“You must have been on the stage before,” declared the girl who was playing Emilia. “You couldn’t possibly just drop into it lightly like this.”
“Oh, there was nothing light about it,” Anthea assured her grimly. “I’ve been more or less battered into it in the studio. And of course being in the chorus for a while has at least given me the feel of the stage.”
“That isn’t enough in itself.” The other girl shook her head. “You must be tremendously gifted too.”
“I’d like to think so,” Anthea smiled. “But I doubt if more than a quarter of it is inspiration or even dedication. The rest is sheer gruelling discipline.”
The other girl looked at her curiously.
“Well,” she observed, “there’s something to be said for the Warrender method of ceaseless tyranny if this is what it produces in the end.”
“Very likely,” agreed Anthea drily. But she was really conducting this conversation with no more than one layer of her consciousness. Nothing was entirely real to her that day but the task on which she had embarked.
She knew, as she moved about the stage, exactly from whom she drew her strength and her security. She knew for whom she put out everything she had and was. She knew that this was Oscar Warrender’s performance almost as much as it was hers, and that if she achieved success at the performance on Saturday night, she would have ridden to it on the wave of his power and genius.
But she could not find it in herself to say so much as a word of thanks to him, nor to give him one smile of recognition or acknowledgment. At the back of her mind there smouldered all the time the fury and indignation which had swamped her during that shattering scene the previous evening.
Not that he would worry about that, of course. He had no smiles or thanks to waste on her, if it came to that. They exchanged no personal word during the whole of that long stage rehearsal. Only, by some extraordinary communication of spirit, they seemed to understand each other faultlessly, and to fuse their combined talents into a clear flame which lit the performance from beginning to end.
“If she can do this before an actual audience, Saturday night will provide something of a sensation,” observed Max Egon at the end of the long rehearsal.
“She will do it,” was all Oscar Warrender said, and the implication in his tone was that he would simply not allow her to be less than a success.
Then he called Anthea to him and proceeded to give her her instructions for the next forty-eight hours.
“This is the only stage rehearsal we shall be able to have,” he informed her. “But you’ll manage all right. I want you back here at three-thirty, for work in one of the practice rooms. There are still several things I want to go over with you. Tomorrow you can rest and take everything quietly. On Saturday morning I’ll have you at the studio for a final short run-through of any special difficulties.”
“Very well,” she said, without expression.
“You did well. I suppose you realise that?” He spoke almost impatiently.
“Yes,” she agreed. And then she turned away from him and went to look for Vicki, as though there were nothing more important in her schedule than going off casually to lunch with a girl friend.
“That was rather an obvious snub you gave him,” Vicki remarked a little reprovingly, as they went out of the stage door together.
“It was meant to be,” replied Anthea.
“You don’t think it might be wiser to — well, to placate him a little?”
“No.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, in the friendliest way possible, you haven’t made a success yet,” observed Vicki, “and you’re going to need him rather badly on Saturday night.”
Anthea laughed at that and relaxed her obstinate expression. But she added drily, “He needs me rather badly too.”
“That’s true, of course,” Vicki conceded. “Whatever does it feel like, to be necessary to Oscar Warrender?”
The words gave Anthea the most extraordinary sensation, and she blinked her long lashes rather nervously.
“I can’t think of it quite in that way,” she said hastily. “I’m just the necessary artist to fill a very awkward gap. I’ll do it to the best of my ability, for professional integrity as well as personal reasons. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t reserve the right to dislike him intensely — and to let him know the fact.”
“I couldn’t,” observed Vicki frankly.
“Couldn’t what?”
“Dislike him with that obstinate intensity. He may be a tyrant, Anthea, but he’s a terribly attractive one.”
“Agreed,” was the short reply. “But at the moment the tyranny is more in evidence than the attraction. I can’t forgive him for being so totally without understanding over — over Mother’s illness.”
“Perhaps, Anthea, he just couldn’t afford to understand,” Vicki ventured. “Someone had to take a ruthless decision at that moment, you know.”
“Well, no one is better fitted to do that than Oscar Warrender,” retorted Anthea with a bitter little laugh. “Don’t talk of him any more.”
So they talked of other things after that.
But the girls were back at the Opera House in good time, and Anthea and the conductor worked intensively until the early evening. Then he said she could go. But, as she turned away, something in her calm, almost indifferent expression seemed to rile him, for he exclaimed,
“There’s no need for you to sulk because I had to exert my authority over a purely personal matter.”
“I’m not sulking. I’m just not very happy.”
“Is the news about your mother very bad?” he asked, reluctantly, she thought.
“It was bad enough last night. I haven’t dared to enquire today I’m — trying not to think too much about her.” Anthea’s lashes came down, hiding her eyes, and her full, red mouth was suddenly mutinous. “And I don’t want to discuss the subject with you, of all people.”
“Why me, of all people?” He reproduced her exact tone with sudden impatience.
“Because you haven’t a shred of sympathy or real understanding for anything like this. All you think of is the performance.”
