More than a year had passed away. April held sway over Algeria.
In the white Arab house on the hill Claude and Charmian still lived and
Claude still worked. To escape the great heat of the previous summer
they had gone to England for a time, but early October had found them
once more at Djenan-el-Maqui, and since then they had not stirred.
Their visit to London had been a strange experience for Charmian.
They had arrived in town at the beginning of July, and had stayed with
Mrs. Mansfield in Berkeley Square. Mrs. Mansfield had not paid her
proposed visit to Algiers. She had written that she was growing old and
lazy, and dreaded a sea voyage. But she had received them with a warmth
of affection which had earned their immediate forgiveness. There was
still a month of "season" to run, and Charmian went about and saw her
old friends. But Claude refused to go out, and returned at once to
orchestral studies with his "coach." He even remained in London during
the whole of August and September, while Charmian paid some visits, and
went to the sea with her mother. Thus they had been separated for a time
after their long sojourn together in the closest intimacy.
Charmian found that she missed Claude very much. One day she said to her
mother, with pretended lightness and smiling:
"Madre, I've got such a habit of Claude and Claude's work that I seem to
be in half when I'm not with him."
Mrs. Mansfield wondered whether her son-in-law felt in half when he was
by himself in London.
To Charmian, coming back, London and "the set" seemed changed. She had
sometimes suffered from ennui in Africa, even from loneliness in the
first months there. She had got up dreading the empty days, and had
often longed to have a party in the evening to look forward to. In
England she realized that not only had she got a habit of Claude, but
that she had got a habit, or almost a habit, of Africa and a quiet life
in the sunshine under blue skies. If the opera were finished, the need
for living in Mustapha removed, would she be glad not to return to
Djenan-el-Maqui? The mere thought of never seeing the little white house
with its cupolas and its flat roof again sent a sharp pang through her.
Pierre, with his arched eyebrows and upraised, upturned palm, "La Grande
Jeanne," Bibi, little Fatma, they had become almost a dear part of her
life.
But soon she fell into old ways of thought and of action, though she was
never, she believed, quite the same Charmian as before. She longed, as
of old, but even more strongly, to conquer the set, and this world of
pleasure-seekers and connoisseurs. But she looked upon them from the
outside, whereas before she had been inside. During her long absence she
had certainly "dropped out" a little. She realized the root indifference
of most people to those who are not perpetually before them, making a
claim to friendship. When she reappeared in London many whom she had
hitherto looked upon as friends greeted her with a casual, "Oh, are you
back after all? We thought you had quite forsaken us!" And it was
impossible for even Charmian to suppose that such a forsaking would have
been felt as a great affliction.
This recognition on her part of the small place she had held, even as
merely a charming girl, in this society, made Charmian think of
Djenan-el-Maqui with a stronger affection, but also made her long in a
new, and more ruthless way, to triumph in London, as clever wives of
great celebrities triumph. She saw Madame Sennier several times, as
usual surrounded and feted. And Madame Sennier, though she nodded and
said a few words, scarcely seemed to remember who Charmian was. Only
once did Charmian see a peculiarly keen expression in the yellow eyes as
they looked at her. That was when some mention was made of a project of
Crayford's, his intention to build a big opera house in London. Madame
Sennier had shrugged her shoulders. But as she answered, "What would be
the use? The Metropolitan has nearly killed him. Covent Garden, with
its subscription, would simply finish him off. He has moved Heaven and
earth to get Jacques' new opera either for America or England, but of
course we laughed at him. He may pretend as much as he likes, but he's
got nothing up his sleeve"--the yellow eyes had fixed themselves upon
Charmian with an intent look that was almost like a look of inquiry.
To Sennier she had only spoken twice. The first time he had forgotten
who she was. The second time he had exclaimed, "Ah, the syrups! the
greengage! and the moonlight among the passion-flowers!" and had greeted
her with effusion.
But he had never come to call on her.
She still felt a sort of fondness for him; but she understood that he
was like a child who needed perpetual petting and did not care very much
from whom it came.
The impression she received, on coming back to this world after a long
absence, was of a shifting quicksand. She also now knew absolutely how
much of a nobody she was in it.
She had returned to Africa caring for it much less, but longing much
more to conquer it and to dominate it.
