And one morning, long afterwards, I awoke very early, and the murmuring of the leaves of the forest came through the open window. I had known that I should wake very early, in joyous anticipation of that day. And as I lay he lay beside me, lost in the dreamless, boyish, natural sleep that he never sought in vain. He lay, as always, slightly on his right side, with his face a little towards me—his face that was young again, and from which the bane had passed. It was one of the handsomest, fairest faces in the world, one of the most innocent, and one of the strongest; the face of a man who follows his instincts with the direct simplicity of a savage or a child, and whose instincts are sane and powerful. Seen close, perfectly at rest, as I saw it morning after morning, it was full of a special and mysterious attraction. The fine curves of the nostrils and of the lobe of the ear, the masterful lines of the mouth, the contours of the cheek and chin and temples, the tints of the flesh subtly varying from rose to ivory, the golden crown of hair, the soft moustache. I had learned every detail by heart; my eyes had dwelt on them till they had become my soul’s inheritance, till they were mystically mine, drawing me ever towards them, as a treasure draws. Gently moving, I would put my ear close, close, and listen to the breath of life as it entered regularly, almost imperceptibly, vivifying that organism in repose. There is something terrible in the still beauty of sleep. It is as though the spiritual fabric hangs inexplicably over the precipice of death. It seems impossible, or at least miraculous, that the intake and the expulsion upon which existence depends should continue thus, minute by minute, hour by hour. It is as though one stood on the very confines of life, and could one trace but one step more, one single step, one would unveil the eternal secret. I would not listen long; the torture was too sweet, too exquisite, and I would gently slide back to my place.... His hand was on the counterpane, near to my breast—the broad hand of the pianist, with a wrist of incredible force, and the fingers tapering suddenly at the end to a point. I let my own descend on it as softly as snow. Ah, ravishing contact! He did not move. And while my small hand touched his I gazed into the spaces of the bedroom, with its walls of faded blue tapestry and its white curtains, and its marble and rosewood, and they seemed to hold peace, as the hollows of a field hold dew; they seemed to hold happiness as a great tree holds sunlight in its branches; and outside was the murmuring of the leaves of the forest and the virginal freshness of the morning.

Surely he must wake earlier that day! I pursed my lips and blew tenderly, mischievously, on his cheek, lying with my cheek full on the pillow, so that I could watch him. The muscles of his mouth twitched, his inner being appeared to protest. And then began the first instinctive blind movement of the day with him. His arms came forward and found my neck, and drew me forcibly to him, and then, just before our lips touched, he opened his eyes and shut them again. So it occurred every morning. Ere even his brain had resumed activity his heart had felt its need of me. This it was that was so wonderful, so overpowering! And the kiss, languid and yet warm, heavy with a human scent, with the scent of the night, honest, sensuous, and long—long! As I lay thus, clasped in his arms, I half closed my eyes, and looked into his eyes through my lashes, smiling, and all was a delicious blur....

It was the summit of bliss! No! I have never mounted higher! I asked myself, astounded, what I had done that I should receive such happiness, what I had done that existence should have no flaw for me. And what had I done? I know not, I know not. It passes me. I am lost in my joy. For I had not even cured him. I had anticipated painful scenes, interminable struggles, perhaps a relapse. But nothing of the kind. He had simply ceased at once the habit—that was all. We never left each other. And his magnificent constitution had perfectly recovered itself in a few months. I had done nothing.

‘Magda,’ he murmured indistinctly, drawing his mouth an inch away from mine, ‘why can’t your dark hair always be loose over your shoulders like that? It is glorious!’

‘What ideas you have!’ I murmured, more softly than he. ‘And do you know what it is to-day?’

‘No.’

‘You’ve forgotten?’ I pouted.

‘Yes.’

‘Guess.’

‘No; you must tell me. Not your birthday? Not mine?’

‘It’s just a year since I met you,’ I whispered timidly.

Our mouths met again, and, so enlocked, we rested, savouring the true savour of life. And presently my hand stole up to his head and stroked his curls.

