Giant’s Bread · Book III · II · Chapter 3 2 4

IV

Sebastian came very often to see Jane. He usually came after dinner, ringing up first to find if she would be at home. They both found a curious pleasure in each other’s company. To Sebastian Jane recounted her struggles with the role of Solveig, the difficulties of the music, the difficulty of pleasing Radmaager, the still greater difficulty of pleasing herself. To Jane, Sebastian imparted his ambitions, his present plans, his future vague ideas.

One evening, after they had both been silent after a long spell of talking, he said:

“I can talk to you better than anyone I know, Jane. I don’t quite know why, either.”

“Well, in a way, we’re both the same kind of person, aren’t we?”

“Are we?”

“I think so. Not superficially, perhaps, but fundamentally. We both like truth. I think, as far as one can say that of oneself we both see things as they are.”

“And you think most people don’t?”

“Of course they don’t. Nell Vereker, for instance. She sees things as they’ve been shown her, as she hopes they are.”

“A slave of convention, you mean?”

“Yes, but it works both ways. Joe, for instance, prides herself on being unconventional, but that makes just as much for narrowness and prejudice.”

“Yes, if you’re ‘agin’ everything irrespective of what it is. Joe is like that. She must be a rebel. She never really examines a thing on its merits. And that’s what damns me so hopelessly in her eyes. I’m successful⁠—and she admires failures. I’m rich, so she’d gain instead of lose if she married me. And being a Jew doesn’t count against you much nowadays.”

“It’s even fashionable,” said Jane laughing.

“And yet, do you know, Jane, I always have a queer feeling that Joe really likes me?”

“Perhaps she does. She’s the wrong age for you, Sebastian. That Swede at your party said something wonderfully true⁠—about separation in time being worse than separation in space. If you’re the wrong age for a person, nothing keeps you apart so hopelessly. You may be made for one another, but be born at the wrong time for each other. Does that sound nonsense? I believe when she’s about thirty-five, Joe could love you⁠—the real essential you⁠—madly. It’ll take a woman to love you, Sebastian, not a girl.”

Sebastian was looking into the fire. It was a cold February day, and there were logs piled up on the coals. Jane hated gas fires.

“Have you ever wondered, Jane, why we don’t fall in love with each other, you and I? Platonic friendship doesn’t usually work. And you’re very attractive. There’s a lot of the siren about you⁠—quite unconscious, but it’s there.”

“Perhaps we should under normal conditions.”

“Aren’t we under normal conditions? Oh! wait a minute⁠—I know what you mean. You mean the line’s already engaged.”

“Yes. If you didn’t love Joe⁠—”

“And if you⁠—”

He stopped.

“Well?” said Jane. “You knew, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose so. You don’t mind talking about it?”

“Not in the least. If a thing’s there, what does it matter if you talk of it or not?”

“Are you one of the people, Jane, who believe that if you want a thing enough you can make it happen?”

Jane considered.

“No⁠—I don’t think I am. So many things happen to you naturally that it keeps you busy without⁠—well, looking for things as well. When a thing’s offered you, you’ve got to choose whether you’ll accept it or refuse it. That’s destiny. And when you’ve made your choice you must abide by it without looking back.”

“That’s the spirit of Greek tragedy. You’ve got Electra into your bones, Jane.” He picked up a book from the table. “Peer Gynt? You’re steeping yourself in Solveig, I see.”

“Yes. It’s more her opera than Peer’s. You know, Sebastian, Solveig is a wonderfully fascinating character⁠—so impassive, so calm, and yet so utterly certain that her love for Peer is the only thing in heaven or earth. She knows that he wants and needs her though he never tells her so, she is abandoned and deserted by him, and manages to turn that desertion into a crowning proof of his love. By the way, that Whitsuntide music of Radmaager’s is perfectly glorious. You know: ‘Blessed is he who has made my life blessed!’ To show that the love of a man can turn you into a kind of impassioned nun is difficult but rather wonderful.”

