‘Nothing,’ was the emphatic reply. ‘Controlled emotion is the artist’s prime treasure. Uncontrolled emotion spells ruin.’
‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘Most certainly I am,’ agreed Torelli, who was seldom in any doubt about that. ‘But I should have thought you also had your emotions well under control. You don’t strike me as the kind to lie awake at night and worry.’
If he intended to answer that there was no opportunity, for someone else claimed the diva’s attention then. It was Nicola, on the other side of him, who said before she could stop herself, ‘Do you lie awake at nights and worry?’
He looked surprised, as though he had not realized that she was following the conversation. Then he said curtly, ‘Sometimes.’ And Nicola, annoyed at having been even so far betrayed into making a personal query, turned her attention then to Dermot Dene, and managed to ignore Julian Evett for the rest of the evening.
It was Anthea Warrender who rose first, apologetically explaining that she had a ten o’clock rehearsal in the morning. And as her hostess accepted her excuses and bestowed a gracious kiss upon her, Julian glanced at his watch and said, ‘I too must go.’
‘Can I give you a lift?’ Anthea asked.
‘No, thank you. I have my car.’
‘Then you had better take Nicola,’ said Madame Torelli. ‘We shall be going quite soon. And I shan’t need you any more tonight, Nicola dear.’
‘I can take a taxi,’ protested Nicola, as she had earlier in the evening. But again the protest was set aside.
‘There’s no need. I practically pass your door,’ Julian told her. And so, however little she liked it, as the party began to break up, Nicola found herself once more committed to being escorted by Julian Evett.
‘If I’m not careful this is going to become a habit,’ she thought angrily, as she watched her aunt bid him goodnight. For it was obvious that by now he had found his way into Torelli’s favour. So far as she was concerned, any part he might have had in Brian’s untimely death was completely forgotten, in favour of the discovery that he was a brilliant conductor who fully understood her own amazing artistry.
‘We shall be seeing a lot of you, Julian,’ she said. ‘Of course, Oscar is conducting most of my Covent Garden performances, but I think we must see what you can do in the operatic field.’
‘I hate to remind you — ’ that half-indulgent smile was there again — ‘but it won’t rest entirely with you, I’m afraid. The Management — ’
‘All managements,’ interrupted Torelli in a tone that removed the capital letter, ‘tend to be amenable over my performances. Leave that to me — and take Nicola home now. The child looks tired and washed out.’
This is not, of course, any girl’s favourite description of herself, and Nicola felt woefully at a disadvantage as she accompanied Julian Evett out to his car. But she told herself that at least she would make the unflattering description an excuse to say virtually nothing during the journey.
Either he felt the same or he respected her obvious wishes, for there was silence all the way. Only when they arrived and he got out of the car and stood for a minute on the pavement with her did she force herself to say,
‘I don’t want to re-open that ridiculous argument about the photograph. But I take it you’re still determined to keep it?’
‘I am,’ he assured her.
‘Then, since I have to accept the position, will you at least answer me the one question — Why?’
He smiled down at her slightly then, though the light from a nearby lamp threw harsh shadows on his rather worn face.
‘Shall we just say,’ he replied lightly, ‘that it’s a beautiful face, which never smiles at me except in the photograph? Good-night, Nicola.’
And he got back into the car and drove away.
She fumbled a little as she thrust her key into the door, for her fingers were not entirely steady. But she told herself it was just weariness and reaction now that the excitement and agitation of the evening had ebbed away. Indeed, all at once she felt utterly drained and strangely depressed. It was an effort even to gather up the two or three letters which lay on the mat inside her front door, and she gave them no more than a casual glance.
Then suddenly, with a feeling that was like an electric shock, she recognized the writing on the back of one battered-looking envelope, and with a sort of terrified incredulity she read, ‘Brian Coverdale’ and the name of a hotel in Montreal.
‘No — no — ‘ she said aloud. And then, turning over the envelope, she saw from the complicated scribble on the other side that it had been addressed and re-directed several times. The original address, in the writing which raised goose-flesh on her arms, was incomplete, and from the appearance of the envelope it must have wandered back and forth across the Atlantic at least twice and then presumably lain in some Dead Letter office for numberless weeks before being finally sent on its way again.
