THE SCENE IN THE GARDEN COURT
Of course, it was not to be expected that these morning hours of
sunshine (London having embarked, as it turned out, on a giddy whirl
of a fortnight’s fine weather) would find us in the tension to which
we were strung over-night. Such a thing would be unreasonable, almost
inhuman. The merry jingle of the hansoms coming through the open
windows, the glimpses of omnibus tops freighted with wearers of flower
hats and frivolous muslins, the gay horn-blown ta-ran-ta-ra of the
coaches crossing Trafalgar Square or climbing the Haymarket--this
gladsome medley must banish problems which appealed to either science
or credulity. London was astir and enjoying itself, and who were we
that we should resist its decorus gaiety?
At that period motor-cars were still sufficiently uncommon in England
to lend a piquant novelty to my suggestion that we should avail
ourselves of a friend’s offer to me and borrow his car for the day.
That was soon arranged. I sat with the chauffeur on the front seat,
Karl and the ladies occupied the tonneau, and when Mrs. Hutchinson and
her daughter had recovered from the silent dread of whirring past all
other traffic and utilizing apparently impossible openings between
heavy vehicles, they began to enjoy the ride immensely.
We ran through Surbiton, Esher, and Guildford, over the Hog’s Back
to Farnham, where we ate with the normal appetites of four healthy
Britons. We came home by way of Aldershot, Virginia Water, Windsor
Great Park and Staines, driving gloriously not only through the royal
domain but through several Acts of Parliament as well.
Karl, by reason of the nearing end of the Midsummer Term, must return
to Oxford that night, so it was interesting to note how much he made
of those flying hours of freedom. At least a year a minute fell away
from the conventional coating of the decade which had sped since he and
the girl were children together. “Mr. Grier,” and “Miss Hutchinson”
quickly gave place to “Karl” and “Maggie.” We were not at Barnes Bridge
on the outward journey before Karl had declared his fixed resolution
to wheedle a motor-car out of his father the day he quitted the
University, and the pair of them were planning where “we” should drive
this chariot of delight during the wonderful summer of next year!
Maggie, it appeared, was much enamored of cathedrals. Here was a
fine inspiration to provide excursions for long summer days! Bless
you, they had seen Canterbury, Salisbury and Ely in a sentence, and
were doing sums in the following breath to find out if far-away York
were achievable. Ah, how potent the engineer who constructs that
magic machine which carries the day-dreams of the young! What feats
it accomplishes, how smoothly do its noiseless wheels glide over the
most perfect of roads! Yet we all possess the treasure, and happy the
man or woman who has not lost the joy of living, losing with it the
willing slave which carries them whither they list. This wonder-coach
is capable of astounding performances. It shall whisk you through many
cities and strange lands. What does it matter if the scene be new to
your eyes when you are brought to it by the sober stuffiness of a
railway plus a return ticket? You have been there twice, that is all,
and surely the first visit, in imagination, far surpassed the second,
in reality.
Indeed, we enjoyed ourselves so greatly that the crassness of things
in general was sure to bring about some unpleasantness. There is a
substratum of truth in the old Celtic idea of certain people being fey
before death. None of us died, I am glad to say, but we should have
been wise had we outrageously made off with that motor-car, scurrying
far from London ere nightfall, and leaving it to my ingenuity to
explain matters to my lending friend.
We reached the hotel at six o’clock, and there was Signor Bocci
impatiently awaiting the return of Mrs. Hutchinson and her
violin-playing daughter. “Business is business,” you know, and really I
could see no reason why the girl should not accept the splendid offer
made by Steindal’s agent. He showed no disinclination to discuss it
before Karl and me. Nay more, the little man said he was glad of our
presence.
“You are-a men of affairs, yes,” he said volubly, “and in-a dis oafer
I haf-a displayed to de signorina de career mos’ magnificent, is it-a
not?”
Certainly his words were justified to outward seeming, though the very
hyalescence of Steindal’s undertaking should have warned us that things
were not so clear as they looked. Here was a girl of little more than
eighteen, yet _the_ agent, one of the few men in the world of music who
could make or break an artiste, was binding himself to give her two
“star” performances in London, with full orchestra and distinguished
vocal soloists, guaranteeing an expenditure of £200 on each concert,
one in the autumn and another in the spring of the following year,
agreeing to hand her three fourths of the proceeds after (and if)
they exceeded the sum named, and, finally, pledging at least thirty
public appearances at a fee of twenty guineas each within the ensuing
twelve months! Think of it, ye budding geniuses! How the strings would
twank and the pens splutter if some moon-frenzy seized impresario or
publisher to give _you_ a start like that!
