‘Of course.’ Torelli smiled superbly. ‘I am not the kind of singer who starts cautiously and warms up gradually. I take the first challenge at once — like that.’ And she struck her strong well-shaped hands together.
‘The Queen of the Night is the biggest challenge in the programme, I suppose?’
‘Oh, yes. For a soprano of my type, with weight and colour to the voice, it is a tremendous test of skill. That,’ she explained contemptuously, ‘is why the role is so frequently given to some small, reedy coloratura who can get the high notes with certainty, though nothing else at all.’
‘Which wasn’t what was intended?’ suggested Nicola, knowing that this kind of conversation both soothed and relaxed her famous aunt.
‘No, of course not! The Queen of the Night represents the power of evil, opposing the power of good, you know. She must sound like a terrible and overwhelming force, not a nice little creature doing exercises. You will see!’
And later Nicola saw — or rather, heard — beyond any doubt or question. Torelli stood there on the platform in a well-tailored suit. She wore little make-up and no jewellery, and her manner beforehand was simply that of a serious worker intent on doing a good job.
But as the orchestral introduction ended and Julian Evett looked at her and raised his left hand, she launched into the great opening phrases with the precision of a ballet dancer and the elemental force of a natural phenomenon. It was hardly necessary to understand the words; though these, as always with Torelli, were superbly articulated. The faultless phrasing, the subtle colouring of the tone, the almost arrogant ease with which the vocal fireworks were thrown off, all combined to give the irresistible impression of a terrifying and supernatural appearance.
At the end, the orchestra applauded her to a man, and Julian Evett came down from the rostrum and kissed her hand in what was obviously a completely ungrudging tribute.
Nicola stared stonily at him. Moved and thrilled though she was by Torelli’s performance, nothing could thaw the ice round her heart when she actually looked again on the man who was to blame for Brian’s death. Indeed, she secretly reproached Torelli in her own mind for her smiling, graceful acceptance of Julian Evett’s admiration.
‘She might have coldly kept her distance,’ Nicola thought. ‘She knows what he did.’
But Torelli was too splendidly subjective to worry too much about what anyone did to someone other than herself. Julian Evett’s capitulation pleased her and she was obviously in an excellent humour as they went almost immediately into Gluck’s ‘Divinités du Styx’, the great prayer of Alceste to the gods of the underworld for the release of her husband. And, as though by a miracle, the nobility of tone and phrase seemed to change her from the force of evil to the beautiful, selfless creature of classical legend.
A slight interval followed, during which Nicola forced herself to risk meeting the conductor by going backstage to join her aunt. In point of fact she and Julian Evett met face to face in the narrow passageway leading to Torelli’s dressing-room, and Nicola knew by the sudden tensing of his figure that he was as put out as she was.
He gave her a curt nod and passed on, while she found she had given him no more than a frozen, blank glance which was half embarrassment and half pure hatred.
‘Well, how did it sound in the hall?’ Torelli wanted to know.
‘Superb!’ Nicola spoke without qualification and her aunt smiled and said,
‘I was in good form. And that young man is more talented than I realized. A singer’s conductor, if I’m not mistaken, and heaven knows they are rare indeed. I wonder if his future is really in opera,’ she added musingly. ‘Possibly we should see more of him, Nicola.’
‘He remains the man who virtually killed Brian Coverdale,’ stated Nicola bitterly.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Torelli brushed this fact aside. ‘That does not alter the quality of his conducting, however. One must never confuse the man with the artist, dear child. Otherwise mediocrity may be classed above genius.’
Nicola looked sombrely at her aunt and said reluctantly, ‘Do you think Julian Evett is a genius, then?’
‘Too early to say. And in any case it is a term all too lightly applied today. But there is a wonderful plasticity, combined with strength, about his work. It is very rare. I must talk to Oscar Warrender about him. Oscar admires him, I know, and he is seldom wrong. Meanwhile, let us see how he handles the Macbeth sleep-walking scene. That orchestral introduction is a great test of a conductor’s power to create atmosphere. Listen well, Nicola, for it is all there. The cold despair, the compassion for a lost soul, even the strange plucking notes which suggest a mind that is cracking under the strain.’