And now, much, much too late, here it was — in her shaking hand. Some letter written by a warm, living, loving Brian, now dead these many months. So few, so few letters had he written — and one of those few had to go astray, finally reaching her only when it could give more pain than pleasure.
For several minutes she sat with it unopened in her hand, unable to face the rush of pain that would swamp her when she actually read the words he had written. Words that belonged to a time that could never come again and were like the rustle of last autumn’s leaves.
Finally, she forced herself to open the letter. And because Brian never started with the conventional, ‘Dear So-and-so — ’ the words came at her as though they were being spoken in his clear, gay, teasing voice.
‘Hello there!’ he had written all those months ago. ‘How much are you missing me? In the time-honoured phrase, “Wish you were here!” If you had been you would have heard last night one of the finest concerts ever. Innate modesty does not keep me from reporting that I had my share in this, but reluctantly I must also admit that the hero of the occasion was Julian Evett. Can that man conduct!!!
‘You must hear him. Well, you will, of course, because he is coming to England later in the year, and he wants me as soloist in several concerts. We get on well, though he’s a slave-driver. He says I’m lazy — ME! What he means is that I’m not so dedicated that I would give up food and drink and love and pretty well life itself for my music. (I’d do most of that, but he would go all the way.) He thinks that if you serve an art you must give everything. Must you? I wonder.
‘In the intervals of serving art at this particular festival I have managed to hear and see a few things. Last night I heard something more in your line than mine, an excellent performance of “Tales of Hoffman”. The whole thing was lifted out of the ordinary by the lyric soprano who did Antonia. French-Canadian girl called Michele Laraut. We met her later at a party. Not quite beautiful, but in some way riveting. (Don’t worry — it was at Julian that she batted her eyelashes.) I think she has plans for Europe. Don’t miss her if you have a chance of hearing her.
‘Sorry it has been no more than cards up to now, but rehearsals of the Evett standard leave little time for any private life, let alone correspondence. I hate to think what would happen if one had to plead sickness. Nothing short of a death certificate would suffice, I feel sure.
‘Now what made me think of that? Must be the fact that I’ve just sneezed three times and the back of my throat feels hot and rough. But I’ll soon settle that. I guess I’m not due to die of pneumonia just yet — ’
She gave a choked little exclamation and dropped the letter into her lap.
Not due to die of pneumonia just yet! But he was — he was. Thanks to Julian Evett, who would accept ‘nothing short of a death certificate’ if one pleaded sickness.
It was all there again, in Brian’s own handwriting. The tragic sequence of events, presented almost as a joke. A joke which, through Julian Evett, was to turn into grim, heart-breaking reality.
‘And he da
res to keep a photograph of mine!’ she thought wildly. ‘And to reproach me because I don’t smile at him. Oh, I never want to see him again. I don’t think I can stay in a job where I have to see him and speak civilly to him.’
But when, after a restless night, she arrived next morning at her aunt’s apartment, any remote thought of abandoning her present position immediately departed. The torrent of praise, congratulation and planning which now ebbed and flowed round the triumphant figure of Torelli brought with it a fascination all its own.
The semi-isolation which the diva had wisely maintained until her first triumph should have been confirmed now vanished overnight. The newspapers strewn about the apartment unanimously heralded her return as an event of first-class importance in the musical world, and flowers and telephone calls poured in from friends, near friends and enemies. (The classification was Torelli’s own and, as she cynically told Nicola, ‘the bigger the bouquet, the deeper the degree of frustration and envy behind it.’)
In the early afternoon Dermot Deane called. Not only to congratulate his brightest star on the reaction of critics and public, but to tell her that suggestions for future arrangements and engagements were already coming in.
‘It is quite fantastic,’ he observed, with the air of a man who dug for gold and found platinum.
