The frequent variation of time signature, which was one of the chief characteristics of Giles’ score, and which gave his music the variety and subtlety of nuance which was its chief beauty, seemed to be at the root of the trouble; the opera was not precisely as the company had learned it.
When, at last, the curtain descended, there was applause. For was not The Golden Asse the chief success of the Music Festival that year? And were there not many good people present who, having been assured that they were to hear a masterwork, were humbly ready to accept whatever they heard as belonging in that category? But it was not the kind of applause which had greeted the earlier performances. When Giles did not come at once from the pit to the stage, Amyas Palfreyman tried to find him, to appear before the curtain with the company. But the applause did not last long enough to make a thorough search possible. The company dispersed to their dressing-rooms greatly disturbed; they had taken a few calls, but they could not forget that at the end of the ballet of Cupid and Psyche there had been several hisses and some murmuring from the gallery.
When Monica went into her dressing-room, Giles was there, sitting on the sofa. His expression was furious, but she was not deceived; there was a forlorn look about him which she had never seen before, and it filled her with pity. She ran to him and tried to put her arms about him, but he pushed her away.
“Well—a fine bloody mess that was,” said he.
“Giles, what was wrong?”
“That damned orchestra. Wouldn’t follow the score, wouldn’t follow my beat—absolute chaos! I explained the whole thing to them beforehand, and they said they understood—anyhow the first fiddle did—but they had no idea what they were doing. I could cheerfully have killed the lot of them!”
“Poor Giles.”
“Don’t ‘Poor Giles’ me. I saw you, shuddering and making faces, like Palfreyman and all the rest of them, whenever we got into trouble.”
“We didn’t. It was only that—”
“You did. You were all mugging like lunatics. Do you think I can’t see? You were throwing the show away with both hands. I don’t particularly blame you. You’re nothing but a bloody little colonial greenhorn who doesn’t know anything about professional conduct, but Palfreyman was flat for the last two acts, and he was glaring at me with his eyes sticking out like doorknobs. I could have thrown my stick at him!”
“I’m sure he was just trying to follow your beat, Giles. We all were, honestly. What was the trouble?”
“I’ve told you the trouble. I was trying to give my opera, instead of Brum Benny’s, and everybody behaved as if I were demanding some obscene impossibility. I’m almost ready to believe you were all in cahoots to do it.”
“Oh, Giles!”
“Yes, you’re all hypnotized by the great Sir Benedict. What the composer wants is nothing; it’s what Sir Benedict wants that counts. He’s bought the whole lot of you with blarney and champagne suppers, and I’m just a stooge.”
“No, it isn’t like that a bit—”
“What’s the good of saying that? D’you think I can’t see? What do you suppose I’ve been doing since I came here? Fighting for my own music. And it appears I’ve lost the fight.”
And so on; much more to the same effect, until there was a soft knock on the door, and Sir Benedict came in.
“Well, we ran into a spot of bother,” said he, smiling.
“ ‘We’ didn’t run into anything. I ran into something. I ran right smack into the fact that my music seems to mean less in this theatre than your ideas about it.”
“But my dear fellow, why did you do it?”
“Is it so extraordinary that I should want a chance to conduct my own opera?”
“No. You know what I mean. Why did you try to revise the score at the last minute?”
“I did not revise it; I simply restored it to what I originally meant it to be. I’ve heard your version, with all the neat, conventional little bridges and re-writes and revises you’ve stuck into it, to make it the kind of Leipzig Conservatory stuff you’d write if you could write anything at all. I’ve heard it and it’s just so much Zopf!”
“Giles, Giles, nothing went into your score that was mine. You approved every change and every cut; many of the revisions were in your own hand. Now let’s be reasonable—”
“Revisions I made with a pistol at my head! I never wanted to revise; I damned well knew when the opera was finished. You were the one who wanted to tinker.”
