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

IV

He got to Covent Garden late. Peer Gynt had begun. The scene was Ingrid’s wedding and Vernon arrived just at the moment of the first brief meeting of Peer and Solveig. He wondered if Jane were nervous. She managed to look marvellously young with her fair plaits and her innocent calm bearing. She looked nineteen. The act ended with the carrying off of Ingrid by Peer.

Vernon found himself interested less in the music than in Jane. Tonight was Jane’s ordeal. She had to make good or go under. Vernon knew how anxious she was, above everything else, to justify Radmaager’s trust in her.

Presently he knew that all was well. Jane was the perfect Solveig. Her voice, clear and true⁠—the crystal thread, as Radmaager had called it⁠—sang unfalteringly and her acting was wonderful. The calm steadfast personality of Solveig dominated the opera.

Vernon found himself for the first time interested in the story of the weak, storm-torn Peer, the coward who ran from reality at every opportunity. The music of Peer’s conflict with the great Boyg stirred him, reminding him of his childish terror of the Beast. It was the same formless bogey fear of childhood. Unseen, Solveig’s clear voice delivered him from it. The scene in the forest where Solveig comes to Peer was infinitely beautiful, ending with Peer bidding Solveig remain while he went out to take up his burden. Her reply: “If it is so heavy it is best two should share it.” And then Peer’s departure, his final evasion: “Bring sorrow on her? No. Go roundabout, Peer, go roundabout.”

The Whitsuntide music was the most beautiful, but in atmosphere very Radmaagian, Vernon thought. It led up to and prepared for the effect of the final scene. The weary Peer asleep with his head on Solveig’s lap, and Solveig, her hair silvered, a Madonna blue cloak round her in the middle of the stage, her head silhouetted against the rising sun, singing valiantly against the buttons’ moulder.

It was a wonderful duet⁠—Chavaranov, the famous Russian bass, his voice deepening and deepening, and Jane, with her silver thread singing steadily upward and ever upward, higher and higher⁠—till the last note was left to her⁠—high and incredibly pure.⁠ ⁠… And the sun rose.⁠ ⁠…

Vernon, feeling boyishly important, went behind afterwards. The opera had been a terrific success. The applause had been long and enthusiastic. He found Radmaager holding Jane by the hand and kissing her with artistic fervour and thoroughness.

“You are an angel⁠—you are magnificent⁠—yes, magnificent! You are an artist. Ah!” he burst into a torrent of words in his native language, then reverted to English. “I will reward you⁠—yes, little one, I will reward you. I know very well how to do it. I will persuade the long Sebastian. Together we will⁠—”

“Hush,” said Jane.

Vernon came forward awkwardly, said shyly: “It was splendid!”

He squeezed Jane’s hand, and she gave him a brief affectionate smile.

“Where’s Sebastian? Wasn’t he here just now?”

Sebastian was no longer to be seen. Vernon volunteered to go in search of him and bring him along to supper. He said vaguely that he thought he knew where he was. Jane knew nothing of the news about Joe, and he didn’t see how he could tell her at the moment.

He got a taxi and drove to Sebastian’s house, but did not find him. Vernon wondered if perhaps Sebastian might be at his own rooms where he had left him earlier in the evening. He drove there straight away. He was feeling suddenly elated and triumphant. Even Joe did not seem to matter for the moment. He felt suddenly convinced that his own work was good⁠—or rather that it would be some day. And somehow or other he also felt that things were coming right with Nell. She had clung to him differently tonight⁠—more closely⁠—more as though she could not bear to let him go.⁠ ⁠… Yes, he was sure of it. Everything was coming right.

He ran up the stairs to his room. It was in darkness. Sebastian was not here then. He switched on the light⁠—looked round. A note lay on the table, sent by hand. He picked it up. It was addressed to him in Nell’s handwriting. He tore it open.⁠ ⁠…

He stood there a long time. Then, carefully and methodically he drew up a chair to the table, setting it very exactly straight, as though that were important, and sat down holding the note in his hand. He read it again for the tenth or eleventh time:

Dearest Vernon⁠—forgive me⁠—please forgive me. I am going to marry George Chetwynd. I don’t love him like I love you, but I shall be safe with him. Again⁠—do forgive me⁠—please.

He said aloud: “Safe with him. What does she mean by that? She’d have been safe with me. Safe with him? That hurts.⁠ ⁠…”

He sat there. Minutes passed.⁠ ⁠… Hours passed.⁠ ⁠… He sat there, motionless, almost unable to think.⁠ ⁠… Once the thought rose dully in his brain, “Was this how Sebastian felt? I didn’t understand.⁠ ⁠…”

When he heard a rustle in the doorway he didn’t look up. His first sight of Jane was when she came round the table, dropped on her knees beside him.

“Vernon, my dear, what is it? I knew there was something when you didn’t come to the supper. I came to see.”

Dully, mechanically, he held out the note to her. She took it and read it. She laid it down again on the table.

He said in a dull bewildered voice: “She needn’t have said that about not being safe with me. She would have been safe with me.”

“Oh, Vernon⁠—my dear⁠ ⁠…”

Her arms went round him. He clutched at her suddenly⁠—a frightened clutch such as a child might give at its mother. A sob burst from his throat. He laid his face down on the gleaming white skin of her neck.

“Oh! Jane⁠ ⁠… Jane⁠ ⁠…”

She held him closer. She stroked his hair. He murmured:

“Stay with me⁠ ⁠… Stay with me⁠ ⁠… Don’t leave me⁠ ⁠…”

She answered: “I won’t leave you. It’s all right.”

Her voice was tender⁠—motherly. Something broke in him like the breaking of a dam. Ideas swirled and rushed through his head. His father kissing Winnie at Abbots Puissants⁠ ⁠… the statue in the South Kensington⁠ ⁠… Jane’s body⁠ ⁠… her beautiful body.

He said hoarsely: “Stay with me⁠ ⁠…”

Her arms round him, her lips on his forehead, she murmured back: “I’ll stay with you, dear.”

Like a mother to a child.

He wrenched himself suddenly free.

“Not like that. Not like that. Like this.”

His lips fastened on hers⁠—fiercely, hungrily⁠—his hand clutched at the roundness of her breast. He’d always wanted her⁠—always. He knew it now. It was her body he wanted, that beautiful gracious body that Boris Androv had known so well.

He said again: “Stay with me.”

There was a long pause⁠—it seemed to him as though minutes, hours, years passed before she answered:

She said: “I’ll stay⁠ ⁠…”