The Foolish Lovers

S >> St. John G. Ervine >> The Foolish Lovers

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"You needn't go to the concert if you're not desperately keen on it,"
Hinde said when John had told him of his job. "You can write your
notice now!..."

"Write it now! ... But I haven't been to the concert!"

"I wouldn't give much for the man who couldn't write a criticism of a
concert without going to it," Hinde contemptuously replied. "Say that
Tetrazzini's wonderful voice enthralled the audience and that there
were scenes of unparalleled enthusiasm as the diva graciously responded
to the clamorous demands for encores. Add a few words about the man who
played her accompaniments and the number of floral tributes she
received, and there you are. That's all that's necessary!"

"I couldn't do it," said John. It wouldn't be honest!"

"Don't be a prig," Hinde exclaimed.

"Prig! Is it being a prig to do your work fairly?"

"No, but it's being a prig to treat a thing as important that isn't
important at all. I wanted you to come to a music-hall with me to-night!"

"I'm sorry," John replied stiffly, "I'd like to go with you, but I
couldn't think of doing such a thing as you suggest to me!"

"I wonder how long you'll feel like that, Mac?" Hinde laughed.

"All my life, I hope!"

"Well, have it your own way, then. But you're wasting your time!"

"And another thing," John continued, "I want to hear the woman singing.
I've never heard anybody great at the music yet!"

III

He entered the great circular hall, and sat, very solemnly, in his seat
on the ground floor. He felt nervous and uneasy and certain that he
would not be able to write adequately of the concert. He tried to think
of suitable words to great music, but it seemed to him that he could
not think at all. He glanced about the Hall, hoping that perhaps he
would find inspiration in the ceiling, but there was no inspiration
there. He could see wires stretched across the roof from side to side,
and there were great pieces of canvas radiating from the central
cluster of lights in the dome. He wondered why the wires were there.
Blondin, he remembered, had walked across a wire, as thin-looking as
those, which was stretched high up in the roof of the Exhibition at the
Old Linen Hall in Belfast; but he could scarcely believe that these
wires were intended for tight-rope performances. He turned to a man at
his side. "Would you mind telling me what those things are for?" he
asked, pointing to them.

"To break the echoes," the man replied, entering into an involved
account of acoustics. "It's all humbug really," he added. "They don't
break the echoes at all, but we all imagine that they do, and so we're
quite happy!"

The warm, comfortable look of the red-curtained boxes in the softened
electric light pleased him, and he liked the effect of the tiers rising
up to the high roof, and the great spread of floor, and the gigantic
magnificence of the organ.

"How many people does this place hold?" he demanded of his neighbour.

"About ten thousand," his neighbour answered, glancing at him
quizzically. "Is this the first time you've been here?"

"Yes. I'm new to London. They must take a great deal of money in a
night at a place like this. An immense amount!"

"They do. It's part of the Albert Memorial, this hall. The other part
is in the Park across the road. Have you seen it?"

"No," said John. "Is it any good?"

"Well," said the stranger, "we've tried to overlook it ... but
unfortunately it's too big. There are some excellent bits in it, but
the whole effect!... Poor dear Queen Victoria ... she was a little
woman, and so, of course, she believed in magnitude. She liked Bigness.
She's out of fashion, nowadays ... people titter behind their hands
when they speak of her ... and there's a tendency to regard her as a
somewhat foolish and sentimental old woman ... but really, she was a
very capable old girl in her narrow way, and there was nothing soft
about her. She was as hard as nails ... almost a cruel woman ... she'd
compel her maids-of-honour to stand in her presence until the poor
girls fainted with fatigue.... I'm sure she'd have made Queen Elizabeth
feel uncomfortable in some ways. This hall is a memorial to her
husband."

"Yes," said John. "There's a Memorial in Belfast to him. What did he
do?"

"He was Queen Victoria's husband!"

"I suppose," said John, "it wasn't much fun being her man?"

"Fun!" exclaimed the stranger. "Well, of course, it depends on what you
call fun!"

There was a bustling sound from the platform and some applause, and
then a dark-looking man emerged from the sloping gangway underneath the
organ and sat down at the piano. He played Mascagni's _Pavana delle
Maschere_, and while he played it, John took some writing paper from
his pocket and prepared to note down his opinions of the evening's
entertainment.

