‘Oh, I know their amours are talked of, but that’s just gossip.’
‘Perhaps so. But do you imagine I could let you be spoken of in that way, Netta? And it isn’t just gossip. It’s well known that Mademoiselle Emante could never have received leading roles last season if she hadn’t gone to bed with the directeur ‒’
‘Papa!’
‘Do you imagine I could let you enter a world like that? Leaving aside the fact that it’s totally unsuitable, that you are quite unfit for it by birth and upbringing, where would it lead? Whom could you know? Who would receive you?’
‘But you can’t ask me not to do anything with my talent ‒ because I have talent, Papa, the maestro said so!’
‘I wish he had had more sense than to fill your head with this rubbish.’
‘It’s not rubbish! And I know it isn’t ‒ I felt it, myself, this afternoon, when I was singing for him. I felt the … the power of my voice ‒’
‘Now that is quite enough.’ Gavin Hopetown-Tramont took a turn about the library, stooped to gather up the scattered pages of The Times, and straightened, having gained control of himself.
‘Netta dear,’ he said in a gentle tone, ‘I can see you’re sincere in all this. But you’re too young to appreciate how impossible it all is. For your own good, I must expressly forbid you to think of it again. You are not to go on with your singing lessons. That is my decision. I agree with your mother ‒ it’s been a mistake. Luckily it’s not too late to retrieve it and within a day or two I think you’ll see things in their proper perspective.’
‘You have no right to prevent me from going on with my music.’
‘We not only have the right, we have the duty. We daren’t let you ruin your life over some foolish notion. People of our class don’t become opera singers, Netta. It’s as simple as that.’
‘But … what am I to do if I don’t train?’
‘You’ll get married, set up a household, have children ‒ what else?’
‘Papa … that’s not enough …’
He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘That is a wicked thing to say.’ His manner was calm and sad. ‘You know I’m not a religious man but I think there is such a thing as sin, and you are verging on it, daughter. Your duty as a woman is to marry and be a comfort to your husband and his children. Anything else is mere absurdity.’
There was so much weight in his words that she was silenced, though she wasn’t convinced.
‘Now go to your room and change for dinner. I shan’t tell Mama what’s passed between us, it would only upset her. In a day or two, when you’ve got the better of this nonsense, you may feel like confessing it to her yourself ‒ I leave that to you. But in the meantime you are to put it away, behave properly, and give her no cause for uneasiness. She has had enough fatigue with the wedding of Grandmama and the arranging of Philip’s university career. I don’t want her worried any further. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Papa.’
He called her back from the door. ‘One moment. You said “Yes, Papa” ‒ is that another sophistry? Are you saying merely that you agree not to worry your mama, whereas I am to believe you are agreeing to behave?’
Tears welled up. She turned and fled. It was truly dreadful to have angered Papa to the extent that he would use that tone to her.
All the same, she couldn’t think he was in the right. All that nonsense about the wicked life of the opera stars ‒ how could it possibly be true? From what Alfonsini said, you had to be strong and determined to keep your career going ‒ how could you possibly waste strength on philandering?
She saw, of course, that her father was inexorably against the idea of letting her study any further. There was no question of getting lessons with Monsieur Alfonsini.
But the maestro had mentioned a woman teacher in Milan. What name had he given? She searched her memory but failed to recall it. Twenty-four hours later, when she was thinking about something totally different, it popped out of some pigeon-hole in her mind. Signora Mangioni …
She decided to make one more attempt to get the approval of her parents. She sought out her mother one evening, before they went to change for an evening preview of a water-colour exhibition.
‘Mama, there’s something I have to tell you.’
‘Really? Come in, dear, sit down ‒ I shan’t be a moment, I’m just doing this note to Cristale about the garden party on Saturday.’
‘Mama, it’s about my singing.’
Her mother threw down the pen so that it scattered little ink blots on the paper. ‘Netta, I hope we’re not going to have another upset!’
‘I don’t want to upset you. I want you to understand. I really do have a voice worth training.’
Alys looked at her with something like sympathy. ‘My dearest girl, I know that. I know you have a beautiful voice. That’s not the point. Your situation in life prevents you from doing anything with it. You must accept that fact.’
‘But why? It’s madness ‒’
‘Netta, if you had been born lame, you would have had to live with it.’
‘You’re not saying that having a good voice is a handicap?’
‘It is, if it’s going to prevent you from being content. You cannot, simply cannot, do anything with your talent ‒ not in any serious way. You may sing at social gatherings and with the church choir, as you have done up to now. You have had enough training for that. More would be unseemly.’
‘I can’t believe you mean this!’
‘I do mean it. I’m thinking of your own good.’
‘What was that poem I learnt in the English class? “That one talent which ’tis death to hide. Lodged with me useless …” ’
‘Don’t over-dramatise, dear. Whoever it was who said that, his situation doesn’t concern you. You are a young woman with your whole life ahead of you. I don’t want you spoiling it with absurd ambitions that cannot be fulfilled.’
‘You refuse to let me study any more?’
‘Just so. Now, dear, I shall have to re-write this letter. Please leave me in peace ‒ and let’s hear no more of this nonsense.’
