A Remembered Serenade

by Mary Burchell

She did exactly as he bade her. And at the end he said 'Yes.' That was all. But the one word expressed a sort of pleased confirmation of something he had already thought.

  He took the manuscript from her and, still holding it in his hand, led her back to the other end of the room, where they had first sat and talked. For a moment there was silence, while Joanna's heart thumped with excitement and the curious conviction that some tremendous step was about to be taken. The conductor, on his side, seemed to be choosing his words with some care.

  'Have you ever heard of a man called Bernard Fulroyd?' he asked, and Joanna obediently searched back in her memory.

  'The name is familiar.' She hesitated. 'Didn't he compose a lovely song cycle that was given at some music festival last year?'

  'Yes, that's right. His daughter sang the solo part -very beautifully, I might say. The work .caused some­thing of a sensation and is already being included in concerts here and abroad. He is an organist in a small town, quite an elderly man, and this was the first of his works to be performed in public, except for some fairly unimportant items for choir and organ performed in the local church.'

  He paused for a moment and Joanna leaned for­ward and asked eagerly, 'And is this work by him too?'

  'Yes. It's one of several operas he has composed. All of them contain at least a large proportion of good, often exceptionally beautiful, music. But each one has some nearly insurmountable practical difficulty about it which almost precludes performance. He is a com­pletely unworldly type. Possibly that is why his music has this extraordinary basic simplicity and beauty. He writes what he feels he must write without the smallest idea of the technical difficulties involved in bringing the work to production.'

  'But this is a most lovely and accessible air,' protested Joanna, 'and surely - I should have thought - a most fitting end to an opera.'

  'Agreed,' said Warrender dryly. 'But that is the only - and I mean literally the only - music given to the heroine. Which kills it stone dead, of course, so far as most leading singers are concerned. The prima donna who is willing to wait until the end of the last act before she opens her mouth does not, in my experience, exist.'

  'Oh -I see,' said Joanna doubtfully.

  'And yet, dramatically, the part demands the high­est degree of acting ability. An exceptionally fine actress could play the whole role - up to the last quar­ter of an hour. But for that last quarter of an hour she must be able to sing so well that there is no sense of anti­climax.'-

  'Yes - I see,' said Joanna again, and the sense of excitement which had been growing within her sud­denly engulfed her like a wave, : She gasped slightly, passed the tip of her tongue over suddenly dry lips and asked, 'What exactly is the story of the opera? I mean -what is actually involved?'

  'Briefly, it is the age-old story which appears in one form or another in various works of art. In Hans An­dersen's "Little Mermaid", for instance, and in the Czech opera "Russalka". The heroine is a half fairy creature who loves, and is loved by, a prince of earth. Her choice has offended the deities of her fairy world, who deprive her of her power of speech if she insists on going with him. Or rather, she is warned that if she speaks she will die. She accepts the terms - and the risk - and goes with him.'

  'Which is why the poor thing can't sing a note for two and a half acts!' exclaimed Joanna.

  'Exactly. You see how little that would appeal to almost any distinguished soprano one could name,' Warrender said dryly. 'My wife declares it would be almost worth it for the impact one would make with that one last superb scene. But she says - and I think correctly - that though she is a good actress, she has not the tremendous range of facial expression nor the power to convey with movement - or the lack of it -exactly what is required.'

  'And are you—' Joanna's voice shook with excite­ment - 'are you suggesting that I have that power?'

  'I think,' Warrender said slowly, 'you have almost exactly the rare combination of talents required. You have one of the most innocent and yet expressive faces I have seen in an adult. You have the quality of portray­ing fear and longing and innocent simplicity in the way you walk and stand and move. You even convey an extraordinary amount when you are still, which is perhaps the rarest gift of all. The voice is good enough for that one final outburst; particularly if I have the handling of you,' he added, and a slight note of ruthlessness entered his voice at those words.

  'Are you,' said Joanna in a very small voice, 'offering me the part?'