"Hilloa," said the stranger in a whisper, "are you a critic?"

John, feeling extraordinarily important, nodded his head and continued
to listen to the music. It sounded quite pleasant, but it conveyed
nothing to him. All he could think of was the contortions of the
pianist as he played his piece, and he wished that all pianists could
be concealed behind screens so that their grimaces and gyrations should
not be seen. He ought to say something about the man, but he had no
idea of what was fitting!... The solo ended and was followed by another
one, and then the pianist stood up to acknowledge the applause.

"What do you think of it?" the stranger respectfully asked, and John,
aware of the respect in his voice and conscious that he did not know
what to think of it, murmured, "Um-m-m! Not bad!"

"Coldish, I think," the stranger continued. "Technically skilful, but
hardly any feeling!"

John considered for a moment or two, and then answered very judicially.
"Yes! Yes, I think that's a fair description of him!"

He waited until the stranger was engaged in reading the programme, and
then he jotted down on his writing-paper, "Mr. Pietro Mancinelli played
Mascagni's _Pavana delle Maschere_ with great technical ability,
but with hardly any emotional quality!"

"I'm very glad I sat down beside this chap," he murmured to himself, as
the accompanist played the opening bars of Handel's _Droop not, young
lover_, and then he settled down to listen to the man who sang it.
He was happier here, for singing was more easy to judge than
instrumental music. Either a song was well sung, he told himself, or it
was not well sung, and the gentleman who was singing _Droop not,
young lover_ certainly had a voice that sounded well in that great
hall.... He wrote in his report that "Mr. Albert Luton's magnificent
voice was heard to great advantage in Handel's charming aria..." and
was exceedingly glad that he had lately read some musical notices in
one of the newspapers, and could remember some of the phrases that had
been used in them.

"Now for a treat," said the stranger, as a burst of hearty applause
opened out from the platform and went all round the hall.

John glanced towards the passage leading to the artist's room and saw a
smiling, plump lady, with very bright, dark eyes and dark hair come on
to the platform. She was clad in white that made her Italian looks more
pronounced.

"Tetrazzini!" the stranger whispered in John's ear.

The applause died down, and the singer stood rigidly in front of the
platform while the pianist played the opening of Verdi's _Caro
nome_. Then her voice sounded very clear and bell-like in the deep
silence of the great hall. ... She sang _Solveig's Song_ by Greig
and _A Pastoral_ by Veracini, and then the satiated audience
allowed her to retire from the platform.

John sat back in his seat in a dazed fashion. All round him were
applauding men and women ... and he could not applaud. There was a buzz
of admiring talk, and he could hear the words "wonderful" and
"magnificent" ... and he had not been moved at all. The great voice had
not caused him to feel any thrill or emotion whatever. It was
wonderful, indeed, but that was all that it was. There was no generous
glow in her music; she did not cause him to feel any emotion other than
that of astonishment at the perfection of her vocal organs. He had
imagined that the great singer's voice would compel him to jump out of
his seat and wave his hands wildly and shout and cheer ... but instead
he had sat still and wondered at the marvellous way in which her throat
functioned.

"Well?" said his neighbour, in the tone of one who would say that only
words of an extremely adulatory character were conceivable after such a
performance.

"She's a very remarkable woman," John replied.

"Remarkable!" his neighbour indignantly exclaimed. "She's a
miracle!..."

John disregarded his ecstatics. "I kept on thinking of a clever
machine," he said. "The wheels went round without a hitch. She's a
grand invention, that woman! She can sing her pieces without thinking
about them. She hardly knows the notes are coming out of her mouth ...
she doesn't know where they come from or why they come at all, and I
don't suppose it matters to her where they go. There's a grand machine
in our place that prints the papers. You put a big roll of white paper
on to it, and you turn a wee handle, and the machine sends the roll
spinning round and round until it's done, and a lot of folded papers,
nicely printed, come tumbling out in counted batches, all ready to be
taken away and sold in the shops and streets. It's a wonderful
machine ... but it can't read its own printing and it doesn't know what's
in the papers after it's done with them. That's what she's like; a
wonderful machine!..."

"My dear sir," the stranger exclaimed, but John prevented him from
saying any more.

"That's my opinion anyway," he went on, "and I can only think the
things I think. I can't think what other people think!"

"A limitation," said the stranger. "A distinct limitation!"

