The churchyard at Llanavon was a pretty one in summer, but in the early days of November it was dank and cold, and the dripping yews were at their gloomiest. The mound beneath which Giles lay had been sodded, but had not subsided to the level of the ground and as yet there was no marker; but he lay in the influence, so to speak, of a large Celtic cross which was dedicated to the memory of the Hopkin-Griffiths family. It was an early Victorian cross, ugly but strong, and the sight of it raised Monica’s spirits; it was so solid, it must surely last forever. She was glad that Giles lay there among all those red-faced Welsh squires, with open countryside beyond the churchyard walls; it stilled a deep feeling which had troubled her that he was somewhere, agonized, confined and alone. This was, she well knew, a pagan concept of death, but she had not until this time been able to subdue it.
Mrs. Hopkin-Griffiths prayed briefly, and wept a little, but she had no power to remain silent for long. “I come every day, unless the weather is simply dreadful,” said she. “Guilt, I suppose. You see, my dear, I have a terrible feeling that I failed Giles. Can it have been about marrying Griff? But Griff was as good to Giles as Giles would let him be—and I felt I had a right to happiness, you know. But children judge so harshly. I loved him very much, and he surely knew that. But I’ve always been such a selfish woman, and silly, too—yes, don’t deny it, dear, out of politeness. I don’t know why it all went wrong. I’ve argued with myself about it so much, and Griff has been quite wonderful about reassuring me. But all the same, I come back to the feeling that if I hadn’t failed him—whenever or however it was—Giles wouldn’t be here now. Griff won’t let me say it, but I’ll say it to you, dear: I sometimes feel I killed Giles.”
Monica, who was utterly convinced that she had killed Giles herself, did what she could to dispel his mother’s unhappiness.
“You’re very kind, dear,” said Dolly; “although we haven’t really known you long, Griff and I both think of you as a very special friend. Indeed—I said we wanted to do something for you, and I don’t see why everything has to be so secret—you know those musical manuscripts of Giles’? Would you like one of them? Sir Benedict suggested it, really. He said that one of them was dedicated to you. Perhaps you’d like to have it. I don’t know whether it’s a proper gift or simply a piece of scrap. But I’m sure Giles must have been fond of you. I wish he’d been fonder of you, or somebody like you. We had hoped it would be Ceinwen, but she’s been engaged for months to a dentist in Rhyl; Griff likes him, because he’s descended from Brochwell Yscythrog, but I do wish he were a proper doctor, and not a dentist; but there it is; you can’t have everything. It would have made me very happy to see him settled, with somebody to look after him.”
That night, when they were going to bed, Dolly brought up the matter of the manuscript of Kubla Khan again. “I’ll write to Sir Benedict, and say you’re to have it,” said she. “And my dear, perhaps you’d like to have this as well.” She pressed something into Monica’s hand; when she reached her bedroom she looked, dreading that it might not, after all, be the thing she hoped it was. But she need not have feared. It was Giles’ ring.
In the mid-eighteenth century James Tassie made a great many beautiful copies of Greek gems; Giles’ ring was one of these—a green stone in which was engraved a figure of Orpheus bearing his lyre. The naked god was incised, and could be transferred to wax, as a seal. Giles had always worn it on the little finger of his left hand, but Monica slipped it on her fourth.
She left for London the following day, and although she desired it passionately, she could not arrange to make another visit to the churchyard without revealing the purpose of her walk to Dolly, and thereby getting her unwanted company. However, the train passed within sight of the church and the yews around it, and as it did so Monica was at the window of her carriage, the ring at her lips.
(10)
The night of the Commemorative Concert found Monica more nervous than ever before. She had been wretched all day, and Molloy, coming into the artists’ room very early himself, found her there before him, white and tense.
“Now see here, it’s time you learned proper concert behaviour, because you won’t always have me around to nursemaid you,” said he. “B’God you look like a picture o’ ‘Found Drowned.’ You’ve been worse than cryin’—you’ve been holdin’ in! We’re goin’ to do some work right this minute, m’lady.”