On that day in October, a gorgeous day which had surely lain long in the
heart of summer, when she saw again the climbing white town on the hill,
when later she stood again in the Arab court, hearing the French voices
of the servants, the guttural chatter of Bibi and Fatma, seeing the
three gold fish making their eternal pilgrimage through the water shed
by the fountain into the marble basin, she felt an intimate thrill at
her heart. There was something here that she loved as she loved nothing
in London.
From the night when Claude and Armand Gillier had returned to Mustapha
after the visit to Constantine "the opera" had been to Charmian almost
as a living thing--a thing for which she had fought, from which she had
beaten off enemies. She thought of it as their child, Claude's and hers.
They had no other child. She did not regret that.
Claude had long ago learnt to work in his home without difficulty. The
paralysis which had beset him in Kensington had not returned. He was
inclined to believe that by constant effort he had strengthened his
will. But he had also become thoroughly accustomed to married life. And
the fact that Charmian had become accustomed to it, too, had helped him
without his being conscious of it. The embarrassment of beginnings was
gone. And something else was gone; the sense of secret combat which in
the first months of their marriage had made life so difficult to both of
them.
The man had given in to the woman. When Claude left England with
Gillier's bought libretto he was a conquered man. And this fact had
brought about a cessation of struggle and had created a sensation of
calm even in the conquered.
Every day now, when Claude went up to his room on the roof to work at
the opera, he was doing exactly what his wife wished him to do. By
degrees he had come to believe that he was also doing what he wished to
do.
He was no longer reserved about his work with Charmian. The barriers
were broken down. The wife knew what the husband was doing. They "talked
things over."
Twice during their long sojourn at Mustapha they had been visited by
Alston Lake. And now, in the first days of April, came a note from Saint
Eugene. Gillier was once more in Algeria. He had never given them a sign
of life since he had tried to buy back his libretto from them. Now he
wrote formally, saying he was paying a short visit to his family, and
asking permission to call at Djenan-el-Maqui at any hour that would suit
them. His note was addressed to Claude, who at once showed it to
Charmian.
"Of course we must let him come," Claude said.
"Of course!"
She turned the note over, twisted it in her fingers.
"How I hate him!" she said. "I can't help it. His insult to you and--"
"Don't let us go into all that again. It is so long ago."
"This letter brings it all back."
She made a grimace of disgust.
"Why should you see him?" said Claude. "Let me see him alone. You can
easily have an engagement. You are going to those theatricals at the
Hotel Continental on Friday. Let me have him here then."
"Shall I?" She glanced at Claude. "No, I'd better be here too."
"Why?"
"Oh, I don't know--but I'd better! Tell him to come on Thursday."
"Lunch?"
"Oh, no! Let us just have him in the afternoon."
Gillier came at the time appointed, and was received by Charmian, who
made a creditable effort to behave as if she were at her ease and glad
to see him. She made him sit down with her in the cosiest corner of the
drawing-room, gave him coffee and a cigarette, and promised that Claude
would come in a moment.
In the morning of that day she had persuaded Claude to let her have a
quarter of an hour alone with Gillier. He had asked her why she wanted
to be alone with a man she disliked. She had replied, "After
Constantine, don't you think you had better leave the practical part of
it to me?" Claude had reddened slightly, but he had only said, "Very
well. But I don't quite see what you mean. We have no reason to suppose
Gillier has a special purpose in coming."
"No, but I should like that quarter of an hour."
So now she and Gillier sat together in the shady drawing-room, and she
asked him about Paris and his family, and he replied with a stiff
formality which had in it something military.
Directly Charmian had looked at Gillier she had realized that he had a
definite purpose in coming. She was on the defensive, but she tried not
to show it. Presently she said:
"Have you been working--writing?"
"Yes, madame."
"Another libretto?"
"Madame," Gillier said, with a sort of icy fierceness, "I cannot believe
that you are good enough to be genuinely interested in my unsuccessful
life."
After the unpleasant scene at Djenan-el-Maqui Gillier had returned to
Paris, shut himself in, and labored almost with fury on a libretto
destined for Jacques Sennier. He had taken immense pains and trouble,
and had not spared time. At last the work had been completed, typed,
and submitted to Madame Sennier. After a week of anxious waiting Gillier
had received the libretto with the following note:
"DEAR GILLIER,--This might do very well for some unknown
genius, say Monsieur Heath, but it is no good to a man like Jacques.