Every morning he began to practise at eight o’clock, and continued till eleven. The piano, a Steinway in a hundred Steinways, was in the further of the two drawing-rooms. He would go into the room smoking a cigarette, and when he had thrown away the cigarette I would leave him. And as soon as I had closed the door the first notes would resound, slow and solemn, of the five-finger exercises with which he invariably commenced his studies. That morning, as often, I sat writing in the enclosed garden. I always wrote in pencil on my knee. The windows of the drawing-room were wide open, and Diaz’ music filled the garden. The sheer beauty of his tone was such that to hear him strike even an isolated note gave pleasure. He created beauty all the time. His five-finger exercises were lovely patterns of sound woven with exact and awful deliberation. It seemed impossible that these should be the same bald and meaningless inventions which I had been wont to repeat. They were transformed. They were music. The material in which he built them was music itself, enchanting the ear as much by the quality of the tone as by the impeccable elegance of the form. To hear Diaz play a scale, to catch that measured, tranquil succession of notes, each a different jewel of equal splendour, each dying precisely when the next was born—this was to perceive at last what music is made of, to have glimpses of the divine magic that is the soul of the divinest art. I used to believe that nothing could surpass the beauty of a scale, until Diaz, after writing formal patterns in the still air innumerably, and hypnotizing me with that sorcery, would pass suddenly to the repetition of fragments of Bach. And then I knew that hitherto he had only been trying to be more purely and severely mechanical than a machine, and that now the interpreter was at work. I have heard him repeat a passage fifty times—and so slowly!—and each rendering seemed more beautiful than the last; and it was more beautiful than the last. He would extract the final drop of beauty from the most beautiful things in the world. Washed, drenched in this circumambient ether of beauty, I wrote my verse. Perhaps it may appear almost a sacrilege that I should have used the practising of a Diaz as a background for my own creative activity. I often thought so. But when one has but gold, one must put it to lowly use. So I wrote, and he passed from Bach to Chopin.

Usually he would come out into the garden for five minutes at half-past nine to smoke a cigarette, but that morning it had struck ten before the music ceased. I saw him. He walked absent-minded along the terrace in the strange silence that had succeeded. He was wearing his riding-breeches, for we habitually rode at eleven. And that morning I did not hide my work when he came. It was, in fact, finished; the time had arrived to disclose it. He stopped in front of me in the sunlight, utterly preoccupied with himself and his labours. He had the rapt look on his face which results from the terrible mental and spiritual strain of practising as he practised.

‘Satisfied?’ I asked him.

He frowned.

‘There are times when one gets rather inspired,’ he said, looking at me, as it were, without seeing me. ‘It’s as if the whole soul gets into one’s hands. That’s what’s wanted.’

‘You had it this morning?’

‘A bit.’

He smiled with candid joy.

‘While I was listening—’ I began.

‘Oh!’ he broke in impulsively, violently, ‘it isn’t you that have to listen. It’s I that have to listen. It’s the player that has to listen. He’s got to do more than listen. He’s got to be in the piano with his inmost heart. If he isn’t on the full stretch of analysis the whole blessed time, he might just as well be turning the handle of a barrel-organ.’

He always talked about his work during the little ‘recess’ which he took in the middle of the morning. He pretended to be talking to me, but it was to himself that he talked. He was impatient if I spoke.

‘I shall be greater than ever,’ he proceeded, after a moment. And his attitude towards himself was so disengaged, so apart and aloof, so critically appreciative, that it was impossible to accuse him of egoism. He was, perhaps, as amazed at his own transcendent gift as any other person could be, and he was incapable of hiding his sensations. ‘Yes,’ he repeated; ‘I think I shall be greater than ever. You see, a Chopin player is born; you can’t make him. With Chopin it’s not a question of intellect. It’s all tone with Chopin—tone, my child, even in the most bravura passages. You’ve got to get it.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

He gazed over the tree-tops into the blue sky.

‘I may be ready in six months,’ he said.

‘I think you will,’ I concurred, with a judicial air. But I honestly deemed him to be more than ready then.

Twelve months previously he had said: ‘With six hours’ practice a day for two years I shall recover what I have lost.’

He had succeeded beyond his hopes.