“All right, let’s forget that for the moment. But really, my dear man, if you peel off sometimes as many as seven revisions from a score you must expect trouble. The concert-master tells me that the conductor’s room was knee-deep in gummed paper—”
“I knew he’d be clearing himself to you! They all run to you! Did he tell you he said he understood the revisions?”
“He told me he argued with you, and finally said they’d do their best. Be sensible, Giles. He doesn’t speak English particularly well and I expect you bullied him. The orchestra are first-rate men, but they can’t do miracles; you should have realized that when you’d pulled off all the revisions there were bound to be difficulties, because quite a few of them weren’t gummed to the parts—they were written in by hand. Still, it’s done now, and we’d better say no more about it at present. It’s not the end of the world.”
Giles would no doubt have retorted that it was the end of the world, simply from necessity to dissent from Domdaniel, but it was at this moment that Signor Petri, the manager, came in. A huge man, of immense dignity, and at this moment deeply solemn.
“Mr. Revelstoke, this was very, very wrong of you,” he said.
“I don’t see that. If your orchestra can’t follow a score, why is it my fault?”
“Mr. Revelstoke, I have been with Gnecchi, and he showed me the orchestra parts and they were incomprehensible in many places. There is a place in Act Three, in the ballet, where there are discrepancies of as much as six bars in some of the parts. Signora Render is very distressed and who wonders? The theatre doctor is with her now. You made her look a fool. You should not have—what is the word I seek—monkeyed with that score.”
“I did not monkey with the score. I restored it to what I wrote, and it was as clear as day.”
“To you, perhaps. To no one else.”
“Damn it, Petri, my score had been revised and patted and pulled and buggered about and I wanted it to be played as I wrote it. Has a composer no rights in this theatre?”
“Every right, Mr. Revelstoke. Every respect. La Fenice has presented new scores by Verdi, do not forget it, and by many very great men. But not even Verdi has a right to insult my audience, and make my artists appear to be analphabets in public, and that is what you have done. Now hear what I have to say—”
“Jesus Christ, Petri, come off it; and stop talking at me like a musical Mussolini, you fat—”
“Now Giles, now Giles,” said Domdaniel, “let’s not have a scene.”
“No, no, no; by no means; no, no, no,” said Signor Petri with the calm of a thunderstorm restraining itself.
Giles howled with laughter. “It only needed that!” he cried; “the ultimate touch of farce! No, no, let’s not have a scene. The Jew is cool as a cucumber; the Wop is a monument of marble calm. Only the Englishman has lost his phlegm. Why not have a scene? Give me one good reason. I’m the one who’s been wronged, and I’d bloody well like to have a bloody great scene.”
Signor Petri lifted the hand of a Roman consul. “You forget, Mr. Revelstoke, the presence of the Signora Gowl,” said he. “Now listen to me: you will not conduct this opera again in this theatre, and by tomorrow night the orchestra parts must be restored to their proper condition, or my men will refuse to play. Perhaps you do not realize it, but tonight’s reception would have been disastrous if we had not been pulled through by our efficient claque. That is all I have to say. An apology to the company, to Gnecchi on behalf of the orchestra, to the Signora Render and a generous recognition to
the leader of the claque—these things I leave to your own discretion. Signora. Sir Benedict.” With a splendid mingling of courtesy, and scorn for Giles, Signor Petri made his departure.
Giles was laughing again. His laughter seemed a little forced, but it did not stop until Sir Benedict spoke very firmly to him.
“Cut out that nonsense,” said he, “and stop playing the fool. Face the fact, Giles, you’ve made a mess of this business. The best thing you can do is take Petri’s advice and go around now and make your peace with everybody. Then we can all forget this fiasco and get ready for the job of putting those parts right tomorrow. It’ll take several hours, but if we all get down to it early, it can be done in plenty of time.”
“I’ve no intention of being the goat for you and Petri. Everybody seems to think themselves wronged in this matter. What’s the trouble with you? Surely you’ve gained face? The great Sir Benny can pull the company through anything; you don’t catch him messing about with scores. He’s even independent of the claque. Hurray for Benny!”
