A Mixture of Frailties Read online

  “You are the treasurer?” said the Dean, who could not resist it.

  “I take care of the financial end, and of course the books are open to inspection by any of our members, any time they choose to see them.” Pastor Beamis fixed the Dean with a grimace in which brotherly love, transparent honesty and sorrow were mingled.

  “You have some other work, then?” said Solly to Monica.

  “She’s a clerk at the plant where her Dad works,” said Beamis. “In the Costing Department. Monny did very well in Commercial at High. But you’re wrong when you say you haven’t heard Monny; she sang at your dear Mother’s funeral. A lovely little Classic—My Task—sweet thing. And did you realize that Monny had never seen or heard of it until eighteen hours before she went on the air—sorry, before the sad occasion? Mr. Cobbler brought it to her the night before; she ran through it a coupla times with him; sang it perfectly at three the next afternoon. Monny’s quite a little trouper. Get up anything at short notice and turn in a fine performance. Not many singers can do that. You’ve heard her, and you didn’t even notice!” Pastor Beamis laughed chidingly.

  “Our attention was elsewhere,” said Miss Puss, and the Pastor’s rubber face immediately assumed an expression of understanding and condolence; but he was not abashed, which was what she had hoped for.

  “I think we should hear Miss Gall now,” said Solly. “I’ll ask Mr. Cobbler to come in.”

  (6)

  “Well?” said Solly to the executors, when at last Beamis had herded his charges out of the house and disappeared, still talking, down the walk. “What did you think of her?”

  “There is no question in my mind that she is a very nice girl,” said the Dean. “It seemed to me that she handled herself modestly and with dignity in a difficult situation. But whether she is the girl we are looking for is very much an open question. I’m not impressed by her parents, or by that man, who seems to be a dominating influence in her life—if I may make such a remark without being accused of Phariseeism,” he added, cocking an eye at Solly.

  “I suppose it’s ability, rather than character, that we’re looking for,” said Solly, avoiding the glance and looking at Snelgrove.

  “Are they ever found apart?” said the lawyer.

  “Very often, in the arts, I believe. Are we going to hold it against the girl that her parents are stupid and dominated by a quack evangelist? I thought she seemed intelligent and pleasant. If she can really profit by the kind of training we are able to give her—I should say, that we can pay for—isn’t that the main thing?”

  “Unless you believe that the girl is a genius, and so beyond the usual rules of probability, you must certainly take these other things into account,” said the Dean. “You can educate her beyond her parents, and make her into something that they might not recognize, but you will not really raise her very far. You can polish and mount a pebble, but it remains a pebble. I do not blame the girl, of whom I know no more than the rest of you, but it is plain that she is being exploited by that creature Beamis; she sings in his quartet, which consists otherwise of his own family, and which I happen to know coins money. If she were a person of real character—more character than her parents, for instance—would she put up with that?”

  “She’s only twenty, Mr. Dean,” said Solly, “and, saving your reverence, it is not easy for a very young person to rebel against a clergyman who has full parental support. It seems to me that her voice is the real clue to the problem. What did you think of it?”

  “I really can’t say,” said the Dean. “I was so embarrassed by the things she sang. I don’t pretend to a deeply informed taste in music, but really—!”

  “I can’t quite agree,” said Miss Puss, who had sat in uncharacteristic silence since the Galls left. “I was greatly moved by her singing of Tosti’s Good-Bye!—a song I have not heard in many, many years. I suppose I am the only person here who recalls that it was the favourite ballad of Queen Victoria. Unfashionable now, possibly, but truly touching. Once, many years ago, I heard Melba sing it. And, do you know, this girl reminded me uncannily of Melba? Did you feel that?”

  She had turned to Snelgrove. He had never heard Melba, but he knew she had been intensely patriotic during the First Great War, and was therefore an artist of the highest rank, so he frowned in a critical fashion and replied, “Not quite Melba, perhaps, but I felt there was a smack of Clara Butt.”

