Chapter IV

THE third act of Tristan was about to begin; at least the trombones were sounding the motif of Isolde's last song, as a hint that in three minutes the doors would be closed.

Max threw away his cigarette.

" Come on," he said. " When the doors are shut nothing can open them again."

" I think that's so tiresome," said Gerald, following him and Guy Markheim along the passage: " and so inartistic too. How much more exquisite to finish one's cigarette, to have one more small whisky and soda and then to come in in the middle. It would burst upon one so much more."

He neither desired nor received any answer. It was one of his murmuring soliloquies: he continued to murmur as they came into the box where the rest of the party was assembled.

It was a very special night indeed, since it was Miss Tenterden's last appearance in Isolde. She was finding the strain a little too much. It was now the last week in June; and she was to confine herself to Elsa once a week until the end of the season. In fact, a week ago an announcement was made in the morning papers that she would not sing Isolde any more at all; but a contradiction appeared in the evening, and more corroborative proclamations on the morning after.

Miss Tenterden would sing Isolde for the last time on Thursday the twenty-eighth; and this was Thursday the twenty-eighth.

There was a big party in the box on the second tier to say good-bye to Isolde; and two extra seats had been put in. Lady Merival and Norah were both there, and their guests were Sir Robert and Guy Markheim, a friend of Max's. Gerald and Max had to sit very much at the back. There had been considerable annoyance a week ago when the announcement had been made; and especially on Max's part, when he had seen in the papers that Miss Tenterden would not sing that part again, as his friend Guy was only just back from Constantinople (where he had been baked to death, as he said, in the Embassy) and had never seen Miss Tenterden. There had been a small sharp argument. Guy had said that Isolde was a real test of Wagnerian ability, far more than was Elsa, since the former was a much more complicated study in psychology, to mention only one point; and with all deference to public opinion, he did not believe that a girl of twenty-two could possibly be adequate either to the psychology or to the music — certainly not to both. It had been very lofty and learned talk indeed; and Max, whose daily bread, so to speak, just now was Wagner, had been extremely dogmatic and positive. Then the announcement had been made by Lord Merival who was reading the Times at breakfast. Max had asked for corroboration and had received it. He had been very silent during the rest of breakfast; and had disappeared immediately after. In the evening papers, as has been said, appeared the contradiction of the morning report.

So far, Guy had expressed himself astonished. He certainly knew a little about Wagner, but not as much as he thought; and he therefore was extremely pronounced in his views.

" The real test of Isolde," he had said, as they smoked, " is the Liebestod in the Third Act. She has certainly been wonderfully good so far: but I don't take back what I said until I have heard the end."

" My dear chap," Max had said, " if you can't see by now what Miss Tenterden is capable of, I'm sorry for you. But I assure you you won't be disappointed."

" Why the deuce are you taking such an interest in Wagner, all at once? You usedn't to. What do you know about it anyhow? "

" I am taking pains to inform myself," said Max with dignity. " Anyhow I don't pass judgments on what I haven't seen."

Guy had been silent a moment.

" Well: I'll allow it's a very remarkable performance. She can act so damned well, too. It's interesting that you know her. What is she like in private life? "

" You shall meet her," said Max.

The saddest music in the woild was ending, and the curtain was rising on the castle garden and Tristan lying asleep. A tall wall rose on the left, and over it the head of the young shepherd with his pipe, watching the sea. The branches of a great spreading chestnut hung over the wounded knight; and he tossed and murmured now and again in his delirium.

Tristan was quite competent, though not distinguished by an world-wide fame: but he was young and virile, and had been excellently received, though not with actual rapture. However, he had sung well: and, after all, Miss Tenterden was the point.

Max knew it all well enough by now: it was his fourth visit; so he leaned back and closed his eyes, listening to the melancholy music, and thinking about Marion.

He was not altogether comfortable about the pressure he had brought to bear on her, to sing the part just once more. She was breakfasting in her room when he arrived: and he had to wait and chafe for half an hour before she came down.

When she arrived at last he was just a shade peevish. She had told him that she had had her throat examined for a little inflammation that she thought she had felt: and that the doctor had corroborated her, advising her if possible to cancel at least half of her engagements: finally he had given her her choice, on certain conditions connected with her practising, as to which part she would relinquish; but had been imperative that she must only sing one.

