Giant’s Bread

It was the opening night of London’s new National Opera House and consequently an occasion. Royalty was there. The Press were there. The fashionable were there in large quantities. Even the musical, by hook and by crook, had managed to be there⁠—mostly very high up in the final tier of seats under the roof.

The musical composition given was The Giant, a new work by a hitherto unknown composer, Boris Groen. In the interval after the first part of the performance, a listener might have collected the following scraps of conversation:

“Quite divine, darling.” “They say it’s simply the⁠—the⁠—the⁠—latest!! Everything out of tune on purpose⁠ ⁠… And you have to read Einstein in order to understand it⁠ ⁠…” “Yes, dear, I shall tell everyone it’s too marvellous. But privately, it does make one’s head ache!”

“Why can’t they open a British Opera House with a decent British composer? All this Russian tomfoolery!” Thus a peppery colonel.

“Quite so,” drawled his companion. “But you see, there are no British composers. Sad, but there it is!”

“Nonsense⁠—don’t tell me, sir. They just won’t give them a chance⁠—that’s what it is. Who is this fellow Levinne? A dirty foreign Jew. That’s all he is!”

A man nearby, leaning against the wall, half concealed by a curtain, permitted himself to smile⁠—for he was Sebastian Levinne, sole owner of the National Opera House, familiarly known by the title of the World’s Greatest Showman.

He was a big man, rather too well covered with flesh. His face was yellow and impassive, his eyes beady and black, two enormous ears stood out from his head and were the joy of caricaturists.

There were only three people of real importance in Vernon’s world: Nurse, God and Mr. Green.

There were, of course, the nursemaids. Winnie, the present one, and behind her Jane and Annie and Sarah and Gladys. Those were all the ones that Vernon could remember, but there were lots more. Nursery maids never stayed long because they couldn’t get on with Nurse. They hardly counted in Vernon’s world.

There was also a kind of twin deity called Mummy-Daddy mentioned by Vernon in his prayers and also connected with going down to dessert. They were shadowy figures, rather beautiful and wonderful⁠—especially Mummy⁠—but they again did not belong to the real world⁠—Vernon’s world.

The things in Vernon’s world were very real indeed. There was the drugget on the nursery floor, for instance. It was of green and white stripes and rather scrubbly to bare knees and in one corner of it was a hole which Vernon used surreptitiously to make bigger by working his fingers round in it. There were the nursery walls where mauve irises twined themselves interminably upwards round a pattern that was sometimes diamonds and sometimes, if you looked at it long enough, crosses. That seemed very interesting to Vernon and rather magical.

There was a rocking horse against one wall, but Vernon seldom rode on it. There was a basket-work engine and some basket-work trucks which he played with a good deal. There was a low cupboard full of more or less dilapidated toys. On an upper shelf were the more delectable contents that you played with on a wet day or when Nurse was in an unusually good temper.

She was a squarely built child of about his own age. She had dead black hair cut very straight across her forehead. Her jaw stuck out a little in a determined way. She had a very white skin and enormous eyelashes. Although she was two months younger than Vernon, she had the sophistication of twice his years⁠—a kind of mixture of weariness and defiance.

“Hullo,” she said.

“Hullo,” said Vernon, rather feebly.

They went on looking at each other, suspiciously, as is the manner of children and dogs.

“I suppose you’re my cousin Josephine,” said Vernon.

“Yes, but you’d better call me Joe. Everyone does.”

“All right⁠—Joe.”

There was a pause. To bridge it, Vernon whistled.

“Rather jolly, coming home,” he observed at last.

“It’s an awfully jolly place,” said Joe.

“Oh! do you like it?” said Vernon, warming to her.

“I like it awfully. Better than any of the places I’ve lived.”

“Have you lived in a lot of places?”

“Oh, yes. At Coombes first⁠—when we were with Father. And then at Monte Carlo with Colonel Anstey. And then at Toulon with Arthur⁠—and then a lot of Swiss places because of Arthur’s lungs. And then I went to a convent for a bit after Arthur died. Mother couldn’t be bothered with me just then. I didn’t like it much⁠—the nuns were so silly. They made me have a bath in my chemise. And then after Mother died, Aunt Myra came and fetched me here.”

“I’m awfully sorry⁠—about your mother, I mean,” said Vernon awkwardly.

“Yes,” said Joe, “it’s rotten in a way⁠—though much the best thing for her.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. It was before you came⁠—the time I broke my leg. I’ve always remembered something she said to me. About not being in a hurry to run away from things before you’ve had a good look. Well, that’s what happened to me today. I couldn’t run away any longer⁠—I just had to look. Joe, music’s the most wonderful thing in the world⁠—”

“But⁠—but⁠—you’ve always said⁠—”

“I know. That’s why it’s been such an awful shock. Not that I mean music is so wonderful now⁠—but it could be⁠—if you had it as it was meant to be! Little bits of it are ugly⁠—it’s like going up to a picture and seeing a nasty grey smear of paint⁠—but go to a distance and it falls into its place as the most wonderful shadow. It’s got to be a whole. I still think one violin’s ugly, and a piano’s beastly⁠—but useful in a way, I suppose. But⁠—oh! Joe, music could be so wonderful⁠—I know it could.”

Joe was silent, bewildered. She understood now what Vernon had meant by his opening words. His face had the queer dreamy exaltation that one associated with religious fervour. And yet she was a little frightened. His face had always expressed so little. Now, she thought, it expressed too much. It was a worse face or a better face⁠—just as you chose to look on it.

He went on talking, hardly to her, more to himself.

“There were nine orchestras, you know. All massed. Sound can be glorious if you get enough of it⁠—I don’t mean just loudness⁠—it shows more when it’s soft.

Jane Harding said thoughtfully:

“I wonder now. Could that have been my Aunt Frances?”

“Yes, that was her name. Nurse Frances. Was she your aunt? What’s happened to her?”

“She died a good many years ago. Diphtheria, caught from a patient.”

“Oh! I’m sorry.” He paused, hesitated, then blundered on. “I’ve always remembered her. She was⁠—she was a wonderful friend to me as a kid.”

He caught Jane’s green eyes looking at him, a steady, kindly glance, and he knew at once of whom she had reminded him the first moment he saw her. She was like Nurse Frances.

She said quietly: “You write music, don’t you? Sebastian told me about you.”

“Yes⁠—at least I try to.”

He stopped, hesitated again. He thought: “She’s terribly attractive. Do I like her? Why am I afraid of her?”

He felt suddenly excited and exalted. He could do things⁠—he knew he could do things⁠ ⁠…

“Vernon!”

Sebastian was calling him. He got up. Sebastian presented him to Radmaager. The great man was kindly and sympathetic.

“I am interested,” he said, “in what I hear about your work from my young friend here.” He laid his hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “He is very astute, my young friend. In spite of his youth, he is seldom wrong. We will arrange a meeting, and you shall show me your work.”

He moved on. Vernon was left quivering with excitement. Did he really mean it? He went back to Jane. She was smiling. Vernon sat down by her. A sudden wave of depression succeeded the exhilaration.