"Mebbe it is, but I don't see what that matters!"

After Tetrazzini had left the platform and the applause of her admirers
had died away, there was a violin solo, and then came an interval of
fifteen minutes. John determined to write part of his notice in the
vestibule of the Hall, and he got up from his seat to do so. He mounted
the stairs that led to the first tier of boxes, and as he approached
them, he saw Eleanor Moore sitting in the box nearest the exit through
which he was about to pass. There were other people in the box ...
girls, he thought ... but he hardly saw them. As he came nearer to her,
she raised her eyes from her programme and looked straight at him, and
for a few moments neither of them averted their eyes. Then she looked
away, and he passed through the curtained exit.

IV

He had found her again! She had not flown away from London ... she was
not ill, as he had so alarmingly imagined, nor, as he had horribly
imagined for one dreadful moment, was she dead. She lived ... she was
well ... she was here in this very hall, separated from him only by a
thin partition of wood ... and she had looked at him without fear in
her eyes. He mounted the short flight of stairs leading to the corridor
on to which the doors of the boxes opened, and read the name written on
the card underneath the number painted on the door of the box in which
Eleanor was sitting. "The Viscountess Walbrook." The name puzzled him,
and he turned to an attendant, a lugubrious man in a dingy frock-coat
looking extraordinarily like a dejected image of Albert the Good, and
asked for an explanation.

"It means that she owns that box," he explained. "Lots of the seats and
boxes 'ere belong to private people. That one belongs to the
Viscountess Walbrook. She in'erited it from 'er father. Very kind-'earted
woman ... always gives 'er box to orphans and widders and people
like that!"

"Then the ladies in the box now are not friends of hers?" John asked,
meaning by "friends," relatives.

"I shouldn't think so," the attendant answered. "I noticed the party
comin' in. They come in a 'ired carriage. No, they're orphans or
widders or somethin'. There's always a lot of orphans an' widders about
this 'All, partic'lar on a Sunday afternoon when they're doin' 'Andel's
_Messiar_. And the _Elijiar_, too! You know! Mendelssohn's
bit! Reg'lar fascination for orphans an' widders that 'as. I call it
depressin' meself, but some 'ow it seems to fit in with orphans an'
widders!..."

John thanked the attendant and moved down the corridor. He must not
lose sight of Eleanor now that he had found her again. If only he could
discover where she lived ... He stood where he could see the door of
the Viscountess Walbrook's box, and brooded over the chances of
discovering Eleanor's home. He must not lose sight of her ... that was
imperative. The luckiest thing in the world had brought him into her
company again, and he might never have such an opportunity again if he
let this one slip away from him. He could look round every now and then
from his seat to assure himself that she was still in the box, but
supposing she were to go away in the interval between his assuring
glances? Even if he were to see her leaving the box, he would have some
difficulty in getting to her in time to keep her in sight!... No, no,
he must not run the risk of losing her again. He must stay in some
place from which he could immediately see her leaving the box and from
which he could easily follow her without ever missing her. He looked
about him, and felt inclined to sit down in the corridor and wait there
until Eleanor emerged from the Viscountess Walbrook's private property!
But the corridor was a draughty and conspicuous and depressing place in
which to loiter, and he felt that the cheerless attendant might suspect
him of some felonious or other criminal intent if he were to stay there
during the whole of the second part of the programme. He peered through
the curtains which separated the corridor from the auditorium and saw
an empty seat on the opposite side of the gangway to that on which Lady
Walbrook's box was situated; and when the interval was ended and the
violinist began to play the first movement of Beethoven's _Romance in
G_, he slipped into the seat, and sat so that he could see every
movement that Eleanor made. How very beautiful she looked! She seemed
more beautiful to him in her blue evening dress even than she had
seemed on the first day that he saw her. Until he had come to London,
he had never seen a woman in evening dress, except in photographs and
in illustrated papers, and when, for the first time, he had seen real
women in real evening clothes in a theatre, the sight of their bare
white shoulders and bosoms had appeared to him both beautiful and
improper. Eleanor's shoulders were bare, and as he looked at her, he
could see her bosom very gently rising and falling with her breathing,
but he felt no confusion in seeing her in that bare state. She was
beautiful ... he could think of nothing else but her beauty. Her
shapely head was perfectly poised upon her strong neck, and he was
aware instantly of the graceful line of her shoulders. If she had not
been in those pretty evening clothes, he would not have known that her
neck and shoulders were so beautiful. Her soft, dark hair, loosely
dressed over her ears, glowed with loveliness, and the narrow golden
band that bound it was no brighter than her eyes. How lovely she is, he
said to himself, indifferent to the applause that was offered to the
violinist, and then he fell to admiring the way in which she clapped
her gloved hands together, slowly but firmly. Her applause was not
languid applause, neither was it without discrimination. She seemed to
John to be telling the violinist that he had played well, but might
have played better....

