by Ngaio Marsh
The collective voice was loud and animated and the atmosphere of expectancy fully established. ‘If only they keep it up,’ Troy whispered to Alleyn. She glanced along the row to Signor Lattienzo. His arms were folded and his head inclined towards Sir David who was full of animation and bonhomie. Lattienzo looked up from under his brows, saw Troy and crossed the fingers of his right hand.
The players came in and tuned their instruments, a sound that always caught Troy under the diaphragm. The lights in the auditorium went out. The stage curtain glowed. Mr Reece slipped into his seat beside Troy. Rupert Bartholomew came in from behind the stage so inconspicuously that he had raised his baton before he had been noticed. The overture began.
Troy always wished she knew more about music and could understand why one sound moved her and another left her disengaged. Tonight she was too apprehensive to listen properly. She tried to catch the response of the audience, watched Rupert’s back and wondered if he was able to distil any magic from his players, wondered, even, how long the ephemeral good nature induced by champagne could be expected to last with listeners who knew what music was about. She was so distracted by these speculations that the opening of the curtain caught her by surprise.
She had dreamt up all sorts of awful possibilities: Rupert breaking down and walking out, leaving the show to crawl to disaster; Rupert stopping the proceedings and addressing the audience; or the audience itself growing more and more restless or apathetic and the performance ending on the scantiest show of applause and the audience being harangued by an infuriated Sommita.
None of these things took place. True, as the opera developed the boisterous good humour of the audience seemed to grow tepid but the shock of that Golden Voice, the astonishment it engendered note by note, was so extraordinary that no room was left for criticism. And there was, or so it seemed to Troy, a passage in the duet with Hilda Dancy – ‘Whither thou goest’ – when suddenly the music came true. She thought: That’s one of the bits Signor Lattienzo meant. She looked along the row and he caught her glance and nodded.
Sir David Baumgartner, whose chin was sunk in his shirt frill in what passed for profound absorption, raised his head. Mr Reece, sitting bolt upright in his chair, inconspicuously consulted his watch.
The duet came to its end and Troy’s attention wandered. The show was well-dressed, the supporting artistes being clad in lowprofile biblical gear hired from a New Zealand company who had recently revived the York Cycle. The Sommita’s costume, created for the occasion, was white and virginal and if it was designed to make Ruth look like a startling social misfit amidst the alien corn, succeeded wonderfully in achieving this end.
The quartet came and went and left no mark. Sir David looked irritated. The Sommita, alone on stage, sailed into a recitative and thence to her big aria. Troy now saw her purely in terms of paint, fixing her in the memory, translating her into a new idiom. The diva had arrived at the concluding fioritura, she moved towards her audience, she lifted her head, she spread her arms and rewarded them with her trump card – A above high C.
No doubt she would have been very cross if they had observed the rule about not applauding until the final curtain. They did not observe it. They broke into a little storm of clapping. She raised a monitory hand. The performance entered into its penultimate phase: a lachrymose parting between Ruth and Signor Romano, plump in kilted smock and leg strappings and looking like a late photograph of Caruso. Enter Boaz, discovering them and ordering the gleaner to be beaten. Ruth and Naomi pleading with Boaz to relent, which he did, and the opera ended with a rather cursory reconciliation of all hands in chorus.
The sense of relief when the curtains closed was so overwhelming that Troy found herself clapping wildly. After all, it had not been so bad. None of the horrors she had imagined had come to pass, it was over and they were in the clear.
Afterwards, she wondered if the obligatory response from the audience could have been evoked by the same emotion.
Three rapid curtain calls were taken. The first by the company, the second by the Sommita who was thinly cheered by backbenchers, and the third again by the Sommita who went through her customary routine of extended arms, kissed hands and deep curtsies.
And then she turned to the orchestra, advanced upon it with outstretched hand and beckoning smile only to find that her quarry had vanished. Rupert Bartholomew was gone. The violinist stood up and said something inaudible but seemed to suggest that Rupert was backstage. The Sommita’s smile had become fixed. She swept to an upstage entrance and vanished through it. The audience, nonplussed, kept up a desultory clapping which had all but died out when she reentered, bringing, almost dragging, Rupert after her.