Nevertheless, we believe in you still, and renew our offer. Send us
a fine libretto, _such as I know you can write_, and we will pay you
five times as much as anyone else would, on account of a royalty. We
should not mind even if _someone else_ had already tried to set it.
All we care about is to get your _best work_.
HENRIETTE SENNIER."
Gillier had torn this note up with fury. Then he had thought things over
and paid Madame Sennier a visit. It was this visit which had prompted
his return to Djenan-el-Maqui.
"But I hope it won't be unsuccessful much longer," Charmian said, with
deliberate graciousness.
"I hope so too, madame."
Something in his voice, a new tone, almost startled her. But she
continued, without any change of manner:
"We must all hope for a great success."
"We, madame?"
"You and I and my husband."
Gillier bit his moustache and looked down. A heavy gloom seemed to have
overspread him. After a moment he looked up, leaned back, as if
determined to be at his ease, and said abruptly:
"Monsieur Sennier has completed a new opera. It is to be produced at the
Metropolitan Opera House in New York some time next winter."
"Is it?"
Charmian tried to keep all expression out of her voice as she spoke.
"Since I last saw you, madame," Gillier continued, "I have managed to
get a look at the libretto."
Without knowing that she did so Charmian leaned forward quickly and
moved her hands.
"It does not approach my work, the work your husband bought from me for
only one hundred pounds, in strength and drama."
"Your libretto is splendid. Mr. Lake and I have always thought so; and
of course my husband agrees with us. But you know that."
Gillier pulled his thick moustache, looked quickly round the room, then
at his hands, which he had abruptly brought down on his knees, and then
at Charmian.
"I have reason to believe that Jacques Sennier--or rather Madame
Sennier, for she read all the libretti sent in to him, and only showed
him those she thought worth considering--that if Madame Sennier had seen
the libretto I sold to your husband Sennier would have set
mine--mine--in preference to the one he has set."
"Indeed!" said Charmian, with studied indifference.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, almost with violence.
"All this is very interesting. But I don't see what it has to do with me
and my husband. You were good enough to offer to buy back your libretto
from us last year. We refused. Our refusal--"
"Your refusal, madame! I never spoke about the matter to your husband. I
never asked him."
"Have you come here now to ask him? Is that what you mean, monsieur?"
Gillier got up, throwing his cigarette end into the brass coffee tray.
He was evidently much excited. As he stood up in front of her Charmian
thought that he looked suddenly more common, coarser. He thrust his
hands into the pockets of his black trousers.
"I must understand the position," he began.
"It is perfectly clear. Forgive me, monsieur, but I must say I think it
rather bad taste on your part to return to a subject which has been
finally disposed of and which is very disagreeable to me."
"Madame, I am here to say to you that I cannot consider it as finally
disposed of till I have discussed it with Monsieur Heath. I came here
prepared to make a proposition."
"It is useless."
"Madame, I trust that your husband is not endeavoring to avoid me."
Charmian got up and sharply clapped her hands. The Arab boy, Bibi,
appeared.
"Bibi, ask monsieur to come," she said to him in French.
"_Bieng, madame_," replied Bibi, who turned and walked softly away.
During the two or three minutes which elapsed before Claude came in
Charmian and Gillier said nothing. Gillier, who, under the influence of
excitement, was losing his veneer of good manners, moved about the room
pretending to examine the few bibelots it contained. His face was
flushed. He still kept his hands in his pockets. Charmian sat still in
her corner, watching him. She was too angry to speak. And what was there
to be said now? Although she had a good deal of will she was clever
enough to realize when its exercise would be useless. She knew that she
could do nothing more with this man. Otherwise she would not have sent
for Claude.
"_V'la, Mousou!_"
Bibi had returned and gently pointed to his master, smiling.
"_Bon jour_, Gillier!" said Claude, as the Frenchman swung round
sharply.
"_Bon jour!_"
They shook hands. Claude looked from Gillier to his wife.
"You were smoking?" he said, glancing at the tray. "Won't you have
another cigarette?"
"_Merci!_"
"Anyhow, I will."
He picked up the cigarette box.
"We haven't seen you for a long while." He lit a cigarette. "Aren't you
going to sit down?"
After a pause Gillier sat down. His eyes were fixed on Claude.
