The Dangerous Years (27 page)

“No! No!” said Schnabel angrily. “Enough!”

But Adrian leaned against him, and said something that was lost to the rest of the people in the
salon
, their applause having revived at this naïve display by the odd couple at the piano. The old man was seen reluctantly to open the
album which the child had selected from the pile. He smiled grimly, as though to say ‘You have asked for this, and it is your own fault.…' Then at last he looked round at the guests, who now quite filled the
salon
, people having been gathering there, drawn by crowd magnetism. He did not see Aloysius Sturm, who was hidden by the press of people just inside the farther door. Cries of “Encore!” and “Bis!” broke out again, and prolonged cheering and clapping.

Joan felt somebody take her by the elbow. She looked round, and found Mr. Sturm beside her, his face hot and angry.

“How is this?” he demanded. “Schnabel does not allow these things! What has happened? The agencies will be sore about this, ma'am, I can assure you.”

Joan made a gesture of helplessness, but the impresario continued to look at her with suspicion, as though accusing her of this ruinous intrusion into the professional reticence of the world-famous performer.

“I hope that kid's all right,” said John, at the other side of Joan, loading her with a second responsibility. This, however, did not perturb her. She saw the anxiety in her husband's attitude, and found it most reassuring.

“It's all beyond our control,” she said to Mr. Sturm. “It happened in a moment. We did not even see Schnabel in the room. He appeared from a corner up there by the piano. And even if we had, we should not have known him.”

“Well, that's a good alibi,” said Mr. Sturm, his good nature restored. “But I want you to realise, ma'am, that when these artists break out in this way, they give us the dickens of a lot of trouble. It does them no good. Give the public something for nothing, and it takes it for granted. The whole relationship between an artist and his public is broken down, you understand. You must see that, ma'am. Down come the rarity values. It doesn't do, I say. And here I have come from Paris to talk
business with Schnabel, and this is what I find. News of this will go all round the musical world, I guess.”

He was obviously very worried, and Joan looked at him almost with sympathy. She was even inclined to believe that he was not bluffing her with this talk as a screen for his real motive in coming, to follow Adrian and ingratiate himself with the boy before assaulting the opposition at home. She said nothing, however. The whole field of this musical activity, with the big business machinery beneath it, was something outside her scope. She had her brief from the boy's father, and that was enough. The immediate concern was that she had already allowed this brief to be abused.

Further reflection was arrested by the sound of redoubled applause. Schnabel, after nodding abruptly at the audience, had put the album on the reading desk, pointed out something to the boy, and was now sitting ready for action. The clapping died down, and there followed that moment or two of silence when time stands still. One belated individual clapped, but was instantly reprimanded by the increased frigidity of the rest of the audience.

The piece found by Adrian was the piano duet by Brahms (Opus 23); the variations on a theme by Schumann, that generous and noble-natured elder who had helped Brahms in the beginning, and remained an influence throughout the rich years that followed.

This time it was the child who frowned as he played. He was struggling, reading at sight something outside the comprehension, perhaps, even of his unaccountably prompted consciousness. The theme, one of the last flashes of musical intelligence that lit Schumann's mind before his madness drove him to suicide, was stated with instant authority by this incongruously paired couple. Its key, of E flat major, gave it at once that other-world tone which perhaps justified the deranged mind of Schumann
in claiming that he heard the voices of Schubert and Mendelssohn dictating to him, summoning him over the brink.

Adrian could not possibly have guessed, even by the abnormal intuition that gave him his faculty for sight-reading, what a tragic history the theme represented in the life of a great forerunner, led astray by spiritualistic dabblings. He may, perhaps, have appreciated the healthy skill with which Brahms had brought the theme back to this world, for the boy set to the task with a vigour and rhythmic authority that again made his partner glance down at him with surprise and a grim commendation. The child might almost have overheard Brahms himself, in his famous admonition about the writing of variations. “They must always keep their aim firmly in view, and this is only possible if the bass is firmly established, otherwise they are left hanging in the air. Then straight ahead towards the goal, without beating about the bush.”