" And if you want to know details," Marion had said, " it's my tonsils. It appears that they are rather too large. That's absolutely all."

" But good heavens, how annoying this is! " Max had cried. " I've told you about Guy before. Well, he's given up an important engagement to come with us on the twenty-eighth when Mainwaring is coming too. He's been talking nonsense about you and Isolde, and I want to prove him wrong."

" Well: I'm very sorry," said Marion. " Don't be cross. It's not my fault."

Then he really had brought pressure to bear. He had said it was absurd to say that one single performance could make all the difference. He pointed out how extremely unfair it was to the public to cancel an engagement on such short notice. He had said everything that could be said.

" But if I'd broken my leg, I couldn't come," said Marion.

"You haven't broken your leg! That's just it."

After a few minutes she had stood up and begun to finger a jar on the mantelpiece. He had watched her, still talking — and had seen the distress on her face. Finally she had yielded.

"Well: I'll do it this once," she said. "At least I'll telephone to Harrison; if it isn't too late. Will that do?"

" I knew you would " he had begun in delight.

And then Miss Brent had come in: and he had escaped before she could find out how he had been tampering with her friend.

Well: no harm of any kind had followed. She had been singing magnificently.

He did not look up again till the burst of timbre music that marks the beginning of Tristan's death and Isolde's entrance from the ship that has brought her across the sea from Cornwall. He loved to see her so, tragic and distraught, with her dying lover in her arms. There is a single chord on the harp; and then the 'cello sounds the motif of the love that once united them.

There followed her lament — poignant and brokenhearted. She cannot believe that Tristan is dead. She has waited so many days: surely he can wait one hour more. He must not, cannot, die of the wound: they must die together, and thus live forever, in the wound of love.

Then, a few minutes later, she too lies dying, by his side, as King Mark bursts in, too late, with his message of life and love for them both; and the agony of the knowledge goads her again into one last fountain of vitality and song. There is the Llebestod.

He was watching her with all his eyes now; conscious that Guy too was leaning forward, gripping the bar of the chair before him. He was filled with a strange sense of triumph. Certainly Guy did not know why he was so zealous a defender of this new prima donna; but that made his pleasure all the greater. He could see, as he looked past him at the stage, that his mouth was drooped open a little.

.What a joy to sight, too, as well as to the ear!

There, in the midst of the great stage stands that figure of incarnate grief and love and triumph, swaying a little, for death is very near. All eyes are fixed on her. She is in white, her black hair bound with gold; a gorgeous sombre mantle dips from her shoulders; her pale face is tense with passion and longing. She is singing in a trance, and visions of heaven and love are before her eyes, though the body of her lover is here; and so proving is the force of her personality, or, rather, so sensitive and eloquent is that instrument which she uses, that there is not one of the audience but feels at least a touch of what is shaking and consuming her. Round her the orchestra is weaving little by little a web of colours and vibrations, gorgeous and ecstatic, following and supporting that soaring voice. She is the first to sound the memory of the love that was hers, and will be hers again; and the strings and the wind take it up. There is no finale so great in all the world as this. It is drawing to a close at last; all the instruments are surging together, like a tide coming home, higher and higher. Her hands are out: she has hardly a couple of bars more — when, suddenly she catches at her throat. Ah! Max had not noticed that gesture before. But as she hesitates — it would seem in very excess of passion — it seems to him that a note is missed. He is not musician enough to know whether his ear is at fault, or whether a slip has been made: but he notices that a very slight rustle or movement, or both, passes over the audience; and that Guy's head jerks suddenly. Ah! it must be all right: the three notes on " hochste Lust " are clear and distinct; and then, shrill and sweet, the high F sharp that ends it.

The oboi repeat softly the love-motive as she sinks to her death; and the chord of B major three times repeated by the entire orchestra brings down the curtain; and permits the storm of applause that breaks like thunder from the house.

"Well: I take it all back," said Guy, as they made their way patiently behind the ladies down the crowded stairs. " Funny thing, though, that last slip."

