The Constant Nymph. Margaret Kennedy Kennedy
‘Or else he’s as mad as you are. Because no sane man, even if he was your lover, could think that you sing better than Kate. But I wonder at your taste, Tony. He’s so fat!’
‘Why shouldn’t he be? There isn’t any law that the first lover anybody takes has to be thin is there?’
‘N—no,’ said Teresa with a rare blush. ‘You know you’ll have a terrible time with Sanger. He said he’d beat you when you came back; and I don’t know what he’ll say when he hears what you’ve done. What will you tell him?’
‘Nothing, or Linda either. I don’t think he’ll ask. He never asks questions unless he’s sure he’s going to like the answer.’
This was true and the little girls nodded. She went on:
‘I expect it will be all right. Ike came back with me, you know. He’s up with Sanger now, and he brought him some cognac for a present. That ought to put him in a good temper. I advised him to bring it and he said it was a good idea, but he was still afraid that Caryl might call him out. So I said: “Caryl never does silly things and that would be silly. Because if he started fighting over us his life wouldn’t be worth a sick headache by the time Soo-zanne’s grown up.” And Ike said that was probably true. I told him I didn’t wonder he was frightened, for he’d make a splendid target. And Caryl’s a good shot. If he fought anybody he’d kill them, I think. I shouldn’t like poor little Ike to be killed. But I don’t see why Caryl should mind, do you? It isn’t as if I was likely to have a baby or anything.’
They rather resented the swagger with which she made this assertion and Teresa said crushingly:
‘Did you walk all about Müchen with that enormous hole in your stocking? I wonder Ike put up with it!’
Antonia turned over her little foot and looked at it. Most of her pink heel stuck out of her stocking. She said instantly:
‘Ike gave me stockings. He gave me twelve pairs, all silk and all different colours.’
‘Fancy taking clothes from him!’
‘I didn’t. I threw them out of the window. I asked him what he took me for. And they all got caught in the telegraph wires, and the people in the street looked so surprised. It was windy, you know, and they waved about like little flags. I laughed till I nearly fell out of the window myself.’
‘Liar!’
‘I did. It’s true. I said to Ike: “If I have a hole in my stocking, what’s that to you? My clothes are my own affair, I should hope. If I’m not grand enough for you to take me out, leave me alone and I’ll go home.” And he said I could throw them out of the window if I liked. So I threw them. And he said he didn’t mind. He said he wouldn’t mind if I threw all my clothes out of the window. He said …’
She pulled herself up with a little gasp as if she had again stumbled upon a recollection which terrified her. But she went on, boastfully elaborating the details of her escapade, and heaping insults upon Birnbaum as though by abuse she could revenge the humiliations of her surrender. She seemed to be bent upon representing him in as ridiculous a light as possible, and Lewis, who joined them in time to hear some of her most highly coloured sallies, was struck by their apt cruelty – at the edge which this episode seemed to have put upon her somewhat primitive wit. He sat on the piano stool, applauding her waggery and encouraging her to fresh efforts until something in her desperate spirits made him uneasy. He observed her more closely, got a glimpse of the disaster in her eyes, and laughed no more; turning round abruptly he began to play the piano and ended the conversation. The girls, immediately silent, listened to him with the grave attention which his music merited. He played sitting very stiff and upright, staring thoughtfully at the notes with a faint, preoccupied smile. The immobility of his body seemed to contribute somehow to the violent activity of his hands as he flung them about the keyboard. He had charged into the last movement in the Appassionata, and for some minutes the room was full of its resistless, onward sweep. Then he broke off, commanding Paulina, with some irritation, not to breathe down his neck.
‘Finish it, Lewis,’ cried Antonia. ‘Play the Presto bit.’
‘I can’t play that piece,’ he demurred. ‘It’s too difficult.’
‘Oh, Lewis! How can you? I’ve often heard you.’
‘Well,’ said Teresa maliciously, ‘I must say I’ve heard it better done.’
He spun round on the music stool as if somebody had stuck a pin into him, and looked at her. She gave him such an innocent little grin that he could not help laughing. He said that they had better lose no time in rehearsing ‘Breakfast with the Borgias’ now that Antonia was back, and went off to fetch it. Paulina said:
‘He didn’t like you saying that you’d heard the Appassionata better done, Tessa.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t have said it was too difficult for him in that silly voice. It was just to show off. I can’t help teasing him when he asks for it like that.’
‘I wish,’ said Antonia with a shiver, ‘that he wouldn’t look at a person as if he saw all in one second everything that had ever happened to them.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ stated Teresa. ‘He only thinks of his own concerns. The other things he hastily forgets, so they shan’t get on his mind.’
Lewis reappeared with the score, which he propped up on the piano, saying:
‘Now I propose to play over the tunes to you until you know them and you can supply your own words. Who will be Cesare Borgia? He’s a tenor.’
‘Roberto,’ said Paulina. ‘He’s got the best voice here.’
‘And Ikey Mo must be Pope,’ broke in Antonia. ‘It will suit him so very well.’
‘Oh! He’s here is he?’ asked Lewis.
‘Upstairs with Sanger.’
‘Good! He can double the parts of Pope and Friar. They don’t come on together. Then the flea trainer … what’s his name … Linda’s follower … Trigorin … he can be the servant, Scaramello. It’ll be just the part for him. He has a good deal of business with a poisoned tooth-pick. Just fetch him, Tessa! You’ll find him, I expect, on the veranda. And you, Lina, produce Roberto for me.’
Teresa ran out and found Trigorin engaged in desultory conversation with Linda. He was looking a trifle crestfallen and uneasy; he had been disappointed not to see Sanger at lunch. Lewis and Kate had discussed ‘The Mountains’ across him, without taking any notice of his attempts to join in. Their conversation reminded him of all his joyful anticipations as he drove up the valley and roused him from the brief delirium occasioned by Linda’s blue eyes. He had not climbed this heavy hill merely to make himself agreeable to a fine woman. She would be very well anywhere else, but here she was not seemly, and to become entangled with her would be to profane the dreams which he had woven about this visit. She found him much less promising after lunch.
He jumped up with alacrity when he heard that Lewis wanted him and followed Teresa as she skipped back into the house. He was radiantly at their service, but his face fell when he heard that they wanted him to sing.
‘It is impossible,’ he exclaimed. ‘I cannot sing.’
‘Everybody has got to,’ said Lewis. ‘You needn’t be a Caruso. No! None of your modesty! Here, sing this!’
He played the opening bars of Scaramello’s song. Trigorin stood, fat and mute, spreading out hands of deprecation.
‘I cannot,’ he repeated.
‘Sing this then,’ commanded Lewis, playing the first bar.
Trigorin produced a voice so small and reedy that Teresa and Paulina rolled on the floor with laughter.
‘No, you’re quite right, you can’t sing,’ said Lewis crossly. ‘But who is to take the part then?’
‘I