Karl, like Mrs. Hutchinson and myself, advised acceptance, though I
discovered afterwards that he had a great repugnance to the notion of
Maggie appearing on a public platform. That was natural enough, poor
fellow. He didn’t want to have all the young sparks about town telling
each other, and, what was even less endurable, telling Maggie, that
she was the most beautiful creature under the sun. No man, short of an
actor, can pretend that he likes his inamorata to face the footlights.
Stageland has its own domestic idylls, to be sure--and very sweet and
wholesome they oft may be--but they are of a different blend to those
which find general acceptance.
Yet Maggie, who listened seriously to us all, urged with gentle
insistence that no harm would be done if we gave Steindal’s
magnanimity another day’s thought, and, when I saw that her mother
was quite willing to accede to this request, I backed it up, with the
result that Signor Bocci’s eyebrows became very fierce, and he murmured
something about the impossibility of his principal keeping the offer
open indefinitely.
“I do not think my daughter is asking for any unreasonable delay,”
replied Mrs. Hutchinson with some spirit. “This is practically our
first business interview. Your meeting with us on the landing-stage,
though exceedingly kind on your part, can hardly be regarded as giving
us an opportunity for full discussion. Therefore, to promise a decision
to-morrow is speedy enough in all conscience, seeing that when I wrote
to Mr. Steindal eight months ago he never even replied to my letter.”
This was a facer for Bocci. Nevertheless, he struggled gamely.
“Herr Steindal has a great-a many letters from-a de amateur,” he said.
“He hear in New-a-York ’ow Mees Ootchinson blay--”
“He did nothing nothing of the kind,” cried the elder lady. “That is
the extraordinary part of it. He met her, it is true, but he admitted
he had not been to any of her concerts. I am beginning to think,
signor, that my daughter is right and we others are wrong. Will you
leave a copy of the contract for our consideration?”
“O-ah, yes,” said he instantly, and, being a man of rapid perception,
he did not press any more for completion that day.
Certainly I was puzzled by Steindal’s tactics. Allowing that he was
actuated by the basest motives, that Constantine was paying the bill,
and that their precious compact would reveal its intent before many
weeks had passed, it was, nevertheless, a singular course they had
chosen. What possible harm could result to Maggie Hutchinson if she
seized the splendid opening dangled before her eyes by the Jew? All he
asked in return was a reasonable monopoly, voidable by his failure to
carry out his undertakings in their entirety. From her point of view,
it was the most convincing case of “Heads I win, tails you lose” I ever
heard of in connection with a profession where contracts are apt to be
one-sided.
And the haze did not lessen when Maggie became confidential that
evening after dinner. Karl had gone, Mrs. Hutchinson was writing
letters, and I had secured two chairs beneath the palms in the Garden
Court. Here we could hear the band, watch the celebrities of the hour,
and talk without listeners.
“I hope you are not a materialist,” said the girl, after I had uttered
some truism about modern life.
“Perish the thought!” I answered, “though, as one more than double your
extreme age, will you permit me to ask what is your definition of a
materialist?”
“A gross person--a species of pig man,” was her sufficiently amazing
reply.
“Are you thinking of Steindal?” I asked involuntarily, though I had
resolved to keep clear of the topic for the hour.
“Oh, no. He was not in my mind at all. The music, the lights, the soft
tones of the women’s dresses, all the harmony to eye and ear of our
present surroundings, carried a thought to me. I cannot help knowing
that within a very short distance of this pleasant place one can find
great misery. Which of these states reveals the truth in life?”
“Both. It is well to hold a balance between them.”
“Thank you. Now, one has read how rich and well-born men and women,
in other days, have had a vision which so influenced their lives that
they forthwith abandoned wealth and rank, and devoted themselves to
the painful service of their suffering brethren. Such visions may not
be so frequent to-day, but it is a matter of constant occurrence for a
similar result to be achieved, and achieved in a single hour, whereby
the future years of existence are cast irrevocably into a new mold.”
“You are speaking solely of spiritual influences?” I asked.
She moved slightly. My question was unexpected. Some of these tender
plants of human growth are so delicately constituted that they wince
physically if you prod their souls with a verbal arrow.