  'I'm suggesting that you study it intensively. You'll need some very strict and very expensive dramatic training, but I know exactly to whom to send you. It may all come to nothing in the end. I must, in all fairness, tell you that. Because, of course, one can fully prepare a work and still be a long way from putting it before the public. One has to start somewhere, however, and one has to take calculated risks if one is to achieve anything. Your risk would be that you would be diverted from your more conventional training into something absolutely specialized. If, in spite of every­thing, the work never saw the light of day, you might, by your own reckoning, consider that you had wasted your time, your talents and a good deal of money.'

  'But—' again she passed her tongue over her dry lips - 'suppose it succeeded, in the way you visualize?'

  'Then in that case, my dear, I have little doubt that you would find yourself famous overnight,' said Oscar Warrender coolly.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Joanna was not quite sure how long she sat there, di­gesting the extraordinary information Oscar War-render had given her. Not that she had any doubt about acceptance or refusal. One did not, she sup­posed, refuse a project which the great Warrender thought might bring one fame. It was just that she had to allow the stunning truth to permeate her whole being.

  He made no attempt to hurry her. Instead, he sat opposite her, apparently re-examining the score with close attention, and not until she said, hesitatingly, 'Sir Oscar—' did he look up.

  'Yes?' He smiled encouragingly. 'Does the prospect interest you?'

  'Interest me? It stuns me,' Joanna said frankly. 'I find it very difficult to believe myself capable of fulfilling such a task. It's far, far beyond my wildest ambitions.'

  'That is because up to now you have thought only in terms of what you can do rather well,' he told her. 'And never in terms of something you might be able to do uniquely well,'

  'I don't expect you to go on reassuring me.' Joanna spoke almost apologetically. 'But I suppose it's always difficult to imagine one might be supremely gifted in some form or another.'

  'On the contrary,' replied the conductor dryly, 'it is astonishing the ease with which some people imagine themselves to be supremely gifted, on practically no evidence at all. You are unusually modest - a pleasing trait, of course, but not an attitude to be pursued to the point of self-denigration. I am not suggesting for one moment that you are at this present time ready to shake the world with your performance of this role or any other. I am merely saying that you possess unusual gifts which, developed to their highest point, might make a very interesting artist of you. Particularly so in this difficult role, which could well fail in the hands of much greater singers than you will ever be.'

  'You are sure about this?' she said timidly.

  'No, my dear. Only fools are absolutely sure about another human being in advance,' he replied with a smile. 'But, speaking from not inconsiderable experi­ence, I think the strong probability is there, provided you will work as directed, develop as expected and, in some way, attract that minimum degree of sheer luck which is essential to almost every worthwhile under­taking. Does that make it easier - or more difficult - to make up your mind?'

  'Oh, I have no difficulty in making up my mind,' she assured him. 'It's the kind of millionth chance which no one would have the effrontery even to hope for in ordinary circumstances. If the practical details can be worked out to your satisfaction, of course I accept. Sir Oscar, of course I do!'

  'Good,' he said, and she noticed a slight streak o
f colour in his cheeks and, incredulously, she realized that she had in some way excited him by her de­cision.

  'You said at one point,' she reminded him, 'that some very expensive training would be involved. What exactly do you mean by "expensive"?'

  He laughed slightly at that.

  'It is rather a relative term,' he agreed. 'Ideally - in fact, I think essentially — you would have to go to Tamara Volnikov. Do you know who I mean?'

  'She was a dancer a long time ago, wasn't she?'

  'I suppose it was a long time ago by your reckoning,' he agreed with an amused little grimace. 'At any rate, it was in my youth that I saw her. She was already near the end of her career then. But she could express more with one gesture or glance than most stage people can convey in a whole scene. She is quite an old woman now. A greedy old woman, if I am frank,' he added impersonally, 'She occasionally takes a pupil, but only if she is interested, and her fees are shamelessly high, But then if you are unique it is fair that you should name your price. I don't know exactly what she charges. We should have to find out - always provided she thought you worth her notice, of course.'

