The tension — created and sustained throughout the evening by Bernard Fulroyd's beautiful music, the singing of her fellow artists, and her own gripping yet eloquent silence - never faltered. Indeed, one of the stagehands was actually heard to mutter, 'Say something, dearie! just say something to him.'
And at the moment when she turned at last to her lover and broke into the beautiful, passionate phrases written for her at that point, not only did Brenner almost literally fall back before her, but throughout the house there ran a sort of shiver of emotion and excitement which exactly paralleled his reaction on the stage.
'It will be the high-point of the performance,' War-render had told her. 'The challenge is tremendous, for you will have to break into those high, arresting phrases without a shadow of the usual "warming up". On the other hand, all your vocal resources will be fresh and untired. Something,' he added sardonically, 'for which every soprano, from Marguerite to Isolde, would give half her fee at the end of a gruelling performance. Use every bit of vocal technique you possess for that sudden entry. And leave the rest to me.'
He was absolutely right, she found. Those first electrifying phrases came out like the striking of a bell. And then suddenly the compulsion of Warrender's matchless left hand and the expression of his telling face, seen in the light from the orchestra pit, somehow reminded her of everything he had ever taught her about lyrical phrasing, vocal colouring, and perfect diction.
'In a sense,' she afterwards told her mother, 'he almost did it for me,'
This was not quite true, of course. But at least it was the just reward for all the work they had put into it together.
At the end there was the kind of scene beloved of every opera-lover. Just to have been there on such an occasion seemed a triumph to each member of the audience, and so they participated to the full in saluting the great night. The curtain-calls were endless, the applause was thunderous, and finally Warrender pushed Joanna and Bernard Fulroyd on to the stage together.
'Come too! You come too,' they both implored him. But he laughed and shook his head.
'The evening is yours, my dears,' he said. 'Go out and take it.'
So they went out together hand in hand, both of them a little shy and dazed by a reaction neither of them had ever expected to evoke. And each of them - the elderly composer and the very young artist -thought that probably there would never be a moment like this again.
Afterwards, Joanna was engulfed in waves of praise and congratulation from colleagues and friends alike, while her mother and Aunt Georgina glowed with family pride. She cleared the dressing-room temporarily at last. But, just as she was about to close the door, she saw Mr. Wilmore in the corridor and, because she siihply could not let him wait for the thanks so richly due to him, she called him in alone, unin-hibitedly flung her arms around him and cried,
'Thank you, thank you, thank you! It was you who made it all possible.'
'No, my dear.' A good deal moved, he kissed her and patted her shoulder. 'It was your own tremendous talent and work that made it possible.'
'But all that would have remained undeveloped -useless - without your generosity,' she exclaimed. 'All that money you poured out on me! Sacrificing things you love, never even telling me there were difficulties. I can never—'
'Stop, stop!' Laughingly he put his hand over her eager lips. 'I can't take all this praise. It isn't even wholly mine. I did make the initial payment and, if you like, I was perfectly prepared to pay the rest, even at some sacrifice. But it was not I who paid most of it.'
'It - wasn't?' She stood back from him, staring with wide, astonished eyes. 'Then who was it?'
He gave a slight, embarrassed laugh.
'I was sworn to secrecy, Joanna. But I don't think it can matter now. It was Elliot who provided the bulk of the money.'
CHAPTER NINE
'You can't mean it !' Joanna stared at Mr. Wilmore in utter consternation. ' Elliot paid for my lessons? It isn't possible!'
'Why not?' Mr. Wilmore looked amused, if a little put out. 'I assure you Elliot is a very generous-hearted fellow under that casual manner of his.'
'But not - to me.' The words were out before she could stop them, and her hands fell to her sides, the fingers curling and uncurling in a gesture as telling as any she had used on the stage.
'What makes you think he would not want to help you?' Mr. Wilmore took one of those restless hands rather gently.
'He doesn't think me worthy of help,' she replied quickly. 'He thinks me a cheap little cadger. And sometimes,' she added with a sigh, 'I wonder if he's right.'