‘Are you writing in that book?’ he inquired carelessly as he threw down the cigarette and turned away.

‘I have just finished something,’ I replied.

‘Oh!’ he said, ‘I’m glad you aren’t idle. It’s so boring.’

He returned to the piano, perfectly incurious about what I did, self-absorbed as a god. And I was alone in the garden, with the semicircle of trees behind me, and the faÇade of the old house and its terrace in front. And lying on the lawn, just under the terrace, was the white end of the cigarette which he had abandoned; it breathed upwards a thin spiral of blue smoke through the morning sunshine, and then it ceased to breathe. And the music recommenced, on a different plane, more brilliantly than before. It was as though, till then, he had been laboriously building the bases of a tremendous triumphal arch, and that now the two wings met, dazzlingly, soaringly, in highest heaven, and the completed arch became a rainbow glittering in the face of the infinite. He played two of his great concert pieces, and their intricate melodies—brocaded, embroidered, festooned—poured themselves through the windows into the garden in a procession majestic and impassioned, perturbing the intent soul of the solitary listener, swathing her in intoxicating sound. It was the unique virtuoso born again, proudly displaying the ultimate sublime end of all those slow-moving exercises to which he had subdued his fingers. Not for ten years had I heard him play so.

When we first came into the house I had said bravely to myself: ‘His presence shall not deter me from practising as I have always done.’ And one afternoon I had sat down to the piano full of determination to practise without fear of him, without self-consciousness. But before my hands had touched the keys shame took me, unreasoning, terror-struck shame, and I knew in an instant that while he lived I should never more play the piano. He laughed lightly when I told him, and I called myself silly. Yet now, as I sat in the garden, I saw how right I had been. And I wondered that I should ever have had the audacity even to dream of playing in his house; the idea was grotesque. And he did not ask me to play, save when there arrived new orchestral music arranged for four hands. Then I steeled myself to the ordeal of playing with him, because he wished to try over the music. And he would thank me, and say that pianoforte duets were always very enjoyable. But he did not pretend that I was not an amateur, and he never—thank God!—suggested that we should attempt Tristan again....

At last he finished. And I heard distantly the bell which he had rung for his glass of milk. And, remembering that I was not ready for the ride, I ran with guilty haste into the house and upstairs.

The two bay horses were waiting, our English groom at their heads, when I came out to the porch. Diaz was impatiently tapping his boot with his whip. He was not in the least a sporting man, but he loved the sensation of riding, and the groom would admit that he rode passably; but he loved more to strut in breeches, and to imitate in little ways the sporting man. I had learnt to ride in order to please him.

‘Come along,’ he exclaimed.

His eyes said: ‘You are always late.’ And I was. Some people always know exactly what point they have reached in the maze and jungle of the day, just as mariners are always aware, at the back of their minds, of the state of the tide. But I was not born so.

Diaz helped me to mount, and we departed, jingling through the gate and across the road into a glade of the forest, one of those long sandy defiles, banked on either side, and over-shadowed with tall oaks, which pierce the immense forest like rapiers. The sunshine slanted through the crimsoning leafwork and made irregular golden patches on the dark sand to the furthest limit of the perspective. And though we could not feel the autumn wind, we could hear it in the tree-tops, and it had the sound of the sea. The sense of well-being and of joy was exquisite. The beauty of horses, timid creatures, sensitive and graceful and irrational as young girls, is a thing apart; and what is strange is that their vast strength does not seem incongruous with it. To be above that proud and lovely organism, listening, apprehensive, palpitating, nervous far beyond the human, to feel one’s self almost part of it by intimate contact, to yield to it, and make it yield, to draw from it into one’s self some of its exultant vitality—in a word, to ride—yes, I could comprehend Diaz’ fine enthusiasm for that! I could share it when he was content to let the horses amble with noiseless hoofs over the soft ways. But when he would gallop, and a strong wind sprang up to meet our faces, and the earth shook and thundered, and the trunks of the trees raced past us, then I was afraid. My fancy always saw him senseless at the foot of a tree while his horse calmly cropped the short grass at the sides of the path, or with his precious hand twisted and maimed! And I was in agony till he reined in. I never dared to speak to him of this fear, nor even hint to him that the joy was worth less than the peril. He would have been angry in his heart, and something in him stronger than himself would have forced him to increase the risks. I knew him! ... Ah! but when we went gently, life seemed to be ideal for me, impossibly perfect! It seemed to contain all that I could ever have demanded of it.