  'I think I ought to say at this point that - that my mother and I are not specially well off,' Joanna said a little agitated. 'But I'm sure she would be willing for us to sacrifice a good deal in order for me to get the essen­tial training.'

  'Well, that is a proper outlook, in my view. But I was also going to say that last night I had a few words with Justin Wilmore, who is also convinced that you are unusually gifted—'

  'But only because I remind him of Emilia Trangoni,' cried Joanna distressedly.

  'No, not only that,' Warrender corrected her, 'though there is that element, I admit. The fact is that the special quality you possess stirs the roots of memory. Everyone's memory. It is something both basic and universal and, properly developed, channelled and trained, it will take you a long way. But - and please remember this above anything else I have said - with­out the work necessary to perfect this, you will be no more than an occasionally admired performer who wonders why she never gets any further. The same is true of every real artist, believe me.'

  'I do believe you,' Joanna said humbly. 'And I'll work.'

  'Very well. What I was going to say about Justin Wilmore is that he also believes you worthy of a chance and, in frank, practical fact, is willing to supply what­ever money is necessary for your specialized training, if your own resources do not run to this.'

  'He's too good,' exclaimed Joanna anxiously. 'I don't think I could accept that from him. You see—'

  'Don't bore me with how you can or cannot avail yourself of opportunities offered,' Warrender cut in im­patiently. 'That is between you, your bank manager and Justin Wilmore. I shall merely tell you the artistic essentials, and you must decide what you can do un­aided and where you may require help. This is only the beginning. Later it will be my business to decide how much backing is required, by me or anyone else, actu­ally to put on the work. Let us take one step at a time. And the first step is for you to familiarize yourself with this work in every detail, and then I'll take you to Volnikov.'

  'Thank you very, very much.' Joanna drew a long sigh of mingled rapture and worry. For, in her view, the very first step was to find out how far she and her mother could finance her training for this incredible undertaking.

  'Again let me emphasize that the less you say about this to anyone at this stage, the better. Nothing is easier to start than some rumour that an operatic or theatrical sensation is in the offing. If the whole thing goes off at half-cock it can be an embarrassment and a disaster, and I do not care to be associated with either,' he added disdainfully.

  Joanna wanted to say that she would not like the experience either, But she guessed that her feelings in the matter were of little importance to the great man until she had proved herself much further than she had been able to do so far. He regarded her as good raw material. She doubted if, even now, he regarded her as much else. But apparently she was the type of raw material necessary to his enterprise, and as such she had a certain value for him.

  'May I tell my mother most of the truth?' she asked after a moments 'Her agreement will be an essential part of my involvement.'

  'You mean she holds the purse-strings?'

  'I mean,' said Joanna, disliking the expression, 'that she's a widow and, apart from small fees from time to time, I'm dependent on her. In other words, I can't make free with her money unless I give good reasons for whatever I suggest.'

  'All right,' he said, rather reluctantly, 'But impress upon her that there must be no exulting be­forehand.'

  'I will,' promised Joanna, uncomfortably aware that Warrender had probably summed up her mother pretty accurately in the space of time it had taken to exchange a couple of sentences.

  Then he showed her out. And Joanna walked most of the way home, past newspaper placards bearing threats of war in some distant country, the failure of a big investment company nearer home, and a prophecy of the hardest winter for fifty years. None of these made the slightest impression upon her. All she knew was that Oscar Warrender had made an unbelievably exciting proposition to her, and that this was the turning point of her life.

  When she reached home she was tired with walking and still dazed by the incredible thing that had hap­pened to her. But even so, as she came into the sitting-room she was immediately struck by the extraordinary stillness of her mother, who was sitting by the fire, her hands slack in her lap, her gaze oddly unfocused, like someone who had experienced a great shocks

  'Mother!' Forgetting her own affairs, Joanna ran forward in dismay. 'What is it? What has happened?'

  'Where have you been?' Her mother's glance came round to her, but not with complete attention.

