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Page 54
VERA
But what happened?
JEAN
What happened? One night a woman called on Paul at the hotel. He went
down, not knowing who it was or anything about her. He said afterward that
she started in flattering him and asking him to play for her some time....
Then Sbarovitch rushed in, seizing the woman and cursing Paul with
mouthfuls of Slavic hate. So _that_ dream ended!
VERA
But why? Was it Sbarovitch's wife?
JEAN
No, worse luck--it was his mistress. Ah, you can't imagine the re-action
from such disappointments! The long, slow warming to the full possibility
of the occasion, until the artist's mind and body become one leaping
flame--and then the sudden fall into icy water. It takes months to work up
to the same pitch again.... And then Rome.
VERA
What, again?
JEAN
Oh, yes. Again. This time--for a wonder everything went smoothly. I had
watched over him like a cat, to save him from others' stupidity and his
own impetuousness. It came the very moment when he had to go to the
theatre. He asked me if I were ready, I wasn't. _I didn't want to go._
VERA
You didn't want to go?
JEAN
No. It's difficult to explain, but somehow by then I had grown aware that
the long series of little obstacles, each one accidental and temporary,
seemed to express something unseen, something impersonal, a kind of fate
... as if the verdict had gone forth from the lords of things that Paul
was _not_ to succeed. And everything seemed to hang in the balance that
night. I thought that the fact I was aware of Paul's bad luck made me all
the likelier instrument for it to work through. So I told him I had a
headache.... He must have felt something in my voice. He dropped his
violin and demanded I tell him why I didn't _want_ to go. His intuition
told him it was a matter of will with me. I hadn't thought to have a story
ready. Besides, I was so worn out that I was on the verge of hysteria. He
stormed, and I sat staring at him without a word, wondering only why he
didn't forget poor insignificant me and go forth to his glory. I despised
him for considering me at such a moment. I didn't understand. _My_
opinion, _my_ feeling, was more important to Paul than the rest of the
world. So, after all, I _was_ the instrument.
VERA
But why didn't you just get up and go?
JEAN
As soon as I saw how much it meant to Paul, I tried to. But it was too
late.... We sat there arguing until three in the morning. An orgy of tears
and self-immolation for us both.... I suppose he might have explained to
the director afterward and arranged another concert, but those things are
never the same the second time. Well, I forced myself to get rid of that
feeling about his bad luck. How I ever succeeded I don't know, for Paul
caught my mood and began to believe it himself. But somehow I did. And
then I made him give up his violin and begin composing. Of course we had
to have money for that. I wrote a relative and demanded, point blank,
shamelessly, two thousand dollars. I felt it was my restitution to Paul. I
received the money. What the relative thought, I don't know. I suppose he
paid it to avoid getting another such letter from me. I don't blame him.
So we came over here and Paul started at work. I was fighting for him and
with him every moment. How he worked! Six months, like a coal heaver. Then
he finished and played it over. He tore it all up. Every note.
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