He was sheet-white and dishevelled. When she exhibited him, retaining her grasp of his hand, he made no acknowledgement of the applause she exacted. It petered out into a dead silence. She whispered something and the sound was caught up in a giant enlargement: the north-west wind sighing round the island.
The discomfiture of the audience was extreme. Someone, a woman, behind Troy said: ‘He’s not well. He’s going to faint,’ and there was a murmur of agreement. But Rupert did not faint. He stood bolt upright, looked at nothing, and suddenly freed his hand.
‘Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said loudly.
Mr Reece began to clap and was followed by the audience. Rupert shouted: ‘Don’t do that,’ and they stopped. He then made his curtain speech.
‘I expect I ought to thank you. Your applause is for a Voice. It’s a wonderful Voice, insulted by the stuff it has been given to sing tonight. For that I am responsible. I should have withdrawn it at the beginning when I realized – when I first realized – when I knew – ‘
He swayed a little and raised his hand to his forehead.
‘When I knew,’ he said. And then he did faint. The curtains closed.
III
Mr Reece handled the catastrophe with expertise. He stood up, faced his guests and said that Rupert Bartholomew had been unwell for some days and no doubt the strain of the production had been a little too much for him. He (Mr Reece) knew that they would all appreciate this and he asked them to reassemble in the drawing room. Dinner would be served as soon as the performers were ready to join them.
So out they all trooped and Mr Reece, followed by Signor Lattienzo, went backstage.
As they passed through the hall the guests became more aware of what was going on outside: irregular onslaughts of wind, rain and, behind these immediate sounds, a vague groundswell of turbulence. Those guests who were to travel through the night by way of launch, bus and car began to exchange glances. One of them, a woman, who was near the windows parted the heavy curtains and looked out releasing the drumming sound of rain against glass and a momentary glimpse of the blinded pane. She let the curtain fall and pulled an anxious grimace. A hearty male voice said loudly: ‘Not to worry. She’ll be right.’
More champagne in the drawing room and harder drinks for the asking. The performers began to come in and Hanley with them. He circulated busily. ‘Doing his stuff,’ said Alleyn.
‘Not an easy assignment,’ said Troy and then: ‘I’d like to know how that boy is.’
‘So would I.’
‘Might we be able to do anything, do you suppose?’
‘Shall we ask?’
Hanley saw them, flashed his winsome smile and joined them. ‘We’re going in now,’ he said. ‘The Lady asks us not to wait.’
‘How’s Rupert?’
‘Poor dear! Wasn’t it a pity? Everything had gone so well. He’s in his room. Lying down, you know, but quite all right. Not to be disturbed. He’ll be quite all right,’ Hanley repeated brightly. ‘Straightout case of nervous fatigue. Ah, there’s the gong. Will you give a lead? Thank you so much.’
On this return passage through the hall, standing inconspicuously just inside the entrance and partly screened by the vast pregnant woman whose elfin leer suggested a clandestine rendezvous, was a figure in dripping oilskins: Les, the launchman. Hanle
y went to speak to him.
The dining room had been transformed, two subsidiary tables being introduced to form an E with the middle stroke missing. The three central places at the ‘top’ table were destined for the Sommita, her host and Rupert Bartholomew, none of whom appeared to occupy them. All the places were named and the Alleyns were again among the VIPs. This time Troy found herself with Mr Reece’s chair on her left and Signor Lattienzo on her right. Alleyn was next to the Sommita’s empty chair with the wife of the New Zealand conductor on his left.
‘This is delightful,’ said Signor Lattienzo.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Troy who was not in the mood for badinage.
‘I arranged it.’
‘You, what?’ she exclaimed.
‘I transposed the cards. You had been given the New Zealand maestro and I his wife. She will be enraptured with your husband’s company and will pay no attention to her own husband. He will be less enraptured but that cannot be helped.’
‘Well,’ said Troy, ‘for sheer effrontery, I must say – !’
