Swan Song (2 page)

They had no mutual acquaintance outside the opera-house, and inside it there was only one possible choice for such a delicate mission. A woman was indicated – and a woman, moreover, who was mature, worldly, sensible, and friendly with Adam. So one evening, after the rehearsal was over, Elizabeth went to visit Joan Davis (who was singing the part of the Marschallin) at her flat in Maida Vale.

The room into which an elderly, heavy-footed maidservant ushered her was untidy – so untidy as to suggest the aftermath of a burglary. It soon became apparent, however, that this was the normal condition of Miss Davis's belongings. The maid announced Elizabeth, clucked deprecatorily, made a half-hearted foray among a welter of articles on the sideboard, and then departed, tramping vehemently and muttering to herself.

‘Poor Elsie.' Joan shook her head. ‘She'll never reconcile herself to my slatternly ways. Sit down, my dear, and have a drink.'

‘You're not busy?'

‘As you see' – Joan waved a needle, a shrivelled length of silk, and a mushroom-shaped object constructed of wood – ‘I'm mending. But I can quite well go on with that while you talk to me . . . Gin and something?'

They chattered of commonplaces while they sat and smoked their cigarettes. Then, with some misgiving, Elizabeth broached the reason for her visit.

‘You know Adam,' she began, and was taken aback at having made so idiotic a statement. ‘That is to say –'

‘That is to say,' Joan put in, ‘that you're rather taken with him.'

She grinned disconcertingly. She was a tall, slender woman of about thirty-five, with features which, though too irregular for beauty, were yet remarkably expressive. The grin mingled shrewdness with a cynical, impish vivacity.

Elizabeth was frankly dismayed. ‘Is it as obvious as all that?'

‘Certainly – to everyone except Adam. I've thought once or twice of letting even him into the secret, but it hardly does for an outsider to interfere in these things.'

‘As a matter of fact' – Elizabeth blushed slightly in spite of herself – ‘that's exactly what I came here to ask you to do.'

‘My dear, what fun. I shall enjoy it thoroughly . . .' Joan paused to reflect. ‘Yes, I see now that it's probably the only way. Adam is not, in our grandparents' phrase, a “person of much observation”. But he's a good-hearted creature, all the same. Blessings to you both. I'll tackle him tomorrow.'

And this she did, carrying Adam off, in a suitably idle moment, to the green-room. What she had to tell him took him completely unawares. He expostulated, feebly and without conviction. Subsequently Joan left him to meditate upon her words and returned to the rehearsal.

His initial surprise gave place almost at once to an overwhelming sense of gratification – and this by no means for reasons of vanity, but because an obscure sense of dissatisfaction from which he had recently suffered was now entirely dissipated. For him, too, there was a refocusing, as though the pattern of a puzzle had at last become apparent – become, indeed, so self-evident that its previous obscurity was almost incomprehensible. Beatitude and embarrassment clamoured equally for recognition. Ten minutes previously he had regarded Elizabeth as a pleasant acquaintance; now he had not the least doubt that he was going to marry her.

He was recalled to the stage, and there participated with decided gusto in the discomfiture of Baron Ochs von Lerchenau.

But when actually confronted with Elizabeth his shyness got the better of him. During the week that followed, indeed, he went so far as to avoid her – a phenomenon which filled Elizabeth with secret dismay.
She came to believe, as the days passed, that the news of her feelings must have offended him, though as a matter of fact the reason for his unsociability lay in a sort of coyness, for which he severely reproached himself, but which for some time he was quite unable to overcome. In the end it was his growing impatience with his own puerility which brought him to the point. It happened towards the close of the first dress-rehearsal. Bracing himself – in a fashion more appropriate to some monstrous task like the taking of a beleaguered city than to the wooing of a girl whom he knew perfectly well to be fond of him – he went to speak to Elizabeth in the auditorium.