"She's the great wee girl," he said to himself.

He saw now that she shared the box with two other girls, but he had no
further interest in them than that they were in her company and that
they were not men. He wished that her hands were not gloved so that he
might see whether she wore rings on her fingers, and if so, on which
fingers they were worn. Supposing she were engaged to some other man
... or worse still, supposing she were married! It was possible for her
to have been married since he last saw her!... An agony of doubt and
despair came upon him as he brooded over the thought of her possible
marriage, and although he was aware that Tetrazzini was singing
Mazzone's _Sogni e Canti_ and Benedict's _Carnevale di
Venezia_, the music was no more than a noise in the air to him. What
should he do if Eleanor were married? Bad enough if she were engaged,
but married!... An engagement was not an irrefragable affair, and he
could woo her so ardently that his rival would swiftly vanish from her
thoughts ... but a marriage!... He knew that marriages were not so
irrefragable as they might be, and that a very desperate couple might
go to the length of running away together even though one of them were
married to someone else ... but he did not like the thought of running
away with a married woman. Eleanor might not wish to run away with
him ... his agony of mind was such that he stooped to that humility of
imagination ... she might very dearly love her husband!...

Lord alive, why couldn't that Italian woman stop singing! Why was not
this silly music ended so that he could settle his doubts about
Eleanor's freedom to marry him! Why could the audience not be content
with two songs from the woman instead of demanding encores from her!...

And then the concert ended after what seemed an interminable time, and
the audience began to emerge from the Hall. John went quickly into the
corridor and waited until the door of the Viscountess Walbrook's box
opened and Eleanor, followed by her friends, came out of it. She had a
long coat with a furry collar over her pretty blue frock, and as she
gathered her skirts about her, he could see that she was wearing blue
satin shoes and blue silk stockings. One hand firmly grasped her skirts
and the other hand held the furry collar in front of her mouth. She
passed so close to him that he could have touched her glowing cheeks
with his hands, but she did not see him. The crush of people made
progress slow and difficult, but he was glad of this for it enabled him
to be near to her much longer than he could otherwise have hoped to be.
As she passed him, he had fallen in behind her, and now he could touch
her very gently without her being aware that his touch was any more
than the unavoidable contact of people in the crowd. There was a faint
smell of violets about her clothes, and he snuffed up the delicate
odour eagerly. Mrs. Cream had smelt strongly of perfume, an
overpowering hothouse-smelling perfume that had made him feel as if he
were stifling, but this delicate odour pleased him. How natural, how
very obvious even, that Eleanor should use the scent of violets!

When they reached the front of the Hall, Eleanor turned to her friends
and made some remark about a carriage. He supposed they had hired a
vehicle to bring them to the Hall and take them home again, and when he
discovered that his supposition was right, a sense of disappointment
filled him. He had hoped that they would walk home or that they would
get on to a 'bus!...

He watched them climb into the shabby hired brougham, and when the door
was closed upon them and the driver had whipped up his horse, he
followed it into the Kensington Road. The traffic was so congested that
the horse had to move at a walking pace, and John was easily able to
keep close to it; but in a few moments, he told himself, the driver
would get clear of the congestion and then the horse would begin to
trot; and while the thought passed through his mind, the driver cracked
his whip and the slow, spiritless horse began to move more rapidly ...
and as it gathered speed, resolution suddenly came to John out of a
sudden vision of a boy's pleasure.

"Fancy not thinking of this before," he said, as he swung himself on to
the back of the carriage and balanced uncomfortably on the bar.