I looked at him sideways, so noble and sane and self-controlled. And the days in Paris had receded, far and dim and phantom-like. Was it conceivable that they had once been real, and that we had lived through them? And was this Diaz, the world-renowned darling of capitals, riding by me, a woman whom he had met by fantastic chance? Had he really hidden himself in my arms from the cruel stare of the world and the insufferable curiosity of admirers who, instead of admiring, had begun to pity? Had I in truth saved him? Was it I who would restore him to his glory? Oh, the astounding romance that my life had been! And he was with me! He shared my life, and I his! I wondered what would happen when he returned to his bright kingdom. I was selfish enough to wish that he might never return to his kingdom, and that we might ride and ride for ever in the forest.

And then we came to a circular clearing, with an iron cross in the middle, where roads met, a place such as occurs magically in some ballade of Chopin’s. And here we drew rein on the leaf-strewn grass, breathing quickly, with reddened cheeks, and the horses nosed each other, with long stretchings of the neck and rattling of bits.

‘So you’ve been writing again?’ said Diaz, smiling quizzically.

‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I’ve been writing a long time, but I haven’t let you know anything about it; and just to-day I’ve finished it.’

‘What is it—another novel?’

‘No; a little drama in verse.’

‘Going to publish it?’

‘Why, naturally.’

Diaz was aware that I enjoyed fame in England and America. He was probably aware that my books had brought me a considerable amount of money. He had read some of my works, and found them excellent—indeed, he was quite proud of my talent. But he did not, he could not, take altogether seriously either my talent or my fame. I knew that he always regarded me as a child gracefully playing at a career. For him there was only one sort of fame; all the other sorts were shadows. A supreme violinist might, perhaps, approach the real thing, in his generous mind; but he was incapable of honestly believing that any fame compared with that of a pianist. The other fames were very well, but they were paste to the precious stone, gewgaws to amuse simple persons. The sums paid to sopranos struck him as merely ridiculous in their enormity. He could not be called conceited; nevertheless, he was magnificently sure that he had been, and still was, the most celebrated person in the civilized world. Certainly he had no superiors in fame, but he would not admit the possibility of equals. Of course, he never argued such a point; it was a tacit assumption, secure from argument. And with that he profoundly reverenced the great composers. The death of Brahms affected him for years. He regarded it as an occasion for universal sorrow. Had Brahms condescended to play the piano, Diaz would have turned the pages for him, and deemed himself honoured—him whom queens had flattered!

‘Did you imagine,’ I began to tease him, after a pause, ‘that while you are working I spend my time in merely existing?’

‘You exist—that is enough, my darling,’ he said. ‘Strange that a beautiful woman can’t understand that in existing she is doing her life’s work!’

And he leaned over and touched my right wrist below the glove.

‘You dear thing!’ I murmured, smiling. ‘How foolish you can be!’

‘What’s the drama about?’ he asked.

‘About La ValliÈre,’ I said.

‘La ValliÈre! But that’s the kind of subject I want for my opera!’

‘Yes,’ I said; ‘I have thought so.’

‘Could you turn it into a libretto, my child?’

‘No, dearest.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it already is a libretto. I have written it as such.’

‘For me?’

‘For whom else?’

And I looked at him fondly, and I think tears came to my eyes.

‘You are a genius, Magda!’ he exclaimed. ‘You leave nothing undone for me. The subject is the very thing to suit Villedo.’

‘Who is Villedo?’

‘My jewel, you don’t know who Villedo is! Villedo is the director of the OpÉra Comique in Paris, the most artistic opera-house in Europe. He used to beg me every time we met to write him an opera.’

‘And why didn’t you?’

‘Because I had neither the subject nor the time. One doesn’t write operas after lunch in hotel parlours; and as for a good libretto—well, outside Wagner, there’s only one opera in the world with a good libretto, and that’s Carmen.’

