The Constant Nymph. Margaret Kennedy Kennedy
He had grown up into a handsome boy, very like his mother and sister in temper and complexion. His disposition was excellent; from an early age he managed all his father’s business and financial affairs, kept him out of debt as far as possible, and transcribed his manuscripts. In his rare intervals of leisure he wrote music on his own account, but very little attention was paid by the family to his career. He and Kate propped up the crazy household between them and were privately agreed as to its dreadfulness. Linda was grateful to them and tolerated the others.
Lately, however, a new cause for disturbance had arisen. Linda had begun to feel aggrieved at the ripening beauty of Antonia and disliked having to go about with her. This eldest of Evelyn’s children was by far the most handsome; she was born before retribution had fully overtaken her mother, and did not look as delicate as the rest. She was full of a changeful colour and brilliance, though her bloom was but just beginning and she had still the colt-like movements, the long limbs and loose joints of a very young creature. To the experienced eye her promise was infinite. She had a lovely vivid little face, with strange greyish eyes, sulky brows and a white forehead. Her mouth was childish and unformed, but the long curve of cheek and chin, the tilt of the nostrils, and the smooth modelling of the temples revealed a finely constructed skull, a beauty which was bone deep and which would survive the loss of youth. In character she also resembled her mother: was unbalanced, proud and at times impossibly generous. But she lacked Evelyn’s courage and was reckless rather than intrepid. She could only take a risk by deceiving herself as to its issue, and confronted by a reality she always went to pieces. She cried when she could not get what she wanted, boasted when she was frightened, and was, like her sisters, a deplorable little slattern.
She turned up at the Karindehütte on the afternoon of Trigorin’s arrival in a very uncertain state of mind, having been absent for a week. Unsure of the attitude of her family, she would not go in by the veranda for fear of meeting Linda. She slipped round to the back of the house and climbed through a window into the music-room, where she found Teresa and Paulina sitting on the dais step and devouring cherries. Immediately she put on a kind of defensive swagger and strolled carelessly across the room as though she had never been away at all. Her sisters opened their eyes very wide indeed and asked where she had been.
To give herself time she sat down beside them, snatched a handful of cherries from the basket, and stuffed them into her mouth. Then she mumbled.
‘Oh … in München.’
‘München,’ cried the others. ‘Who on earth did you stay with?’
She spat out her stones and would not answer; but, when they asked incredulously whether it was Ikey Mo, she nodded.
‘Himmel!’ gasped Teresa and Paulina together.
They referred to a young man, a friend of Sanger’s, whose real name was Jacob Birnbaum, but whom they had christened Ikey Mo on account of his nose and his shin bones. To this nickname he had not submitted with the best grace in the world. He was, for reasons of his own, naturalised a British subject; he dressed like an American, and talked four languages correctly but without much command of idiom. He belonged to an immensely rich family and had no regular profession, though he dabbled a good deal in finance. The reigning interest in his life was music; he sometimes acted as a sort of entrepreneur in the arts, financing genius if he thought it would repay him. It nearly always did, for his admirable taste was supplemented by the sharp, forcible intelligence of his race.
His connection with Sanger, however, had brought him no financial profit; he had even lost money over his friend’s productions and he was quite content to do so. For he had his ideals. He almost worshipped Sanger; regarded him as the greatest musician of the century – as one of those magnificent, unique figures which do not inspire every generation.
In appearance he was not pretty, being short, fair and very stout. But he had benevolent little eyes, and a fine, thoughtful forehead. The Sanger children knew him very well, for he had a flat in Munich and often came up to the Karindehütte. Also he had spent part of the Spring with them in Italy, giving Sanger advice about some copyrights. Teresa, casting her mind back, remembered that he had looked a good deal at Antonia as he sat entertaining Linda in their Genoese garden.
Paulina was asking:
‘Did you have a good time?’
‘O—oh, yes! A lovely time! Anything I said I wanted, Ike got it for me at once. He just gave me anything I asked for. We used to go along the street and look at all the shops, and if we came to a flower shop he took me in and ordered all I wanted. And once in a sweet shop there was a basket in the window, all made of chocolate with marzipan fruits and gold ribbons; and I said I’d like that. And he said all right, and got it. And then, just to have him on, I said I wanted an enormous wedding cake in three tiers. But he said: “Oh, if you want it you can have it. It will be very …” ’
She broke off and bit her lip.
‘Did you bring any sweets back with you, Tony?’ asked Paulina eagerly.
‘Little greedy! No! I ate so many I got sick. So I gave them all to some children in the cellars. But Ike would have given me more if I’d wanted. He’d have given me anything. And we had lovely meals; sometimes in restaurants and sometimes sent in. Last night we had a vol-au-vent, and asparagus, and lobsters and an iced bomb and peaches, and Ike had a saddle of mutton as well. And we had champagne. I was drunk every night.’
‘Well, I don’t wonder he’s so fat if he eats all that,’ jeered Teresa.
‘That’s what I told him. I used to say, very loudly, in restaurants and places, “Now I know why you are so fat.” And all the people laughed. I said it in every language I knew. He got quite annoyed. He doesn’t like jokes about his figure.’
‘I wonder he kept you then,’ said Paulina.
‘Well, I said to him: “If you don’t like what I say I’ll go home. I can go this minute if I want to. Nobody can stop me.” So of course he had to put up with it.’
‘Did he give you that hat?’
Antonia wore the very ragged cotton gown in which she had left her home. But she had acquired a fine, flimsy town hat made of black lace with a wreath of gold flowers.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I bought it with my birthday money. Do you like it?’
‘It’s rather vulgar,’ said Teresa. ‘But it suits you.’
Antonia took it off and pinched the tawdry flowers lovingly. Her sisters exclaimed in excitement:
‘Why, you’ve got your hair up!’
‘Yes,’ she said carelessly. ‘Ike said I’d better.’
She had drawn it all off her forehead and pinned it at the back of her head. It was a style which revealed the subtle shadows and curves of brow and temple, giving her an appearance of character and intellect which the low-brimmed hat had destroyed. The calm, youthful beauty of her forehead contrasted strangely with the evasive defiance of her eyes, heavy with the weariness of a week’s frantic dissipation. She sat for a while making nervous grimaces, and then announced:
‘We went to the opera every night.’
‘Oh! Was it tolerable?’ asked Teresa, with very fair imitation of Lewis in his least agreeable manner.
‘Of course it was. It was very beautiful music. Only Ike has strange tastes. Just fancy! He likes Wagner! I told him that we don’t. I said that all savage races like loud noises.’
She paused to laugh heartily at this jibe, and Paulina asked in a puzzled voice:
‘But what did he have you there for if you were so rude? I don’t understand. What did he get out of it?’
‘You’d never take him for a lover,’ cried Teresa; then, catching sight of her sister’s face: ‘Oh, Tony! You didn’t!’
‘Yes I did,’ said Antonia, adding hastily: ‘Do you know he says I’ve the loveliest voice he’s ever heard in his life! He says