  This remark set Miss Puss and the lawyer off in a competition of recalling all the great singers they had heard, and as neither had wide experience this quickly became all the great singers they had heard of, whose names they brought up with apparent casualness; they did not say they had heard these queens of song, but they were not unwilling that others should think so; in charity it may be assumed that they had heard them on the gramophone. The names of Emma Eames, Amelita Galli-Curci, Geraldine Farrar, Louise Homer, Luisa Tetrazzini and Ernestine Schumann-Heink were used very freely, and startling comparisons drawn, without much regard for whether these ladies had been sopranos or contraltos. This cultivated pow-wow did much to raise the spirits of Miss Puss and Mr. Snelgrove, and to give them, for the first time, a sense that they were patrons of art and fountains of culture. When the lawyer had scored heavily by dragging in “our great Canadian diva, Madame Albani, whom I was once lucky enough to hear in Montreal,” Solly thought that this had gone far enough.

  “Perhaps we should return to the present day and hear what the one expert among us thinks of Monica Gall’s voice,” said he. Cobbler, who had remained at the piano, dug vigorously into his hair with his fingers, until it stood on end like the wool of a Hottentot. Then he fixed the executors with his bright black eyes.

  “Nice voice,” said he. “Nice tone; well-placed, really, considering that she’s had no training at all. But that’s the trouble, you see: maybe we’ve heard all there is. Maybe nothing further would come, however much you trained it. Oh, that’s not quite fair; it would be bound to develop a little bit, but who can say how much? Promising, probably. But how can you tell? We didn’t really hear enough.”

  “Then why did you not ask to hear more?” said Snelgrove. He liked an expert to behave like an expert, and not temporize.

  “We could have listened to her for another hour without learning anything more than we did. Her music was terrible. I knew how things stood as soon as she opened her portfolio; it was jampacked with that awful cheap music printed on grey paper. All tripe. Good-Bye! was her star piece; I suppose Beamis thinks it’s a classic. So it is, in the musical hell he and the Heart and Hope Quartet inhabit. To find out what her voice is really like, you’d have to work with her for a few months—increase her range, give her something to sing that would show what she could do, and generally explore the possibilities.”

  “That’s not very helpful,” said Miss Puss.

  “I’m afraid it isn’t. But it’s honest. There’s one thing to be said in the girl’s favour. She’s stood out against some very bad musical influences; her only teacher, I understand, is an aunt who plays the piano a little. And the Beamis association is abominable; couldn’t imagine anything more calculated to wreck a voice and debauch a singer’s taste. Yet, the fact is that the girl sings with a good deal of taste and a nice feeling for the words, considering the stuff she’s singing. It must be native to her, though where she gets it I can’t imagine. You’re dead right, Miss Pottinger; she really did tear off old Good-Bye! with quite a sense of style, and it’s not the easiest song in the world. There may be something there, if you want to dig for it.”

  “We haven’t any time for digging,” said Solly. “We’re desperate; the income on something like a million dollars has to be spent on somebody, beginning not later than next December 23. Can’t we get some clearer opinion than what you’ve said?”

  “Not from me,” said Cobbler. “I can’t square a flat Yes or No with my professional honesty; if I say she’s no good I may be wronging you and the girl, and if I say she’s a wonder the odds are just as
strong that I am wrong. Certainly, if it were a question of some lessons with me, I’d say go ahead. I’d be happy to get such a pupil. But you are going to spend such a lot of money; you’ve got to show big results or look silly. If you want another opinion, I know where you can get one.”

  “Yes?”

  “Next month Sir Benedict Domdaniel is conducting two concerts in Toronto, on his way back from Australia and the States. He’ll be there for ten days or so, rehearsing. If you like, I’ll write to his agent and ask if he’ll hear the girl, and give you his word on her.”

