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

I

Nell was back in London. Vernon came up to see her the day after her return. She noticed the change in him at once. He looked haggard, excited. He said abruptly:

“Nell, I’m going to chuck Birmingham.”

“What?”

“Listen while I tell you⁠ ⁠…”

He talked eagerly, excitedly. His music⁠—he’d got to give himself up to it. He told her of the opera.

“Listen, Nell. This is you⁠—in your tower⁠—with your golden hair hanging down and shining⁠—shining in the sun.”

He went to the piano, began to play, explaining as he did so⁠ ⁠… “Violins⁠—you see⁠—and this is all for harps⁠ ⁠… and these are the round jewels.⁠ ⁠…”

He played what seemed to Nell to be a series of rather ugly discords. She privately thought it all hideous. Perhaps it would sound different played by an orchestra.

But she loved him⁠—and because she loved him, everything he did must be right. She smiled and said:

“It’s lovely, Vernon.”

“Do you really like it, Nell? Oh! sweetheart⁠—you are so wonderful. You always understand. You’re so sweet about everything.”

He came across to her, knelt down and buried his face on her lap.

“I love you so⁠ ⁠… I love you so.”

She stroked his dark head.

“Tell me the story of it.”

“Shall I? Well, you see, there’s a princess in a tower with golden hair, and kings and knights come from all over the world to try and get her to marry them. But she’s too haughty to look at any of them⁠—the real good old fairy story touch. And at last one comes⁠—a kind of gypsy fellow⁠—very ragged, with a little green hat on his head and a kind of pipe he plays on. And he sings and says that he has the biggest kingdom of anyone because his kingdom is the whole world⁠—and that there are no jewels like his jewels, which are dewdrops. And they say he’s mad and throw him out. But that night when the princess is lying in bed, she hears him playing his song in the castle garden and she listens.

“Then there’s an old Jew pedlar man in the town, and he offers the fellow gold and riches with which to win the princess, but the gypsy laughs and says, What could he give in exchange? And the old man says his green hat and the pipe he plays on, but the gypsy says he will never part with those.

“He plays in the palace garden every night. There’s an old bard in the palace, and he tells a tale of how a hundred years ago a prince of the Royal house was bewitched by a gypsy maid and wandered forth and was never seen again. And the princess listens to it, and at last one night she gets up and comes to the window. And he tells her to leave all her robes and jewels behind and to come out in a simple white gown. But she thinks in her heart that it’s as well to be on the safe side, so she puts a pearl in the hem of her skirt, and she comes out, and they go off in the moonlight while he sings⁠ ⁠… But the pearl in her dress weighs her down and she can’t keep up. And he goes on not realizing that she’s left behind.⁠ ⁠…

“I’ve told this very badly, like a story, but that’s the end of the first act⁠—his going off in the moonlight and her left behind weeping. There are three scenes. The castle hall, the marketplace, and the palace garden outside her window.”

“Won’t that be very expensive⁠—in the way of scenery, I mean?” suggested Nell.

“I don’t know⁠—I hadn’t thought⁠—oh! it can be managed, I expect.” Vernon was irritated by these prosaic details.

“Now the second act is near the marketplace. There is a girl there mending dolls⁠—with black hair hanging down round her face. The gypsy comes along, and asks her what she’s doing, and she says she’s mending the children’s toys⁠—she’s got the most wonderful needle and thread in the world. He tells her all about the princess and how he’s lost her again, and he says he’s going to the old Jew pedlar to sell his hat and his pipe, and she warns him not to⁠—but he says he must.

“I wish I could tell things better. I’m just giving you the story now⁠—not the way I’ve divided it up, because I’m not exactly sure myself yet about that. I’ve got the music⁠—that’s the great thing⁠—the heavy empty palace music⁠—and the noisy clattering marketplace music⁠—and the princess⁠—like that line of poetry, ‘a singing stream in a silent vale,’ and the doll mender, all trees and dark woods like the Forest used to sound at Abbots Puissants; you know, enchanted and mysterious and a little frightening⁠ ⁠… I think you’ll have to have some instruments specially tuned for it.⁠ ⁠… Well, I won’t go into that, it wouldn’t interest you⁠—it’s too technical.

“Where was I? Oh, yes, he turns up at the palace⁠—as a great king this time⁠—all clanking swords and horse trappings and blazing jewels, and the princess is overjoyed and they’re going to be married and everything’s all right. But he begins to get pale and weary, worse every day, and when anyone asks him what is the matter, he says ‘Nothing.’ ”

“Like you when you were a little boy at Abbots Puissants,” said Nell, smiling.

“Did I say that? I don’t remember. Well, then the night before the wedding he can’t bear it any more, and he steals away from the palace and down to the market and wakes up the old Jew and says he must have back his hat and his pipe. He’ll give back everything he got in exchange. The old Jew laughs, and throws down the hat, torn across, and the pipe, broken, at the prince’s feet.