"I am glad you have come," he said. "Madame does not quite understand--"
"I understand perfectly, Monsieur Gillier," Charmian interrupted. "Pray
don't endow me with a stupidity which I don't possess."
"I prefer at any rate to explain the reason of my visit to Monsieur
Heath, madame."
"Have you come with a special object then?" said Claude.
"Yes."
"By all means tell me what it is."
"_Mon Dieu!_" said Gillier. "What is the good of a cloud of words
between two men? I want to buy back the libretto I sold to you more than
a year ago."
Charmian gazed at her husband. To her surprise his usually sensitive
face did not show her what was passing in his mind. Indeed she thought
it looked peculiarly inexpressive as he replied:
"Do you? Why?"
"Why? Because I don't think you and I are suited to work together. I
don't think we could ever make a satisfactory combination in art. This
has been my opinion ever since I was with you at Constantine."
"More than a year ago. And you only come here and say so now!"
Gillier was silent and fidgeted on the divan.
"Surely you must have some other reason?" said Claude in a very quiet,
almost unnaturally quiet voice.
"That is one reason, and an excellent one. Another is, however, that if
you will consent to sell me back my libretto I believe I could get it
taken up by a man, a composer, who is more in sympathy with me and my
artistic aims than you could ever be."
"I see. And what about all the months of work I have put in? What about
all the music I have composed? Are you here to ask me to throw it away,
or what?"
Gillier was silent.
"Surely your proposition isn't a serious one?" said Claude, still
speaking with complete self-control.
"But I say it is! I say"--Gillier raised his voice--"that it is serious.
I am a poor man, and I am sick of waiting for success. I sold my
libretto to you in a hurry, not knowing what I was doing. Now I have a
chance, a great chance, of being associated with someone who is already
famous, who would make the success of my libretto a certainty--"
"A chance, when your libretto is my property!" interrupted Claude.
"Oh, I know as well as you do that it's a hard thing to ask you to throw
away all these months of labor! I don't think I could have done it,
though in this world every man, every artist especially, must think of
himself, if it wasn't for one thing."
"And that is--?"
"Your heart isn't in the work!" said Gillier defiantly, but with a
curious air of conviction--the conviction of an acute man who had made a
discovery which could not be contested or gainsaid.
"That's not true, Monsieur Gillier!" said Charmian, with hot energy.
Claude said nothing, and Gillier continued, raising his voice:
"It is true. Your talent and mine are not fitted to be joined together,
and you are artist enough to know it as well as I do. I haven't heard
your music; but I can tell. I may be poor, I may be unknown--that
doesn't matter! I've got the instinct that doesn't lie, can't lie. If I
had known you as I do now, before I had sold my libretto, you never
should have had it, even if you had offered me five hundred pounds
instead of a hundred, and nobody else would have looked at it. With your
temperament, with your way of thinking, you'll never make a success of
it--never! I tell you that--I who am speaking to you!"
The veins in his temples swelled, and he frowned.
"Give me back my libretto and take back your money! Let me have my
chance of success. Madame--she is hard! She cares nothing! But--"
"Monsieur, I must ask you to leave my wife's name out," said Claude.
And for the first time since he had come into the room he spoke with
stern determination.
He had become very pale, and now looked strangely moved.
"I won't have her name brought in," he added. "This is my affair."
"Very well! Will you let me buy back my libretto?"
Charmian expected an instant stern refusal from her husband. But after
Gillier's question there was a prolonged pause. She wanted to break it,
to answer fiercely for Claude; but she did not dare to. For a moment
something in her husband's look and manner dominated her. For a moment
she was in subjection. She sat still staring at Claude, waiting for him
to speak. He sat looking down, and it seemed to her as if he were
wrestling as Jacob wrestled with the angel. His white forehead drew her
eyes. She was filled with fear; but when he looked up at her the fear
grew. She felt almost sick--sick with apprehension.
"Claude!" she said. "Oh, Claude!"
It seemed that his eyes had put a great question to her, and now her
voice had answered it.
Claude turned to Armand Gillier.
"Monsieur," he said, "you can't have your libretto back. It's mine, and
I'm going to keep it."
When Gillier was gone Charmian said, almost in a faltering voice, and
with none of her usual self-possession of manner:
"How--how could you bear that man's insults as you did?"
"His insults?"
"Yes."