‘No, it isn’t,’ was Torelli’s reply. ‘It is perfectly natural. No one had heard me here for some years. They thought I was getting on — which of course I am, and that my powers had dwindled — which of course they have not. The very ones who smirked most dubiously and referred to me as “the old girl” are now rushing to be in the forefront of the admirers. Refuse everything.’
‘Oh, Gina! Not everything!’
‘Everything,’ she repeated. ‘Except of course the Covent Garden engagements, where the contract is already signed. It does people good to find they can’t have what they want.’
Dermot Deane passed a handkerchief over his slightly damp forehead.
‘But, my dear, as a professional woman you surely want engagements, don’t you?’
‘Certainly.’ She smiled slightly. ‘I meant — start by refusing. They will come back, of course, with an increased offer. Come, Dermot, surely I don’t have to teach you your job!’
He gave a relieved sort of laugh and said, ‘Well, I suppose the Opera House comes into a different category.’
‘I’ve said so. The contract is already signed.’
‘For the “Macbeths” and “Trovatores”, yes. But another idea has been put forward, Gina. I don’t know how you will regard it. They want you to do the Queen of the Night in the revival of “The Magic Flute”. How would you feel about that?’
She smiled reflectively and said, with curiously innocent satisfaction, ‘The aria was rather stunning last night, wasn’t it?’
‘It was sensational!’ Dermot Deane and Nicola spoke with one voice, and Nicola added, ‘Oh, do consider it! You said yourself that the part is so seldom properly cast.’
‘Well, except for the two fiendishly difficult arias, it isn’t really what one means by a star role, of course.’ She bit her lip thoughtfully. ‘How is the present production, Dermot?’
‘A trifle chi-chi, but reasonably effective. The Queen is on ground level, which rather — ’
‘That,’ interrupted Torelli, ‘must be altered. Supernatural appearances are completely unterrifying unless they have a certain towering remoteness.’
‘Difficult for most Queens of the Night to project if you set them too far back,’ Dermot Deane objected.
‘I shall project all right,’ was the simple reply.
‘Meaning that you will accept the role?’
‘I’ll consider it. If,’ she added, with a sudden smile which was almost mischievous, ‘I can have young Julian Evett to conduct. Yes, that’s a splendid idea! He has the right feeling for Mozart. Plenty of strength under all the beguiling charm. That would be ideal for his first try-out at the Garden. To be sure I’ll do it, Dermot. If I can choose my conductor.’
‘Well — ’ began the manager.
‘No “well” about it!’ interrupted Torelli briskly. ‘Those are my terms. Who usually sings the Pamina, incidentally?’
‘Rosemary Donkin.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘She isn’t at all bad.’
‘Then she won’t do,’ was the crushing verdict. ‘I want a good Pamina. Someone worthy of my metal. Someone with a pure, limpid tone and impeccable style. Who is there?’
Dermot Deane rubbed his chin in a meditative way and said, very truly, that good Paminas don’t grow on every gooseberry bush.
‘Of course not. That’s why I’m asking you,’ returned Torelli sharply. ‘Who was that girl in Montreal? She sang the aria superbly at her recital. Michele Someone.’ ‘Michele Laraut,’ said Nicola suddenly, and they both turned and looked at her.
‘Yes, that was the name. Have you heard her in something in London, then, Nicola?’
‘No. Brian mentioned her in — in a letter.’ It was difficult to keep one’s voice steady. ‘He said — she was good.’
‘She was more than good,’ stated Torelli. ‘Do you know anything about her, Dermot?’
‘As a matter of fact, I represent her in Europe,’ was the cautious reply. ‘She’s in Germany at the moment, doing concert work. I’m not sure that I would want her first appearance here to be a Pamina in which she would inevitably be overshadowed by the Queen of the Night.’
‘Don’t be absurd!’ retorted Torelli, meaning that her own wishes came first. ‘It would be a chance of a lifetime for her to appear with me. Does she do the role, or is she only a concert artist?’
‘She does the role.’
‘Then I would like us to try her out. Julian must hear her, of course. I wonder — ’ She stretched out her hand towards the telephone. But, even as she did so, Lisette came in and said,
‘Mr. Evett is here, Madame. Are you at home?’