“I’ve lost face with Petri because I begged him to let you conduct. I personally guaranteed you. But that’s no matter. You’re perfectly right. You are the one who matters. And that’s why you had better start on a round of the dressing-rooms right now, smoothing things over.”
“Is that an order, Sir Benedict? Because if so you can relish the unusual experience of having one of your orders disobeyed. I’ll do no apologizing and no smoothing. Not even with the Signora Gowl. So you can get into your street clothes just as fast as you like, Monica, because I discern that the Big Boss is going to take you out for another of those charming little suppers at the Danieli, and you can both have a lovely time telling one another what a naughty boy I’ve been.”
“Now Giles, no use taking it out on Monica.”
“Oh no, let’s leave Monica out of it, of course. I’ve written an opera, and you’ve put the finishing touches on it. And I’ve made a singer, and you are in the process of putting the finishing touches on her. She’s been my mistress for nearly two years, but you always work best on somebody else’s material.”
“Giles, don’t talk like that,” said Monica.
“Why not? Why are we all so mealy-mouthed this evening? Go with Brum Benny if that’s what you want. He can do a great deal for you. Much more than I.”
“You’re being unreasonable and silly, and saying things you don’t mean,” said Monica. “I’m not going anywhere with anybody; I’m here for you. But I’m not here to encourage you to make a fool of yourself. Sir Benedict is right; this isn’t the end of the world. All you have to do is admit you tried something that didn’t work, and it’ll all be forgotten within a week.”
“Nobody is going to hold this against you,” said Sir Benedict; “not even Aspinwall.”
“What about Aspinwall?”
“He was here tonight. I didn’t mean to tell you. He had of course heard about the revisions—I mean the big re-writes, not the trivial things that you dispensed with tonight—and came to hear the work in its new form. A pity he came tonight. But I was talking with him, and he’s coming tomorrow night, so—”
“So he’ll hear The Golden Asse as it ought to be heard, under the baton of the great conductor and with all his personal ideas worked into it! This was all that was needed! You’ve been canoodling with Aspinwall!”
And Giles broke into a flow of obscene abuse against the critic which was remarkable even for him. His face, so white before, became blotched with red, and there were moments when it seemed that he must choke.
“Christ, this is the end,” he said, at last. “This has been a great night for me. You’ve grabbed my opera, you’ve grabbed my girl, and now you’ve been apologizing for me to the man I hate and despise most in the world. All right: take the lot!”
He made for the door, but Monica caught him before he could go.
“Wait just a minute,” she said. “I’ll come with you.”
“I don’t want you with me.”
“But I want to be with you.”
“Oh, you think I need you? The conceit of women! When a man is angry or down on his luck, he must need one of them. Get away from me. You’ve been insufferable ever since you came back from Canada with that potty little bit of money. Do you think I haven’t seen you playing the suffering saint all over the place, sacrificing yourself right and left, and thinking you were getting immortality in return? Because you gouged a tuppenny-halfpenny Canadian trust, you crooked little bitch? Not a penny of it came out of your hide. Because you used your money to buy a good part in my opera, do you think I’m eternally sold to you? Oh, really, Monica, you’re even stupider than I’d supposed! Of course it was your money that got you into The Golden Asse; what else? Not your talent, I can assure you. Not your slate-pencil squeal on a high D. Get out of my sight; your vapid mug makes me spew! I’ve made a passable singer of you, and taught you the elements of your other principal use. And I’m heartily sick of you.”
This time he went.
(4)
Next morning at half-past nine (which is bright and early for people who have finished their previous working day at midnight) Sir Benedict and Monica were hard at it in Petri’s office, restoring the orchestral parts to their original form; Domdaniel dictated, Monica transcribed (those who have taken music from dictation know what fidgetty work it is) and Gnecchi gummed the freshly-written slips into their proper places on the music. By half-past four the job was done, and that evening the opera was performed, after a few early moments of nerves, better than ever before. It was not until Monica was back at her hotel that she had the time and the calm of mind to consider the scene of the night before.