  The effect of this was an even greater tonic to Miss Puss and Snelgrove than the mention of Melba had been. This was culture indeed—to enlist the opinion of one of the greatest conductors in the world who was also—this weighed heavily—a British knight! Why were they trifling with a cathedral organist when such distinction lay within their grasp? Condescendingly, as people used to hob-nobbing with gifted knights, they asked Cobbler to make the necessary arrangements, and of course to enquire, tactfully, what Sir Benedict’s fee would be for such an interview.

  It had not occurred to them to offer Cobbler any fee whatever.

  (7)

  The pattern upon which the Bridgetower Trust was to operate had already established itself before the Trust was officially in being—for Snelgrove made it very clear that until the probate of Mrs. Bridgetower’s will the Trust had no funds, and a trust without funds was a mockery. The pattern was a simple one: nothing could be done without prolonged discussion, in which Miss Puss and Solly were certain to be opposed, with the Dean trying to keep peace and advocate common sense, and Snelgrove making all the trouble possible to an expert who has great influence but no vote. The seemingly simple matter of getting Monica Gall away to Toronto for an interview with Sir Benedict Domdaniel became, in their hands, an elaborate and vexatious manoeuvre.

  The Dean thought that the Trust should pay her fare on the train, but need not necessarily pay for her meals while she was absent. Snelgrove said that as the Trust had no funds, it could not pay for anything. Solly pointed out that the Trust had already spent money, which Snelgrove’s firm had advanced, on repairing drains in the Bridgetower house. Snelgrove countered by saying that he could justify such an expenditure before a court, but he could not justify spending any money on a candidate for the Trust’s bounty who might prove, in the end, to be unsuccessful. Miss Puss felt that it was undesirable to encourage Monica to hope for success by paying her fare, but that the Trust ought to pay the fare of an older woman who would accompany her to Toronto, as a chaperone. The Trust would be in a very bad position, she pointed out, if any harm befell Monica while she was on a journey to a large city, undertaken at the request of the Trust. She was herself prepared to go with the girl, and to remain with her during her interview with the great man; Monica had shown herself to be a poor talker, and somebody who was not awed by greatness should certainly be on hand to see that her chances were not spoiled by sheer social ineptitude. Solly, out of spite, agreed, but said that if anybody went with Monica it should certainly be an accompanist, and recommended Cobbler for that task; his wife, Veronica, would be prepared to drive the two of them to Toronto in their car, and serve as moral watchdog; the Trust could defray the expenses of the motor trip and still be money ahead. It took an evening of wrangling to reach a deadlock on this question.

  Another evening was consumed in haggling about Sir Benedict Domdaniel’s fee. His agent had written to Cobbler saying that the great man could see Miss Gall, and would send a written opinion to the Trust, and that his charge for an audition would be two hundred and fifty dollars. Miss Puss was outraged, and spoke to Cobbler as though he himself had demanded this shocking sum; he replied, with spirit, that men like Domdaniel asked big fees for auditions simply in order that they should not be plagued by people who were not serious; he added some ill-considered words about amateurs, which gave deep offense. Snelgrove refused utterly to advance money for such a purpose. And so, after a very long and heated argument, it was decided that if Monica Gall herself could raise Domdaniel’s fee, and her own journey-money, she could risk it on her chances. The Trust asked Cobbler to put this proposal to her, and he refused flatly to do it, adding with heat that if the Trust meant to be cheap, he was not going to be the goat for them. In the end, Snelgrove was instructed to offer her this unique opportunity to invest in her own future, by letter.

  The Trust was somewhat astonished to receive a reply, by return of post, in which Monica said that she would be glad to pay her own expenses, and thanked them for the chance. It was a very good letter, typed and expressed in the dry language of business, and it made Solly and the Dean, at least, feel that Monica had not revealed the best side of herself at the earlier interview.

  (8)

  The date of Monica’s meeting with Sir Benedict Domdaniel was set for November the first. On the fifth of the month Cobbler received the following letter, which he read aloud that evening to the assembled Trust.

  Dear Humphrey Cobbler:

  It was good to hear from you again. I recall with pleasure working with you during the Three Choirs Festival of 1937, and I hope that all goes well with you here.