'What nonsense!' Mr. Wilmore spoke with energy, 'You came to me for help, as you might have come to any friend. With special justification, as it happened, because I had already offered my assistance in a general way. There was no question of cadging, and I will not have the word used.'
'You wouldn't have it used; you're too generous for that.' She returned the pressure of his hand gratefully. 'But I could hardly have chosen a crueller moment to make my request, from your point of view. That's what shocked Elliot so much.'
'Don't exaggerate.' He brushed her argument aside. 'It was an awkward moment, if you like, though you had no means of knowing that. In any case, with care I could have managed. But then Elliot came to me and made his offer; indeed, insisted on finding the money himself.'
'For your sake?' she interjected quickly.
'And yours,' he replied. But there was an infinitesimal pause before he said that, and she thought she knew why.
'Mr, Wilmore, will you please tell me something quite truthfully?' Joanna said earnestly. 'In what mood was Elliot when he first broached the subject to you?'
'In what mood?' The fact that he repeated her words told her immediately that he was playing for time, finding the least painful way of telling something approximating to the truth. 'Well, he didn't understand the situation at first, of course. I had to explain things to him. And then he offered, entirely of his own free will, to be of help.'
'Yes, I see.' Joanna spoke gently and resisted any desire to press him further. Why spoil the pleasure of her generous friend by questioning the motive behind what Elliot had done? 'It was very, very kind of - him, and of you. I can never thank you enough.'
She let him suppose that 'you' referred to them both. But she knew now of course, that Elliot's offer had been made solely with the idea of helping his uncle out of an awkward situation which she had created.
Then the dresser tapped on the door and put her head in to say rather reproachfully that there were a lot of people waiting.
'I must go.' Mr. Wilmore bent his head and kissed her cheek. 'Thank you, my dear, for a great experience. I think you will find that is how most people will describe tonight.'
They did, of course, when they crowded in once more. At the back of her mind there lingered the extraordinary piece of information about Elliot, but even this was thrust aside in an evening in which Joanna registered some of the strangest and most triumphant moments of her life.
For the first time there was a crowd at the stage door for her. For the first time people asked her for her autograph. For the first time the stage-door keeper had to force a way for her through the throng before he could hand her into the Warrenders' handsome car in which she was driven off to the Gloria for a celebration supper. Her celebration supper.
It was quite an intimate party. Just the Warrenders and the Fulroyds, Joanna and her mother and - to her extreme gratification - Aunt Georgina.
Joanna had not met Mrs. Fulroyd before, but she liked her on sight. A quiet, smiling woman who seemed even now faintly surprised at her husband's success. Anna Fulroyd, on the contrary, and her husband. Jonathan Keyne, the producer, seemed to feel that all their confidence in the work had just been triumphantly fulfilled, and they could not praise Joanna enough for her part in making it such a success.
That Joanna's mother and Mrs. Fulroyd should get on well together was to be expected, for each had a
talented daughter to talk about. What was more surprising was that Aunt Georgina and Oscar Warrender seemed to strike a certain number of enjoyable sparks from each other's conversation.
'I don't know what has got into my Aunt Georgina.' Joanna murmured to Anthea Warrender. 'She doesn't really know much about the musical world. I shouldn't have expected her and Sir Oscar to have much in common.'
'They have the same rather sardonic sense of humour,' replied Anthea with penetration. 'And the same good-natured contempt for a half-done job. Was she a teacher or something?'
'A formidable headmistress, with a reputation for turning out well-educated girls,' replied Joanna promptly.
'Well, there you are! Oscar is a formidable musical director, with a reputation for turning out properly schooled artists,' said Anthea with a laugh. 'It's the same thing, in a different degree,,. And, talking of great teachers, Volnikov actually shed a few tears at one point this evening. Did you know?'
'No! How could I? She came afterwards and told me she was pleased, but she said I must work more on the second scene of the first acts And she's right, of course,' Joanna added meditatively.