Claude looked at her in silence. And again she was conscious of fear.
"Don't let us ever speak of this again," he answered at last.
He went away.
That day he was in his workroom till very late. He did not come to tea.
The evening fell; but he was not working on the opera. Charmian heard
him playing Bach.
* * * * *
At the end of April Alston Lake came once more to visit them.
Since those London days when they had first met him Lake had made great
progress toward the fulfilment of his ambition. His energy and will were
beginning to reap a good reward. He was making money, enough money to
live upon; but he had still to pay back his big debt to Jacob Crayford,
had still to achieve his great desire, an appearance in Grand Opera.
When he arrived at Djenan-el-Maqui he brought with him, as of old, an
infectious atmosphere of enthusiasm. With his iron will he combined a
light heart. He had none of the childishness that surprised, and
sometimes charmed, in Jacques Sennier, but much that was boyish still
pleasantly lingered with him. In him, too, there was something
courageous that inspired courage in others.
This time he announced he could stay for a month if they did not mind.
He wanted a thorough rest before the many concerts he was going to sing
at during the London season. Both Charmian and Claude were delighted.
When Claude heard of it he was silent for a moment. Then he began to
reckon.
"The thirtieth to-day, isn't it? By a month do you mean a month or four
weeks?"
"Well, four weeks, old chap!"
"That is less than a month."
"I wish it weren't. But I have to sing in London at the Bechstein Hall
early in June. So I'm running it pretty close as it is."
"May the twenty-eighth you go, then," said Claude.
"That's it. But why these higher mathematics?"
Claude only smiled and went out of the room.
"What is he up to, Mrs. Charmian?" asked Lake mystified.
"I don't know," she answered.
"Does he want to get rid of me? Is that why he was so keen to know
whether it was four weeks or a month?" said Lake, laughing.
"I am afraid that probably is it. But come up and see the flowers I've
put in your room."
"This is a little Paradise," said Lake, in his ringing baritone voice.
"Sometimes this winter in Paris, when I was all in, don't you know--"
"All in?"
"Blues."
"Oh, yes!"
"I'd think of Djenan-el-Maqui, and wish I was a composer instead of a
singer--for a fifth of a minute."
"Oh!" she said reproachfully. "Only a fifth!"
"I know. It wasn't long. But you see I'm born to sing, so I'm bound to
love it more than anything else. Making a noise--oh, it's rare!"
He opened his mouth and ran up a scale to the high A.
"I can get there pretty well now, don't you think?"
"Splendid! Your voice gets bigger and bigger!" she said, with real
enthusiasm. "But it's almost--"
He stopped her.
"I know what you're going to say; but I shall always be a baritone. If
you knew as much as I do about baritones turned into tenors, you'd say,
'Leave it alone, my boy!' and that's what I'm going to do. Now what
about these flowers? It is good to be here."
Claude did not join Alston Lake in making holiday. Indeed, Charmian
noticed that he was working much harder than usual, as if Lake's coming
had been an incentive to him.
"I don't apologize to you, Alston," he said.
"Odd if you did when I was the first to try and set you on to an opera.
Besides, you can't get ahead too fast now. There's--"
He stopped.
"Crayford'll be over this summer," he remarked, giving a casual tone to
his voice.
"Ah!" said Claude.
And the conversation dropped.
Only in the early morning, and for an hour, or an hour and a half after
lunch, did Claude intermit his labors. In the morning the three of them
rode, on good horses hired from the Vitoz stables. After lunch they sat
in the little court of the fountain, smoked and talked. Conversation
never flagged when Alston was there. His young energy bred a desire for
expression in those about him. And Charmian and Claude were now his most
intimate friends. He identified himself with them in a charming way, was
devoted to their fortunes, and assumed, without a trace of conceit,
their devotion to his. When Claude, about three o'clock, got up and went
away to his workroom Alston often went off for a stroll alone. Between
tea and dinner time, if Charmian had no engagement, she and Alston
walked together in the scented Bois de Boulogne, past "Tananarivo," or
drove down to the Jardin d'Essai, and spent an hour there near the
shimmering sea.
In these many intimate hours Charmian learnt to appreciate the chivalry
and delicacy peculiar to well-bred American men in their relations with
women. Although she and Alston were both young, and she was an
attractive woman, she felt as safe with him as if he were her brother.