As she let her maid dress her for the evening, Netta was making plans. And later that night, when all the household was asleep, she rose silently.
She dressed without calling her maid. She packed a few things in a valise and stole downstairs. In her mother’s study she sat down before the escritoire. With trembling fingers she took out notepaper, dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote:
‘Dearest Mama and Papa, I have gone to study with a great teacher of singing. In a few days I will write again to give you my address but in the meantime please don’t worry about me, I have plenty of this month’s allowance with me and I have taken my pearls to sell if need be.
‘This is for the best. I could never be happy now, knowing that I have the ability to make a career in music and yet not making the effort. My love to you both and to Phip. Your daughter, Nicolette.’
Chapter 4
Things went badly in Milan from the start.
Netta imagined she knew the city, from a visit two years ago. But that had been with a governess in charge and under the tutelage of the Contessa di Peghirino, an authoritarian Roman matron who saw to everything.
Now she found that her Italian was quite inadequate. So were her funds ‒ she couldn’t afford the kind of hotel she was accustomed to, where servants ran about if you lifted a finger. She understood her mistake after a couple of days, consulted with a wondering receptionist at the Hotel del Angelo, and removed to a little pension in a side street.
But worse yet was the meeting with Signora Mangioni. The signora was unable to receive her for almost a week. It took that long for Netta to understand she must offer a bribe to the servant.
When she was at last allowed into the elegant drawing room. Signora Mangioni greeted her without ceremony. ‘I can spare only five minutes. What is it you want?’
‘I want to study with you, madame.’
‘Prego? Your
Italian is poor. What did you say?’
‘I’ve come to ask you to take me as a pupil.’
‘Ah! I understand. When did you wish to commence your lessons?’
‘Well … Immediately, madame.’
‘Signorina, you are being absurd! I have no vacancy for a student at present.’ She picked up a diary from her desk, flicked through it. ‘No, nothing this year … Perhaps in January?’
‘But madame! I’ve come from Paris on purpose to take lessons ‒’
‘Indeed! Who sent you? Who is your teacher?’
‘I was told of you by Monsieur Alfonsini ‒’
‘Ah, Ernesto …’ The signora looked momentarily impressed, then frowned. ‘He should know better than to send me students on the expectation I can take them at once. Where is his letter?’
‘I … er … I have no letter, madame.’
‘What?’
‘I didn’t get a letter from Monsieur Alfonsini. I … I didn’t think of it.’
‘Indeed?’The great teacher rang the bell at her side. ‘You are not a pupil of Alfonsini’s. You are trying to carry out some trick.’
‘No, madame, I assure you. Monsieur Alfonsini, heard me sing, he said he himself would take me as a pupil but ‒’
‘I really have no more time to waste on you, signorina. If you really are a protégée of Ernesto’s, you will come to me with a proper letter of introduction. But even if you do, I cannot take you until next year.’
‘But, madame ‒ please ‒’ The sturdy maidservant was already at Netta’s elbow, waiting to usher her out. ‘Madame, I’ve come on purpose to take voice lessons ‒ what am I to do?’
‘If I were you I’d apply to the conservatoire. They may take you. Good morning, signorina.’
Outside in the broad avenue, Netta found her head whirling almost as if she were about to faint. It was the disappointment. To be dismissed so curtly! It had never happened to her in her life before.
For the first time it began to dawn on Nicolette Hopetown-Tramont that the world was no bed of roses. Up till now, her wishes had always been attended to. She hadn’t always got her own way but when she was refused, it was with kindness and usually a reasoned explanation.
To be turned out of someone’s drawing room as if she were some sort of trickster was a new experience. To be told she wasn’t important enough to receive even the chance of lessons until next year a terrible blow. And the thought of going to the conservatoire was unnerving. There would be a large number of students with whom she would have to compete for the interest of the instructors.
But she never even reached that point. When she applied at the information office, she was told that there was an examination system. And the next exams were not until the autumn.
She had written home when she settled in the Pensione della Croce. The letter had been full of hope: ‘I expect to see Signora Mangioni soon and begin lessons immediately. Please don’t worry about me. I’ll write again in a week or so.’
Now she must go back to the boardinghouse and write that Signora Mangioni had refused her. She must ask for money. She still had her pearls but she didn’t want to sell them unless it became absolutely necessary. She hoped that her parents would continue her allowance; they weren’t cruel or hard-headed, they’d wish her to have funds to live decently while she studied.
This was naive ‒ not in her judgement of their kindness, but of their anxiety. As soon as they learned her address, Gavin Hopetown-Tramont boarded a train and headed straight for Milan. He called at her pension, found her there looking through a newspaper trying to translate advertisements for singing teachers, and ordered her to pack and come home at once.
‘Papa, you shouldn’t have come. I’ve no intention of coming home. I’m here to study music.’
‘I told you already, Netta. That’s quite out of the question, even though I understand this Signora Mangioni is one of the greatest ‒’
‘She refused me, Papa. But I’ll find someone else.’
‘What?’
‘There are dozens of teachers in Milan.’ She pointed to the newspaper.
‘Netta, don’t be nonsensical! You can’t go to a teacher you pick out of a newspaper!’