Giles had disappeared. He had left no forwarding address, but had gone very early in the morning, presumably to catch a train. But what train no one could say, for at Padua he could have gone southward, or from Milan he could have made his way back to England. Sir Benedict had taken this news calmly.
“He’ll cool in the same skin he got hot in,” said he.
“You don’t think I ought to try to find him?”
“It will be easier for all of us, if we don’t meet for a few weeks. Do you particularly want to see him soon?”
“Yes; I’m worried about him.”
“What a forgiving nature you have.”
“No; he didn’t mean what he said. You know how terribly he exaggerates everything.”
“And so you’re willing to hunt him up, and let him make a doormat of you.”
“No, no; but I’d like to be sure that he’s all right.”
“Well, I never give advice in love affairs, but I’ve been in love myself, and it’s always useful to preserve your self-respect.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Sir Benedict.”
Of course he was right. She knew that Giles’ hard words about her buying herself into his opera were just the froth of his anger. Still, when all the anger had been discounted, might there not be some drop of truth left? Was that the way he really thought about her? Had he really endured her simply because she could bring him the money—little enough, in terms of the sums involved in staging even so modest a production as The Golden Asse—that he needed? No, that was unthinkable. If money was all he wanted, he need not have slept with her, and though he had never told her that he loved her, he had never concealed his pleasure in their physical union. Much more than a physical union it had become, and well she knew it; not only could Giles not conceal his need for her and his dependence on her tenderness and unquestioning adoration (for that was what it was, and she could not pretend otherwise) but the spite of Persis was strong corroborative evidence. Nevertheless, Monica had not the self-confidence or the detachment to trust her judgement in this matter. Who has, that is deeply in love? The love which is strong as steel under one assault, may crumble like ash under the breath of another. Giles had touched Monica on her weakest point, which was her belief in her own worth as a woman, a lover; she was deeply convinced that sh
e was, like Fotis in the opera, only a clumsy pretence-enchantress.
She pondered for another day on the subject, turning it over and over, until at last self-doubt, masquerading as self-respect, made her write a letter.
Dearest Giles,
After thinking for a long time about what you said on Thursday night, I am sure we had better break off, and not see each other again—at least not for a long time. Of course I didn’t take what you said at its face value, because I knew how angry and hurt you were. But you hurt me very much. Just the fact that you knew so well how to hurt me makes me think that you had been turning some of those things over in your mind, and when you were angry, they came out.
What I have felt about you has been plain, I think. I could have said some of it, if you had wanted that, but I tried to show it in other ways. You once told me that when you loved me you would say so, and as you have never said it I know that you don’t, and Thursday night—even with all the anger left out, makes me fear that you could very easily despise me. So I won’t come for any more lessons, and perhaps after a while when I don’t feel about you as I do now, we will be able to meet again, quite ordinarily.
Please understand what I am trying to say. I could give everything for you, even self-respect and wanting to be a really good singer and all that, if you wanted me to. But you don’t, and I won’t go on forcing it on you. But as I can’t stay with you and be a doormat, I have decided to leave you and do the best I can on my own. I love you, and I always shall, but you don’t want love. So God bless you (though I know how you hate people to say that) and I will ask Bun to pick up my things from Tite Street.
MONICA
It was not in the least like any of the letters she wanted to write—the splendidly haughty one, the moving unaffected one, the poetic one fit for an anthology of great love-letters—but she had neither the heart nor the talent for literary flights. She sent it off to the Tite Street flat, and concluded her engagement in Venice in deep distress of mind. Even the great reception which The Golden Asse was given at its last performance, and the good notices she had from all the critics, and the flowers from some unknown music-lover, and the eloquent farewell of Signor Petri, had no power to ease her inward hurt. She changed her plans for a holiday in Italy, and a visit to Amy Neilson, and returned to London as fast as the airways could take her.