By some chance, or more probably by the immeasurable direction of his rich instinct, Adrian brought out that firmness in the bass, and the experienced old master beside him almost chuckled with satisfaction. A smile softened the stony features, and the predominance of the Mendelssohn influence was made apparent. The tenderness, the resignation, appeared to come from Schnabel's hands, permeating the whole, and winding their way through the contrapuntal fabric of the second and fourth variations, while the energy, the youthful revolt against these whisperings from another world, were brought to the music by the diminutive fists of the child.

The playing of the Mozart had been impressive enough. But here was something beyond belief. As the variations grew in power, their freedom only adding to the sense of a unity imposed by the devout nature of Brahms, with its perpetual sense of spiritual rapture, the audience sighed,
fighting down its wonder and incredulity. Joan saw the boy, or what could be seen of him half-behind the bulky shape of the master, through a blur of strong feeling. She was not weeping; but her senses were drawn and taut. Anything might happen. The boy was hardly human, perhaps. Certainly, he was a responsibility beyond her powers. She was afraid, and shivered. She put out her hand and clung to John's arm, making him look round at her. He nodded, as though she had implored him to agree with her about something of vital importance. That, too, was reassuring. They would stand together over this affair, at any rate. She pressed his arm, and he responded again, by moving slightly nearer to her, enabling her to lean against him.

The emphasis in the sixth and ninth variations stretched Adrian's small body, and he was seen to lean forward, his lips parted, his face sweating and shiny. But he held the pace, and remained in equal partnership with Schnabel, who had perhaps accommodated the timing a little through these aggressive approaches to the theme. Then came the tenth and last, the funeral march introduced as a direct elegy for Schumann. The grandeur of this, with the secondary introduction of divine hope, and the final tenderness, left the audience for almost half a minute in dead silence after the music ceased. Schnabel had already closed the lid of the piano, and stood up, before the applause broke over the two players. It was less tumultuous than before. The surprise had already been expressed, and the novelty. This time, the nature of the music had been enigmatic, above the heads of many of the guests. They were all aware, however, of something prodigious, which they were not likely to encounter again, certainly not in such informal circumstances. People began to move about as they clapped, asking each other questions, puzzled in their pleasure, with a touch of fear; the fear of the unknown, the superhuman.

The hotel musicians mounted the dais, and the pianist, the German who had recognised the master, shook him by the hand, Schnabel gravely responding and thanking him. Then he turned, seized Adrian by the shoulder, as though the child had been caught stealing apples from an orchard, as perhaps he had, and piloted him through the crowd towards Joan and John Boys.

As he approached them, he saw Aloysius Sturm beside them, and a dark frown settled over his face, making him so formidable that nobody dared to interrupt his progress.

“You are right,” he said to Sturm, anticipating the protest, “but this dangerous imp led me astray. It shall not happen again. I intend to talk to his parents. You will be interested to hear what I have to say, my friend.”

Sturm's attitude was almost obsequious. He bowed to the master, somewhat self-consciously, and took the child's other hand, so that the boy stood as a link between them, while Joan and John stood watching this encounter between hardened old professionals. They were at a loss quite what to do.

“Let us get away from here,” said Schnabel, “it becomes oppressive. I have had enough.”

He walked through the
salon
, still with Adrian beside him, hand in hand. The crowd divided, and made a lane, clapping shyly, nervously, with smiles, and ingratiating nods and gestures. Schnabel made no acknowledgment. He stumped on, his features set, his glance downcast. Little Adrian trotted beside him, looking up from time to time as though to explore the heights so heavily clouded, to reassure himself about the nature of this giant against whom he had been measuring himself so innocently. He stopped once, and looking round anxiously, called, “Come along, Joan, don't leave me.”

This childish gesture caused several ladies in the audience to press forward, eager to embrace the child, but the forbidding monitor beside him drove them back like
spray from a rock. Nobody dared approach too near. The Boys, with Sturm meekly behind them, followed, and soon the party was seated in a corner of the lounge, now emptied of its occupants. The band in the
salon
struck up a dance tune, and the shuffling of feet could be heard as normal activities were resumed.

