A Song Begins (Warrender Saga Book 1)

by Mary Burchell

  She went from him and out into the sunshine. And, for some inexplicable reason, sudden and complete tranquillity went with her.

  CHAPTER IX

  “You look lovely, dear.” The elderly dresser stood back from Anthea, the better to get an overall view of her handiwork. “I must have dressed a dozen Desdemonas in my time, but never one who looked so completely the part.”

  “Thank you.” Anthea smiled shyly. “I hope I can sound the part too.”

  “Well, that’s it, of course! The young ones usually haven’t the stamina or the artistry, and the older ones find it difficult to look young and innocent,” commented the dresser resignedly. “But from what I heard of the dress rehearsal, you’ve got both the looks and the voice. No wonder Mr. Warrender’s excited.”

  “Do you think,” asked Anthea carefully, “that Mr. War-render is excited?”

  “Why, of course. When he came in here a quarter of an hour ago he had that queer sparkle about him that’s always there when he senses a great performance coming up. He’s like a barometer.” The woman bent to pick up a thread, and Anthea gazed down thoughtfully at her experienced grey head. “He measures the operatic pressure like nobody’s business,” declared the dresser, coming upright again. “If Mr. Warrender says something or someone is going to succeed, then success is in the bag, you mark my words. Well, God bless and good luck. Do you want to sit quietly by yourself until your call comes?”

  “Yes, please,” said Anthea. And the woman went out of the dressing-room, and Anthea was left sitting alone before the mirror, trying to still the small tremors which shook her, and unable to believe that the unfamiliar figure in satin and pearls which faced her was her own reflection.

  “It’s not me, really, of course,” she told herself. “It’s Desdemona. And soon she will have to go out to meet Otello at the entrance of the castle.”

  As she tried to think herself into the part, she could hear, over the intercom just outside her door, the rustle of a great audience settling themselves in their seat, the occasional cough, the hum of conversation. Then there was a burst of applause, which told her that Oscar Warrender had entered, and a few seconds later the overwhelming music of the Storm and Entrance hit her like a hurricane.

  She knew it all so well now that she could visualise every moment. The scene on the stage, though conveyed in sound only, was more real to her than the dressing-room around her. And, even before her call came, she was on her feet and moving towards the door.

  In the chill of the stone corridor and steps leading to the wings she felt her courage slipping from her. But the moment she saw the stage the compulsion of the performance was upon her. Just before she made her actual entrance was the worst of all. But then she was on the stage and in the light of the orchestra she could see Oscar Warrender quite clearly, and immediately security enfolded her, and habit and discipline reasserted themselves.

  Throughout the act, though she was wholly absorbed in her part of the drama, she was also continually aware of him, and of the fact that she drew both strength and inspiration from him. She might hate him, fear him, quarrel violently with him, but he was her sheet-anchor. And, safe in those strong, magical hands, she sailed triumphantly through to the end of the act.

  She received a generous measure of applause and, inexperienced though she was, she could sense the intangible quiver of interest and excitement which emanates from an audience that senses discovery on the horizon.

  From the conductor she received no smile — perhaps they were no longer on smiling terms — but he gave her a curt nod which indicated approval, and with that she had to be satisfied.

  She rather thought he might come to her in the interval, but he stayed away, and on the whole she was glad of it. She now wanted nothing, either good or bad, to distract her from her work. That he was in the house, and available if she needed him, was enough. For the rest, all personal considerations had fallen away.

  The applause for the second act belongs by right to the tenor and baritone, but Anthea also received unmistakably warm appreciation. And after the dramatic and difficult third act there were cheers for her as well as for the other artists. But by that indefinable radar of communication which exists between a sensitive artist and the audience, she knew that they were waiting to judge her fully on her last act. The act which is almost completely Desdemona’s.

  At one time, such a realisation would have scared her. Tonight it indefinably elated her.

  “No over-confidence,” she warned herself. “It’s one of the biggest challenges in opera. But I can do it. I know I can do it. So long as he is there I can’t fail.”

  And then there was a knock on her door and Max Egon came into the room. The producer was obviously trying not to look worried, and not succeeding very well.

