Giant’s Bread · Book III · IV · Chapter 3 4 1

I

On a day in July Sebastian Levinne walked along the Embankment in the direction of Jane’s flat. It was a day more suggestive of early spring than of summer. A cold wind blew the dust in his face and made him blink.

There was a change visible in Sebastian. He had grown perceptibly older. There was very little of the boy about him now⁠—there never had been much. He had always had that curious maturity of outlook which is the Semitic inheritance. As he walked along now, frowning to himself and pondering, he would easily have been taken for a man over thirty.

Jane herself opened the door of the flat to him. She spoke in a low, unusually husky voice.

“Vernon’s out. He couldn’t wait for you. You said three, you know, and it’s past four now.”

“I was kept. Just as well, perhaps. I’m never quite sure of the best way of dealing with Vernon’s nerves.”

“Don’t tell me any fresh crises have arisen? I couldn’t bear it.”

“Oh you’ll get used to them. I’ve had to. What’s the matter with your voice, Jane?”

“A cold. A throat, rather. It’s all right. I’m nursing it.”

“My God! And The Princess in the Tower tomorrow night. Suppose you can’t sing.”

“Oh! I shall sing. Don’t be afraid. Only don’t mind my whispering. I want to save it every bit I can.”

“Of course. You’ve seen someone, I suppose?”

“My usual man in Harley Street.”

“What did he say?”

“The usual things.”

“He didn’t forbid you to sing tomorrow?”

“Oh! no.”

“You’re an awfully good liar, aren’t you, Jane?”

“I thought it would save trouble. But I might have known it would be no good with you. I’ll be honest. He warned me that I’d been persistently overstraining my voice for years. He said it was madness to sing tomorrow night. But I don’t care.”

“My dear Jane, I’m not going to risk your losing your voice.”

“Mind your own business, Sebastian. My voice is my affair. I don’t interfere in your concerns, don’t interfere in mine.”

Sebastian grinned.

“The tiger cat at home,” he remarked. “But you mustn’t, Jane, all the same. Does Vernon know?”

“Of course not. What do you think? And you’re not to tell him, Sebastian.”

“I don’t interfere really,” said Sebastian. “I never have. But Jane dear, it will be ten thousand pities. The opera’s not worth it. And Vernon’s not worth it either. Be angry with me if you like for saying so.”

“Why should I be angry with you? It’s the truth, and I know it. All the same, I’m going through with it. Call me any kind of a conceited egoist you like, but The Princess in the Tower won’t be a success without me. I’ve been a success as Isolde and a furore in Solveig. It’s my moment. And it’s going to be Vernon’s moment too. I can at least do that for him.”

He heard the undercurrent of feeling, the unconscious betrayal of that “at least,” but not by a muscle of his face did he show that he had realized its significance. He only said again very gently: “He’s not worth it, Jane. Paddle your own canoe. It’s the only way. You’ve arrived. Vernon hasn’t and may never.”

“I know. I know. No one’s what you call ‘worth it’⁠—except perhaps one person.”

“Who?”

“You, Sebastian. You’re worth it⁠—and yet it’s not for you I’m doing it!”

Sebastian was surprised and touched. A sudden mist came over his eyes. He stretched out his hand and took Jane’s. They sat for a minute or two in silence.

“That was nice of you, Jane,” he said at last.

“Well, it’s true. You’re worth a dozen of Vernon. You’ve got brains, initiative, strength of character⁠ ⁠…”

Her husky voice died away. After another minute or two, he said very gently:

“How are things? Much as usual?”

“Yes, I think so. You know Mrs. Deyre came to see me?”

“No, I didn’t. What did she want?”

“She came to beg me to give up her boy. Pointed out how I was ruining his life. Only a really bad woman would do what I was doing. And so on. You can guess the kind of thing.”

“And what did you say to her?” asked Sebastian curiously.

Jane shrugged her shoulders.

“What could I say? That to Vernon one harlot was as good as another?”

“Oh! my dear,” said Sebastian gently. “Is it as bad as that?”

Jane got up, lighted a cigarette and walked restlessly about the room. Sebastian noticed how haggard her face had become.

“Is he⁠—more or less all right?” he ventured.

“He drinks too much,” said Jane curtly.

“Can’t you prevent it?”

“No, I can’t.”

“It’s queer. I should have thought you would always have great influence over Vernon.”