‘I take, as you say, the buttery bun? Apropos, I am much in need of refreshment. That was a most painful débâcle, was it not?’
‘Is he all right? Is someone doing something? I’m sure I don’t know what anybody can do,’ Troy said, ‘but is there someone?’
‘I have seen him.’
‘You have?’
‘I have told him that he took a courageous and honest course. I was also able to say that there was a shining moment – the duet when you and I exchanged signals. He has rewritten it since I saw the score. It is delightful.’
‘That will have helped.’
‘A little, I think.’
‘Yesterday he confided rather alarmingly in us, particularly in Rory. Do you think he might like to see Rory?’
‘At the moment I hope he is asleep. A Dr Carmichael has seen him and I have administered a pill. I suffer,’ said Signor Lattienzo, ‘from insomnia.’
‘Is she coming down, do you know?’
‘I understand from our good Monty – yes. After the débâcle she appeared to have been in two minds about what sort of temperament it would be appropriate to throw. Obviously an attack upon the still unconscious Rupert was out of the question. There remained the flood of remorse which I fancy she would not care to entertain since it would indicate a flaw in her own behaviour. Finally there could be a demonstration as from a distracted lover. Puzzled by this choice, she burst into a storm of ambiguous tears and Retired, as they say in your Shakespeare, Above. Escorted by Monty. To the ministrations of the baleful Maria and with the intention of making another delayed entrance. We may expect her at any moment, no doubt. In the meantime the grilled trout was delicious and here comes the coq-au-vin.’
But the Sommita did not appear. Instead, Mr Reece arrived to say that she had been greatly upset by poor Rupert Bartholomew’s collapse which had no doubt been due to nervous exhaustion, but would rejoin them a little later. He then said that he was sorry indeed to have to tell them that he had been advised by the launchman that the local storm, known as The Rosser, had blown up and would increase in force, probably reaching its peak in about an hour when it would then become inadvisable to make the crossing to the mainland. Loath as he was to break up the party, he felt perhaps…He spread his hands.
The response was immediate. The guests, having finished their marrons glacés, professed themselves, with many regrets, ready to leave. There was a general exodus for them to prepare themselves for the journey, Sir David Baumgartner, who had been expected to stay, among them. He had an important appointment looming up, he explained, and dare not risk missing it.
There would be room enough for all the guests and the performers in the bus and cars that waited across the lake. Anyone so inclined could spend the tag end of the night at the Cornishman’s Pass pub on the east side of the Pass and journey down-country by train the next day. The rest would continue through the night, descending to the plains and across them to their ultimate destinations.
The Alleyns agreed that the scene in the hall bore a resemblance to rush hour on the Underground. There was a sense of urgency and scarcely concealed impatience. The travellers were to leave in two batches of twenty which was the maximum accommodation in the launch. The house-staff fussed about with raincoats and umbrellas. Mr Reece stood near the door repeating valedictory remarks of scant originality and shaking hands. Some of the guests, as their anxiety mounted, became perfunctory in their acknowledgements, a few actually neglected him altogether being intent upon manoeuvring themselves into the top twenty. Sir David Baumgartner, in awful isolation and a caped mackintosh, sat in a porter’s chair looking very cross indeed.
The entrance doors opened admitting wind, rain and cold all together. The first twenty guests were gone: swallowed up and shut out as if, Troy thought – and disliked herself for so thinking – they were condemned.
Mr Reece explained to the remainder that it would be at least half an hour before the launch returned and advised them to wait in the drawing room. The servants would keep watch and would report as soon as they sighted the lights of the returning launch.
A few followed this suggestion but most remained in the hall, sitting round the enormous fireplace or in scattered chairs, wandering about, getting themselves behind the window curtains and coming out, scared by their inability to see anything beyond streaming panes.
Eru Johnstone was speaking to the tenor, Rodolfo Romano, and the little band of musicians who listened to him in a huddle of apprehension. Alleyn and Troy joined them. Eru Johnstone was saying: ‘It’s something one doesn’t try to explain. I come from the far north of the North Island and have only heard about the Island indirectly from some of our people down here on the Coast. I had forgotten. When we were engaged for this performance, I didn’t connect the two things.’