  “You’re doing splendidly, Anthea,” he said heartily. “All set for the last act?”

  “Yes, of course. Is — is anything wrong?”

  “Well, nothing very seriously wrong. There’s been a slight accident, though, and I think Giles Parry will have to finish the performance for Warrender. But you’ve worked with him sometimes, and — ”

  “Finish the performance for Mr. Warrender?” repeated Anthea, absolutely aghast. “But he can’t! I can’t possibly do it without Mr. Warrender. What’s happened? Where is he?”

  She pushed past the producer and made for the door.

  “Wait a minute,” he said quickly. “He isn’t dangerously hurt. But he slipped as he came from the orchestra pit just now, and they think he’s broken his wrist. The house doctor’s there now — ”

  “Broken his wrist? His right wrist?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Max Egon nodded.

  “But then — he can't conduct!” She felt suddenly sick, and empty like a stuffed doll that had the sawdust run out of it. “But I can’t go on without him. I can’t! I must see him!”

  She pulled open the door and whirled along the passage to the conductor’s room and entered without even knocking.

  Oscar Warrender, unusually pale but looking quite calm, was sitting by the dressing-table, and the Opera House doctor was examining his right wrist and forearm. Even as Anthea entered the conductor gritted his teeth and made a rather angry little grimace, and the doctor said,

  “Yes, I’m afraid you’ve cracked the bone, as well as bruising the arm. Can’t be absolutely sure without an X-ray. We’d better get you to hospital right away.”

  “No!” cried Anthea in dismay, from the doorway. “Please — I can’t — manage — without you! I can’t do it with anyone else! I’m frightened. Do something!”

  She sank on her knees beside the conductor’s chair, her lovely stage costume billowing out around her, her face scared and appealing.

  “Please don’t leave me — now.” And suddenly she put her head down against his arm.

  The doctor said, “Careful!” But Oscar Warrender said, “Leave her alone.” And, shifting himself slightly, he put his left hand on her bright head. It was a compelling rather than a light touch, and his tone was brusque as he said,

  “Sit up and stop panicking. I’ve no intention that anyone else shall conduct for you.”

  “Oh!” She gave a great gasp of relief. While the doctor exclaimed,

  “You can’t possibly use that wrist, Mr. Warrender.”

  “I don’t propose to,” the conductor replied disagreeably. “I’ll have to manage with my left hand. And you, Anthea, will have to be particularly alert, because you won’t get exactly the same kind of lead as you’re used to.”

  “I don’t mind.” She looked up eagerly. “I don’t mind, so long as you’re there. Can you do it? Can you really do it?”

  “Yes, of course. Someone get me a brandy. And get up off the floor, Anthea. You’re crushing your dress.”

  Then, to the anxious Manager, who had now come in with one or two other officials of the Opera House, drawn there by the news of the accident, he said,

  “Let me have Giles Parry in the
pit, in case of emergencies. But I think I can manage.”

  There was a certain amount of protest. But he overruled everything with the simple, harsh statement,

  “I’m conducting this last act. No more discussion.” Anthea just had time to whisper, “Thank you — oh, thank you — ” before she was whisked off to take her place on the stage for the rise of the curtain.

  In a matter of minutes, it seemed, crisis had dissolved.

  And though, with one layer of her mind, she was appalled at the nearness of disaster, with another part — and with all her heart — she was ready to sing that last act as never before.

  For the first time in all their association, he was going to need her, as well as her needing him. And, with that conviction upon her, she called upon every last ounce of courage and artistry, discipline and inspiration.

  And it was exactly as he and she had always intended it should be. There was not a thing she forgot. Her mind was crystal clear, her voice completely at her command, so that she found she could play upon it like a virtuoso string player upon his instrument. And her projection of the innocent, doomed girl took on such a quality of appeal and pathos that Enid Mountjoy — sitting in the hushed and breathless house — was not the only one to wipe away unfamiliar tears.