"Eh? What?" said Max, who had forgotten aU about it.

" Didn't you notice? Just at the very end. She simply left out a note. I think she must have choked. Didn't you see her catch at her throat? "

"Was that it? I thought something went wrong."

11 Yes: that was it. People noticed it, though. Didn't you see them rustle? But really, I allow she was superb. And what an amazing voice for a girl of her age and build. Hullo, old man, where are you going? "

" Just a second," said Max. " I've left my gloves."

He disappeared.

" But where is Max? " asked Lady Merival, as she got into her motor.

" Max went back for his gloves, Lady Merival," said Guy.

" This is too tiresome! We can't keep the whole queue waiting."

" Move on there, please. Move on with that car," said a stentorian voice.

" I'll wait for him," said Guy. Lady Merival nodded: and the car moved off.

Max tapped for some time at the little door on the third tier before any one came. He was fairly well known here by now, and no one interfered with him.

" Take my card in to Miss Tenterden," he said, when the man appeared at last. " I've scribbled a note on the back. I'll wait here."

It was rather desolate waiting. He could see through another door the attendants already racing round the house, turning back seats, gathering pro-grammes. He wondered vaguely whether they would find his gloves, What an ass Guy was to upset him like this: and, a further consideration, what an ass he himself was to be upset! Obviously nothing whatever was the matter. She had sung superbly; and she had ended perfectly. What was one note dropped, and a gesture?

Then he wondered if he might smoke; and thought he'd better not. He didn't in the least want to be turned out until he had got his answer.

In about ten minutes the man returned; and handed him his own card.

" Miss Tenterden's written a line on the back of it, sir," he saifl.

Max turned it to the light and read.

" Nothing wrong. Just a very small choke. Will write to-morrow. M. T."

" Thanks," said Max.

Ill

He was sitting all alone in the big smoking-room next morning about eleven o'clock, wondering why he had not heard from her.

It was one of the best sitting-rooms in the house; and certainly would not have been allowed by Lord Merival to be a smoking-room, if it had been possible to make it anything else. But it had a stair all of its own coming straight up from the hall; and it had large mosaic inscriptions above the cornice, intended to be humorous, and all about the vice of smoking. The Australian who had built the house, though lavish, was not very highly educated. The room looked straight out over the park, now bright in the mid-day sunshine.

Max was sitting in a window-seat, staring out.

He had thought a great deal more about the little incident of last night: and was thanking heaven it was no worse. Really he had been intolerably selfish in insisting on her singing against her doctor's advice.

He only wanted to show her off, he perceived now with a deadly clearness of mind, and had deliberately set his own ridiculous ambition before her comfort. Certainly he had succeeded; the applause last night had been as enthusiastic as ever. But he had been abominably selfish; and he was ashamed of himself.

Then he began to think about the future.

He was nearer in time to the date when he would approach his father as to a profession, but he was no nearer it in inclination. He was really and truly afraid of that adequate quiet man who controlled wide destinies, and who seemed so entirely apart from normal passions and desires. He remembered the very painful scene — painful because so quiet — in which he had been informed that obviously he was not intended by providence to be a successful financier, and since no other walk of life seemed open, it would be better for him in future to confine himself entirely to small social duties, and to the pursuit of those sports and amusements in which he was so proficient. One thing only had been insisted on, and that was that he should make himself acquainted with the working of estates. In this manner he would at any rate be a decent sort of landowner when the time came for him to take up his responsibilities. He had consented, because there was nothing else to do. And now he was to re-open the question and himself demand to be given what he did not want.

Max, even now, had very vague ideas as to what his father could do for him. He supposed that just at first — say for six months — he would have to learn again the duties of a confidential clerk; and they appeared to him loathsome. However, it must be done.

Then, say soon after the beginning of the new year, he would probably be promoted in some way: he did not know how; but he fancied that the sons of eminent financiers always are promoted very soon. Then his fortune would begin to have its foundations laid: in a year, even, he might be a director of a company: and directorships, he believed, carried large salaries, if the holders of them bore great names. Well: by then he would be independent; at least he Would be independent enough to be able to marry Marion without actually going into the workhouse: her earnings, too, at Covent Garden would be an enormous help, if only she wouldn't give away half of them in ridiculous charities. And all this was only if the worst came to the worst, and his father remained obstinate against the marriage, and behaved, indeed, like a stage-father. If not, the difficulty did not exist: if it did, well, it was surmountable, according to his programme.

