The Constant Nymph. Margaret Kennedy Kennedy
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The Constant Nymph
Title Page
The Constant Nymph
Margaret Kennedy
W
Copyright
Margaret Kennedy
The Constant Nymph
W
Wisehouse Classics
© 2020 Wisehouse Publishing | Sweden
All rights reserved without exception.
ISBN 978-91-7637-864-9
Contents
BOOK ONE SANGER’S CIRCUS
BOOK TWO NYMPHS AND SHEPHERDS
BOOK THREE THE SILVER STY
BOOK FOUR THREE MEET
Dedication
To Mr and Mrs Rolf Bennett
1
At the time of his death the name of Albert Sanger was barely known to the musical public of Great Britain. Among the very few who had heard of him there were even some who called him Sanjé, in the French manner, being disinclined to suppose that great men are occasionally born in Hammersmith.
That, however, is where he was born, of lower middle class parents, in the latter half of the nineteenth century. The whole world knew of it as soon as he was dead and buried. Englishmen, discovering a new belonging, became excited; it appeared that Sanger had been very much heard of everywhere else. His claims to immortality were canvassed eagerly by people who hoped soon to have an opportunity of hearing his work. His idiom, which was demonstrably neither Latin nor Gothic nor yet Slav, was discovered to be Anglo-Saxon. Obituary columns talked of the gay simplicity of his rhythms, an unmistakably national feature, which, they declared, took one back to Chaucer. They lamented that yet another prophet had passed without honour in his own country.
But for this the British public was not entirely to blame; few people can sincerely admire a piece of music which they have not heard. During Sanger’s lifetime his work was never performed in England. It was partly his own fault since he composed nothing but operas and these on a particularly grandiose scale. Their production was a risky enterprise, under the most promising conditions; and in England the conditions attending the production of an opera are never promising. The press suggested that other British composers had been heard in London repeatedly while Sanger languished in a little limbo of neglect. This was not quite the case. The limbo has never been as little as that.
Sanger, moreover, hated England, left it at an early age, never went back, and seldom spoke of it without some strong qualification.
Appreciation, though tardy, was generous when it came. A special effort was made, about a year after Sanger’s death, and the Nine Muses, an enterprising repertory theatre south of the river, undertook the production of ‘Prester John’, the shortest and simplest of the operas. The success of the piece was unqualified. All the intelligentzia and some others flocked to hear, and proved by their applause how ready they were to appreciate English music as soon as ever they got the chance. There were no howls of rage such as had arisen when ‘Prester John’ was produced in Paris; no free fights in the gallery between the partizans and foes of the composer. The whole thing was as decorous as possible and the respectful ardour of the audience, their prolonged cheers at the end, left no doubt as to Sanger’s posthumous position in his own country. They were not unlike the ovation accorded to a guest of honour who arrives a little late.
Having renounced his native land, Sanger adopted no other. He roved about from one European capital to another, never settling anywhere for long, driven forwards by his strange, restless fancy. Usually he quartered himself upon his friends, who were accustomed to endure a great deal from him. He would stay with them for weeks, composing third acts in their spare bedrooms, producing operas which always failed financially, falling in love with their wives, conducting their symphonies, and borrowing money from them. His preposterous