She was sitting, small, demure, cool, and self-possessed, on a red plush seat in the centre of the front row of the stalls. Framed in the large rococo splendours of the opera-house like a fine jewel in an antique setting. Tier upon gilded tier of boxes and galleries, radiating on either side from the royal box, towered into the upper darkness. Callipygic Boucher cherubs and putti held lean striated pillars in a passionate embrace. The great chandelier swayed fractionally in a draught, its crystal pendants winking like fireflies in the light reflected from the stage. And Adam paused, daunted. The
mise-en-scène
was by no means appropriate to the intimate things which he had to say. He consulted first his watch and then the state of affairs on the stage, saw that the rehearsal would be over in half an hour at most, and invited Elizabeth out to a late dinner.

They went to a restaurant in Dean Street, and sat at a table with a red-shaded lamp in a stuffy downstairs room. A small, garrulous, mostly unintelligible Cypriot waiter served them. Adam ordered, with stately deliberation, some very expensive claret, and Elizabeth's spirits rose perceptibly. Since it was obvious that the well-intentioned nagging of their waiter would be unpropitious to confidences, Adam deferred the business of the evening until the arrival of coffee forced the waiter at last
to go away. He then embarked on the subject overhastily and without sufficient premeditation.

‘Elizabeth,' he said, ‘I hear – that is to say, I understand – that is to say that my feelings – what I mean is –'

He stopped abruptly, dumbfounded at so much feebleness and incoherence, and drank the whole of his liqueur at a gulp. He felt like a man who has incomprehensibly lost his nerve on the middle of a tight-rope. Elizabeth experienced a transient exasperation at being kept for so long in suspense; certainly the omens were favourable, but one could not be
completely
sure . . .

‘Adam dear,' she replied gently, ‘what on earth are you trying to say?'

‘I am trying to say,' Adam resumed earnestly, ‘that – that I'm in love with you. And that I should like you to marry me. To marry me,' he repeated with unwarranted ferocity, and sat back abruptly, gazing at her with open defiance.

Really, thought Elizabeth, one would imagine he was challenging me to a duel. But oh, Adam, my darling, my unspeakably shy and precious old
idiot
. . . With the utmost difficulty she resisted the temptation to throw herself into his arms. She soon observed, however, that the Cypriot waiter was once again looming, toothily affable, on to their horizon, and decided that the situation had better be dealt with as quickly as possible.

‘Adam,' she said with a gravity which she was far from feeling, ‘I wish I could tell you how grateful I am. But you know, it isn't the sort of thing one ought to decide on the spur of the moment . . . May I think about it?'

‘Any more liqueur, eh?' said the waiter, materializing suddenly beside them. ‘Drambuie, Cointreau, Crème-de-Menthe, nice brandy?'

Adam ignored him; now that the worst was over he had recovered much of his self-possession.

‘Elizabeth,' he said, ‘you're being hypocritical. You know perfectly well that you're going to marry me.'

‘Green Chartreuse, nice Vodka –'

‘Will you go away. Elizabeth, my dear –'

‘You like the cheque, eh?' said the waiter.

‘No. Go away at once. As I was saying –'

‘Oh, pay the bill, darling,' said Elizabeth. ‘And then you can take me outside and kiss me.'

‘Kiss 'er 'ere,' said the waiter, interested.

‘Oh, Adam, I do adore you,' said Elizabeth. ‘Of course I'll marry you.'

‘Nice magnum of champagne, eh?' said the waiter. ‘Congratulations, sir and madam. Congratulations.' Adam tipped him recklessly and they departed.

For their honeymoon they went to Brunnen. Their rooms at the hotel overlooked the lake. They visited the Wagner-museum at Triebschen, and Adam, in defiance of all the regulations, played the opening bars of
Tristan
on Wagner's Erard piano. They purchased a number of rather
risqué
postcards and sent them to their friends. Both of them were blissfully happy.

They stood on their balcony gazing across the water, now amethyst-coloured in the fading light.

‘
How
nice,' said Elizabeth judicially, ‘to have all the pleasures of living in sin without any of the disadvantages.'

THE MARRIAGE WOULD
have been no more noteworthy than ten thousand others had it not been for a third party who was obliquely involved.

Edwin Shorthouse was singing Ochs in
Der Rosenkavalier.
Like Adam, he became acquainted with Elizabeth during the rehearsals. And he, too, fell in love with her.