“On the contrary,” he corrected her shortly, “I have thought quite a lot about this. But the performance had to be my first consideration — that is my supreme responsibility — and I couldn’t afford to make easy promises last night until I had seen how you would shape today. Now I can gauge the position exactly and can afford to give you tomorrow free. And that being so, since the last train for Cromerdale has gone — ”
“How do you know that?” she asked in astonishment.
“I made it my business to find out,” he replied coolly. “And since, as I say, the last train has gone, there’s only one thing for it. I’ll drive you up there now.”
“Drive me to Cromerdale?” she repeated with a gasp. “But it’s two hundred miles or more.”
“Two hundred and fourteen,” he informed her exactly. “So we haven’t any time to waste. Go and get your coat. It’s time we started.”
“Do you — mean that?” She came slowly over until she stood in front of him and, with an effort, she looked up into that clever, rather inscrutable face.
“I’m not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean,” he replied, a little disagreeably. “Can you start right away?”
“Yes — of course.” She knew she ought to thank him — say something in acknowledgment of this extraordinary effort on her behalf. But she simply could not find the words. And after a moment she went from him to her dressing-room to fetch her coat.
Vicki was sitting there, patiently waiting for her, though she was nodding a little over the book she had brought with which to while away the hours.
“Oh” — she sat up as Anthea came into the room — “are you finished at last?”
“Yes. We’re finished.”
“Then are you coming home now?” Vicki handed her her coat.
“No. I’m going to Cromerd
ale.” Anthea slipped on the coat.
“Going to Cromerdale?” repeated Vicki in consternation. “But you can’t! He’ll kill you.”
“No. He’s driving me there himself.”
“He is? Mr. Warrender?’
Anthea nodded, and the other girl looked stupefied, as well she might, Anthea supposed.
“I — don’t understand,” said Vicki at last.
“No. I don’t understand very well myself,” Anthea admitted. “But he said everything had gone well enough for him to be able to let me have tomorrow off. Then he added, in a rather disagreeable sort of way, that as the last train to Cromerdale had gone — ”
“How did he know that?” Vicki interjected.
“He’d made it his business to find out,” returned Anthea impatiently. “He always makes it his business to find out — everything. And he said that, as the last train had gone, he would drive me up there himself.”
“I — say! That was pretty handsome of him, wasn’t it? It must be all of two hundred miles,” exclaimed Vicki, impressed.
“Two hundred and fourteen. He’d made it his business to find that out too,” said Anthea, and she laughed, just a trifle hysterically, because she was tired and overwrought. Then she came and put her arms round Vicki and kissed her and said, “Thank you, darling. I don’t know what I would have done without you today.”
“But I didn’t do anything!” cried Vicki, immeasurably touched and gratified. “I was just sort of — there.”
“Yes, that was it,” Anthea told her. “You were there. Kind and reassuring and normal, in an utterly crazy and wearing day. Thank you. I’ll never forget it.”
“Well, it isn’t a day I’ll forget either,” replied Vicki, hugging her in return. “And I’m so glad that it’s ended with your being able to go to your mother, after all. Give your tyrant a little credit for that, Anthea.”
“I’m not in a mood to give credit.” Anthea smiled slightly. “I’m in a rather beastly, temperamental mood, I think. Except that I love you, and am grateful to you.”
“Well, love him a little too,” returned Vicki, laughing mischievously. “He must have had a hell of a day, and deserves his share of gratitude too, if he’s prepared to drive you all that way tonight.”
“I couldn’t do that — in any circumstances,” Anthea said seriously.
Then she bade Vicki goodnight and went back to rejoin Oscar Warrender.
It was very quiet in the car. Neither Anthea nor her companion spoke during those first miles, but she had never been more intensely aware of anyone than she was of the silent, authoritative figure beside her. Then at last she said, reluctantly,
“Thank you for doing this. I am grateful, even if I haven’t said much about it.”
“Don’t thank me. It’s the performance I’m concerned about,” he replied drily. “If you had been worrying about your mother as well as yourself, I doubt if you would have given of your best. That’s why I’m taking the lesser risk of tiring you. The last thing you should really be doing is rushing about the country so close to a vital performance. But, as a calculated risk, it’s worth it.”
“Calculated,” she repeated softly but bitterly. “Everything you do is calculated, isn’t it?”
“Everything to do with my work — of course. How else do you suppose people get to the top of their profession? By telling themselves brightly that it will be all right on the night? It doesn’t work that way, my dear. The artist who is all right on the night is the one who has laid the foundations of that night with months and years of gruelling training and self-discipline. Any fool can be a pleasing amateur, and hundreds of them are. But the one who emerges as the world-shaker is the utterly professional dedicated performer who has brought ceaseless hard work as well as love and thought to the perfecting of God-given talent. Do you know what the greatest operatic director of the century said about that?”
“No. And who was he? — You?” enquired Anthea rather impertinently.
