Giant’s Bread · Book III · I · Chapter 3 1 2

II

Herr Radmaager did not come to see Jane Harding for nearly a fortnight. He arrived without warning of any kind at half-past ten in the morning. He stumped into the flat without a word of apology and looked round the walls of the sitting-room.

“It is you who have furnished and papered this? Yes?”

“Yes.”

“You live here alone?”

“Yes.”

“But you have not always lived alone?”

“No.”

Radmaager said unexpectedly: “That is good.” Then he said commandingly: “Come here.”

He took her by both arms, and drew her towards the window. There he looked her over from head to foot. He pinched the flesh of her arm between finger and thumb, opened her mouth and looked down her throat, and finally put a large hand on each side of her waist.

“Breathe in⁠—good! Now out⁠—sharply.”

He took a tape measure out of his pocket, made her repeat the two movements, passing the tape measure round her each time. Finally he pocketed it and put it away. Neither he nor Jane seemed to see anything curious in the proceedings.

“It is well,” said Radmaager. “Your chest is excellent, your throat is strong. You are intelligent⁠—since you have not interrupted me. I can find many singers with a better voice than yours⁠—your voice is very true, very beautiful, but it is not clear, a silver thread. If you force it, it will go⁠—and where will you be then, I ask you? The music you sing now is absurd⁠—if you were not pigheaded as the devil you would not sing those roles. Yet I respect you because you are an artist.”

He paused, then went on:

“Now listen to me. My music is beautiful and it will not hurt your voice. When Ibsen created Solveig, he created the most wonderful woman character that has ever been created. My opera will stand and fall by its Solveig⁠—and it is not sufficient to have a singer. There are Cavarossi, Mary Montner, Jeanne Dorta⁠—all hope to sing Solveig. But I will not have it. What are they? Unintelligent animals with marvellous vocal cords. For my Solveig I must have a perfect instrument, an instrument with intelligence. You are a young singer⁠—as yet unknown. You shall sing at Covent Garden next year in my Peer Gynt if you satisfy me. Now listen⁠ ⁠…”

He sat down at Jane’s piano and began to play⁠—queer rhythmic monotonous notes.

“It is the snow, you comprehend⁠—the Northern snow. That is what your voice must be like⁠—the snow. It is white like damask⁠—and the pattern runs through it. But the pattern is in the music, not in your voice.”

He went on playing. Endless monotony, endless repetition, and yet suddenly the something that was woven through it caught your ear⁠—what he had called the pattern.

He stopped.

“Well?”

“It will be very difficult to sing.”

“Quite right. But you have an excellent ear. You wish to sing Solveig⁠—yes?”

“Naturally. It’s the chance of a lifetime. If I can satisfy you.”

“I think you can.” He got up again, laid his hands on her shoulders. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-three.”

“And you have been very unhappy⁠—that is so?”

“Yes.”

“How many men have you lived with?”

“One.”

“And he was not a good man?”

Jane answered evenly: “He was a very bad one.”

“I see. Yes, it is that which is written in your face. Now listen to me, all that you have suffered, all that you have enjoyed, you will put it into my music not with abandon, not with unrestraint, but with controlled and disciplined force. You have intelligence and you have courage. Without courage nothing can ever be accomplished. Those without courage turn their backs on life. You will never turn your back on life. Whatever comes you will stand there facing it with your chin up and your eyes very steady.⁠ ⁠… But I hope, my child, that you will not be too much hurt.”

He turned away.

“I will send on the score,” he said over his shoulder. “And you will study it.”

He stumped out of the room and the flat door banged.

Jane sat down by the table. She stared at the wall in front of her with unseeing eyes. Her chance had come.

She murmured very softly to herself: “I’m afraid.”