“Well, I haven’t. Not now.” She was silent for a moment and then said: “Nell’s being married in the autumn, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Do you think things will be⁠—better then?”

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“I wish to God he’d pull up,” said Sebastian. “If you can’t keep him straight, Jane, nobody can. Of course, it’s in the blood.”

She came and sat down again.

“Tell me⁠—tell me everything you know. About his people⁠—his father, his mother.”

Sebastian gave a succinct account of the Deyres. Jane listened.

“His mother you’ve seen,” he concluded. “Queer, isn’t it, that Vernon doesn’t seem to have inherited one single thing from her? He’s a Deyre through and through. They are all artistic, musical, weak-willed, self-indulgent, and attractive to women. Heredity’s an odd thing.”

“I don’t quite agree with you,” said Jane. “Vernon’s not like his mother, but he has inherited something from her.”

“What?”

“Vitality. She’s an extraordinarily fine animal⁠—have you ever thought of her that way? Well, Vernon’s inherited some of that. Without it he’d never have been a composer. If he was a Deyre pure and simple, he’d only have dallied with music. It’s the Bent force that gives him the power to create. You say his grandfather built up their business single-handed. Well, there’s the same thing in Vernon.”

“I wonder if you’re right.”

“I’m sure I am.”

Sebastian considered silently for some minutes.

“Is it only drink?” he said at last. “Or is it⁠—well, I mean, are there⁠—other people?”

“Oh! there are others.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“Mind? Mind? Of course I mind. What do you think I’m made of, Sebastian? I’m nearly killed with minding.⁠ ⁠… But what can I do? Make scenes? Rant and rave and drive Vernon away from me altogether?”

Her beautiful husky voice rose from its whisper. Sebastian made a quick gesture and she stopped.

“You’re right. I must be careful.”

“I can’t understand it,” grumbled Sebastian. “Even his music doesn’t seem to mean anything to Vernon now. He’s taken every suggestion from Radmaager and been like a lamb. It’s unnatural!”

“We must wait. It will come back. It’s reaction⁠—reaction and Nell together. I can’t help feeling that if The Princess in the Tower is a success, Vernon will pull himself together. He must feel a certain pride⁠—a sense of achievement.”

“I hope so,” said Sebastian heavily. “But I’m a bit worried about the future.”

“In what way? What are you afraid of?”

“War.”

Jane looked at him in astonishment. She could hardly believe her ears. She thought she must have mistaken the word.

“War?”

“Yes. The outcome of this Sarajevo business.”

It still seemed to Jane a little absurd and ridiculous.

“War with whom?”

“Germany⁠—principally.”

“Oh! surely, Sebastian. Such a⁠—a⁠—faraway thing.”

“What does the pretext matter?” said Sebastian impatiently. “It’s the way money has been going. Money talks. I handle money⁠—our relations in Russia handle money. We know. From the way money has been behaving for some time, we can guess what is in the wind. War’s coming, Jane.”

Jane looked at him and changed her mind. Sebastian was in earnest and Sebastian usually knew what he was talking about. If he said war was coming, then, fantastic as it seemed, war would come.

Sebastian sat still, lost in thought. Money, investments, various loans, financial responsibilities he had undertaken, the future of his theatres, the policy to be adopted by the weekly paper he owned. Then, of course, there would be fighting. He was the son of a naturalized Englishman. He didn’t wish in the least to go and fight, but he supposed it would be necessary. Everyone below a certain age would do so as a matter of course. It was not the danger that worried him, it was the annoyance of leaving his pet schemes to be looked after by someone else. “They’ll make a mess of it, sure to,” thought Sebastian bitterly. He put the war down as being a long job⁠—two years, perhaps more. In the end, he shouldn’t wonder if America was dragged into it.

The Government would issue loans⁠—war loans would be a good investment. No highbrow stuff for the theatres⁠—soldiers on leave would want light comedy⁠—pretty girls⁠—legs⁠—dancing. He thought it all out carefully. It was a good thing to get a chance to think uninterruptedly. Being with Jane was like being alone. She always knew when you didn’t want to be spoken to.

He looked across at her. She, too, was thinking. He wondered what she was thinking about⁠—you never quite knew with Jane. She and Vernon were alike there⁠—didn’t tell her thoughts. She was probably thinking about Vernon. If Vernon should go to the war and be killed! But no⁠—that mustn’t be. Sebastian’s artistic soul rebelled. Vernon mustn’t be killed.