CHAPTER V

”saidthesuspiciousyoungman,andgotveryred. “Oh,Iwouldbesograteful.” Hetookthebag—moneyclinkinginsideit—andslippedupthegangwaywithit.Hewasjustintimetocatchthemattheswing-door,andhereceivedaprettysmilefromtheGermangirlandafinebowfromhercavalier.Hereturnedtohisseatupsideswiththeworld.Thetrustthattheyhadreposedinhimwastrivial,buthefeltthatitcancelledhismistrustforthem,andthatprobablyhewouldnotbe“had”overhisumbrella.Thisyoungmanhadbeen“had”inthepastbadly,perhapsoverwhelmingly—andnowmostofhisenergieswentindefendinghimselfagainsttheunknown.Butthisafternoon—perhapsonaccountofmusic—heperceivedthatonemustslackoffoccasionallyorwhatisthegoodofbeingalive?WickhamPlace,W.,thougharisk,wasassafeasmostthings,andhewouldriskit. SowhentheconcertwasoverandMargaretsaid,“WelivequitenearIamgoingtherenow.Couldyouwalkroundwithme,andwe’llfindyourumbrella?”hesaid,“Thankyou,”peaceably,andfollowedheroutoftheQueen’sHall.Shewishedthathewasnotsoanxioustohandaladydownstairs,ortocarryalady’sprogrammeforher—hisclasswasnearenoughherownforitsmannerstovexher.Butshefoundhiminterestingonthewhole—everyoneinterestedtheSchlegelsonthewholeatthattime—andwhileherlipstalkedculture,herheartwasplanningtoinvitehimtotea. “Howtiredonegetsaftermusic!”shebegan. “DoyoufindtheatmosphereofQueen’sHalloppressive?” “Yes,horribly.” “ButsurelytheatmosphereofCoventGardenisevenmoreoppressive.” “Doyougotheremuch?” “Whenmyworkpermits,IattendthegalleryfortheRoyalOpera.” Helenwouldhaveexclaimed,“SodoI.Ilovethegallery,”andthushaveendearedherselftotheyoungman.Helencoulddothesethings.ButMargarethadanalmostmorbidhorrorof“drawingpeopleout,”of“makingthingsgo.”ShehadbeentothegalleryatCoventGarden,butshedidnot“attend”it,preferringthemoreexpensiveseatsstilllessdidsheloveit.Soshemadenoreply. “ThisyearIhavebeenthreetimes—to‘Faust,’‘Tosca,’and—”Wasit“Tannhouser”or“Tannhoyser”?Betternotrisktheword. Margaretdisliked“Tosca”and“Faust.”Andso,foronereasonandanother,theywalkedoninsilence,chaperonedbythevoiceofMrs.Munt,whowasgettingintodifficultieswithhernephew. “IdoinaWAYrememberthepassage,Tibby,butwheneveryinstrumentissobeautiful,itisdifficulttopickoutonethingratherthananother.IamsurethatyouandHelentakemetotheverynicestconcerts.Notadullnotefrombeginningtoend.IonlywishthatourGermanfriendshadstayedtillitfinished.” “Butsurelyyouhaven’tforgottenthedrumsteadilybeatingonthelowC,AuntJuley?”cameTibby’svoice.“Noonecould.It’sunmistakable.” “Aspeciallyloudpart?”hazardedMrs.Munt.“OfcourseIdonotgoinforbeingmusical,”sheadded,theshotfailing.“Ionlycareformusic—averydifferentthing.ButstillIwillsaythisformyself—IdoknowwhenIlikeathingandwhenIdon’t.Somepeoplearethesameaboutpictures.Theycangointoapicturegallery—MissCondercan—andsaystraightoffwhattheyfeel,allroundthewall.Inevercoulddothat.Butmusicissodifferentfrompictures,tomymind.WhenitcomestomusicIamassafeashouses,andIassureyou,Tibby,Iambynomeanspleasedbyeverything.Therewasathing—somethingaboutafauninFrench—whichHelenwentintoecstasiesover,butIthoughtitmosttinklingandsuperficial,andsaidso,andIheldtomyopiniontoo.” “Doyouagree?”askedMargaret.“Doyouthinkmusicissodifferentfrompictures?” “I—Ishouldhavethoughtso,kindof,”hesaid. “SoshouldI.Now,mysisterdeclaresthey’rejustthesame.Wehavegreatargumentsoverit.ShesaysI’mdenseIsayshe’ssloppy.”Gettingunderway,shecried:“Now,doesn’titseemabsurdtoyou?WhatisthegoodoftheArtsifthey’reinterchangeable?Whatisthegoodoftheearifittellsyouthesameastheeye?Helen’soneaimistotranslatetunesintothelanguageofpainting,andpicturesintothelanguageofmusic.It’sveryingenious,andshesaysseveralprettythingsintheprocess,butwhat’sgained,I’dliketoknow?Oh,it’sallrubbish,radicallyfalse.IfMonet’sreallyDebussy,andDebussy’sreallyMonet,neithergentlemanisworthhissalt—that’smyopinion.” Evidentlythesesistersquarrelled. “Now,thisverysymphonythatwe’vejustbeenhaving—shewon’tletitalone.Shelabelsitwithmeaningsfromstarttofinishturnsitintoliterature.Iwonderifthedaywilleverreturnwhenmusicwillbetreatedasmusic.YetIdon’tknow.There’smybrother—behindus.Hetreatsmusicasmusic,andoh,mygoodness!Hemakesmeangrierthananyone,simplyfurious.WithhimIdaren’tevenargue.” Anunhappyfamily,iftalented. “But,ofcourse,therealvillainisWagner.Hehasdonemorethananymaninthenineteenthcenturytowardsthemuddlingofthearts.Idofeelthatmusicisinaveryseriousstatejustnow,thoughextraordinarilyinteresting.Everynowandtheninhistorytheredocometheseterriblege