“We will discuss our American tour business later,” said Schnabel to Mr. Sturm. “I want to say something to this young man's parents. Now, madam, I will not discuss him while he is with us; but I will predict for you; I will say that he should become a musician of the first order; and a musician is more than a pianist. You heard that Brahms, Sturm, eh? You heard it?”

“I've heard that boy before,
maestro
,” said Sturm, reverently. “That's what I'm chasing around the world for. I'm looking for the best: and I shall not find anything better than that. I want to promote him, but promote him properly, with no showman tricks, mark you. You know me well enough for that, eh?”

He was pleading hopelessly already. He knew what was at the back of Schnabel's mind, and that he would not be able to deny it.

Adrian, bored by this solemn discussion, got up and wandered round the lounge, making his way to the reception desk, where he had already befriended the clerk, an elderly Italian woman.

“This child is more than precocious,” said Schnabel, “he has an adult musical mind. What is to be done? I have seen so many brilliant children, and most of them dwindle away at puberty; either they are exhausted by exploitation, or they are examples of the seed that fell on shallow soil. You are both fortunate and unfortunate parents, let me say. I congratulate you and I pity you. The danger is in abusing this gift. Keep the child quiet, out of the public eye. We have indulged him this afternoon, and you see what the possibilities are: the unreality,
the quick applause for the wrong reason. Bah!” He puffed out his lips and turned on Sturm, seated by his side.

“You, Sturm. Take care! Leave the boy alone. Leave him to his parents for another ten years. Yes, ten years. Let us advise them together, for you know as much as I about the best teachers. Yes! I will take him myself for the last two years before he makes a début into public life. What is that to you, Sturm, ten years? You have your hands full enough, surely? Let me say this: I feel so strongly about this boy that I will not contract myself to you unless you leave him alone. That is final. Final!”

He thumped his stout knee with his fist, and glared at John Boys.

“You climb, sir?” he said. Boys nodded, not having dared to speak in this company so utterly outside his world. Schnabel at once melted. He smiled, nodded, murmuring, “Good! Good!” Then he turned to Joan.

“You, his mother, must understand what I say? Of course you do.” He examined her more particularly. “But you are younger than I should have thought. These unusual children; they are born to middle-aged parents. Tell me …”

“No,” said Joan demurely, feeling that she was losing something of great value, “I understand fully what you mean—but I am not his mother.”

“I see, I see,” whispered Schnabel, still studying her face, and looking from her to John, apparently approving of both of them, for he next spoke tenderly, his face again expressive of deep feeling. “But you will be blessed. You will be blessed.”

Joan stole a glance at her husband, and to her surprise found that he was looking at her with a new light in his eyes. She felt herself blushing, and bewildered between hope and distrust. She longed to be alone with him, to attempt once again to break down the barrier against which their marriage had been halted. Had this child
been the instrument, with his strange power, and his intrusion into their emotional life? She could see now that he had affected John, disturbing him and even ageing him, just as she too had been influenced.

“We do not understand these things,” added Schnabel, shaking his head gravely. “No, we do not. This thing, this fire, the creative fire: it spreads, and takes all forms. It warms us all into new life, and the making of life.” Then, turning to Sturm, he added, “And we must not misdirect it, Sturm. We must be patient. You have a duty, my friend. Wait for ten years.”

Sturm stood up, to reach for the cigar-case in his hip pocket. He proceeded to cut a cigar, paused for a few moments, then stooped forward over the master.

“Well, what you say goes for me, sir. I had hoped to sign up that boy for a world tour. He would fill every concert hall in the capitals. I had not believed he would last; they never do. But you convince me,
maestro
. What you say goes. You know about these things. And if I'm here in ten years, I'll hope to sign him up then after you have given him that last polish. I'll put that to his father when I get back to Paris to-morrow. You realise, his father is an English doctor there; not young, nor is his mother who is French. They both play an instrument, and they know his worth. That appears in the teaching he has already been given. His uncle and I have tried to get round that protective care. You put me to shame,
maestro.”