‘Why not? Milan is a great centre of ‒’
‘Damn it all, girl! You could end up with your throat cut! This is a big city, with all the dangers that go with it! And you ‒ look at you! A wide-eyed innocent! You are coming home this minute, Netta, if I have to tie you up and carry you.’
She was shocked by what he said, by his vehemence. But she couldn’t believe what he said. So far, well-dressed and with enough money to get by, she’d had no problems.
She shook her head. ‘No, Papa, I understand that you’re worried, but there’s no need. Truly there isn’t. Everything will be all right. I’ve written to Monsieur Alfonsini to ask him to write me an open letter of introduction, and with that I know I’ll find a good teacher in the end. Meanwhile I shall go to someone respectable ‒’
‘How will you know? How will you know it isn’t some vulture who ‒’
‘Papa, how absurd you are!’
They argued all that day. He took her out to dinner in hopes that a good meal in proper surroundings would make her see the deficiencies of the little pension, but she chattered on with bright determination about her plans. When he tried to insist she move back into the Hotel del Angelo, she refused. She understood his tactics.
Next morning he returned to the attack. He found her a little shaken. Last night, as she was going upstairs after he parted from her in the hall, a man had tried to follow her into her room. It was the very first time in her life any such thing had happened to her, and she had been very frightened.
Luckily the landlady had been coming downstairs with an armful of linen. She had said briskly, ‘Come along now, Signor Matteotto, this isn’t the kind of young lady you’re looking for!’ and hustled him away. Later she explained to Netta that Signor Matteotto had taken too much wine, and she mustn’t be put out about it.
‘Does he lodge here?’ Netta demanded, still quivering with fright and indignation.
‘To be sure.’
‘How can you allow a man like that to stay in your house?’
‘A man like what? Good gracious, signorina, there’s nothing wrong with Signor Matteotto! In general he has the sense to look for his pleasure elsewhere.’
It was so unlike anything she’d ever encountered that Netta couldn’t sleep, although she bolted her door and put a chair under the knob.
Her defence against her father’s argument remained firm, nevertheless. She would wait for Monsieur Alfonsini’s letter, she would find a teacher, she would study singing. Privately she added that she would be very careful in any encounters with men.
She would have carried on the fight for as long as seemed necessary ‒ she was sure of that.
On the Thursday, Papa took her for a drive in the country and a visit to a villa full of art treasures, which was intended to reawaken her to the kind of life she was used to. But she found she felt unwell as she walked through the great shadowy halls of the villa.
She said nothing to Papa. It was only a headache, or something she’d eaten ‒ the food at the pension was heavier and more oily than she was accustomed to.
But when she tried to get up next morning she was attacked by a fit of shivers that made her fall back on the bed. The room spun round. She crawled back under the covers. Next moment she was too hot. She threw the covers off.
Some time later ‒ she had no idea how long ‒ Papa’s face swam into view. He was saying something, but she couldn’t make out what. She told him, ‘It’s all right, it’s just a cold,’ but no words came out. His face swam away again, in a purple and grey mist.
When she came to herself again, she was lying in a pretty bed in a strange room. A nun in a white habit and stiffly-starched apron was sitting by her side. When Netta croaked a sound of interrogation, the nun said in good French: ‘It’s all right,
mademoiselle. Your father will be here later. You’re in a private nursing home.’
‘Nursing … home …?’
‘You have had malaria. How do you feel?’ A cool hand touched her brow. Her wrist was taken in firm fingers.
‘I … feel funny … Very weak …’
‘Yes, you have had quite a bad attack. Now drink this, and lie quiet.’
Netta accepted the bitter liquid. Shuddering, she lay back on her pillows. After a time she slept.
When she was convalescent she learned that malaria was still quite common on the plain of Lombardy. She had been unlucky enough to be infected soon after her arrival in the city but the symptoms hadn’t become severe until after about two weeks.
‘It’s a blessing that I was here,’ her father remarked, holding her hand between both of his and stroking it. ‘Just think, Netta, if you’d been alone in a strange city!’
In her weakened state, the mere thought brought tears to her eyes. ‘Oh, what should I have done?’ she murmured.
‘Mama has been so worried, Netta! Now you see, you must come home.’
‘Yes, Papa.’
In the middle of the month of May, when she was still quite weak but up and about, she was carefully transported by slow stages to Paris. Her mother came to meet her halfway, at Lyon. Alys was so relieved to get her daughter back that there were no recriminations, no scoldings. They fell into each other’s arms.
The season was still in full swing in Paris. Netta had a couple of days rest, and then was expected to take at least some part in what remained of it. Cosette came to see her while she remained indisposed.
She could hardly wait for the maid to leave the room before embarking on a list of questions.
‘My dear! Whom did you go with? Is it anyone I know? How did your parents find you? Was there a great row?’
Netta stared at her, pale lips parted in utter incomprehension.
‘Oh, you were a sly one! Not the least hint of it until that day at the fashion show! And yet, you know, I supposed I should have guessed. I hear you were downright rude to Frederic de la Sebiq, and that could only have been because your heart was already given ‒’
The Champagne Girls Page 6