“He’s brokenhearted⁠—the bottom knocked out of his world, and he wanders away with them in his hand, till he comes to where the doll mender is sitting with her feet tucked up under her, and he tells her what has happened and she tells him to lie down and sleep. And when he wakes in the morning there are his green hat and his pipe, mended so beautifully that no one could tell they had been mended.

“And then he laughs for joy, and she goes to a cupboard and pulls out a similar little green hat and a pipe, and they go out together through the forest, and just as the sun rises on the edge of the forest, he looks at her and remembers. He says, ‘Why, a hundred years ago I left my palace and my throne for love of you.’ And she says, ‘Yes. But because you were afraid you hid a piece of gold in the lining of your doublet, and the gleam of it enchanted your eyes and we lost each other. But now the whole world is ours and we will wander through it together forever and ever.’ ”

Vernon stopped. He turned an enthusiastic face upon Nell. “It ought to be lovely, the end⁠ ⁠… so lovely. If I can get into the music what I see and hear⁠ ⁠… the two of them in their little green hats⁠ ⁠… playing their pipes⁠ ⁠… and the forest and the sun rising.⁠ ⁠…”

His face grew dreamy and ecstatic. He seemed to have forgotten Nell.

Nell herself felt indescribable sensations sweep over her. She was afraid of this queer, rapt Vernon. He had talked of music before to her, but never with this strange exalted passion. She knew that Sebastian Levinne thought Vernon might do wonderful things some day, but she remembered lives she had read of musical geniuses and suddenly she wished with all her heart that Vernon might not have this marvellous gift. She wanted him as he had been heretofore, her eager boyish lover, the two of them wrapped in their common dream.

The wives of musicians were always unhappy: she had read that somewhere. She didn’t want Vernon to be a great musician. She wanted him to make some money quickly and live with her at Abbots Puissants. She wanted a sweet, sane, normal, everyday life. Love⁠—and Vernon⁠ ⁠…

This thing⁠—this kind of possession⁠—was dangerous. She was sure it was dangerous.

But she couldn’t damp Vernon’s ardour. She loved him far too much for that. She said, trying to make her voice sound sympathetic and interested:

“What an unusual fairy story! Do you mean to say you’ve remembered it from ever since you were a child?”

“More or less. I thought of it again that morning on the river at Cambridge⁠—just before I saw you standing under that tree. Darling, you were so lovely⁠—so lovely.⁠ ⁠… You always will be lovely, won’t you? I couldn’t bear it if you weren’t. What idiotic things I am saying! And then, after that night at Ranelagh, that wonderful night when I told you that I loved you, all the music came pouring into my mind. Only I couldn’t remember the story clearly⁠—only really the bit about the tower.

“But, I’ve had marvellous luck. I’ve met a girl who is actually the niece of the hospital nurse who told me the story. And she remembered it perfectly and helped me to get it quite clearly again. Isn’t it extraordinary the way things happen?”

“Who is she, this woman?”

“She’s really rather a wonderful person, I think. Awfully nice and frightfully clever. She’s a singer⁠—Jane Harding. She sings Electra and Brunhilde and Isolde with the new English Opera Company; and she may sing at Covent Garden next year. I met her at a party of Sebastian’s. I want you to meet her. I’m sure you’d like her awfully.”

“How old is she? Young?”

“Youngish⁠—about thirty, I should think. She has an awfully queer effect on one. In a way you almost dislike her, and yet she makes you feel you can do things. She’s been very good to me.”

“I dare say.”

Why did she say that? Why should she feel an unreasoning prejudice against this woman⁠—this Jane Harding?

Vernon was staring at her with rather a puzzled expression.

“What’s the matter, darling? You said that so queerly.”

“I don’t know.” She tried to laugh. “A goose walking over my grave, perhaps.”

“Funny,” said Vernon, frowning. “Somebody else said that just lately.”

“Lots of people say it,” said Nell, laughing. She paused and then said: “I’d⁠—I’d like to meet this friend of yours very much, Vernon.”

“I know. I want her to meet you. I’ve talked a lot about you to her.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. Talk about me, I mean. After all, we promised Mother no one should know.”

“Nobody outside⁠—but Sebastian knows and Joe.”

“That’s different. You’ve known them all your life.”

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I didn’t say we were engaged, or tell your name or anything. You’re not cross, are you, Nell darling?”

“Of course not.”

Even in her own ears her voice sounded hard. Why was life so horribly difficult? She was afraid of this music. Already it had made Vernon chuck up a good job. Was it the music? Or was it Jane Harding?

She thought to herself desperately: “I wish I’d never met Vernon. I wish I’d never loved him. I wish⁠—oh! I wish I didn’t love him so much. I’m afraid. I’m afraid.⁠ ⁠…”