‘But it’s tapu?’ asked the pianist. ‘Is that it?’
‘In very early times an important person was buried here,’ he said, as it seemed unwillingly. ‘Ages afterwards, when the pakehas came, a man named Ross, a prospector, rowed out to the island. The story is that the local storm blew up and he was drowned. I had forgotten,’ Eru Johnstone repeated in his deep voice. ‘I suggest you do, too. There have been many visitors since those times and many storms – ‘
‘Hence “Rosser"?’ Alleyn asked.
‘So it seems.’
‘How long does it usually last?’
‘About twenty-four hours, I’m told. No doubt it varies.’
Alleyn said: ‘On my first visit to New Zealand I met one of your people who told me about Maoritanga. We became friends and I learnt a lot from him – Dr Te Pokiha!’
‘Rangi Te Pokiha?’ Johnstone exclaimed. ‘You know him? He is one of our most prominent elders.’
And he settled down to talk at great length of his people. Alleyn led the conversation back to the Island. ‘After what you have told me,’ he said, ‘do you mind my asking if you believe it to be tapu?’
After a long pause Eru Johnstone said: ‘Yes.’
‘Would you have come,’ Troy asked, ‘if you had known?’
‘No,’ said Eru Johnstone.
‘Are you staying here?’ asked Signor Lattienzo, appearing at Troy’s elbow, ‘or shall we fall back upon our creature comforts in the drawing room? One can’t go on saying goodbye to people who scarcely listen.’
‘I’ve got a letter I want to get off,’ said Alleyn. ‘I think I’ll just scribble it and ask one of these people if they’d mind putting it in the post. What about you, Troy?’
‘I rather thought – the studio. I ought to “fix” those drawings.’
‘I’ll join you there,’ he said.
‘Yes, darling, do.’
Troy watched him run upstairs.
‘Surely you are not going to start painting after all this!’ Signor Lattienzo exclaimed.
‘Not I!’ Troy said. ‘It’s just that I’m restless and can’t settle. It’s been a bit
of a day, hasn’t it? Who’s in the drawing room?’
‘Hilda Dancy and the little Parry who are staying on. Also the Dr Carmichael who suffers excruciatingly from seasickness. It is not very gay in the drawing room although the lissom Hanley weaves in and out. Is it true that you have made drawings this afternoon?’
‘One or two preliminary canters.’
‘Of Bella?’
‘Mostly of her, yes.’
Signor Lattienzo put his head on one side and contrived to look wistful. In spite of herself Troy laughed. ‘Would you like to see them?’ she said.
‘Naturally I would like to see them. May I see them?’
‘Come on, then,’ said Troy.
They went upstairs to the studio. Troy propped her drawings, one by one, on the easel, blew fixative through a diffuser over each and laid them side by side on the throne to dry: Signor Lattienzo screwed in his eyeglass, folded his plump hands over his ample stomach and contemplated them.
After a long pause during which vague sounds of activity down in the hall drifted up and somewhere a door slammed, Signor Lattienzo said: ‘If you had not made that last one, the one on the right, I would have said you were a merciless lady, Madame Troy.’
It was the slightest of the drawings. The orchestra was merely indicated playing like mad in the background. In the foreground La Sommita, having turned away from them, stared at vacancy and in everything that Troy had set down with such economy there was desolation.
‘Look what you’ve done with her,’ Signor Lattienzo said. ‘Did she remain for long like that? Did she, for once, face reality? I have never seen her look so and now I feel I have never seen her at all.’
‘It only lasted for seconds.’
‘Yes? Shall you paint her like that?’
Troy said slowly: ‘No, I don’t think so.’ She pointed to the drawing of La Sommita in full cry, mouth wide open, triumphant. ‘I rather thought this – ‘
‘This is the portrait of a Voice.’
‘I would have liked to call it “A in alt” because that sounds so nice. I don’t know what it means but I understand it would be unsuitable.’
