The Constant Nymph. Margaret Kennedy Kennedy
had got lost on the way. Getting out of the train at a wayside station in the middle of the night, he had been left behind. His loss was not discovered for some hours as his family were all asleep. They had arrived in a great way about it. Fräulein Kate had wanted to go back, but Herr Sanger said that the child was old enough to look after itself. Fräulein Kate had wept and said that the poor little one had no money and no ticket. Gnädige Frau said that it served him right. They had argued most of the night about it, in this very room, sometimes in one language and sometimes in another, but in the end they decided to let the affair alone and went on to the Karindethal next day. The boy had turned up later.
Lewis listened and mumbled indistinct comments, aware that she had given him away. His fellow-traveller was listening eagerly, and enquired when they were alone:
‘You are going to visit Mr Sanger?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ach! I also!’ The gentleman observed Lewis afresh from his yellow muffler to his ragged socks. ‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Trigorin. Kiril Trigorin.’
He made a sort of little bow in his place where he sat. Lewis made another exactly like it. The name awoke vague echoes but he could not place it. Kiril Trigorin! The man had a box-office look, and his jewellery was of the presentation order. Possibly an operatic tenor. He became aware that the situation required something from him. He said hurriedly:
‘My name is Dodd.’
‘Dodd? You are English?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dodd! Is it possible that you are Mr Lewis Dodd?’
Trigorin became radiant and turned full upon Lewis his innocent, humble gaze, crying:
‘Can it be … can it be that I am at last to have the pleasure, the privilege, of meeting so gifted a composer? One for whose genius I have always …’
‘Yes, my name’s Lewis.’
Trigorin got up, clicked his heels, and made a really deferential bow. Lewis nervously did the same but was unable to avert a flood of polite felicitations upon his work, talents and future. He learnt that Mr Trigorin had watched his career with attention; that he was, of all the younger men, the most promising and the most likely to stand by Sanger’s side; that his least popular work, the ‘Revolutionary Songs’ for choir and orchestra, was indisputably the finest and showed a great advance upon his better-known Symphony in Three Keys; and that he must not be depressed because the public was taking a long time to discover him. With all original work, said Mr Trigorin, this must be the case. The critics have always persecuted young genius. The plaudits of the herd are as nothing to the discerning appreciation of a small circle. Lewis found that his hand was seized and that he was being tearfully besought to rise above his own unpopularity.
‘I should not mind it if I were you,’ ended Mr Trigorin with great simplicity,
Lewis was not as grateful for this encouragement as he should have been. He disengaged his hand with a venomous look. It was not for the appreciation of people like this fat Slav that he had written the ‘Revolutionary Songs’.
‘In future,’ went on his friend, ‘we shall speak English. It is more better practice for me.’
‘All right,’ said Lewis.
‘You have stayed at the Karindehütte before? But that is natural. You are the dear friend of Mr Sanger.’
‘Am I?’
‘It is well known. And what a privilege …’
And he was off again, undaunted by the limitations of his English. How great a genius was Sanger! Colossal! Nobody like him in the world! Lewis scarcely listened, for he had begun to remember who the fellow was. Surely his name suggested a famous ballerina. Irina Zhigalova! Of course! This was her husband, and a person of some ability if it was true that he designed all her ballets. But what on earth was he doing here?
From Trigorin’s conversation an explanation of sorts was emerging. It seemed that he had arranged a ballet in the Autumn for Sanger’s opera ‘Akbar’, and had got this invitation on the strength of it.
‘Never before have I visited here,’ he ended confidentially.
This was evident; the odd thing was that he should have been invited now.
‘This moment, you can imagine, my dear sir, is for me a very great one. I go to visit Mr Sanger; I meet Mr Dodd. I find myself in the company of two most distinguished men all in the one time. I am amazed.’
Lewis thought that he would be more amazed when he got to the Karindehütte. But he said nothing.
‘Of what,’ demanded the innocent creature, ‘does the family consist?’
‘Who? The Sangers? You’ve not met them all?’
‘Only Mr Sanger. At Prague he was alone. I think it is a large family.’
‘Oh … well … yes … pretty big.’
Trigorin wished for more details which Lewis was most reluctant to give. At last he said:
‘Well, there’s Madame.’
‘Madame?’ said Trigorin dubiously. ‘You would say … Mrs Sanger?’
‘Yes,’ exclaimed Lewis, as though he had suddenly discovered a relieving explanation for Madame. ‘And then there are the children.’
‘Many children?’
‘Oh, yes. A lot of children.’ After a pause for thought he stated: ‘Seven!’
‘Seven! And all the children of Madame?’
‘Oh, no! Not all.’ There was another pause and then Mr Dodd repeated: ‘Not all. Only one.’
‘Ach! Then the other six … they have had another mother?’
‘Mothers.’
‘Mothers?’
‘He’s been married several times.’
‘So!’
‘The first wife,’ said Lewis very glibly, ‘had two; the second four; and the third one. That makes seven.’
‘Please? Not so quick!’
Even when it was repeated more slowly Trigorin took some minutes to assimilate it. Then he said:
‘And this Karindethal? How do we come there? By the road?’
‘By the mountain railway,’ said Lewis. ‘It takes us up to the lake, where we get the little steamer across to Weissau. From there we drive four or five miles up the Karindethal to the foot of the pass. Then we get out and climb.’
‘Climb!’ cried Trigorin, sweating a little at the mere thought of it. Lewis grinned and said with energy:
‘Oh, yes. It’s quite steep; several hundred feet. Too rough for driving.’
‘Ach! And our gepacks? We must carry them?’
‘Quite so. I hope you travel light, for your own sake.’
‘And the train? When does it go, Mr Dodd?’
‘Oh, in about an hour. I’ll meet you at the station. I have to go into the town to buy a … a razor …’
And Lewis made his escape, rather pleased to have got off so easily. Trigorin finished his breakfast and strolled out into the garden which was full of little tables under the chestnut trees. He sat down at one of them and began a letter to his wife, writing in French which was most commonly used in his household. He described his journey, as far as it had gone and observed:
I sit here amid the most exquisite scenery. Spring has already come to this charming valley, and the meadows round me are full of …
He had a look at the meadows round him, but could not determine what it