His life in Paris had left him entirely unspoiled, had even left him in
possession of the characteristic and open-hearted naivete which was one
of his chief attractions, though he was quite unaware of it. She was
very happy with Alston. But often she thought of Claude, far away on the
hill, shut in, resigning all this freedom, this delicious open-air life,
which she was enjoying with his friend.
"He's working almost too hard," she said one day when they were sitting
in the Jardin d'Essai, "and he will work at night now. He never used to
do that. Don't you think he's beginning to look rather white and worn
out?"
She spoke with some anxiety.
"Sometimes he does look a bit tired," Alston allowed. "But a man's bound
to when he puts his back into a thing. And there's not much doubt as to
whether old Claude's back is in the opera. I say, Mrs. Charmian, how far
has he got exactly?"
"Practically the whole of the music is composed, I believe. It's the
orchestration that takes such a lot of time."
"Well, and how far has that got? Claude's never told me plump out.
Composers never do. And I know better than to pump them. It's
fatal--that! They simply can't stand it."
"I know. I believe the opera might be ready by the end of this year."
"Not before then?"
They looked at each other, then Charmian said:
"Oh, Alston, if you only knew how difficult it is to me to wait--to wait
and not to show any impatience to him. Sometimes--well, now and then,
I've shut myself in and cried with impatience, cried angrily. I've
wanted to bite things. One day I actually did bite a pillow."
She laughed, but her cheeks were flushed.
"It's the perpetual keeping it in that is such a torment. I know how
wicked it would be to hurry him. And he does work so hard. And I've
heard of people taking ten years over an opera. Claude only began about
a year and five months ago. He's been marvellously quick, really. But,
oh, sometimes I feel as if this suppressed impatience were making me
ill, physically and mentally, as if it were a kind of poison stealing
all through me! Can you understand?"
"Can I? You bet! I only wish the thing could be ready before Crayford
goes back to the States."
"When does he go?"
"Some time in September, I believe. He goes on the Continent after July.
Of course, July he's in London, June too. Then he has his cure at
Divonne. If only---- When do you come to London?"
Charmian suddenly grasped his arm.
"Alston, I'll keep him here, give up London, anything to have the opera
finished by the end of August!"
"Well, but the heat!"
"I don't believe it's too hot upon the hill where we are, with all those
trees. Every afternoon I expect there's a breeze from the sea. I know we
could stand it. It's only April now. That would mean four solid months
of steady work. But then?"
"I'd bring Crayford over."
"Would he come?"
"I'd make him."
"But we might--"
"No, Mrs. Charmian. He ought to hear it in Mustapha. I know him. He's a
hard business man. But he's awfully susceptible too. And then he's great
on scenic effects. Now, he's never been in Africa. Think of the glamour
of it, especially in summer, when the real Africa emerges, by Gee, in
all its blue and fire! We'd plunge him in it, you and I. That Casbah
scene--you know, the third act! I'd take him there by moonlight on a
September night--full moon--show him the women on their terraces and in
their courts, the town dropping down to the silver below, while the
native music--by Gee! We'd dazzle him, we'd spread the magic carpet for
him, we'd carry him away till he couldn't say no, till he'd be as mad on
the thing as we are!"
"Oh, Alston, if we could!"
She had caught all his enthusiasm. It seemed to her that in North Africa
Mr. Crayford could not refuse the opera. From that moment she had made
up her mind. No London season! Whatever happened, she and Claude were
going to remain at Djenan-el-Maqui till the opera was finished, finished
to the last detail. That very evening she spoke about it to Claude.
"Claudie," she said. "Are you very keen on going to London this year?"
He looked at her as if almost startled.
"I? But, surely--do you mean that you don't want to go?"
She moved her head.
"Not one little bit."
"Well, but then where do you wish to go?"
"Where? Why should we go anywhere?"
"Stay here?"
"I've come to love this little house, the garden, even those absurd
goldfish that are always looking for nothing."
"Well, but the heat!"
His voice did not sound reluctant or protesting, only a little doubtful
and surprised.
"Lots of people stay. Algiers doesn't empty of human beings, only of
travellers, because it's summer. And we are up on a height."
"That's true. And I could work on quietly."
"Absolutely undisturbed."
"The only thing is I meant to see Jernington."