‘Love', as used in this connexion, is largely a euphemism for physical excitement. To the best of everyone's knowledge, Edwin Shorthouse's affairs with women had never risen above this plane. His habits suggested, in fact, a belated attempt to revive the droit de seigneur, and his resemblance to the gross and elderly roué of Strauss's opera was sufficiently remarkable for it to be a subject of perpetual surprise in operatic circles that his interpretation of the role was so inadequate. Possibly he himself was uneasily conscious of the similarity, and felt the basic stupidity of Hofmannsthal's creation to be a reflexion on his own way of life. Sensitivity, however, was not Edwin Shorthouse's most outstanding trait, and it is more likely that his aversion to the part was instinctive.

There may have been something more than mere sensuality in his attitude to Elizabeth. Certainly it is difficult, on any other hypothesis, to account for the active malevolence which Elizabeth's marriage to Adam aroused in him. Joan Davis held the view that it was his vanity which was chiefly concerned. Here was Edwin (she said); coarse-grained, middle-aged, ill-favoured, conceited,
and almost continually drunk; and here, on the other hand, was Adam. The choice, to anyone but Shorthouse himself, must have seemed a foregone conclusion: to him it had undoubtedly been a wounding blow.

‘But don't worry, my dears,' Joan added. ‘Edwin's concern is with the female form divine – not with particular women. As soon as another shapely girl comes along – and the world's full of them – he'll forget his tantrums.'

Elizabeth herself suggested frustration as the cause of Shorthouse's immoderate annoyance. She had not seen a great deal of him at rehearsals, though whenever they met he had been markedly attentive.

‘I noticed that,' said Joan. ‘He was always “undressing you with his eyes”, as the absurd phrase has it.'

Elizabeth agreed. But – she added – it had been difficult to deal with this attitude until the evening when Shorthouse had made efforts to transfer his somewhat cheerless imaginative pastime to the realm of actuality.

‘Naturally,' Elizabeth concluded demurely, ‘I didn't encourage him . . . Hence, as I say, he's frustrated. That's the answer.'

Adam had yet another theory. In his opinion, Shorthouse was really in love; within his opulent and unprepossessing frame, Adam maintained, there burned the flame which had destroyed Ilium and held Antony in sybaritic bondage by the Nile. ‘In other words, l'amour,' said Adam. ‘More Levantine than spiritual, I agree, but, none the less, the genuine article.'

There seemed, in fact, to be no wholly satisfactory solution, and for a time they contemplated the phenomenon with no stronger emotion than a mild interest. Eventually, however, it became tedious, and at last irritating. Adam was obliged to be fairly often in Shorthouse's company, and there are few things more exacerbating than an attitude compounded of sneers and snubs – and an attitude the more disconcerting, in this case, because of the real hatred which lurked behind it. In the early days of the engagement, moreover, Adam became
aware that sundry vague and discreditable rumours concerning him were going the rounds of his acquaintance, and in one case they found such ready acceptance that he was estranged without explanation from a family with whom he had been for years on the friendliest possible terms. In his innocence Adam did not at first connect Shorthouse with this new affliction, and it needed a chance remark to enlighten him. Even so he controlled himself and carried on as if nothing had happened. Adam had some respect for his work and was determined if possible, to avoid complicating it by an open rift with Shorthouse.

The honeymoon, which followed the
Rosenkavalier
production, gave him a respite, and when he and Elizabeth returned from Switzerland to set up house in Tunbridge Wells they were too much occupied with organizing their joint
ménage
to worry about anything else. Shorthouse, presumably, would be simmering down by now; and luckily, their engagements kept the two men apart until November, when both of them were signed up for
Don Pasquale.
Adam went to the first rehearsal with mild apprehension, and returned perplexed.

‘Well?' Elizabeth demanded as she helped him off with his coat.

‘The answer is in the affirmative. Edwin would seem to be cured. All the same . . .' Adam, who had just removed his hat, absent-mindedly put it on again. ‘All the same . . .'

‘Darling, what
are
you doing? Was he friendly? You don't sound at all sure about it.' They went into the drawing-room, where a huge fire was burning, and Elizabeth poured sherry.

‘He was friendly,' Adam explained, ‘in the most overpowering fashion. I don't like it. In the old days Edwin's notion of friendship was to bore one perennially with rambling, pointless anecdotes about his professional experiences. He no longer does that – with me, anyway.'