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

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СКАЧАТЬ That is another reason for my going. It is not good for you to be so loving.”

      “I fear that it too true, Aurélie. But will it be good for you to have no one near you who loves you?

      “Oh, those who love me are everywhere. In Vienna there is a man — a student — six feet high, with fair hair, who gets a friend to make me deplorable verses which he pretends are his own. Heaven, how he loves me! At Leipzig there is an old professor, almost as foolish as thou, my Adrian. Ah, yes: I shall not want for lovers anywhere.”

      “Aurélie, are you mad, or cruel, or merely simple, that you say these things to me?”

      “Are you then jealous? Ha! ha! He is jealous of my fairhaired student and of my old professor. But fear nothing, my friend. For all these men my mother is a veritable dragon. They fear her more than they fear the devil, in whom, indeed, they do not believe.”

      “If I cannot trust you, Aurélie, I cannot trust your mother.”

      “You say well. And when you do not trust me, you shall never see me again. I was only mocking. But I must start the day after tomorrow. You must come with me to Victoria, and see that my luggage is right. I shall not know how to travel without my mother.”

      “Until you are in her hands, I will not lose sight of you, my dear treasure,” said Adrian tenderly. “You will write often to me, will you not, Aurélie?”

      “I cannot write — you know it, Adrian. Mamma shall write to you: she always has abundance to say. I must practise hard; and I cannot sit down and cramp my fingers with a pen. I will write occasionally — I am sure to want something.”

      Adrian finished his breakfast in silence, glancing at her now and again with a mixture of rapture and despair.

      “And so,” he said, when the meal was over, “I am to lose you, Aurélie.”

      Go, go,” she replied: “I have much preparation to make; and you are in my way. You must paint hard in your studio until very late this evening.”

      “I thought of giving myself a holiday, and staying at home with you, dearest, as we are so soon to be separated.”

      “Impossible,” cried Aurélie, alarmed. “My God, what a proposition! You must stay away more than ever, I have to practise, and to think of my dresses: I must absolutely be alone” Adrian took up his hat dejectedly. “My soul and my life, how I tear thy heart!” she added fondly, taking his face between her hands and kissing him. He went out pained, humiliated, and ecstatically happy.

      Aurélie was busy all the morning. Early in the afternoon she placed Schumann’s concerto in A minor on the desk of the pianoforte, arranged her seat before it, and left the room. When she returned, she had changed her dress and was habited in silk. She bore her slender and upright figure more proudly before her imaginary audience than she usually ventured to do before a real one, and when had taken her place at the instrument, she played the concerto as she was not always fortunate to play it in public. Before she had finished the door was thrown open, and a servant announced “Mrs Herbert.” Aurélie started up frowning, and had but just time to regain her thoughtful expression and native distinction of manner when her motherin-law entered, looking as imposing as a wellbred Englishwoman can without making herself ridiculous.

      “I fear I disturbed you,” she said, advancing graciously.

      “Not at all. I am very honored, madame. Please to sit down.”

      Mrs Herbert had intended to greet her son’s wife with a kiss. But Aurélie, giving her hand with dignified courtesy, was not approachable enough for that. She was not distant; but neither was she cordial. Mrs Herbert sat down, a little impressed.

      Is it a long time, madame, that you are in London?”

      I only arrived the day before yesterday,” replied Mrs. Herbert in French, which, like Adrian, she spoke fluently. “I am always compelled to pass the winter in Scotland, because of my health.”

      “The climate of Scotland, then, is softer than that of England. Is it so?”

      “It is perhaps not softer; but it suits me better,” said Mrs. Herbert, looking hard at Aurélie, who was gazing pensively at the fireplace.

      “Your health is, I hope, perfectly re-established?”

      “Perfectly, thank you. Are you quite sure I have not interrupted you? I heard you playing as I came in; and I know how annoying a visit is when it interferes with serious employment.”

      “I am very content to be entertained by you, madame, instead of studying solitarily.”

      “You still study?”

      “Undoubtedly.”

      “You are very fond of playing, then?

      “It is my profession.”

      “Since I am Adrian’s mother,” said Mrs. Herbert with some emphasis, as if she thought that fact was being overlooked, “will you allow me to ask you a question?”

      Aurélie bowed.

      “Do you study with a view to resuming your public career at some future time?”

      “Surely. I am going to play next week at Vienna.”

      Mrs Herbert bent her head in surprised assent to this intelligence. *I thought Adrian contemplated your retirement into private life,” she said. “However, let me hasten to add that I think you have shewn wisdom in overruling him. Will he accompany you abroad?”

      “It is not necessary that he should. I shall travel, as usual, with my mother.”

      “Your mother is quite well, I hope?”

      “Quite well, thank you, madame.”

      Then there was a gap in the conversation. Mrs Herbert felt that she was being treated as a distinguished stranger in her son’s home; but she was uncertain whether this was the effect of timidity, or the execution of a deliberate design on Aurelie’s part. Inclining to the former opinion, she resolved to make an advance.

      “My dear,” she said, may I ask how your friends usually call you?”

      “Since my marriage, my friends usually call me Madame Sczympliça”

      “I could not call you that,” interposed Mrs Herbert, smiling. “I could not pronounce it.”

      “It is incorrect, of course” continued Aurélie, without responding to the smile; “but it is customary for artists to retain, after marriage, the name by which they have been known. I intend to do so. My English acquaintances call me Mrs Herbert.”

      “But what is your Christian name?”

      Aurélie. But that is only used by my husband and my mother — and by a few others who are dear to me.”

      “Well,” said Mrs. Herbert, with some impatience, “as it is quite impossible for me to address you as Mrs Herbert, I must really ask you to let me call you Aurélie.”

      “Whatever is customary, madame,” said СКАЧАТЬ