So Nicola went back into the hall and listened. And the scene, as Torelli had described it, enveloped her with its compelling force. What her aunt had said about the cold despair was desperately true. She even shivered a little, as though she felt the chill of the hour before dawn when Lady Macbeth walked the ramparts of her castle, wringing her guilt-stained hands.
‘That’s how one must feel when one has done something irrevocable,’ Nicola thought. ‘Some dreadful, dreadful thing that can never be undone.’
In a brief moment of compassion she wondered if that were how Julian Evett felt about Brian. But then she dismissed the thought as stupid and sentimental, and listened instead to the full, glorious tones of Torelli’s voice, the feverish melancholy, the perfect timing, right up to the last high, wraithlike note which seemed to die away in measureless distance.
When it was over, her aunt called her to the platform, where the members of the orchestra were already packing away their instruments and dispersing. And, to Nicola’s embarrassment and dismay, she was immediately involved in a conversation with the conductor.
‘I told Nicola to listen specially for that orchestral introduction,’ Torelli explained graciously. ‘How was it, Nicola? Did our Mr. Evett pass the test?’
Our Mr. Evett, indeed! For the first time, Nicola felt furious with her aunt. But, somehow ignoring the fact that Julian’s glance was on her, she managed to say with an effort,
‘It was all there, just as you described it. The — the cold despair, and the mind breaking under the intolerable strain.’
‘And the compassion?’ Torelli prompted her. ‘The ineffable compassion which only Verdi can convey — did you find that too?’
There was a moment’s obstinate silence. Then the conductor said drily, ‘Perhaps Miss Denby was not tuned in to compassion at that moment.’
Something in his tone stung Nicola into fury. And she raised her eyes and looked full at him then.
‘I find it hard,’ she said deliberately, ‘to feel compassion for anyone responsible for another’s death.’
He jerked his head slightly, as though she had struck him across the face, and she was fiercely glad to see that he lost colour. But Torelli, still pursuing her own line of thought, said,
‘Verdi intended one to feel compassion for Lady Macbeth. It’s all there in the music. A misguided creature, of course,’ she conceded, evidently passing the lady’s murder record in tolerant mental review. ‘But fate caught up with her in the end.’
‘I feel Miss Denby was not thinking specifically of Lady Macbeth, Madame,’ said Julian Evett in a cool, hard voice. ‘More of wrong-doers in general. And for those she would prefer swift and full retribution, I think. If you need me for any last-minute suggestion or query, I shall be at my hotel.’
And with a bow for Torelli and no more than a glance for Nicola, he went his way. While Nicola and her aunt went home, Torelli stimulated by the morning’s work and full of energy, and Nicola feeling drained and exhausted.
‘What is the matter with you, darling?’ Torelli wanted to know, a slight edge hardening her usually beautiful speaking voice. ‘You seem very spiritless this afternoon. And yet you had nothing to do this morning but sit and listen to a singularly inspiring rehearsal.’
‘Perhaps,’ Nicola suggested, ‘
I was more nervous for you than I knew, and now I’m feeling the reaction.’
‘No one need feel nervous on my behalf,’ her aunt informed her crisply. ‘I’m perfectly capable of doing that for myself. Please remember, dear child, that I require
you as a support, not a liability.’
Thus adjured, Nicola took herself in hand, trying deliberately to achieve a mood of optimistic confidence and good spirits, which she somehow maintained for the rest of that day. On the following day — the day of the concert — she found no difficulty in occupying herself entirely with her aunt’s affairs, for she willingly conceded the fact that the concert must take precedence over every other consideration.
Torelli was nervous and irritable, and once she exclaimed almost plaintively, ‘This is when I miss Peter.’
For a moment Nicola could not think who Peter was. Then she realized with a slight start that this must be her seldom-mentioned uncle, and she asked sympathetically, ‘Is he a very soothing and relaxing companion, then?’