He felt a little better when he had run over his plans again; and he began to look out at the carriages driving past. A strip of garden ran between Cheriton House and the road, giving a delightful sensation of aloofness: beyond the road came the railings, and beyond them the broad way of the park and the trees. He could just see, by craning his head, the patch of road immediately opposite the entrance to the Row where he had ridden with Marion.

What a wonderful person she was! Yet, he was not sure whether he would ever have noticed it, if it had not been for her profession. Certainly the stage was an enormous asset, and the operatic stage above all others, since it allowed personalities to express themselves explicitly, in situations that normal life did not provide.

For instance, obviously Marion was a tremendous lover: she had capabilities of passion beyond the ordinary. Yet who would ever have suspected it in that quiet girl, not pretty, not flamboyant in any way, almost obscure. Yet see how in Isolde, last night, for instance, these hidden powers had displayed themselves: and even more in Elsa, for Elsa was far nearer Marion's own character than was the other. Isolde, after all, was a domineering sort of person: consider how she abuses Tristan in the First Act, how she raves at him for a paid servant, engaged to carry her off. But Elsa was different. Elsa was the pathetic maiden, beat upon by the world, with a very well of romance and tenderness and feminine irresolution; and yet capable too of passion, if the object were but worthy.

Would he, then, ever have recognised all this, unless he had seen her act? Certainly he had liked her exceedingly in Scotland, especially when she sang; but he did not think he would ever have proposed marriage to her, actually, if he had never seen her on the stage. He might have fallen in love with her for her own qualities: but it certainly would not have been in that particular way in which, as a matter of fact, he had.

These were very profound musings for Max: and he presently felt the need of a cigarette to help him out.

As he went across from the window-seat to get one from the big silver and cedar box on the table by the sofa, he heard a step coming up the private stair. That ^ras probably Gerald, he thought, looking in from South Street: or it might be Guy. He hoped it was Guy: he would like to talk about Tristan and Isolde again.

As he lit his cigarette, a servant came in with a note on a salver.

" There is no answer, sir," he said.

Max took it rather hastily: he saw it was in Marion's handwriting. Then, to enjoy it the better, he went across again to the window-seat, and put up his feet. Then he opened the note.

The note was as follows:

" DEAR OLD MAX,

" This note will upset you dreadfully, I am afraid. But I will tell you at once that it is all right, and that you needn't fuss. You won't have this note at all, as you will see, unless it is all right.

" The fact is that I have to have a very small operation on my throat this morning: and the doctor who will have done it by the time you get this will actually deliver the note himself. I don't want any one else, of course, to know that I have written to you. You'll see it in the papers to-night, I expect. Harrison will be furious: as of course I can't even sing Elsa now again this season: my ridiculous throat will have to heal.

" What I told you last night was perfectly true, so far as I knew then. A doctor was with me when your card came, and was just beginning to look at my throat. Well: it seems that these wretched tonsils of mine quite suddenly swelled up. Goodness only knows how I finished those last four notes. It was just a little dangerous, I gather. He put on some astringent stuff at once, as I was very much inclined to choke: and then told me I must have the operation at once. Poor Maggie was in a dreadful state when I got home and told her.

" I am writing this quite early in the morning. The doctor — my own, I mean, will be here about half-past nine: and he'll take this, as I said, only if it's all entirely satisfactory. So there is nothing wfiatever to fuss about. I've been doing too much all round.

" One thing I want to make quite clear is that it wasn't just the one extra performance that did it. It would certainly have come anyhow: so you mustn't think it's your fault. IT ISN'T.

" Don't come and see me. You can come and inquire if you like, in a proper and stately manner the day after you have seen the news in the papers. Not before.

" My love,

" Yours, M. T.

"PS. — Your kitten is an unending joy. Did I tell jou I'd called him Maximilian? It seemed to go with Rhadamanthus, somehow. He's on my bed at this moment."