‘Indeed I am!’ cried Torelli in the utmost good humour. ‘The very person we want. Send him in, Lisette,’
‘Don’t offer him a Covent Garden contract,’ begged Dermot Deane sourly. ‘Remember, it isn’t ours to offer.’
‘It will be quite soon,’ retorted Torelli. ‘Don’t be so timorous, Dermot!’
While the manager was still digesting this unmerited rebuke, Julian Evett walked in, looking a great deal more refreshed and relaxed than on the previous night.
‘I only looked in to add my congratulations to all the others.’ With a smile he lightly kissed Torelli’s hand. ‘You had a deservedly wonderful press, I see.’
‘You weren’t treated so badly yourself,’ replied Torelli. ‘Also deservedly so. Sit down, Julian. We were just discussing an interesting project. Dermot tells me that they want me to sing Queen of the Night in “The Magic Flute” revival at the Garden.’
‘Oh, and will you?’ He looked almost excited suddenly. ‘It would be an experience to have you in the full role.’
‘I propose to accept,’ Torelli informed him, ‘on condition that you conduct.’
‘That — I do?’ He flushed, and looked almost boyish in his unexpected confusion and pleasure. ‘But, my dear Madame Torelli, surely Warrender — ’
‘Oscar will be doing the “Macbeths” and “Trovatores”. I think he would be the first to say you should have your chance with the “Flutes”.’
‘Absolutely nothing has been settled yet, you understand,’ interjected Dermot Deane anxiously. ‘Gina is a bit inclined to jump the contractual gun, if I may say so, when her enthusiasm runs away with her. We hadn’t got further than the most tentative discussions.’
‘We most certainly had,’ Torelli contradicted with energy. ‘You had asked me if I were prepared to take on the role, and I accepted — on terms. We had even got as far as discussing Paminas.’
‘Had you?’ Julian looked a good deal amused, though he threw a glance of sympathetic understanding at the manager. ‘And whom di
d you cast for Pamina, may I ask? Rosemary Donkin?’
‘No. She isn’t good enough,’ retorted Torelli, dismissing the poor girl without a hearing. ‘The one who interests me is a French-Canadian girl called Michele — Michele — What was it, Nicola?’
‘Michele Laraut,’ said Nicola rather sombrely.
‘Michele Laraut?’ Julian looked unexpectedly startled, and then it was as though a shutter came down, blocking out every sign of emotion. ‘Oh, no.’ His tone was perfectly cool now. ‘I couldn’t accept that. No question of it.’
‘Good heavens, don’t you turn temperamental now!’ growled Dermot Deane. ‘She’s extremely good, as it happens.’
‘She’s excellent,’ agreed Julian, still in that cool, unemotional tone of voice. ‘But if I were conducting I would not be prepared to have her in the cast.’
‘Julian, why not?’ Torelli looked intrigued.
‘Just one of those things. I couldn’t conduct for her.’
‘My dear boy, one can’t afford to indulge in unreasoning antipathies for people in our profession,’ declared Torelli broadmindedly. ‘Or, at least, one must learn to work with them. Why, I simply abominate some of my colleagues — but do I refuse to work with them? — No. Nor, incidentally, do they ever guess how I feel about them.’
Everyone was silent for a moment before this staggering piece of self-delusion. Then Dermot Deane said feebly, ‘Oh, I wouldn’t exactly say that, Gina!’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ replied Torelli coldly, and it was obvious that she really did not. ‘But if you want to be temperamental, Julian — ’ She paused and waited expectantly for his capitulation.
‘I want to be temperamental over this,’ he replied, with a smile of such utter charm that Nicola thought if she had not hated him she would have been dazzled.
Torelli must have felt the impact of that smile too. For she laughed indulgently and said, ‘As you like.’
‘But isn’t that a little hard on the girl?’ Nicola spoke before she could stop herself, prompted by some obscure impulse to come to the defence of someone Brian had praised. ‘Everyone seems to agree that she is excellent. Brian said she was quite outstanding.’
The Curtain Rises (Warrender Saga Book 4) Page 6