‘Oh, very. One hardly notices that he’s there,’ explained Torelli, which Nicola could not help thinking a singular tribute to a husband.
‘Don’t you think you should rest a little?’ she asked gently, for she had noticed that, as the day wore on, her aunt tended to yawn a good deal. ‘I don’t think you could have had a very good night.’
‘I had an excellent night,’ was the sharp reply. ‘I always do. If you mean that I am yawning, that is just nervousness. Some people are sick when they’re nervous. But I yawn. It is less inconvenient,’ she added, a little as though she had willed herself to take the more convenient alternative.
However, presently she allowed herself to be persuaded, and she spent a good deal of the later afternoon in her own room, either asleep or otherwise resting. When she finally emerged, superb in the simplest black velvet and the most sumptuous of sables, she looked completely rested, and she radiated star quality to a degree Nicola had never seen in anyone else before.
In some strange way, she was already withdrawn from ordinary life and she looked briefly at Nicola, as though from a distance, and merely said absently, ‘Very nice.’ This was presumably her comment on the really very becoming dress her niece was wearing.
Few words passed between them on the way to the Festival Hall, Nicola bearing in mind what had been said about her uncle’s admirable talent for effacing himself. But her own heart was beating heavily with excitement and anxiety as they went in at the stage door.
Lisette, who had gone on ahead by taxi, was already in the dressing-room, going through the familiar routine of setting out everything her mistress might require with an emotional restraint and matter-of-fact air that were oddly reassuring. Torelli bestowed upon her the impersonally approving glance she might have given to a faithful old dog. Then she turned to Nicola and said,
‘I shan’t need you any more, child. Go and enjoy yourself.’
‘I haven’t actually got my ticket yet,’ Nicola reminded her diffidently. ‘Will it be at the box office or — ?’
‘Who has Miss Nicola’s ticket, Lisette?’ With an obvious effort Torelli grappled with something outside the immediate and tremendous artistic demands of the evening.
‘Mr. Evett, Madame,’ replied the maid, without even looking round.
‘Julian Evett!’ exclaimed Nicola in surprised dismay.
‘Yes, I remember now. He promised to see to it. Go and see him in his room. You’ll find he has it.’
Nicola recoiled instinctively. ‘But I can’t — ’ she began.
‘Go!’ said Torelli, in the tone of an Empress dismissing a slave. And Nicola went.
Outside the dressing-room, she stood undecided for a whole minute. To approach Julian Evett for even so small a favour as collecting a ticket which was hers by right was utterly distasteful to her. It had been her intention never to address him voluntarily again. She might — indeed, she undoubtedly would — be involved in conversations which included her aunt from time to time. But she herself had intended never to initiate any approach.
Now, if she wished to attend the concert — and it was unthinkable that she should not — she must go and ask him for her ticket. The situation was both maddening and a trifle ridiculous. But it also showed up the unreality of her own attitude. She could not, after all, decide never to speak to him again. She must, on the contrary, learn to accept him into the frame of her everyday life while making it perfectly obvious to him that he was outside the bounds of her liking or friendship.
With this new resolution in mind, she went and boldly knocked on the door of his dressing-room and when his voice called peremptorily, ‘Come in,’ she entered with more self-possession than she would have thought possible ten minutes ago.
He was standing by the dressing-table, flicking over the pages of a score, and as he glanced up a look of surprise and something she could have sworn was momentary pleasure crossed his face. Then he looked as coolly controlled as ever.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Does Madame Torelli want something?’
‘No, I — came for my ticket. I understand you have it and — ’
‘Yes, of course! I’m sorry, I forgot.’ He went over and took a wallet from the pocket of his overcoat which hung on the wall. ‘I think I have it here, or else — ’
Afterwards she wondered if his fingers had been just the slightest bit unsteady. At any rate, as he pulled several things from the wallet they spilled out on the dressing-table. Among them was the ticket, and as he picked it out from the general confusion, another piece of card turned over, and Nicola found herself staring in stupefaction at a photograph of herself.