  'I've been to see Oscar Warrender. Don't you re­member he—?'

  'Oh, yes. You were going to tea with them, weren't you? They didn't keep you long—' Her glance shifted absently to the clock.

  In retrospect it seemed to Joanna that she had passed a lifetime of experience since she had left home, but she brushed that aside and, putting her hand insist­ently on her mother's shoulder, she repeated, 'What's happened? You've had some kind of shock, haven't you?'

  'Yes. Naturally it's a shock.'

  'But what is?' cried Joanna urgently.

  'Haven't you seen the newspaper placards?'

  'No,' Joanna said. For, in all accuracy, she had not seen them. She had merely walked past them without a thought.

  'The Home and Overseas Insurance Company have gone broke - taking half our income with them. Mr. Witherspoon rang up to tell me, and he said it's in all the evening papers and on the radio. He also said -which I thought was mean of him - that he was always against my investing with them, because the rate of interest was suspiciously high.'

  'And was he always against it?' asked Joanna, be­cause she felt she had to ask something.

  'Yes, of course. But then lawyers are always over­cautious, aren't they?' replied her mother plain­tively.

  Joanna resisted the obvious reply that in this case Mr. Witherspoon's caution seemed to have been justified, for her mother looked so forlorn and be­wildered that any form of 'I told you so' seemed like cruelty to children. Instead, she addressed herself to offering some form of comfort and reassurance.

  'Don't worry too much, darling,' she urged. 'We'll manage - we always have. And often these things aren't so bad as everyone thinks at first. Anyway, the house is ours—'

  'There's a mortgage on it.'

  'Is - is there?' Joanna suddenly dared not ask how much, and she wondered for the first time why she had taken what seemed now to be criminally little interest in the way her mother managed their financial affairs. But then, strictly speaking, they had been her mother's financial affairs, and sometimes she had been oddly secretive about them.

  Well, it was no good thinking about that now. And as Mrs. Ransome said rather pathetically at this moment that she thought she could do with a cup of tea,
Joanna went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. As she stood there waiting for it to boil, her thoughts veered from one extreme of improbability to another.

  On the one hand was the extraordinary golden vista which Oscar Warrender had opened before her, and on the other something like ruin, financially speaking. Neither seemed quite real at this moment.

  Over tea Joanna strove to find some other words of comfort.

  'It's really just a question of bridging the gap, isn't it?' she said cheerfully. 'It won't be all that long before I am earning money, Mother. Perhaps quite big money,' she added encouragingly.

  'What makes you say that?' Her mother's face brightened a little. 'Did Oscar Warrender offer you a part or something?'

  'N-not exactly. But he had some very interesting things to say about my future development. It would mean quite a lot of specialized training,' she admitted. But as this did not seem to be the moment to talk about Madame Volnikov and her expensive lessons, she added hastily, 'He had ideas about how that could be managed. And he seemed to think that, given luck—'

  'Our luck doesn't seem to be in at the moment,' interrupted Mrs. Ransome with a sad little laugh.

  'Then it's time for it to change,' asserted Joanna firmly. 'He really did seem to see a very bright future for me, Mother.'

  'But how far ahead?' asked her mother, who had a talent for sometimes putting her finger right on the first awkward essential.

  'I'm not - quite sure,' Joanna confessed. And, for the first time, a dreadful chill gripped her, and she wondered if perhaps, after all, she were fated never to reach that shining goal which Oscar Warrender had allowed her to glimpse for a moment.

  If they were really going to have to look twice at every penny in future, what was the use of thinking in terms of expensive extra training? The money for that would have to come from somewhere.

  And then she recalled what Warrender had said about generous Mr. Wilmore. Although her first reac­tion was to wince away from any thought of appealing to him, again and again during the rather sad evening which succeeded the madly exciting afternoon, her mind returned to him. Was he not the best - possibly the only - source for the help she would need to fulfil the extraordinary destiny which still seemed to beckon her, though not quite so clearly as it had seemed to do in Warrender's studio?