. They waited some time, and then began without him. He arrived just as dessert was being put on the table.

‘I’m most awfully sorry, Mrs Vereker. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Something very – very unexpected occurred. I’ll tell you later.’

His face was so white and he was so obviously upset that Mrs Vereker forgot her annoyance. She was always a tactful woman of the world and she treated the present situation with her usual discretion.

‘Well,’ she said, rising, ‘now you are here, Vernon, you can talk to Nell. If you’re going to the opera you won’t have much time.’

She left the room. Nell looked inquiringly at Vernon. He answered her look.

‘Joe’s gone off with La Marre.’

‘Oh, Vernon, she hasn’t!’

‘She has.’

‘Do you mean that she has eloped? That she’s married him? That they’ve run away to get married?’

Vernon said grimly:

‘He can’t marry her. He’s got a wife already.’

‘Oh, Vernon, how awful! How could she?’

‘Joe was always wrong-headed. She’ll regret this – I know she will. I don’t believe she really cares for him.’

‘What about Sebastian? Won’t he feel this terribly?’

‘Yes, poor devil. I’ve been with him now. He’s absolutely broken up over it. I’d no idea how much he cared for Joe.’

‘I know he did.’

‘You see, there were the three of us – always. Joe and I and Sebastian. We belonged together.’

A faint pang of jealousy shot through Nell. Vernon repeated:

‘The three of us. It’s – oh! I don’t know – I feel as though I’d been to blame in some way. I’ve let myself get out of touch with Joe. Dear old Joe, she was so staunch always – better than any sister could be. It hurts me to think of the things she used to say when she was a kid – how she’d never have anything to do with men. And now she’s come a mucker like this.’

Nell said in a shocked voice:

‘A married man. That’s what makes it so awful. Had he any children?’

‘How should I know anything about his beastly children?’

‘Vernon – don’t be so cross.’

‘Sorry, Nell. I’m upset, that’s all.’

‘How could she do such a thing,’ said Nell. She had always rather resented Joe’s unspoken contempt of which she had been subconsciously aware. She would not have been human had she not felt a faint sense of superiority. ‘To run away with anyone married! It’s dreadful!’

‘Well, she had courage, anyway,’ said Vernon.

He felt a sudden passionate desire to defend Joe – Joe who belonged to Abbots Puissants and the old days.

‘Courage?’ said Nell.

‘Yes, courage!’ said Vernon. ‘At anyrate she wasn’t prudent. She didn’t count the cost. She’s chucked away everything in the world for love. That’s more than some people will do.’

‘Vernon!’

She got up, breathing hard.

‘Well, it’s true.’ All his smouldering resentment came bursting out. ‘You won’t even face a little discomfort for me, Nell. You’re always saying “Wait” and “Let’s be careful.” You aren’t capable of chucking everything to the winds for love of anyone.’

‘Oh, Vernon, how cruel you are … how cruel …’

He saw the tears come into her eyes and was immediately all compunction.

‘Oh, Nell, I didn’t mean it – I didn’t mean it, sweetheart.’

His arms went round her, held her to him. Her sobs lessened. He glanced at his watch.

‘Damn, I must go. Good night, Nell darling. You do love me, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course – of course I do.’

He kissed her once more, hurried off. She sat down again by the disordered dinner table. Sat there – lost in thought …

He got to Covent Garden late. Peer Gynt had begun. The scene was Ingrid’s wedding and Vernon arrived just at the moment of the first brief meeting of Peer and Solveig. He wondered if Jane were nervous. She managed to look marvellously young with her fair plaits and her innocent calm bearing. She looked nineteen. The act ended with the carrying off of Ingrid by Peer.

Vernon found himself interested less in the music than in Jane. Tonight was Jane’s ordeal. She had to make good or go under. Vernon knew how anxious she was, above everything else, to justify Radmaager’s trust in her.

Presently he knew that all was well. Jane was the perfect Solveig. Her voice, clear and true – the crystal thread as Radmaager had called it – sang unfalteringly and her acting was wonderful. The calm steadfast personality of Solveig dominated the opera.

Vernon found himself for the first time interested in the story of the weak, storm-torn Peer, the coward who ran from reality at every opportunity. The music of Peer’s conflict with the great Boyg stirred him, reminding him of his childish terror of The Beast. It was the same formless bogey fear of childhood. Unseen, Solveig’s clear voice delivered him from it. The scene in the forest where Solveig comes to Peer was infinitely beautiful, ending with Peer bidding Solveig remain while he went out to take up his burden. Her reply, ‘If it is so heavy it is best two should share it.’ And then Peer’s departure, his final evasion, ‘Bring sorrow on her? No. Go roundabout, Peer, go roundabout.’

The Whitsuntide music was the most beautiful – but in atmosphere very Radmaagian, Vernon thought. It led up to and prepared for the effect of the final scene. The weary Peer asleep with his head on Solveig’s lap, and Solveig, her hair silvered, a Madonna blue cloak round her in the middle of the stage, her head silhouetted against the rising sun, singing valiantly against the Buttons Moulder.

It was a wonderful duet – Chavaranov, the famous Russian bass, his voice deepening and deepening, and Jane, with her silver thread singing steadily upward and ever upward, higher and higher – till the last note was left to her – high and incredibly pure … And the sun rose …