He laughed at that and said, quite good-humouredly, “Not in this case. It was a Viennese, called Clemens Krauss, who knew more about the development of operatic talent than all the opera directors today rolled into one. He used to say, ‘Industry without talent is useless. Talent without industry is exasperating. The two together can make an artist.’ You have the talent. I’ve driven you to ceaseless industry. And the chances are that I shall make an artist of you. If you call that calculation, I agree. But it’s nothing to sneer or sulk about.”
There was a long silence. Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
“All right.” He laughed softly and, unexpectedly taking her hand, he put it under his on the wheel for a few moments, so that she could feel the warm, strong clasp of his fingers. “I know these are difficult days for you. But I’ll take you through them safely. Do you believe that?”
“Yes,” she said, without hesitation. And in that moment she had the queer feeling that he could almost arrange that there would be good news awaiting her when she reached home.
After a while he released her hand and said, “Relax and rest now. Even sleep if you can. It’s been a tiring day.”
“For you too,” she murmured. “Don’t you ever flag?”
“Not if there’s work to be done. But if I get sleepy I’ll wake you and get you to talk to me. Otherwise, I’ll manage.” She supposed afterwards that he must have managed. Because after a while she was not aware of anything any more except that she was comfortable and that there was no need for her to worry since all her affairs were in infinitely capable hands. The hum of the motor was curiously soothing, and presently she slept.
She had no idea that she slipped comfortably to one side until her head rested against his shoulder. Or that once, when a strong passing light shone on her closed eyes, she turned instinctively and half buried her face against him. Nor did she know that, on one of the very few occasions when the car slowed down, he turned his head and glanced, half smilingly, at the bright head against his arm and the soft curve of her cheek.
By the time she stirred and struggled to the surface of consciousness again he was able to say,
“Half an hour more and you’ll be home.”
“Half an hour?” She sat up and began to tidy her hair, suddenly very conscious of the fact that she had been lying close against him. “I’m sorry. I – I seem to have been propping myself rather thoroughly against you. Didn’t I get in the way of your driving?”
“Not really — no.”
“But I must have been leaning quite heavily against your arm. Why didn’t you shove me away?”
There was a slight pause. Then he said, smiling ahead at the ribbon of road, “I didn’t feel like shoving you away.” For some reason or other that made her laugh. Then she yawned and stretched and said, “I had a wonderful sleep.”
“Good. That was what you needed.”
“Isn’t that what you need now?”
“I shan’t be sorry to see my bed,” he conceded.
“Oh, where will you sleep tonight? I’m afraid there’s only a very primitive sort of hotel in Cromerdale. If you don’t mind things being rather simple, I think we — we — ”
“Thank you, but I can’t stay. I’ll have to drive back tonight.”
“Tonight? But I thought we were staying until tomorrow.”
“You are. And I’m trusting you to catch the midday train tomorrow, so that you will be back in London by early evening, which will give you a long, quiet night in bed. But I’m due in London for an important meeting at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“But you’ll be dead!” she cried.
“Oh, no, I shan’t. I’m virtually indestructible when it comes to doing something I want,” he assured her.
“But surely it can’t be necessary for you to be in London then.”
“Vital,” he replied firmly.
“Why?”
“Because the news of your successful rehearsal will have reached Ottila Franci by now, and she will turn
up at the Opera House and say she is able to sing Desdemona after all.”
“How do you know she will?” asked Anthea aghast.
“Because, my dear, it is my business to know how all of you tick,” he replied amusedly. “And that’s the way she ticks. I shall forestall her by being there to point out that she opted out of the performance at her own request and, with great difficulty, we found and rehearsed a substitute who is likely to be a sensation. It would be unfair now to throw away all that. I shall, however, express myself as delighted to let her do the next performance.”
“Will she be satisfied with that?”
“No, of course not.”
“So there will be a row?”
“Probably. Certainly there will be a verbal tussle, for she commands some solid backing about the Opera House.”
“And is — is the result of the tussle in any doubt?”
“None whatever,” he assured her calmly, as they turned into the main street of Cromerdale. “Where do you want me to drive you first? To your home, to the hospital, or to Neil Prentiss’s house?”
She hesitated, glanced at the illuminated face of the Town Hall clock (that Town Hall where he had first walked into her life!) and saw that it was a few minutes after eleven.
“I think — to Neil Prentiss’s house,” she said. “He’s bound to be up, whereas Rollie might be asleep. And — and I’d rather hear any news from Neil than go to the hospital.”
So he drove her to the square, pleasant, well-built house on the outskirts of the town, where Neil and his brother lived with their mother.
“I’ll wait here in the car, to see if you need to be driven anywhere else,” he told her. “I expect you would rather talk to him on your own.”
Anthea was not sure that she would. It was like having all her courage and strength drained from her when she got out of the car into the cool night air, and left the aggressive but reassuring presence of Oscar Warrender behind her.
But, when she knocked on the door and heard Neil’s familiar voice call to someone, “It’s all right. I’ll answer it,” she felt that perhaps she had come home.
A Song Begins (Warrender Saga Book 1) Page 13
