'Well then, it seems he valued your artistic progress beyond whatever he sold. What more is there to say?' returned Warrender shortly.
'Sir Oscar, you're arguing from entirely false premises, and you know it,' stated Joanna, and she was vaguely pleased to see a look of startled annoyance come into his eyes.
He was silent for almost half a minute, then he said slowly,
'No. I'm arguing from what I consider to be the right scale of values. Wilmore presumably made his decision from the same viewpoint. Of course he treasured his collection, certainly to the extent of not selling any of his favourite possessions. But his interest in developing a unique talent was also obviously of worth to him. He balanced one important consideration against another and made his choice.'
'No, he didn't.' She wondered afterwards how she found the courage to go on arguing flatly with the great Oscar Warrender. 'He said "yes" to me because I cried and he hadn't the heart to say "no". That's what I can't accept. That's what makes me feel a cheap cadger. And that's why the whole thing has to stop.'
'What whole thing has to stop?' asked Warrender, in a tone of such dangerous calm that she felt as though someone had hit her under the chin.
'I can't let him pay for any more lessons. I can't continue—'
'The payments have already been arranged. Some of the money has already been passed over. You don't suppose Volnikov is the type to give lessons on credit, do you?' said Warrender brutally, 'You're talking like a child, I tell you the arrangements have all been made-'
'Then they can be unmade, so far as the future is concerned,' she retorted as brutally in her turn.
'Don't be a fool.' The conductor got up and towered over her. 'These lessons - paid for willingly by Wilmore so far as we know - may be a small piece in the jigsaw of the whole enterprise, but they are vital I dislike giving you an inflated idea of your own importance, but you too are vital to the scheme. A trained and perfected "you" who will need every one of those lessons. Without that, the whole thing falls to the ground. Bernard Fulroyd's humble hopes and ambitions, for instance, will be blasted. Have you thought about that? He isn't a young man. He hasn't got time on his side if he is to see the well-deserved success of his own fine work. If—'
'You're just playing on my sympathies!' cried Joanna defensively, though she was shaken by this argument.
'Of course I'm playing on your sympathies. They and a rich vein of sentimentality seem to be all that's working in you at the moment,' returned Warrender coldly. 'You have no sense of logic or proportion - or loyalty. What about the people who have put their work and their hopes and their faith in you?'
'Oh—' Joanna buried her face in her hands and tried to think clearly and fairly. And what rose before her at that moment was not the kind face of Mr. Wilmore. but the deprecating, eager face of Bernard Ful-royd. 'How can I take the money, knowing what I do?' she muttered helplessly.
'You aren't taking it,' Warrender told her cynically. 'Volnikov is taking it - with both hands. We don't know - any of us - just how Wilmore financed and is continuing to finance your training. But the arrangements have been made and must continue. Do you understand? They must continue, if all the work and hopes of several people are not to founder.'
'Couldn't we somehow get the money from somewhere else? I mean, whatever money is needed from this point?'
'Not from anywhere I know of,' replied Warrender coolly. 'I have channelled any resources I can myself call on into the actual production and performances. And I assure you I am losing no sleep over any sacrifices my backers may be making. They are responsible adults capable of choosing for themselves. You'd better credit Wilmore with equal sense.'
'It's different,' Joanna protested, but more uncertainly.
'Well, I didn't have to go and cry on anyone's shoulder,' Warrender admitted with a dry smile. 'But the principle is the same. A good many sacrifices go into any worthwhile artistic endeavour. You have to accept that, child. And you'll make some yourself before we are finished.'
She sat there digesting that in silence, and presently she became aware with blinding clarity that of course he was right. What she had to sacrifice was Elliot's good opinion of her.
Once she had faced that and, with fearful reluctance, accepted it, the conflict was over. So was the conversation, to all intents and purposes. She got up after a moment or two and said quietly, 'Perhaps you're right. I'm not absolutely sure you are. But I do see that I can't let everyone down now.'
'Sensible girl,' observed Warrender. 'And if it's any consolation to you, Wilmore would be the first to be appalled if you withdrew now and wrecked the whole enterprise. All you can do now for everyone, including Wilmore, is to see that our combined efforts are not wasted.'
'I'll do my best,' said Joanna. And for the first time she realized all that was implied by that promise.
It pursued her, haunted her and, in some strange way, sustained her during the next few months, which were probably the most important and productive of her whole life. Certainly so far as her career was concerned.
The very fact that she was unhappy personally enabled her to sink her identity and all her energies in her artistic life. Here she began to finding an abiding consolation for what she had lost elsewhere. Everything she had been with difficulty absorbing from Tamara Volnikov began at last to make sense and become part of her, and what had been a conscious effort at first now began to be second nature.
She saw and heard nothing of Elliot during this time and, after thinking feverishly of various ways by which she might see him and force him to understand her dilemma better, she abandoned even the hope of ever regaining his friendship or what she had fondly hoped might be his love.
To Mr. Wilmore she wrote a letter, stiffer in its phrasing than she would have wished it to be, but which in part at least explained how she felt about what he was doing for her. She tried to find some balance between dignified gratitude and excessive self-blame but, though she altered the wording many times, she could not be satisfied with the result. In the end she just sealed it up and sent it, hoping to hear from him in terms that would reassure her.
