The Constant Nymph. Margaret Kennedy Kennedy
gardenias he could not put a name to them. He compromised:
… full of a thousand blossoms of every colour.
With an oath he brushed a chestnut flower off his page. They drifted down everywhere, settling on his straight, upstanding hair and on the backs of the hens pecking about in the grass. They were a plague. He continued to write.
Around me, on every side, rise the mountains, still crowned with Winter. Behind these grim ramparts, nursing his genius in solitary grandeur, dwells The Master. I go to him by the train in an hour’s time.
He knew that his wife would not really find this very interesting. But he was suffering from such an épanchenunt de cæur that he had to write it all to somebody and there was no one else. He described his meeting with young Dodd:
Need I tell you that something in the air of this savage youth immediately attracted my attention? I studied him secretly, as yet unaware of his identity. Here, I said, is genius!
I divine it in every gesture. Presently he introduces himself in his simple English way. He is Lewis Dodd!
At that moment the savage youth himself strolled round the corner of the house. Catching sight of Trigorin he retreated hastily and went to talk to a man who was watching a cow graze in a field. He was less afraid of this kind of person than of any other, and was almost affable to it. The conversation lasted until it was time to catch the train.
Trigorin was a little surprised that any gentleman should desert him for a cow-herd, but he was not resentful, since this was Lewis Dodd and The Great have queer ways. He wrote:
Lewis Dodd travels like one of the people, his knapsack on his back. He is even now talking to a poor peasant with the greatest cordiality. With me, I must confess, he was a little abrupt (un peu bourru), but I set it down to nervous sensibility. I did not let it trouble me.
This was a good thing since Lewis was not the first of his kind to snub Mr Trigorin. They often did. But he did not deserve it. Indeed, he merited their pity, if all were known.
He had entertained in his early youth an ardent desire to compose music. He could imagine no keener joy. But his gifts were not upon a scale with his ambitions. He could write nothing that was at all worth listening to, and, being cursed with unusual intelligence, he knew it. So he gave it up and took to arranging ballets, a business at which, almost against his will, he was eminently successful. He had a choreographic talent which hardly fell short of genius, and which was at first something of a consolation to him; though it was poignant work interpreting the music of other men. Falling in with La Zhigalova he designed for her a series of surpassingly beautiful ballets. She was a fine dancer, but no artist, and it was he who discovered to her the full possibilities of her own person and talents. Out of gratitude she married him, a little to his astonishment, and secured his services for life.
While thus saddled with a profession which he had not entirely chosen, Trigorin still thought sadly sometimes of his dead hopes, worshipped his flame in secret, reverenced deeply all composers who came in his way and persisted in seeking the company of musicianly people. Unfortunately they seldom took to him, regarding him as something of a mountebank and undeniably vulgar. They were deceived by his air of metropolitan prosperity; he looked too much like the proprietor of an Opera House. They could not see into the humble, disappointed heart beneath his magnificent waistcoats, or guess how sacred was the very name of music in his ears. Moreover, he was never at his best in their company; he lost all his impressive urbanity in his eagerness to be liked, talked too much, and, betrayed by his ardent heart, often appeared ridiculous.
Sanger, however, had reason to be grateful to him. They had met in Prague, in the preceding Autumn, while the composer was staging his opera ‘Akbar’ and driven to the verge of insanity by the stupidity of producers. He confided his difficulties to Trigorin. He had intended to present the dawn of Eastern history, young, primitive and heroic, in contrast to the splendour of its mysterious decay. Nobody could be made to see this; the ballets were languid and decadent with a stale aroma of the Arabian Nights. Conventional odalisques were introduced everywhere, even into his spirited hunting scenes. Could Trigorin help him? Trigorin could. He designed dances and a décor which caught that inflection of buoyancy suggested by the music. Sanger was charmed. He borrowed fifty pounds from his new friend and invited him to the Karindethal next Spring.
The delight of Trigorin was unbounded. This was the first advance ever made to him by a composer of importance. He accepted in a passion of gratitude. When the Spring came he had some difficulty in persuading his wife that he must be allowed to go, for she rated musicians a little lower than dressmakers. She would only permit it on condition that he would make Sanger write a ballet for her. Though doubtful of his ability to make such a request, he was so anxious to go that he was really ready to promise anything. He now added a postscript to his letter:
Rest assured, my angel, that I am not forgetting your ballet. But it is better that I do not immediately importune Mr Sanger with these requests. It is not that I forget but that I am tactful.
2
Lewis found the journey up to Weissau better than he had expected. His companion was indeed horribly talkative, making intelligent comments upon the grandeur of the scenery all the way, but in the choice of his topics he showed a certain respect for Mr Dodd’s nervous sensibility. They agreed that the chestnut and oak of the valley had now given way to pine woods, and discussed the names of some of the peaks towering above them. As the little train panted its way into the Alpine pastures, Lewis was even so affable as to point out several waterfalls to his companion.
After a stiff ascent the line ended by a lake and they found a little steamer waiting for them. Mr Trigorin said that the expanse of water lent an agreeable perspective to the mountains rising sharply on the other side. Mr Dodd said that it was so, and that when they got across they would find the same thing to be true of the mountains on this side. Mr Trigorin said he supposed so, and became a little silent and unhappy. They crossed the lake without further conversation.
When they had almost reached the hamlet of Weissau, Lewis exclaimed suddenly:
‘There they are, some of them!’
‘Please?’ said Trigorin anxiously.
‘Two of Sanger’s children. On the landing-stage.’
He pointed to the little group of peasants waiting for the boat. Two young girls, standing rather apart from the crowd, had already recognised him and were waving vehemently. As soon as he got off the boat they flung themselves upon his neck, kissing him with eager delight.
‘Oh, Lewis!’ exclaimed the smaller. ‘We never expected to see you at all. Only some one is probably coming by this boat so we thought we’d come in and buy some sweets and get a ride back.’
‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Sanger got a letter to say this person was coming. And you should hear how he goes on about it. He says he never …’
‘I expect it was Trigorin,’ interrupted Lewis.
‘O—oh, yes! That was the name Sanger said, wasn’t it Lina?’
‘Well then, this is your man. Mr Trigorin. Miss Teresa Sanger; Miss Paulina Sanger.’
Trigorin put down his suitcases and bowed low, beginning:
‘I am most delighted …’
But Teresa cut him short.
‘Lewis! Have you got … you know what?’
‘What? Oh, I know. Yes. I have it in my knapsack.’
‘That’s all right. We’d have lynched you if you’d forgotten. But you’ve been the hell of a time fetching it We’ve only got three days; his birthday’s on Thursday. And he won’t like it unless it’s properly done.’
‘Three days will do if we work hard,’ Lewis assured her. ‘Look! Have you ordered a cart or anything? Because, if not, one of you must leg it up to the hotel and ask for one.’
‘Oh,