Westwood (20 page)

She went early to her room and sat there correcting exercise books, having had to listen to her mother’s accusations of being unpatriotic because she lit the gas-fire. All the evening she was hoping that the telephone-bell would ring, but as eleven o’clock drew near she put her work away and reluctantly began to prepare for bed, deciding that Zita had been too busy to keep her promise and feeling deeply disappointed.

At a quarter past eleven she crept down in her dressing-gown and sat on the bottom stair, determined to intercept the call before her mother could come downstairs, and to explain afterwards; her father was at present doing night work for another newspaper and seldom returned home before midnight.

At exactly half-past, the telephone-bell rang.

‘Hullo?’ she gasped, snatching off the receiver.

‘Ach, hullo, hullo, Margaret! It iss Zita here, at last! How are you, my dear friendt? I do not disturb you at your work?’

‘Oh no, rather not,’ said Margaret; it evidently did not occur to Zita that her dear friend might have been in bed and asleep.

‘How did the party go?’ Margaret went on.

‘Go? It iss not gone; it is still going. Mr Beefy is home here on some leave und he hass bring some of his friendts. There is much noise and laughing, but I come away to dis liddle room vere dere iss a telephone und all is quiet to speak to you, Margaret.’

There was a pause that breathed sentiment. Margaret felt that she was expected to make some appropriate response, but all she could think of was:

‘It’s awfully sweet of you, Zita. Er – who is Mr Beefy?’

‘He is der eldest child – son, I mean – of Mr and Mrs Challis. Oh, so charming a young man!’

‘Oh,’ said Margaret, trying hard to think of something to say next, ‘er – I hope you haven’t been having a very tiring time.’

‘I am always tired,’ answered Zita, with a touch of indignation which sounded disagreeably upon Margaret’s ear. ‘I work for my liffing and it is hardt.’

‘Oh – that’s too bad. I’m awfully sorry, Zita.’ Margaret tried to sound warmly sympathetic. ‘You must get to bed as soon as you can and have a good rest.’

‘Dere will be all der washing-up.’ The voice was now despairing.

‘Can’t you leave that until the morning? To-morrow’s Sunday.’

‘Oh no, Margaret. Der washing-up iss der best part. Ve do her – it – all together und afterwards we make tea und Mr Beefy helps us and we laugh much.’ Towards the end of this sentence the clouds began to lift and by the final words Zita’s voice positively carolled.

‘It does sound fun,’ said Margaret wistfully.

‘It iss fun, Margaret. But now I wish to speak to you about a concert ve vill go together, no?’

‘Oh
yes
, I’d
love
it!’

To her annoyance the line became indistinct at this promising moment, and when she could again hear clearly, Zita was saying:

‘– und next Sunday she haf been singing for forty years. I haf buy two tickets und ve vill together go. (Go together, I mean to say.) I buy von for my friendt but now he iss my friendt no more!’

A dramatic pause.

‘Oh dear, I am so sorry,’ said Margaret feebly.

‘Oh no, no, Margaret, it iss a goot thing I find him out. He iss a rubbish!’

Margaret managed in spite of stifled laughter to convey that she was sure Zita was well rid of him.

‘You laugh, Margaret,’ said Zita, sounding pleased. ‘It iss goot. Too sad iss your face.’

‘Is it? I didn’t know that.’

‘Yes. Ven I see you first I think you are a widow or some poor girl who hass been betrayed.’

‘I say, how
awful
! I really didn’t know –’

‘Yes. So you must laugh und your face will get better.’

‘All right. I will.’

‘Und to-morrow we meet outside der Apollonian Hall at a quarter to three o’clock. It will be a wonderful lieder concert of Schubert und Brahms und Hugo Wolf. You love der songs of Hugo Wolf?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know them. Is it very awful of me?’

‘Ach, you miss a much pleasure. Nefer mind. Tomorrow we hear dem und you shall come to love them.’