After ten minutes of bullying and cajolery he had restored her poise.
“Now you can breathe,” said he. “You’d breath enough before, but not usable; you were all puffed up with grief—chest locked, throat tight, all blown out like a frog. What’s got into you? Is it Giles?”
Of course she did not say that it was Giles; it took Molloy a few minutes to persuade her to admit it.
“Well, you can just forget about Giles till tonight’s work’s over. Yes, I said forget about him. It’s his memorial—I know that as well as yourself. If you’re going to do him proud you must think about yourself, not about him. Yes, yes; a public performer’s first duty is to himself, and unless he remembers that he can’t do his duty to the public. You must understand it rightly: cherish the art in yourself, not yourself in art, as the Russian fella says. That’s the pitfall; so many singers just have a lifelong love-affair with Number One, and they’ve no rivals, I can tell you! Cherishing the art in yourself is a very different class of thing.”
“But I’m so anxious to do well tonight, for Giles’ memory, I’ve let myself get into a state. I couldn’t help it. I’m sure you understand really, Murtagh. You’re only pretending to be cross.”
“Listen, girl, I know what you mean, and don’t think I’m not sympathetic. But I’ll tell you something about Giles; he was always an amachoor, as far as public performance went. Oh, a fine composer, I grant you. Some o’ that stuff’ll live, you mark my words. But as a performer, he was an amachoor, and I don’t just mean inexperienced; I mean he was the prey of all kinds o’ silly ideas; he couldn’t concentrate on the job—not in the right way. Genius—yes: discipline—not an idea of it. Now you’re a professional. You’ve got standards he didn’t know about and I’ve given you training he never had. So keep hold of yourself; you and the music are the important things for the next couple of hours.”
Thus enjoined, Monica comported herself very creditably. She sang Kubla Khan; she sang the soprano part in The Discoverie of Witchcraft; she sang with Amyas Palfreyman in the Potion and Metamorphosis Scenes from The Golden Asse. And, at the close of the concert, she joined Evelyn Burnaby and Palfreyman in Giles’ three-voice setting of the Dirge from Cymbeline. So great was the professional calm of concentration with which Molloy had pervaded her that she never faltered, and afterward, at the party in Domdaniel’s house she was praised by everybody. Molloy did not praise her, but when their eyes met, he winked a wink that was like the slamming of a door and that, so far as Monica was concerned, was praise indeed.
When the last guests were going, Domdaniel asked her to stay for a moment. “I’ll take you home,” said he, “but there are one or two things I want to talk about first. You’re away to Canada tomorrow night, aren’t you?”
It proved to be a long moment. When all but Monica had said goodnight, he kicked off his pumps, removed his evening coat and lay down on a sofa; she began to collect glasses and plates to take them to the kitchen.
“Leave that alone,” said Domdaniel; “Fred’ll take care of it in the morning.”
“I’ll empty these ashtrays; if they’re left, they’ll make the room smell.”
“Let it smell. Sit down. Or would you like to lie down? Take your shoes off.”
Monica was conscious now that she was very tired. So she did take her shoes off, and as she walked toward a couch across the room from him, Domdaniel laughed.
“Dance Micawber,” said he. “The first time I saw you I told you to take your shoes off, and you played Dance Micawber for me.”
Monica blushed; it was not pleasant to be reminded of her ear
lier simplicity.
“Rather a Dance Micawber we’ve been through tonight,” he continued. “Thank God it’s out of the way; we’ve all done our duty for a while, and it’s a relief.”
“Did you think it went well?”
“Very well.”
“Were the people from Bachofen’s pleased? Will they go ahead with publication now?”
“Yes. They’ve known what they were going to do for a couple of weeks; the ticket-sale for tonight convinced them. They’ll bring out the whole of Giles’ stuff, taking eighteen months or a couple of years, probably, but making a good job of it.”
“Mrs. Hopkin-Griffiths will be pleased. Do the royalties go to her?”