Jernington was the professor with whom Claude studied orchestration in
London.
"Get him over here."
"Jernington! Why, he never leaves London!"
"Get him to for a month. We'll pay all his expenses and everything, of
course."
"How you go ahead!" he said, laughing. "You must be a twin of Alston's,
I think."
"What has got to be done can be done."
"Well, but the expense; you know, Charmian, we live right up to our
income."
"Hang the expense! Oh, as Alston would say!"
He laughed.
"You really are a marvellous wife!"
"Am I? Am I?"
"I might sound old Jernington. He'll think I'm raving mad, but still--"
"I only hope," she said, smiling and eager, "that he won't be so raving
sane as to refuse."
"But what will Madre think, not seeing you--us, I mean?"
Charmian looked grave.
"Yes, I know. But Madre has never come to see us here."
"Oh, Charmian, there could never be a cloud between Madre and us!"
"No, no, never! Still, why has she never come?"
"She really hates the sea. You know she has never in her life done more
than cross the Channel."
"Do you think that is the reason why she has never come?"
"How can I know?"
"Claude, Madre is strange sometimes. Don't you think so?"
"Strange? She is absolutely herself. She does not take anyone else's
color, if that is what you mean. I love that in her."
"So do I. Still, I think she is strange."
At this moment Alston came in and the conversation dropped. But both
husband and wife thought many times of "Madre" that day, and not without
a certain uneasiness. Was the heart of the mother with them in their
enterprise?
Charmian put that question to herself. But Claude did not put it. He
thought of Mrs. Mansfield's intense and fiery eyes. They saw far, saw
deep. He loved them, the look in them. But he must try to forget them.
He must give himself to the enthusiasm of his wife and of Alston Lake.
He sent a long telegram to Jernington, saying how difficult it was for
him to leave Mustapha, and begging Jernington to come over during the
summer so that they might work together in quiet. All expenses were to
be paid. Next day he received a telegram from Jernington: "Very
difficult is it absolutely impossible for you to come to England?"
"I'll answer that," said Charmian.
She telegraphed, "Absolutely impossible--HEATH."
In the late evening a second telegram came from Jernington: "Very well
suppose I must come--JERNINGTON."
Charmian laughed as she read it over Claude's shoulder.
"The pathos of it," she said. "Poor old Jernington! He is
horror-stricken. Bury St. Edmunds has been his farthest beat till now
except for his year in Germany. Claudie, he loves the opera or he would
never have consented to come. I felt it was a test. The opera, the
child, has stood it triumphantly. I love old Jernington. And he is a
first-rate critic, isn't he?"
"Of orchestration, certainly."
"That's half the battle in an opera. I feel so happy. Let us have an
audition to-night!"
"All right," he said.
"And play us an act right through; the first act. Alston has only heard
it in bits."
"I don't really care for anyone to hear it yet," Claude said, with
obvious reluctance.
Yet he desired a verdict--of praise. He longed for encouragement. In old
days, when he had composed for himself, he had felt indifferent to that.
But now he was working on something which was planned, which was being
executed, with the intention to strike upon the imagination of a big
public. He was no longer indifferent. He was secretly anxious. He longed
to be told that what he was doing was good.
That evening he was genuinely warmed by the enthusiasm of his wife and
of Alston.
"And surely," he said to himself, "they would be inclined to be more
critical than others, to be hypercritical."
He forgot that in some natures desire creates conviction.
On the last day of Alston's visit Charmian and he understood why
Claude's mathematical powers had been brought to bear on the question of
its exact duration. Claude himself explained with rather a rueful face.
"I hoped--I thought if you were going to stay for the extra days I might
possibly have the finale of the opera finished. Even when you told me
your month meant four weeks I thought I would have a tremendous try to
complete it. Well, I have had a tremendous try. But I've failed. I must
have two more weeks, I believe, before I conquer the monster."
He was looking very pale, had dark rings under his eyes, and moved his
hands nervously while he was speaking.
"That was it!" exclaimed Alston.
"Yes, that was it."
Charmian and Alston exchanged a quick glance.
"When you've done the finale," Alston said, with the firmness of one who
spoke with permission, even perhaps by special request, "will the opera
be practically finished?"
"Finished? Good Heavens, no!"
"Well, but if it's the finale of the whole opera?" said Charmian.
"I've got bits here and there to do, and a lot to re-do."