Zita seemed willing to continue their conversation indefinitely but Margaret, though she found it so fascinating that she would willingly have prolonged it, feared that her mother might be awakened and rang off as soon as was politely possible.

The great artist of whom Zita had spoken was now sixty years old. As she stood on the platform of the concert hall on the following afternoon, surveying the crowded room with calm eyes, her appearance suggested that of some cultured
hausfrau
dressed to entertain friends in her own drawing-room, rather than that of a singer who had delighted discriminating listeners and Royalty all over the world. Her majestic form was covered by a dress of soft pale-green material with ample sleeves, and her only jewel was a necklace of small pearls, while her hair was drawn straight back from her beautiful profile in that uncompromising style which is always thought of as typically German. When she smiled her severe expression changed to a sweet warmth that suggested the taste of fresh bread and other homely delights; and two portraits, which appeared on the programme Margaret was earnestly studying, emphasized the singer’s charm by their suggestion that her development had been continuously harmonious. One showed her as a round-faced girl of twenty
with a tiny sweet mouth and the elaborate puffs and curls of a German beauty of 1903, while the other showed the mature and still beautiful artist of to-day.

It was a friendly as well as an admiring audience, for there was a murmur of affection as Madame came out from the artists’ room on to the platform; and already at the back of the hall attendants were assembling the baskets of orchids and violets and chrysanthemums upon which that unmusical race, the English, had lavished large sums of money, in the heart of winter and in the middle of the worst war in their country’s history, in order that the singer might know how grateful they were to her and how much they admired and loved her.

Zita had explained to Margaret that this was a Jubilee concert, commemorating the fortieth year of Madame’s career, and Margaret listened with deep interest, reading through the stilted prose translations of the songs and trying to memorize their meaning so that she need not glance at the programme during the music, but it was difficult to fix her attention, which was attracted by the many interesting faces in the audience. She was also tempted at first to ask Zita about the previous night’s party at Westwood, but Zita was in a rarely silent mood, and Margaret, who did not know that this was always her mood when music was to be heard, felt slightly snubbed.

Presently there rang out upon the silent, listening air the first notes of Schubert’s
Suleika
. Margaret listened with such close, such almost painful, attention that any pleasure she might have felt was lost in the effort of concentration, and it was not until the first applause had died away, and the singer had bowed, and the hush had again fallen over the room, and the first chords of
Die Stadt
sounded, that suddenly all effort and concentration was swept away in a rush of delight, and she sat motionless, with her hands lying on her lap, listening to the slow melody that wound out into the stillness like mist over the silent twilight water in the song, while gradually the towers and castle of the ancient city loomed up in her mind’s eye, entranced in heartbroken grief. The sadness of it chilled her heart; night was coming down over the rippleless water without a star to shine through its blackness, and in the heart of the singer there was an even darker night. When the last chords had died away, and the applause began, she joined in it until the palms of her hands were stinging.

‘You like it?’ demanded Zita in an absent tone, her eyes fixed upon the bowing singer.

‘Oh, yes! It’s wonderful!’

‘She will sing better later on, when the voice has become, as you say, warm.’

Margaret was not prepared for the variety of range and expression in the singer’s voice, which had been deep and solemn in
Die Stadt
, and now was soft and tender in
Auch Kleine Dinge
, and rang robustly in the impatient masculine joyousness of
Abschied
. As she listened and watched, the stout elderly figure before her seemed to become that of a white witch who could produce any feeling or picture from the instrument of her voice, and whereas at first she had been disappointed with Madame’s apparently unromantic appearance, she now began to appreciate how truly romantic that appearance was, because it harmonized with, and helped to express, the German beauty of the songs.