It was many weeks before his reply came, and it was posted from a port of call in southern Italy . He wrote pleasantly about the trip he was making on his friend's yacht, and only at the end did he mention the matter which had caused her so much anguish.
'There is no need for you to worry about the money for your lessons, my dear,' he wrote in a postscript. 'I seldom paid anything more willingly, and I do assure you that no absolute treasure in my collection had to be sacrificed to this worthy cause.'
With that she had to be satisfied. She was satisfied to a great extent, at least so far as he was concerned. Only it did nothing whatever, of course, to restore respect or good feeling between her and Elliot.
There was no one to whom she could confide her inmost thoughts, least of all to her mother, who was beginning to revive after the shock of her financial disaster. To Warrender she had said all that could be said to an outsider and, although as the weeks passed she became almost fond of the hard but fascinating old artist who directed her stage studies, she knew that Volnikov would not even have been interested in any problem connected with the money which paid her fat her marvellous coaching.
Oddly enough, it was Warrender's wife, Anthea who came nearest to being a confidante. Coming on Joanna one afternoon when she was waiting in the studio for Warrender who had been delayed, she ex claimed, 'You sometimes look so sad these days, Joanna. This role isn't getting you down in some way, is it? I mean - are you living it so wholeheartedly that you actually suffer with the character?'
'It could be,' Joanna smiled slightly. 'And if so, it wouldn't be a bad thing, artistically, would it?'
'Well, no,' Anthea agreed. 'That's part of being a real artist, of course. But don't get depressed about your work. You're doing so well. Even Oscar was excited today when he was talking of the work going into production next mon
th,'
'Was he?' Even now there was a sort of unreality about being able to cause excitement to an old hand like Oscar Warrender, and Joanna's smile deepened. 'I'm not worried, Anthea, There's a sort of confidence growing in me - an awareness that I've passed right out of the student stage, to the artist who understands what work and inspiration really mean.'
'The biggest hurdle in any career,' Anthea assured her. 'So don't let any personal issue worry you at this moment, if you can help it. Unless, of course, you can somehow identify it with the role you are going to play.'
'How do you mean?' Joanna glanced at the other girl quickly.
'Well, throughout this work you are playing the part of someone who has to remain silent and be misjudged. Sometimes that happens in one's own life.'
'You're a witch!' Joanna laughed protestingly.
'No. Oscar told me a little and I did a bit of inspired guessing,' Anthea confessed. 'I may have got it wrong, and you don't need to confide in me. But time is a strange thing, Joanna. There are few people who haven't thought at one point or another that nothing can ever come right again. But it has a habit of doing so. I know. It happened with me and Oscar. And speaking of him, I think that's the sound of his key in the door.'
She smiled at Joanna and went out of the room, pausing only for a moment to kiss her husband as she passed him in the doorway.
Whether or not this conversation had anything to do with it, from that day Joanna slipped finally and completely into the part of the silent girl who could not sing of her love until the moment before she died.
Both Warrender and Volnikov had praise for her at last. Not excessive praise. But the kind of heart-warming, professional praise which made her feel, however humbly, at one with those two great artists themselves.
And this was the mood in which she faced the ordeal of the opening rehearsals.
By now, of course, a good deal was being written about the coming performance in the musical pages of most newspapers. But though photographs and interviews were requested, they were arbitrarily refused by Warrender, and Joanna remained almost insulated against the growing interest and excitement which inevitably surrounded any enterprise personally undertaken by Oscar Warrender,
She was glad of it. She preferred to remain immersed in her work, though she did permit herself some faint hope that Elliot might read about it all and perhaps understand a little better why there had been the necessity to accept - no, she must be accurate: to for - his uncle's financial aid.
But no word came.
'I think it's stupid not to have you photographed.' her mother complained. 'You're the heroine of this opera. There's a photograph here of the composer. He looks a nice old gentleman, but no one would call him romantic. Whereas you, a lovely girl, even if I say it myself, about to spring to fame in a night—'
'I haven't sprung yet, Mother. Give me time,' said Joanna, smiling, 'We don't want people talking about me before I've done anything.'
'I should have thought that would make good publicity beforehand,' retorted her mother.
'There's quite enough publicity - don't worry. It comes from interest in a new work and the fact that Sir Oscar is involved in it. And the tenor, Nicholas Brenner, is one of the most famous in the world.'
'Oh, the tenor!' exclaimed Mrs. Ransome, in a tone which would have surprised - not to say affronted -most tenors. 'I want to have people inquiring about you. Which reminds me, we never see anything of Elliot Cheam these days. What has become of him?'
‘I believe he is in the States,' replied Joanna with admirable composure. 'When we last met he was very much taken up with a possible production in New York . I've been so busy myself that I haven't seen anyone much, as you know, and I suppose it's the same with him. That's the theatre world for you!' And she smiled at her mother.
'Well, I expect it will be worth it all in the end. I've just heard from Georgina , by the way, and she's coming to town for the first night. Absolutely insists on it. She spoke on the phone as though she had been responsible for a lot of your career. I can't imagine why. She only got you an introduction to nice Mr. Wilmore.'