Again Charmian and the American exchanged glances.
"I say, old chap," said Alston. "You read Balzac, don't you?"
"Of course. But what has that to do with the opera?"
"Did you ever read that story of his about a painter who was always
striving to attain perfection, could never let a picture alone, was for
ever adding new touches, painting details out and other details in? One
day he called in his friends to see his masterpiece. When they came they
found a mere mess of paint representing nothing."
"Well?" said Claude, rather stiffly.
"You've got a splendid talent. I hope you're going to trust it."
Claude said nothing, and Alston, in his easy, almost boyish way, glanced
off to some other topic. But before he started for England he said to
Charmian:
"Do watch him a bit if you can, Mrs. Charmian, for over-elaboration.
Don't let him work it to death, I mean, till all the spontaneity is
gone. I believe that's a danger with him. Somehow I think he lacks
complete confidence in himself."
"You see it's the first time he has ever tried to do an opera."
"I know. It's natural enough. But do watch out for over-elaboration."
"I'll try to. But I have to be very careful with Claude."
"How d'you mean exactly?"
"He can be very reserved."
"Yes, but you know how to take him. And--well--we can't let the opera be
anything but a big success, can we?"
If Claude had heard that "we!"
"I say, shall we walk around the garden?" Alston added, after a pause.
"It isn't quite time to go, and I want to talk over things before Claude
comes down to see the last of me."
"Yes, yes."
They went out, and descended the steps from the terrace.
"I wanted to tell you, Mrs. Charmian, that I'm going to bring Crayford
over whatever happens, whether the opera's done or not. There's heaps
ready for him to judge by. And you must read him the libretto."
"I?" exclaimed Charmian, startled.
"Yes, you. Study it up! Recite it to yourself. Learn to give it all and
more than its value. That libretto is going to catch hold of Crayford
right away, if you read it, and read it well."
When she had recovered from her first shock of surprise Charmian felt
radiantly happy. She had something to do. Alston, with his shrewd
outlook, was bringing her a step farther into this enterprise. He was
right. She remembered Crayford. A woman should read him the libretto,
and in a _decor_--swiftly her imagination began to work. The _decor_
should be perfection; and her gown!
"How clever of you to think of that, Alston!" she exclaimed. "I'll study
as if I were going to be an actress."
"That's the proposition! By Jove, you and I understand each other over
this. I know Crayford by heart. We've got to what the French call
'_eblouir_' him when we get him here. We must play upon him with the
scenery proposition; what he can do in the way of wonderful new stage
effects. When we've got him thoroughly worked up over the libretto and
the scenery prop., we'll begin to let him hear the music, but not a
moment before. We can't be too careful, Mrs. Charmian. Crayford's a man
who doesn't start going in a hurry on newly laid rails. He wants to test
every sleeper pretty nearly. But once get him going, and the evening
express from New York City to Chicago isn't in it with him. Now you and
I have got to get him started before ever he comes to old Claude. In
fact--"
He paused, put one finger to his firm round chin.
"But we can decide that a bit later on."
"That? What, Alston?"
"I was going to say it might be as well to get Claude out of the way for
a day or two while we start on old Crayford here. I suppose it could be
managed somehow?"
"Alston--" Charmian stopped on the path between the geraniums. "Anything
can be managed that will help to persuade Mr. Crayford to accept
Claude's opera."
"Right you are. That's talking! I'll think it all over and let you
know."
"Oh," she exclaimed. "How I wish the end of August was here! You'll be
in London. All your time will be filled up. You'll be singing, being
applauded, _getting on_. And I have to sit here, and wait--wait."
"You'll be studying the libretto."
"So I shall!"
She sent him a grateful look.
"What a good friend you are to us, Alston!" she said, and there was
heart at that moment in her voice.
"And haven't you been good friends to me? What about the studio? What
about the Prophet's Chamber? Why, you've given me a sort of a home and
family, you and old Claude. I can tell you I've often felt lonesome in
Europe, I've often felt all in, right away from everybody, and my Dad
trying to starve me out, and all my people dead against what I was
doing. Since I've known you, well, I've felt quite bully in comparison
with what it used to be. Claude's success and yours, it's just going to
be my success too. And that's all there is to it."
He wrung her hand and shouted for Claude.
It was nearly time for him to go.