'Quite right,' observed Warrender, without even turning from Aunt Georgina. 'You made a good start tonight, and you can afford to rest for the whole of tomorrow. But I want you at the studio the following afternoon. There are one or two phrases to polish before Friday night's performance.'
And then the party broke up, and they contentedly went their separate ways, though Mrs. Ransome did observe in the taxi that Oscar Warrender was a slave-driver. 'But an attractive one,' she conceded.
'He's a great man,' said Joanna indignantly.
'He's a sensible man,' said Aunt Georgina, 'which is more important,' Then she yawned prodigiously and added that it had been a very remarkably evening, all told.
As soon as they reached home she went up to bed.
But Joanna and her mother lingered for a few minutes longer, neither of them willing to put an end to this incredible evening. And it was then that Mrs,- Ransome said as an afterthought, 'By the way, I saw Elliot Cheam in the house.'
'You - what?' Joanna choked slightly on the word. 'Did you speak to him?'
'No I was just going over to do so, but he evidently didn't see me. He walked off in the other direction and I lost him in the crowd.'
'I see,' said Joanna. And suddenly she felt that the magic had gone out of the evening. So she said good night to her mother and went upstairs to her bed, where she lay awake and watched the stars through her bedroom window until they began to fade in the first pale light of the morning. And then she fell asleep.
No one woke her next morning until she came to the surface of her own accord. But then, when she looked at the time, she sprang out of bed, her confidence suddenly plummeting, and ran to call her mother.
'Mother, Mother, I'm awake! What do the papers say? Is it - bad, after all?'
Her mother came hurrying up the stairs, a pile of newspapers clutched to her bosom.
'Darling, I was longing to wake you! But Georgina wouldn't let me.' It struck neither of them as strange that Aunt Georgina should tell them what to do in their own house. 'But they're all wonderful! Every single one, except one silly man who says the best singing of the evening came from the tenor.'
'Well, it did,' replied Joanna. 'Brenner carried the vocal weight of the evening and carried it superbly. You must allow him that.'
On her mother's insistence she went back to bed, where she lay surrounded by the morning's papers, while Mrs. Ransome went down to get her breakfast because, as she said, to this extent at least she intended to treat her daughter as a prima donna.
None of it seemed quite real to Joanna as she read one glowing notice after another. That this was nice Mr. Fulroyd's work they were praising so lavishly seemed quite understandable and just. That Oscar Warrender was said to have conducted superbly and Nicholas Brenner to have added a magnificent portrait to his repertoire - that was quite natural too. But this girl - this unknown girl who had 'virtually disarmed criticism' as one account put it, and enraptured public and critics alike - that this should be herself, Joanna Ransome, was not to be believed.
'It doesn't seem possible, does it?' she said dazedly, as her mother came in with the breakfast tray.
'Not really,' Mrs. Ransome confessed. 'Though of course I always knew you had it in you to be famous one day,' she added loyally.
'No, you didn't, Pansy - any more than anyone else,' declared Aunt Georgina, coming in at this moment to say good-bye before going to catch her Green Line bus. 'And don't let all this turn your head, Joanna.' She gestured towards the newspapers on the bed,
'No, Aunt Georgina,' Joanna smiled happily at her.
'Though with that sensible Warrender man, you won't probably have much chance,' she added. 'Nor with that strange old Russian woman. What did she really have to do with it, Joanna?'
'Almost everything,' Joanna declared, attacking her breakfast with good appetite, 'Except for what Sir Oscar did, I mean,'
'Well, modesty is always seemly,' said her aunt, as she dropped a kiss on the top of Joanna's head, 'but don't under-value yourself too sharply. That's just as silly as boasting.'
And on this sensible dictum she took her leave.
Even after she had finished her breakfast, and mother had gone downstairs again, Joanna lay there still savouring the incredibility of all that had happened. And then, suddenly, she found that her thoughts were veering round from her triumph to the situation with Elliot.