“Oh, certainly. For a woman who professes to know nothing of business or music, she’s remarkably astute. Well, good luck to her.”
“I suppose the royalties will amount to quite a big thing?”
“Impossible to say. We’ve done everything possible—filled Wigmore Hall for a concert of contemporary music, by a young composer, recently dead under circumstances which some people think romantic. That’s only six hundred people, but an important six hundred. It’ll keep the music from sinking out of sight and having to be painfully revived.”
“But the music itself—Mr. Aspinwall has called the opera great. Do you think so?”
“I suspect Aspinwall of having a bad conscience about Giles. I don’t like to talk of greatness, because I’m never entirely sure what it means; Giles’ music is individual, melodious and I admire it very much. Haven’t I shown that?”
“Yes; I didn’t mean to be prying. It’s just that Mr. Aspinwall has been so lavish with his praise—for him. He even says Giles’ libretto for The Golden Asse is marvellous, and he was always complaining about Giles being literary at the expense of music. But he says now that it’s philosophical.”
“Yes, very funny, that, because nobody was less philosophical than Giles. Extraordinary how people sometimes create so much better than they live. The metamorphosis of physical man into spiritual man: a great theme. But though he could do it in art he couldn’t do it in life. Ah, well; the future of his music lies now with Bachofen and the gods. I’ve done my part for the present and I’m glad it’s over.”
“You’ve been marvellous about it all. I know Giles would be terribly grateful.”
“It would be for the first time, then.”
Monica said nothing.
“Have I shocked you? De mortuis nil nisi bunkum—is that the line? Well, I’m sorry. I don’t want to be bitter, but I knew Giles, and gratitude wasn’t one of his characteristics.”
“I knew him, too.”
“Yes. You loved him. And tonight I’m in just a sufficiently nasty mood to ask you this: did he ever show any understanding or appreciation of your love?”
Again Monica said nothing.
“You slaved over his music. Did he ever say anything about that? Did he ever thank you for the way you sang his stuff?”
“Why should he? I was lucky to have the chance. And I must say, Sir Benedict, that I haven’t been trained to expect thanks or praise for the way I sing. Neither you nor Mr. Molloy has ever told me I sing well. Not directly, anyhow. There have been times when a good word would have been very helpful, but I learned not to look for it. I assumed it was the custom between teacher and pupil. If I have any opinion of my own voice, or the way I sing, I’ve learned it from the critics, not from my teachers. Giles was like you and Murtagh in that.”
“Twaddle! We were demanding, as was entirely proper; but I’ve seen him treat you like dirt. Perhaps humiliating you in public was his way of showing affection. Maybe you’re the kind of woman who gets her satisfaction from being kicked. I never saw Giles treat you other than badly.”
I should never have spoken to him like that, thought Monica. No wonder he’s cross with me. And didn’t he call me a fellow-artist? How could I be so forgetful, so ungrateful? And Murtagh was so good to me tonight. Am I becoming one of those people who never get enough praise?
Apparently Domdaniel regretted what he had said, for he continued: “Don’t suppose I wasn’t fond of Giles myself. I was. Too fond of him, I’ve often thought. I did all that I could to bring him forward. I never grudged anything that I could do to advance him, or help him. I even sent you to him for teaching when I knew he was desperately hard up. I’ve regretted that often enough, if you want to know. I’m a perfect fool about people; I thought somebody like you might humanize Giles; that’s why I went through all that cloak-and-dagger business to get you to his family for Christmas, a couple of years ago. I meddled in Giles’ affairs, and in yours. And don’t suppose I don’t realize now that I meddled disastrously.”
Monica spoke now. “No, I don’t think that. Not disastrously.”
“Yes, disastrously. I committed one of the great follies, I tried to mould somebody else’s fate. And you’ve seen how it ended. Don’t think I don’t know that I killed Giles.”
Sir Benedict had expected this to produce an effect, and he was ready for incredulity, for tears, for hysteria, for anger. But when Monica burst into peals of laughter he sat bolt upright on his sofa, glaring.