For what began to grow in Margaret’s imagination, as the afternoon drew towards its close, was a picture of a Germany which she did not realize was lost for ever; gone with its serious innocence of roses and doves and linden trees into the past, its very memory only returning for brief moments in the minds of the few thousand people in the world who love these German songs. As the enchantment of her senses grew, she did not think about the Germany of to-day at all; her fancy was busy with a country of fresh northern loveliness where the song of the Lorelei in her river sounded above the hammer-strokes of the trolls in their mountain mines, while over the vine-terraced hills and through the deep fragrant pine forests roamed bands of young men and
women, the
Wandervogel
, whose singing mingled with the song of the broad grey rushing Rhine as they carried on the tradition of the wandering musician who had so often, in the medieval world, been German.

How beautiful it all was! She felt as if a treasure-house had been opened to her, and she sat in a dream when the interval came and the baskets of flowers were brought in procession down the hall and handed up, amidst prolonged and delighted applause, to the singer.

Madame received them with a slight chiding frown and compressed lips which did not immediately smile; there was even a slight shake of the head as if to imply, ‘T’t! Wasting all these on me, and flowers the price they are!’ Nevertheless, it was clear that she was touched, for when at last she ceased bowing and looked out across the clapping, laughing audience, itself moved in many cases to tears, she brought out a little handkerchief and did not attempt to thank all her friends, but only smiled and put it to her eyes, and stood there gazing at the excited crowd.

‘Nefer have I heard her better sing,’ said Zita, who was also weeping. Margaret’s own eyes were dry, but the tumult in her imagination more than atoned for it. ‘You are enjoying it?’ Zita went on rather sharply.

‘Oh, Zita! So much. I can’t thank you enough.’

‘Ve haf der goot seats,’ said Zita, glancing complacently at the crowded rows around them. ‘Der iss not one left, I think. Three weeks ago I book dese seats. Dey cost eight shillings und sixpence each.’ Margaret felt sure that the last sentence was said with meaning, and a blush began to come up into her face.

‘If my friendt had come with me he of course would haf paid the money again to me,’ said Zita, as Margaret was silent. ‘He wass a rubbish, but he pay for himself – most often.’

‘And of course you must let me do the same,’ said Margaret quietly, for the incident jarred more seriously upon her than anything that had so far happened between herself and her new friend.

‘I hope so, I hope so!’ exclaimed Zita with a shrill, disagreeable laugh, ‘for I am not rich, Margaret.’

Margaret began to suspect that the entrée to Westwood might not be so easily purchased as she had at first supposed, for Zita’s was clearly a moody, touchy character and her greater sensitiveness might not prove so attractive in the long run as Hilda’s unfailing gaiety and common sense. But would Hilda have spent eight shillings and sixpence on a seat for a concert of German songs? Margaret could imagine Hilda’s comments upon the mere suggestion, and even if she had been treated to one by Margaret she would only have been bored by what delighted Zita. Margaret resolved not to let the incident spoil the afternoon.

The songs in the second half of the programme were if possible even lovelier than the earlier ones, but gradually she became aware that their profound sadness was oppressing her spirits, and that there was a quality in these nightingales and lakes and ancient cities about which the songs were woven that chilled her blood. Beneath the calmness she detected the note of insane despair; the images of graveyards and death and pining sadness haunted the exquisite airs, and even in those which sang of peace there was only a heartbroken gentleness; the past, the quiet dead, the days when the poet was still the beloved, appeared over and over again in a luxury of beauty and grief that she found oddly disturbing; and when the singer left the platform for the last time after a series of encores whose titles she had announced in her pretty accent, Margaret made no move to get up and go towards the exit with the rest of the audience but sat still, lost in thought; while Zita briskly put on her scarf and gloves, and glanced at her long nose in a little mirror; and when they were at last out in the dark streets and hurrying towards the Underground, Margaret was still
silent.

‘Yes!’ said Zita suddenly, ‘it is all so peautiful! But dere is somesing frightening dere too.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Margaret, startled.

‘Der songs. In dem dere is a madness. Dere is a madman in der German cottage and sometimes he look out of der window.’