  Now, about your protégée, Miss Monica Gall. I had meant to give her an hour, at most, but as she has probably told you, we worked for nearly three. It took quite a time to get at her, for somebody—I believe she said one of the lady members of your Trust—had filled her full of nonsense about how to behave herself with me. She began by singing the two Handel songs you had hastily primed her with, but they told very little, as you can imagine. Then she sang Tosti’s Good-Bye! which I had honestly never expected to hear sung seriously again on this earth, and did quite well with it. I asked her if she knew The Lost Chord, meaning to be facetious, and she shamed me by pulling a tattered copy out of her satchel and singing it quite seriously and nicely. Then she sang a lot of trash which is apparently in her wireless repertoire.

  After this we had a talk, and I was strongly impressed by her sincerity, and absolute simplicity. She tells me she sings because she always has done so, and likes it, but it had never occurred to her to make a career of it. We were quite matey by this time, and she told me a good deal about her home, and her work, and then I took off my coat and she took off her shoes, which were much too tight, and we did some scales and exercises, and I found that with a bit of encouragement she has roughly twice the voice she has been using, with lots more to come.

  What surprised me most was that she plays the piano well—facility and quite nice natural taste—but terrible stuff. It seems an aunt taught her. She played what she called Dance, Micawber, and instead of being a Dickensian medley by some lesser Percy Granger it was Saint-Saens’ Danse Macabre. When I mentioned Bach she looked prim, and I gather there is some queer religion behind her, for whom the classics of church music spell Popery or Pride. I think this is the clue to the girl; a real natural talent has been overlaid by a stultifying home atmosphere and cultural malnutrition.

  In my opinion she is well worth any encouragement your Trust or whatever it is can give her. The voice is good—quite good enough to be worth proper training—though as you know it takes a year or eighteen months of work before the real nature of a voice emerges, and any serious predictions about a career can be made. But if this girl is not a singer of exceptional quality, she is certainly a musician; she has done a great deal under what appear to be extremely unfavourable conditions. I repeat, the great thing that seems to be wrong with her, considered as a possible artist, is that she has lived for twenty years in circumstances which are not discouraging to art—we see plenty of that—but in which art in any of its forms is not even guessed at. I discount, you understand, all this pseudo-religious twaddle she has been exposed to—music in the service of cant. She seems to have come through that so far without any irreparable harm. But she really doesn’t know a damned thing.

  If you can get her three or four years of training, or anything approaching it, do s
o by all means. If she is coming to England send her to me; I will be glad to give any advice or supervision I can.

  You finally did marry that beautiful mezzo from Presteigne, did you not? Molly Ellis? I have the warmest recollections of her in Gerontius. Give her my best wishes.

  Yours very sincerely,

  Benedict Domdaniel

  “Thank God,” said Solly when the letter was finished; “that seems to settle that. We’ve found our phoenix.”

  Three

  Monica put off inviting George Medwall to her farewell party until the day before it was to take place. In this, as in so many other things in life, she was trying to eat her cake and have it too. To eat it, by inviting the young man whom she liked best among those she knew: to have it, by pretending that she might, after all, not ask him, thus being fully loyal to Ma and the Thirteeners. No wonder, then, that the cake stuck in her throat and that when she came at last to invite him she did so in an off-hand and almost cold fashion.

  George did not seem to mind. He was a realist, and he knew that a party dominated by Ma Gall and composed chiefly of young Thirteeners would have nothing to attract him but Monny herself. Monny attracted him powerfully. They were both employed by Consolidated Adhesives and Abrasives, the biggest industry in Salterton, and still called, by those who remembered its humble nineteenth century beginnings, the Glue Works. George was a foreman with a department of his own, and Monica was a clerk in the costing department; they worked in separate buildings, a quarter of a mile apart, but he contrived to catch sight of her, if not actually to speak to her, every day. If Monica was to leave Salterton for several years, George meant to see her whenever he could, under whatever circumstances.