Diaz, who had had a youthful operatic work performed at the Royal School of Music in London, and whose numerous light compositions for the pianoforte had, of course, enjoyed a tremendous vogue, was much more serious about his projected opera than I had imagined. He had frequently mentioned it to me, but I had not thought the idea was so close to his heart as I now perceived it to be. I had written the libretto to amuse myself, and perhaps him, and lo! he was going to excite himself; I well knew the symptoms.

‘You wrote it in that little book,’ he said. ‘You haven’t got it in your pocket?’

‘No,’ I answered. ‘I haven’t even a pocket.’

He would not laugh.

‘Come,’ he said—‘come, let’s see it.’

He gathered up his loose rein and galloped off. He could not wait an instant.

‘Come along!’ he cried imperiously, turning his head.

‘I am coming,’ I replied; ‘but wait for me. Don’t leave me like that, Diaz.’

The old fear seized me, but nothing could stop him, and I followed as fast as I dared.

‘Where is it?’ he asked, when we reached home.

‘Upstairs,’ I said.

And he came upstairs behind me, pulling my habit playfully, in an effort to persuade us both that his impatience was a simulated one. I had to find my keys and unlock a drawer. I took the small, silk-bound volume from the back part of the drawer and gave it to him.

‘There!’ I exclaimed. ‘But remember lunch is ready.’

He regarded the book.

‘What a pretty binding!’ he said. ‘Who worked it?’

‘I did.’

‘And, of course, your handwriting is so pretty, too!’ he added, glancing at the leaves. ‘“La ValliÈre, an opera in three acts.”’

We exchanged a look, each of us deliciously perturbed, and then he ran off with the book.

He had to be called three times from the garden to lunch, and he brought the book with him, and read it in snatches during the meal, and while sipping his coffee. I watched him furtively as he turned over the pages.

‘Oh, you’ve done it!’ he said at length—‘you’ve done it! You evidently have a gift for libretto. It is neither more nor less than perfect! And the subject is wonderful!’

He rose, walked round the table, and, taking my head between his hands, kissed me.

‘Magda,’ he said, ‘you’re the cleverest girl that was ever born.’

‘Then, do you think you will compose it?’ I asked, joyous.

‘Do I think I will compose it! Why, what do you imagine? I’ve already begun. It composes itself. I’m now going to read it all again in the garden. Just see that I’m not worried, will you?’

‘You mean you don’t want me there. You don’t care for me any more.’

It amused me to pretend to pout.

‘Yes,’ he laughed; ‘that’s it. I don’t care for you any more.’

He departed.

‘Have no fear!’ I cried after him. ‘I shan’t come into your horrid garden!’

His habit was to resume his practice at three o’clock. The hour was then half-past one. I wondered whether he would allow himself to be seduced from the piano that afternoon by the desire to compose. I hoped not, for there could be no question as to the relative importance to him of the two activities. To my surprise, I heard the piano at two o’clock, instead of at three, and it continued without intermission till five. Then he came, like a sudden wind, on to the terrace where I was having tea. Diaz would never take afternoon tea. He seized my hand impulsively.

‘Come down,’ he said—‘down under the trees there.’

‘What for?’

‘I want you.’

‘But, Diaz, let me put my cup down. I shall spill the tea on my dress.’

‘I’ll take your cup.’

‘And I haven’t nearly finished my tea, either. And you’re hurting me.’

‘I’ll bring you a fresh cup,’ he said. ‘Come, come!’

And he dragged me off, laughing, to the lower part of the garden, where were two chairs in the shade. And I allowed myself to be dragged.

‘There! Sit down. Don’t move. I’ll fetch your tea.’

And presently he returned with the cup.

‘Now that you’ve nearly killed me,’ I said, ‘and spoilt my dress, perhaps you’ll explain.’

He produced the silk-bound book of manuscript from his pocket and put it in my unoccupied hand.

‘I want you to read it to me aloud, all of it,’ he said.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘What a strange boy you are!’ I chided.

Then I drank the tea, straightened my features into seriousness, and began to read.