“Is Radmaager pleased with you?”

“Sometimes he is. Yesterday, on the other hand, he consigned my soul to hell and shook me till my teeth rattled. He was perfectly right, too. I sang it all wrong⁠—like a melodramatic stage-struck girl. It’s got to be sheer force of will⁠—restraint. Solveig must be so soft and gentle, but really so terribly strong. It’s like Radmaager said the first day. Snow⁠—smooth snow⁠—with a wonderful clear design running through it.”

She went on to talk of Vernon’s work.

“It’s almost finished, you know. I want him to show it to Radmaager.”

“Will he?”

“I think so. Have you seen it?”

“Parts of it only.”

“What do you think of it?”

“I’ll hear what you think of it first, Jane. Your judgment’s as good as mine any day where music is concerned.”

“It’s crude. There’s too much in it⁠—too much good stuff. He hasn’t learnt how to handle his material⁠—but the material is there⁠—masses and masses of it. Do you agree?”

Sebastian nodded.

“Absolutely. I’m more sure than ever that Vernon is going to⁠—well, revolutionize things. But there’s a nasty time coming. He’ll have to face the fact that what he’s written isn’t, when all’s said and done, a commercial proposition.”

“You mean, it couldn’t be produced?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“You could produce it.”

“You mean, out of friendship?”

“That’s what I meant.”

Sebastian got up and began to pace up and down.

“To my way of thinking, that’s unethical,” he said at last.

“And also you don’t like losing money.”

“Quite true.”

“But you could afford to lose a certain amount without⁠—well, noticing it?”

“I always notice losing money. It affects⁠—well, my pride.”

Jane nodded.

“I understand that. But I don’t think, Sebastian, that you need lose money.”

“My dear Jane⁠—”

“Don’t argue with me till you know what I’m arguing about. You’re going to produce a certain amount of what the world calls ‘highbrow’ stuff at the little Holborn theatre, aren’t you? Well, this summer⁠—say the beginning of July⁠—produce The Princess in the Tower for⁠—say⁠—two weeks. Don’t produce it from the point of view of an opera (don’t tell Vernon this, by the way⁠—but there, you wouldn’t. You’re not an idiot), but from the point of view of a musical spectacular play. Unusual scenery and weird lighting effects⁠—you’re keen on lighting, I know. The Russian ballet⁠—that’s what you’ve got to aim at; that’s the⁠—the tone of it. Have good singers, but attractive ones to look at as well. And now, putting modesty in the background, I’ll tell you this. I’ll make a success of it for you.”

“You⁠—as the princess?”

“No, my dear child, as the doll mender. It’s a weird character⁠—a character that will attract and arrest. The music of the doll mender is the best thing Vernon has done. Sebastian, you’ve always said I could act. They’re going to let me sing at Covent Garden this season because I can act. I shall make a hit. I know I can act⁠—and acting counts for a lot in opera. I can⁠—I can sway people. I can make them feel. Vernon’s opera will need licking into shape from the dramatic point of view. Leave that to me. From the musical side, you and Radmaager may be able to make suggestions⁠—if he’ll take them. Musicians are the devil to deal with as we all know. The thing can be done, Sebastian.”

She leaned forward, her face vivid and impressive. Sebastian’s face grew more impassive as it always did when he was thinking hard. He looked appraisingly at Jane, weighing her, not from the personal standpoint, but from the impersonal. He believed in Jane, in her dynamic force, in her magnetism, in her wonderful power of communicating emotion over the footlights.

“I’ll think it over,” he said quietly. “There’s something in what you say.”

Jane laughed suddenly.

“And you’ll be able to get me very cheap, Sebastian,” she said.

“I shall expect to,” said Sebastian gravely. “My Jewish instincts must be appeased somehow. You’re putting this thing over on me, Jane⁠—don’t imagine that I don’t know it!”