V

The brougham drove along Kensington Road and then turned sharply into
Church Street along which it was drawn at an ambling pace to Notting
Hill. It turned to the right, and went along the Bayswater Road, and
then John lost his bearings. He was in one of the streets off the
Bayswater Road, but in the darkness he could not tell what its name
was. Presently the driver shouted "Whoa!" to his horse and drew up in
front of a dreary, tall house, with a pillared portico, and John had
only sufficient time in which to drop from the back of the carriage and
skip across the street to the opposite pavement before the three girls
alighted from the brougham and stood for a few moments in front of the
house. The driver drove off, and John, lurking in the shadow of a
doorway, watched the girls as they stood talking together. Then he saw
two of them climb up the steps leading to the house, and Eleanor,
calling out "Good-night!" to them, went round the corner. He hurried
after her, and saw her going up the steps of a similar house
immediately round the corner from the one into which her friends had
entered. She was fumbling at the keyhole with her key as he came
opposite the house, and she did not see him until he spoke to her.

"Miss Moore," he said in a hesitating manner, taking off his hat as he
spoke.

She started and turned round. "What is it?" she said in an alarmed
manner.

"I ... I've been trying to find you for a long time!..."

She shrank away from him. "I don't know you," she said. "You've made a
mistake. Please go away!"

"Don't be afraid of me," he pleaded. "I know you don't know me, but I
know you. You're Eleanor Moore!..."

She came forward from the shadow. "Yes," she said, half in alarm, half
out of curiosity. "Yes, that's my name, but I don't know you!..." Then
she recognised him. "Oh, you're that man!" she said, now wholly
alarmed.

"I saw you at the tea-shop," he replied hastily. "You remember you left
a letter behind and I picked it up and gave it to you. That's how I
know your name!"

"Why are you persecuting me?" she demanded, almost tearfully.

He was daunted by her tone. "Persecuting you!" he said.

"Yes. You follow me about in the street, and stare at me. I saw you
this evening at the Albert Hall, and you stared at me!..."

"Because I love you, Eleanor!" He went nearer to her, and as he did so,
she retreated further into the shadow. "Don't be afraid of me, please,"
he said. "I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, but I'm a
stranger in this town and I had no way of getting to know you. I tried
hard, Eleanor!..."

"Don't call me Eleanor!"

"I can't help it. I think of you as Eleanor. I always call you Eleanor
to myself. You see, dear, I'm in love with you!"

"But you don't know me. I wish you'd go away. I shall ring the bell or
tell the policeman at the corner!..."

"Let me tell you about myself," he pleaded.

"I don't want to hear about you. I don't like you. You stare so hard,
and you're always looking at my stockings!..."

"Oh, no!"

"Yes, you are. You're looking at them now!"

"Only because you mentioned them. I won't look at them if you tell me
not to!..."

"I don't want to tell you anything," she murmured. "I only want you to
go away!..."

"I know that, dearest, but just let me tell you this. My name is John
MacDermott!..."

"I don't care what your name is," she interrupted. "It doesn't interest
me in the least!..."

"But it will, Eleanor, darling. When you're married to me!..."

She burst out laughing, "I think you're mad," she said.

"I was very lonely, Eleanor, when I saw you. I have not got a friend in
London!..." He omitted to remember the existence of Hinde. "I come from
Ireland!..."

"Oh!"

"And I had not been in London more than a day when I saw you. I fell in
love with you at once!..."

"Absurd!" she said.

"It's true. After you'd gone back to your office, I went for a long
walk, but all the time, I was thinking of you, and I hurried back to
the shop at teatime, hoping I'd see you. And you were there, looking
lovelier than you looked in the middle of the day. Do you remember?"

"Yes," she said. "You looked so ridiculous!..."

"Perhaps I did, but I didn't care how I looked so long as I was near
you. I felt miserable and lonely, and you were the only person in
London I knew!..."

"But you didn't know me!" she insisted.

"I knew your name, and I was in love with you. That was enough. I tried
to speak to you, but you would not let me. I asked you to be friends
with me, and you got up and walked away. I felt ashamed of myself
because I thought I had frightened you, and I hurried out of the shop
and followed you so that I might tell you how sorry I was and how much
I loved you, but I lost you at your office, and the man at the lift
nearly had a fight with me!..."

"Then it _was_ you who had been asking for me? He told me that a
suspicious character had been hanging about the hall, enquiring for me.
I thought it might be you!"

"I don't look suspicious, do I?"

"You behave suspiciously. You speak to people whom you do not know, and
you follow them in the street!..."

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