The Essential G. B. Shaw: Celebrated Plays, Novels, Personal Letters, Essays & Articles. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

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СКАЧАТЬ stood still and considered a moment. “No, no.” he said, recommencing his walk, “I said nothing of the kind.”

      She made no comment, but looked timidly at him, and drummed on the writing with her finger.

      “At least,” he said, stopping again, “I may have said so thoughtlessly — as a mere passing remark. I meant nothing by it. I was little put out by the infernal manner in which the class behaved. Perhaps you did not perceive my annoyance, and so took whatever I said too seriously.”

      “Yes, I think that must have been it,” said Miss Cairns slyly. “It was all a mistake of mine, I suppose you will continue our lessons as if nothing had happened.”

      “Of course, certainly. Nothing has happened.”

      “I am so sorry that you should have had the trouble of coming all the way from London. It is too bad.”

      “Well, well, it is not your fault, Miss Cairns. It cannot be helped.

      “May I ask, from whom did you hear of my mistake?”

      “From whom! From Miss Sutherland, of course. There is no one else living under heaven who would have the heart to write such venom.”

      “Miss Sutherland is a dear friend of mine, Mr Jack.”

      “She is no friend of mine. Though I lived in her house for months, I never gave her the least cause of enmity against me. Yet she has never lost an opportunity of stabbing at me.”

      “You are mistaken, Mr. Jack — won’t you sit down: I beg your pardon for not asking you before — Miss Sutherland has not the least enmity to you.”

      “Read that,” said Jack, producing the letter. Miss Cairns read it, and felt ashamed of it. “I cannot imagine what made Mary write that,” she said. “I am sure my letter contained nothing that could justify her remark about me.”

      “Sheer cruelty — want of consideration for others — natural love of inflicting pain. She has an overbearing disposition. Nothing is more hateful than an overbearing disposition.”

      “You do not understand her, Mr Jack. She is only hasty. You will find that she wrote on the spur of the moment, fancying that I was annoyed. Pray think no more of it.”

      “It does not matter, Miss Cairns. I will not meet her again; and I request you never to mention her name in my presence.”

      “But she is going, I hope, to join the class on her return from Bonchurch.”

      “The day she enters it, I leave it. I am in earnest. You may move heaven and earth more easily than me — on this point.”

      “Really, Mr Jack, you are a little severe. Do not be offended if I say that you might find in your own impatience some excuse for hers.”

      Jack recoiled. “My impatience!” he repeated slowly. “I, who have hardened myself into a stone statue of dogged patience, impatient!” He glared at her; ground his teeth; and continued vehemently, “Here am I, a master of my profession — no easy one to master — rotting, and likely to continue rotting unheard in the midst of a pack of shallow panders, who make a hotch-potch of what they can steal from better men, and share the spoil with the corrupt performers who thrust it upon the public for them. Either this or the accursed drudgery of teaching, or grinding an organ at the pleasure of some canting villain of a parson, or death by starvation, is the lot of a musician in this centuty. I have, in spite of this, never composed one page of music bad enough for publication or performance. I have drudged with pupils when I could get them, starved in a garret when I could not; endured to have my works returned to me unopened or declared inexecutable by shopkeepers and lazy conductors, written new ones without any hope of getting even a hearing for them; dragged myself by excess of this fruitless labor out of horrible fits of despair that come out my own nature; and throughout it all have neither complained nor prostituted myself to write shopware. I have listened to complacent assurances that publishers and concert-givers are only too anxious to get good, original work — that it is their own interest to do so. As if the dogs would know original work if they saw it: or rather as if they would not instinctively turn away from anything good and genuine! All this I have borne without suffering from it — without the humiliation of finding it able to give me one moment of disappointment or resentment; and now you tell me that I have no patience, because I have no disposition to humor the caprices of idle young ladies. I am accustomed to hear such things from fools — or I was when I had friends; but I expected more sense from you.”

      Miss Cairns struggled with this speech in vain. All but the bare narrative in it seemed confused and inconsequent to her. “I did not know,” she said, looking perplexedly at him. “It never occurred to me that — at least—” She stopped, unable to arrange her ideas. Then she exclaimed, “And do you really love music, Mr. Jack?”

      “What do you mean?” said he sternly.

      “I thought you did not care for anything. I always felt that you knew your business; we all felt so; but we never thought you had any enthusiasm. Do not be angry with me for telling you so; for I am very glad to find that I was wrong.”

      Jack’s features relaxed. He rose, and took another turn across the room, chuckling. “I am not fond of teaching,” he said; “but I must live. And so you all thought that an ugly man could not be a composer. Or was it because I don’t admire the drawling which you all flatter yourselves is singing, eh? I am not like the portraits of Mozart, Miss Cairns.”

      “I am sure we never thought of that, only somehow we agreed that you were the very last person in the world to — to—”

      “Ha! ha! Just so. I do not look like a writer of serenades. However, you were right about the enthusiasm. I am no enthusiast: I leave that to the ladies. Did you ever hear of an enthusiastically honest man, or an enthusiastic shoemaker? Never, and you are not likely to hear of an enthusiastic composer — at least not until after he is dead. No. He chuckled again, but seemed suddenly to recollect himself; for he added stiffly, “I beg your pardon. I am detaining you.”

      “Not in the least,” said Miss Cairns, so earnestly that she blushed afterwards. “If you are not engaged, I wish you would stay for B few minutes and do me at favor.”

      “Certainly. Most certainly,” he said. Then he added suspiciously, “What is it?”

      “Only to play something for me before you go — if you don’t mind.” Her tone expressed that intense curiosity to witness a musical performance which is so common among unmusical people whose interest in the art has been roused by reading. Jack understood it quite well; but he seemed disposed to humor her.

      “You want to see the figure work,” he said goodhumoredly. “Very well. What shall it be?”

      Miss Cairns, ignorant of music, but unaccustomed to appear ignorant of anything, was at a loss. “Something classical then,” she ventured. “Do you know Thalberg’s piece called ‘Moses in Egypt’? I believe that is very fine; but it is also very difficult, is it not?”

      He started, and looked at her with such an extraordinary grin that she almost began to mistrust him. Then he said, apparently to himself, “Candor, Jack, candor. You once thought so, perhaps, yourself.”

      He twisted his fingers until their joints crackled; shook his shoulders and gnashed his teeth once or twice at the keyboard. Then he improvised a set of variations on СКАЧАТЬ