She would have to see him and thank him for what he had done. Common decency and gratitude demanded that. Equally, self-respect demanded that she should know how much she owed him and assure him that the loan - for loan it must be - would be repaid
It would not be an easy conversation, wherever it took place. Which brought her round to the simple problem - where could it take place? It was not a conversation to be conducted across a restaurant table or in a car. Still less could she ask him to come here to her home. Even supposing she could somehow ensure that her mother was out, it was unthinkable that they should meet again in the room where they had that last horrible, violent scene of recrimination.
She had never been to his flat, and this was not the moment to insist on making a first visit there. And if she went to the theatre and asked for him he might well not be there, or refuse to see her. Worse still, Sara might somehow wander into the picture.
'But I must find some way,' she told herself. And at that moment her mother called upstairs to say that Anthea Warrender was on the telephone.
Joanna snatched up a wrap and ran downstairs to take the call.
'How do you feel this morning?' Anthea's gay voice inquired, and the lilt of happiness in it showed that she too had read all the favourable notices.
'How did you feel, the morning after your first success as Desdemona?' Joanna countered.
'Like heaven,' replied Anthea promptly. 'But then I'd just got engaged to Oscar the night before, so I can't really tell you which was the more thrilling.'
'That must have been - wonderful.' Joanna was unaware of the catch in her own voice. 'Since he was the one man you wanted, I mean.'
'It's a wonderful moment when it happens - as you'll find, my dear, one day,' Anthea declared. 'But I won't stop to speculate now. Here is Oscar to speak to you.'
And then Warrender's deep, pleasant voice said, 'Good morning, starlet. It seems the work was all worthwhile.'
'Oh, Sir Oscar, of course it was! and I can never, never thank you and Madame Volnikov enough.'
'Well, it wasn't all on one side, you know. A pupil who satisfies one's every hope and expectation is a pretty good present to any teacher. You are a good child and earned your success. Also I'm sure Wilmore must think now that his money was very well spent.'
'His—? Oh, he provided only part of it, Sir Oscar. Most of it was provided by Elliot Cheam.'
'Was it, indeed?' Warrender sounded intrigued. 'Who told you that?'
'Mr. Wilmore did. I started to thank him last night, and he explained that in the end it - it was largely Elliot's doing.'
'Very handsome of him,' commented Warrender, on a note of some amusement. 'Whose judgment was he backing, I wonder? Mine or his own?'
'I don't think,' said Joanna diffidently, 'that he was backing anyone's judgments He just knew his uncle couldn't afford to pay for the lessons, and so he took on the obligation himself.'
'Well, whatever his motive, he did what was necessary.' The conductor sounded altogether too casual about it all, Joanna thought, and she said rather stiffly,
'He was there last night.'
'Did he come round to see you?'
'No.'
There was a pause, and then Warrender said, 'I see.'
'We - quarrelled.' Joanna found herself unable to resist the desire to go on. 'Months ago, I mean. He thought I was cadging from his uncle. We - we haven't seen each other since.'
'Well, you'll have to see him now,' said Warrender's voice bracingly, 'if only to thank him for what he has done.'
'I know. But - how?' Jonna spoke almost to herself.
'How?' repeated Warrender, in the tone of one who had never had the slightest difficulty in managing to see anyone he wanted to see. Which was of course the case. 'The usual way, I suppose. Telephone him and say—'
'I couldn't do that,' said Joanna in a rather panic-stricken tone of voice,, 'We quarrelled very, very badly, Sir Oscar. A phone call wouldn't do much good.'
'Well, there must be a way. I'll put my mind to it.' Warrender promised, and though he sounded amused it was not unkind amusement. 'When you come to the studio tomorrow afternoon - three o'clock , by the way - I'll have thought of something. You mustn't spoil your triumph with some silly quarrel.'
It was not some silly quarrel, of course. It was a vital and shattering matter. But he was not to know that. And, in any case, she could hardly expect Oscar War-render to deal with her personal problems. It was enough - more than enough - that he had made her famous.
For the next few hours she entertained the ridiculous hope that Elliot might himself take the initiative and telephone. And every time the phone bell rang - which it did constantly - her hopes soared. But neither then nor the following day was there a word from him.
A Remembered Serenade Page 15
