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

III

At last, he was able to work. He began to appreciate to the full the joys of freedom. There was nothing to fray his nerves, nothing to dissipate his energy. It could flow, all in one steady stream, into his work. There were few distractions. At the moment, he had only just enough money to keep body and soul together. Abbots Puissants was still unlet⁠ ⁠…

The autumn passed and most of the winter. He saw Nell once or twice a week, stolen unsatisfactory meetings. They were both conscious of the loss of the first fine rapture. She questioned him closely about the progress of the opera. How was it going? When did he expect it would be finished? What chances were there of its being produced?

Vernon was vague to all these practical aspects. He was concerned at the moment only with the creative side. The opera was getting itself born, slowly, with innumerable pangs and difficulties, with a hundred setbacks owing to Vernon’s own lack of experience and technique. His conversation was mostly of instrumental difficulties or possibilities. He went out with odd musicians who played in orchestras. Nell went to many concerts and was fond of music, but it is doubtful if she could have told an oboe from a clarinet. She’d always imagined a horn and a French horn to be much the same thing. The technical knowledge needed in score writing appalled her, and Vernon’s indifference to how and when the opera would be produced made her uneasy.

He hardly realized himself how much his uncertain answers depressed and alienated Nell. He was startled one day when she said to him⁠—indeed not so much said as wailed:

“Oh, Vernon, don’t try me too hard. It’s so difficult⁠—so difficult. I must have some hope. You don’t understand.”

He looked at her astonished.

“But, Nell, it’s all right really. It’s only a question of being patient.”

“I know, Vernon. I shouldn’t have said that, but you see⁠—”

She paused.

“It makes it so much more difficult for me, darling,” said Vernon, “if I feel that you’re unhappy.”

“Oh, I’m not⁠—I won’t be.”

But underneath, choked down, that old feeling of resentment lifted its head again. Vernon didn’t understand or care how difficult things were for her. He never had the faintest conception of her difficulties. He would, perhaps, have called them silly or trivial. They were, in one sense, but in another they weren’t⁠—since the sum total of them went to make up her life. Vernon didn’t see or realize that she was fighting a battle⁠—fighting it all the time. She could never relax. If he could only realize that, give her a word of cheer, show her that he understood the difficult position in which she was placed. But he never would see.

A devastating sense of loneliness swept over Nell. Men were like that⁠—they never understood or cared. Love⁠—that seemed to solve everything. But really it didn’t solve anything at all. She almost hated Vernon. Selfishly absorbed in his work, disliking her to be unhappy because it upset him⁠ ⁠…

She thought: “Any woman would understand.”

And, moved by some obscure impulse, she went of her own accord to see Jane Harding.

Jane was in, and if she was surprised to see Nell, she did not show it. They talked for some time on desultory things. Yet Nell had a feeling that Jane was waiting and watching, biding her time.

Why had she come? She didn’t know. She feared and distrusted Jane⁠—perhaps that was why! Jane was her enemy. Yes, but she had a fear that her enemy had a wisdom denied to her. Jane (she put it to herself) was clever. She was, very possibly, bad⁠—yes, she was sure Jane was bad⁠—but somehow or other one might learn from her.

She began rather blunderingly. Did Jane think that Vernon’s music was likely to be successful⁠—that is to say successful soon? She tried in vain to keep a quaver out of her voice.

She felt Jane’s cool green eyes upon her.

“Things getting difficult?”

“Yes, you see⁠—”

It tumbled out, a great deal of it: the shifts, the difficulties, the unspoken force of her mother’s silent pressure, a dimly veiled reference to Someone, name not given, Someone who understood and was kind and was rich.

How easy to say these things to a woman⁠—even a woman like Jane, who couldn’t know anything about them. Women understood⁠—they didn’t pooh-pooh trifles and make everything out to be unimportant.

When she had finished, Jane said: “It’s a little hard on you. When you first met Vernon you had no idea of this music business.”

“I didn’t think it would be like this,” said Nell bitterly.

“Well, it’s no good going back to what you didn’t think, is it?”

“I suppose not.” Nell felt vaguely annoyed at Jane’s tone. “Oh!” she broke out. “You feel, of course, that everything ought to give way to his music⁠—that he’s a genius⁠—that I ought to be glad to make any sacrifice.”

“No, I don’t,” said Jane. “I don’t think any of those things. I don’t know what good geniuses are, or works of art either. Some people are born with a feeling that they matter more than anything else, and some people aren’t. It’s impossible to say who’s right. The best thing for you would be to persuade Vernon to give up music, sell Abbots Puissants, and settle down with you on the proceeds. But I do know this, that you haven’t an earthly chance of getting him to give up music. These things, genius, art, whatever you like to call it, are much stronger than you are. You might just as well be King Canute on the sea shore. You can’t turn back Vernon from music.”

“What can I do?” said Nell hopelessly.

“Well, you can either marry this other man you were talking of and be reasonably happy, or you can marry Vernon and be actively unhappy with periods of bliss.”

Nell looked at her.

“What would you do?” she whispered.

“Oh! I should marry Vernon and be unhappy, but then some of us like taking our pleasures sadly.”

Nell got up. She stood in the doorway looking back at Jane who had not moved. She was lying back against the wall, smoking a cigarette, her eyes half closed. She looked a little like a cat, or a Chinese idol. A sudden wave of fury came over Nell.

“I hate you,” she cried. “You’re taking Vernon away from me. Yes⁠—you. You’re bad⁠—evil. I know it, I can feel it. You’re a bad woman.”

“You’re jealous,” said Jane quietly.

“You admit then, there’s something to be jealous of? Not that Vernon loves you. He doesn’t. He never would. It’s you who want to get hold of him.”

There was silence⁠—a pulsating silence. Then, without moving, Jane laughed. Nell hurried out of the flat, hardly knowing what she was doing.