‘What on earth — ?’ she began.
But he swept the pieces of card and paper together and crammed them back into the wallet.
‘Your ticket,’ he said, holding it out to her.
She took it, but at the same time she exclaimed, ‘How do you come to have my photograph there?’
‘You are mistaken,’ he said coldly.
‘I couldn’t be! Show me the contents of your wallet again.’
‘Certainly not,’ he replied calmly. ‘You have your ticket, which is what you came for. I am due to go on the platform in a few minutes. I must ask you to go, Miss Denby.’
‘But I know — ’
‘I’m sorry.’ He opened the door for her and stood there waiting for her to go. As he did so, they both distinctly heard the first bell. ‘Five minutes to go,’ he said pleasantly.
And once more conquered by the irresistible demands of a professional situation, Nicola went.
She found her way round to the front of the house, and slipped into her seat as the second bell sounded. Around her was a buzz of interest and excitement. The combination of a world-famous singer and a much-discussed new young conductor had brought a very large audience indeed, and there was hardly an empty seat in the hall.
But Nicola was almost completely unaware of anyone around her. She was still, even when a burst of applause greeted the entry of the conductor, grappling with the utter bewilderment of that moment in his dressing-room when she had glimpsed that photograph.
Of course it was of herself! No one could be mistaken about her own face. Besides, it was a particularly familiar photograph. She had given a copy of it to Brian —
The applause had been succeeded by that moment of complete silence which always heralds the first rise of the conductor’s baton. And in the silence Nicola almost felt as though she heard her mental gears shift.
The photograph she had given Brian! Was it his copy of her photograph? And if so, why was it in Julian Evett’s wallet?
She sat there, staring at her clenched hands as they lay in her lap. Like everyone else, she looked as though she were concentrating on the music. But she was doing nothing of the sort. She was thinking of the conductor, it was true. But only as he had looked when he faced her in his dressing-room and denied the existence of the photograph.
For almost the whole of
the first item Nicola pursued her own thoughts. She was roused by the applause which warmly greeted the end of it, and then fully recalled to her surroundings by the delighted storm which heralded the entrance of Torelli. And after that no personal consideration, however pressing, was proof against the impact of the Torelli magic.
By now, of course, Nicola knew her quite well as a woman. Knew that she could be sometimes tiresome, sometimes lovable, frequently quite impossible. But it was the consummate artist who stood on that platform now, in the simple but marvellously cut black velvet dress, and with almost insolent ease she proceeded to demonstrate just why she was world-famous.
In some extraordinary way, she seemed to empty herself of herself, and into the mould was poured, by turns, the complete identity of the supernatural demon queen, the classical personification of virtue and majesty, and finally the wretched human sinner caught in the toils of her own crime.
The audience went wild. For to those few artists who can truly transport us we gladly surrender our praise, our allegiance and our hearts. Torelli held them all in the hollow of her strong, capable hand, and at the end Nicola found that she too was on her feet cheering, just as though this incredible woman were a great and new discovery to her.
‘It’s not just the singing,’ observed a complete stranger to Nicola, ‘though heaven knows that’s miraculous enough. It’s the personal magnetism too. She must be a marvellous person to know.’
Nicola smiled sympathetically, but she thought to herself, ‘She’s not, really. She’s my very fallible, rather tiresome though somewhat endearing aunt. And yet she’s this miraculous creature too. How extraordinary!’
It was quite difficult to make her way round backstage through the throng of admirers, friends, press representatives and celebrities. Torelli had chosen to keep herself very much to herself until this vital concert was over, but now Nicola was astonished to recognize many very well-known figures among the people who crowded the passage leading to the dressing-room.
Indeed, she would not have been able to make her way through at all if Julian Evett had not appeared at that moment. People immediately made way for him; partly because they recognized him, no doubt, but partly also, Nicola could not help thinking, because of his natural air of authority.
The Curtain Rises (Warrender Saga Book 4) Page 4