“I can scarce distinguish between states,” she said, “nor have I
thought or read deeply enough to claim any clear idea as to what
constitutes spirituality. I suppose it sounds strange to hear a girl
not yet nineteen talking of such matters at all. But in Berlin one is
taught to think earlier than in England, and a musical training is
prone to develop fanciful moods.”
She was fencing with me. I determined to risk another of those
insidious arrow-flights.
“May I take it that your present introspective condition of mind arises
from your experiences on board the _Merlin_?” I said.
“Yes.”
Her lips set with a snap. It was quite clear that however little
Karl’s supernormal powers affected him they had exerted a truly
remarkable influence on Maggie Hutchinson, an influence, too, so novel
and mysterious that she seemed almost to fear its analysis. So I
endeavored to help her.
“The man would be a fool who denied the enduring effect on the mind
of a moment’s inspiration,” I said. “He might as well argue that the
inconceivably rapid passage of an electric current through the body
could not contort it permanently or even shrivel it into practical
annihilation.”
“Ah!” she cried impulsively, “that is how it seems to me. Our poor
frail human form cannot choose but obey the soul. At least it must be
so if we would be governed by noble instincts and strive ever to reach
a higher individual ideal. When the soul yields to the body there you
have the downfall, the yielding of the man to the ape.”
She leaned forward, with her right elbow on her knee and her
well-modeled chin supported by the thin, long, nervous fingers which
bespoke the artistic faculty. Spatulate-fingered folk should keep away
from strings and easels.
As it pleased her to attach an ethical significance to my words I did
not gainsay her. Indeed, something told me to leave her to her thoughts
for a little while, and, as she appeared to be listening intently
to the music, I sank back into my chair and gave her the choice of
continuing the conversation or not, as she saw fit.
The band, a small but most excellent orchestra, had just rendered
a soft and harmonious prelude. I did not recognize the air until a
violoncello, exquisitely played, struck into the swelling grandeur of
Vulcan’s song from _Philemon et Baucis_. Perhaps the girl knew the
words as well as the music. I did not. Looking them up afterwards, in
Santley’s translation, I found them curiously à propos of the strange,
all-surmounting force which was in our minds at the moment.
Where loud the brazen hammers sound,
With lurid light the furnace glowing,
Down in my kingdom underground,
Aside vain ceremony throwing,
I’m sovereign of all around.
Certainly my companion was given a glimpse of some underground kingdom
illuminated by lurid light, for I quickly discovered that she was rapt
into a state of exaltation which paid no heed to the visible world of
fashion and light and music which surrounded us. I spoke to her gently
more than once. It was useless. She sat there, with tireless eyelids
and glistening eyes, to all outward semblance absorbed in Gounod’s
majestic chant, but really, as I alone knew, unseeing and unhearing
save to sights and sounds not given to my comprehension.
The suddenness of the thing was positively startling. According to
Hooper’s experiences, supplemented by my own with Karl, it was probable
she would regain ordinary consciousness if touched. Yet I forbore,
hovering between anxiety on the girl’s behalf and desire not to break
in on a trance which might yield some knowledge of actual value. I have
often wondered since if any observant eyes among the crowd of loungers
were watching us. We must have offered a queer picture, a scene
from the charade of life as it is staged in a big London hotel--the
wistful-eyed girl, in a graceful pose, gazing blankly into space, as
it seemed, and pondering some wordless problem, and the gray-haired,
sparely built man watching her with a keenness that must have been very
puzzling to any onlooker.
At last the music ceased. There was some applause, and, to my great
relief, Maggie regained her wits.
Then a spasm of real passion convulsed her face, as though some fierce
gust had swept from a thunder-cloud to distort the smooth mirror of a
lake. Reasoned thought was slow in resuming its sway. I was sure she
would spring to her feet and scream aloud. Yet it was evident that each
instant she was becoming more conscious of her environment and gaining
strength to repress the agony which wrung her bosom.
With all my world-wandering and its consequent carelessness of mere
outward effect, notwithstanding that wayward Celtic temperament which
is apt to set Mrs. Grundy at defiance, the upper British crust of
conventionality was sufficiently hard on me to demand a rapid glance
around the Garden Court _to see if anybody was looking_!
The whole roomful of people might have been gaping at us with twenty
scandal-power for all I cared a moment later. Maggie grasped my wrist
with a strength which I would not have credited her with, though your
skilled violinist must need have good muscles.
“I have heard Constantine raving most terribly,” she whispered, in
tense accents, close to my ear. “He has arranged to sail from New York
on Saturday, and his object in coming to England is to murder Karl!”