The reading occupied less than an hour. He made no remark when it was done, but held out his hand for the book, and went out for a walk. At dinner he was silent till the servants had gone. Then he said musingly:

‘That scene in the cloisters between Louise and De Montespan is a great idea. It will be magnificent; it will be the finest thing in the opera. What a subject you have found! what a subject!’ His tone altered. ‘Magda, will you do something to oblige me?’

‘If it isn’t foolish.’

‘I want you to go to bed.’

‘Out of the way?’ I smiled.

‘Go to bed and to sleep,’ he repeated.

‘But why?’

‘I want to walk about this floor. I must be alone.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘just to prove how humble and obedient I am, I will go.’

And I held up my mouth to be kissed.

Wondrous, the joy I found in playing the decorative, acquiescent, self-effacing woman to him, the pretty, pouting plaything! I liked him to dismiss me, as the soldier dismisses his charmer at the sound of the bugle. I liked to think upon his obvious conviction that the libretto was less than nothing compared to the music. I liked him to regard the whole artistic productivity of my life as the engaging foible of a pretty woman. I liked him to forget that I had brought him alive out of Paris. I liked him to forget to mention marriage to me. In a word, he was Diaz, and I was his.

And as I lay in bed I even tried to go to sleep, in my obedience, because I knew he would wish it. But I could not easily sleep for anticipating his triumph of the early future. His habits of composition were extremely rapid. It might well occur that he would write the entire opera in a few months, without at all sacrificing the piano. And naturally any operatic manager would be loath to refuse an opera signed by Diaz. Villedo, apparently so famous, would be sure to accept it, and probably would produce it at once. And Diaz would have a double triumph, a dazzling and gorgeous re-entry into the world. He might give his first recital in the same week as the premiÈre of the opera. And thus his shame would never be really known to the artistic multitude. The legend of a nervous collapse could be insisted on, and the opera itself would form a sufficient excuse for his retirement.... And I should be the secret cause of all this glory—I alone! And no one would ever guess what Diaz owed to me. Diaz himself would never appreciate it. I alone, withdrawn from the common gaze, like a woman of the East, Diaz’ secret fountain of strength and balm—I alone should be aware of what I had done. And my knowledge would be enough for me.

I imagine I must have been dreaming when I felt a hand on my cheek.

‘Magda, you aren’t asleep, are you?’

Diaz was standing over me.

‘No, no!’ I answered, in a voice made feeble by sleep. And I looked up at him.

‘Put something on and come downstairs, will you?’

‘What time is it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. One o’clock.’

‘You’ve been working for over three hours, then!’

I sat up.

‘Yes,’ he said proudly. ‘Come along. I want to play you my notion of the overture. It’s only in the rough, but it’s there.’

‘You’ve begun with the overture?’

‘Why not, my child? Here’s your dressing-gown. Which is the top end of it?’

I followed him downstairs, and sat close by him at the piano, with one limp hand on his shoulder. There was no light in the drawing-rooms, save one candle on the piano. My slipper escaped off my bare foot. As Diaz played he looked at me constantly, demanding my approval, my enthusiasm, which I gave him from a full heart. I thought the music charming, and, of course, as he played it...!

‘I shall only have three motives,’ he said. ‘That’s the La ValliÈre motive. Do you see the idea?’

‘You mean she limps?’

‘Precisely. Isn’t it delightful?’

‘She won’t have to limp much, you know. She didn’t.’

‘Just the faintest suggestion. It will be delicious. I can see Morenita in the part. Well, what do you think of it?’

I could not speak. His appeal, suddenly wistful, moved me so. I leaned forward and kissed him.

‘Dear girl!’ he murmured.

Then he blew out the candle. He was beside himself with excitement.

‘Diaz,’ I cried, ‘what’s the matter with you? Do have a little sense. And you’ve made me lose my slipper.’

‘I’ll carry you upstairs,’ he replied gaily.

A faint illumination came from the hall, so that we could just see each other. He lifted me off the chair.

‘No!’ I protested, laughing. ‘And my slipper.... The servants!’

‘Stuff!’

I was a trifle in those arms.

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