“What’s the trouble? Are you all right? Would you like a drink? Some water? For God’s sake stop that laughing! What ails you?”
“It’s just that you are the fourth person who has insisted to me that he killed Giles Revelstoke.” And she told him about Bun Eccles, about Stanhope Aspinwall, about Mrs. Hopkin-Griffiths.
“But that’s rubbish,” said Sir Benedict, angrily. “Fiddling with a gas-meter: half London does it. Aspinwall’s article—he flatters himself; ever since somebody suggested that cruel criticism killed John Keats every lint-picker hopes to get his man. I simply don’t believe it about his mother; the world is full of perfectly healthy men who had silly, selfish mothers. I’m talking about something quite different—something serious. Giles was jealous of me, of my reputation, in spite of the twenty years between us. Incredibly stupid of him, because he was something I wasn’t—a composer, and I cherished and loved that part of him. But I was a conductor, very much in the limelight, and he wanted to be that, as well as what he was. Utterly senseless. But it was an obsession. This suicide—I can only think that it was a way of getting back at me. When I made it plain at La Fenice—and got Petri to back it up—that he was no conductor and probably never would be, it killed him. But this is the terrible thing: I was so angry with him, so resentful of his nonsense, that I genuinely wanted to do him down. I got a mean pleasure from it. Of course he committed suicide, but that’s by the way; he died of mortification and thwarted ambition, and I suppose I’m responsible. Morally, I killed him.”
Should she speak? Yes—whatever might come of it—yes!
“Morally, you may have had something to do with it. But in cold fact I killed him; first I broke his heart, and then I deserted him when he was dying.” And Monica told him her story at length.
For some time Sir Benedict said nothing. Then he rose and prepared himself a large brandy-and-soda. Returning to his sofa he sat, in shirt-sleeves and stocking feet, leaning forward toward her.
“You’re convinced you killed him?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Feel dreadful about it?”
“Every morning I wonder how I’ll live till night without telling somebody. And now I’ve done it.”
“You mustn’t tell anyone else. Understand? I’m not talking idly. What you did would probably be considered—not murder, most certainly not that—but manslaughter, or criminal neglect, or something of that order. Because, after all, you did turn the gas back on. Nothing can change that. And it’s vital that you should clarify your thought on this matter. Whatever deception you may have to practise on other people, you must not, under any circumstances, deceive yourself. Now swear to me that you will never tell anyone. Come along. This is very serious.”
“What should I say?”
“Oh—let’s not bother with operatic oaths. Bu
t I command you never to tell anyone. Will you obey?”
“Yes. I promise.”
“Right. I’m your sin-eater. Now, quite apart from legal nonsense, let’s consider this matter. You found him, and thought he was dead.”
“Yes, and my first thought was to save my own skin.”
“Because he held your letter in his hand—your letter in one hand and Aspinwall’s hard words about his conducting in the other.”
“Yes.”
“He laid himself down to die with those two papers, in order to make it plain to the world what had killed him.”
“I suppose so.”
“He knew you were coming back to London that night. Do you think he counted on you going to the flat?”
“He may have done.”
“He knew you. He was much cleverer than you. He knew there was a good chance that you would find him. Indeed, you had the only key.”
“I’ve thought of all that.”
“Well, what shall we call it? A self-pitying act, or the act of a scoundrel? Or was he out of his mind?”
“Considering the way I behaved myself, I have no right to make a judgement.”
“Not on him. You are perfectly right. But you must—you absolutely must—make a judgement on your own behaviour. Suppose that letter had been found? Do you think anyone would have seriously believed that you drove him to suicide? Nobody thought Aspinwall had done so—except himself, and it may teach him to mind his Ps and Qs in future—because his notice was about ten lines of blame, and nearly a column of high praise. This letter of yours was a love-letter, wasn’t it?”
“I told you. It was breaking off with him forever. It was a cruel letter, and—” She could not finish.
“Have you it still? Could I see it?”
She had it with her always, for she could not destroy it, and yet she dared not leave it where it might be found. She gave it to him from her evening bag.