'Perhaps,' said Joanna slowly, 'that was the beginning of it all. Anyway, I'd like Aunt Georgina to be there.'
'But not sitting absolutely beside me, dear, I do beg,' exclaimed her mother feelingly. 'Just in case you don't make quite the success everyone is hoping,' she added naively.
Just in case you don't make quite the success everyone is hoping. The words stayed somewhere in the depths of Joanna's mind and surfaced uneasily at various moments during the final rehearsals.
Not that she did not receive both encouragement and support from her immediate colleagues. Some of them - like Nicholas Brenner and his wife - declared themselves fascinated by the way she surmounted the difficulties of a largely silent part. But the undoubted fact was that the work itself was almost experimental, and no one could really foretell what its effect would be on the first night audience.
'No one except that wily old devil Warrender, that is to say,' declared Jonathan Keyne, the husband of Mr. Fulroyd's daughter, Anna. 'Trust him to produce exactly the right person for the role. How did he find you, Joanna?'
'I came on her by chance - if these things are chance,' said the wily old devil, coming up behind Jonathan Keyne at that moment. 'And I backed my own instinct and judgment. Don't praise her any further. She has yet to prove herself finally.'
But he put his hand lightly on Joanna's shoulder. And, because it was a very expressive hand indeed, she knew he was satisfied with her, and she went home from the dress rehearsal in an almost tranquil frame of mind.
This mood of tranquillity did not of course persist for any real length of time. In the hurrying yet crawling hours until the actual performance Joanna alternated between hope and despair, the belief that everything was going to be wonderful and the certainty that shame and disaster lay ahead. Oddly enough, her mother was quite a support during this difficult time for her capacity for goodhumoured but trivial chatter kept Joanna from sinking too far or riding too high on the emotional switchback of those final hours.
By the time she left for the Opera House on the great night itself she found she was almost calm. But whether or not this was the calmness of despair she would not have liked to say.
On arriving in her dressing-room, she was surprised and a little put out to find Madame Volnikov there, waiting for her, and looking much more the heroine of the evening, in her Russian sables, than Joanna did. In the first moment she supposed she was to receive some last-minute instructions, but the famous old dancer merely smiled her beautiful smile, drew herself up as though for a ceremonial occasion and said,
'Until now, Joanna, I have been sparing in my praise lest you should rest too easily on your immature laurels. But tonight it is right you should know that you have satisfied my highest expectations. You have supplied the instinct without which no artist can even begin. I have supplied the unrivalled training without which no artist can come to full flower. You English have a peculiar phrase - Go in and win. I say this to you now, for you cannot fail. '
She then kissed the astonished and moved Joanna and took her departure. As she went out a handsome bouquet was handed in and, a little dazed still, Joanna examined the accompanying card. She saw, with the utmost pleasure, that it was from Mr. Wilmore, and the note bore not only the expression of his affectionate good wishes, but the information that he would be in the house that night.
It was the last touch needed to spur her to highest endeavour. This was her supreme chance to make him feel that his generous sacrifice had indeed been worthwhile.
When Warrender came to have a last word with her before the performance began, he found her sitting before her dressing-table, outwardly very calm and already wearing the strangely beautiful green and blue costume, with its floating draperies, which gave her such an other-worldly air.
'All right?' He smiled at her briefly.
'Perfectly all right
. Except for a sort of fluttering -here.' She put her hand against her breast.
'Every real artist feels nervous on such an occasion,' he said, and the slight emphasis on 'real' was heartening. 'But remember I am there to support you - and I have a strong hand in these matters.'
'I know it.' She returned his smile. 'Thank you for everything, Sir Oscar.'
'Thank me after the performance,' he replied. But he touched her hair lightly before he left her.
She had never before received a gesture of such kindliness and reassurance from him, and for a moment she thought she knew why Anthea was a happy woman. It must be wonderful to know with certainty that the right person loved and understood one. Her part - on the stage tonight and in a more personal way too - was to remain silent and endure, whatever the provocation might be. But it was the choice she had made, and she was prepared to abide by it.
Which was perhaps why, from the moment of her first entrance, she captured and held the sympathies of the entire audience.
'Self-sacrifice,' wrote one of the more perceptive of the critics next day, 'is a dangerous commodity to handle on the stage. Combined with self-pity it is immediately unendearing. But combined with the kind of inner strength and human dignity given to it last night by Joanna Ransome it becomes the strongest link possible between performer and audience.'
He was describing, of course, the 'unshed tears' on which Volnikov had insisted. Equally of course, much of the success of Joanna's interpretation was due to the unique lessons she had received from that remarkable woman. What was peculiarly her own contribution however was the fact that she was truly expressing herself, and her own inner conviction. And for most of the evening she merged her identity so completely with the girl she was portraying that it was impossible for her to know herself whether her gestures, her expression and her silent appeal were addressed to Nicholas Brenner, singing the part of her lover like an angel, or - somehow, somewhere in the world - to Elliot who despised her.
A Remembered Serenade Page 14