  Far back in some part of her consciousness which had nothing to do with that evening, Anthea knew that there would be other performances in the years to come which would be as fine and secure, as beautiful and possibly as sensational. But tonight it was like being born. Out of the tremendous struggle that had gone before, she was emerging into the world for which God had intended her.

  As she buried her face in her hands for a moment at the end of the Ave Maria, the audience paid her the highest compliment any audience can pay an artist. There was a hushed and deathly silence, with everyone so much under the spell of the drama that no one could bear to intrude with applause from the outside world.

  She hardly let herself even think of that until the final curtain fell. And then it was as though the silence split open in a rending crash of applause.

  The great curtains swept up once more and the Otello — a generous man, as tenors go — led Anthea forward and left her there on the stage alone, while the house shouted its delight. High up in the gallery she heard shrill voices crying, “Anthea! Anthea!” and she knew her friends were there and waved, while the house — which likes its artists to show a proper appreciation of the gallery — applauded afresh.

  After a while she gave up counting the curtain calls, which she took either alone or in company with the other artists. Then she saw Oscar Warrender — pale and with his fair hair streaked down rather damply — emerge from the opposite side of the stage, to take a solo call and receive his share of rapturous applause.

  He stood there smiling slightly for a moment. Then he held out his left hand towards the wings, and someone gave Anthea a friendly push and she went on to join him.

  It was the most incredible thing, standing there on the stage of Covent Garden, sharing the thunders of applause with him. And then something even more incredible happened. He turned and kissed the hand he was holding — which provoked another outburst from the sentimental British public — and, under cover of the noise, he said quietly, “Thank you, my darling. You were wonderful.”

  “What did you say?” she whispered, as the curtain fell.

  “Just exactly what you thought I said,” he replied, as the artists came on to the stage to join them. And then the curtains parted again and there was no chance of further conversation.

  He couldn’t possibly have said “my darling”, of course. That must have been her imagination. But at least he had said she was wonderful. There was nothing more she could ask.

  She had forgotten that she hated him. She had forgotten all about owing him money and his having bought his authority over her. She remembered only that she had made her debut and that he had said she was wonderful.

  Afterwards, in her dressing-room, she was overwhelmed by congratulations. Several complete strangers kissed her and called her darling. And there were not only telegrams of good wishes but quite a number of flowers. Her friends from the boarding-house had subscribed for a charming bouquet, and there were flowers from Neil Prentiss and her family and the management. There was also a wonderful bunch of red roses with nothing more than “O.W.” on the card.

  There were her fellow students, rapturously possessive about her. There was Enid Mountjoy, gravely congratulatory. There was the Manager himself to thank her for her performance, and all sorts of people complimented her and asked her when she was going to sing again.

  “I’ve no idea,” she replied in answer to the last question. “It all depends on Mr. Warrender. I don’t think he’ll let me do much professional work yet. He says I’m still in the student stage.”

  “Lucky girl,” observed one elderly, knowledgeable-looking man. “If Warrender develops you instead of allowing you to be exploited, I don’t mind prophesying that we’ve all heard tonight the debut of a great artist. If, on the other hand, you start singing anything and everything, in the usual way today, you’ll last three, possibly four years. Mark my words and accept my congratulations.”

  Then he took himself off, and someone muttered, “Denton Bloom, you know. Crabbiest but most knowledgeable of all the critics.”

  It was all exciting and bewildering beyond words. But at last she managed to have the room cleared of everyone except Vicki, to whom she said quickly,

  “Go along to Mr. Warrender’s room, Vicki dear, and find out what’s happened. Tell him I’ll be along in a minute, if you see him.”

  So Vicki, much flown with her sudden importance, went to find out the latest news about the conductor, and Anthea was free to take off her make-up and change.

  Vicki was back again before she had finished, with the information that Oscar Warrender was just going off to the emergency ward of the nearest hospital, to have his wrist X-rayed and set.

  “I must see him.” Anthea wriggled rapidly into her street dress. “I’m going with him.”

  “I don’t think I’d count on that,” said Vicki doubtfully.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I think Peroni’s playing that role,” Vicki explained delicately. “After all, she rather considers him her property, doesn’t she?”

  “Peroni?” Anthea had almost forgotten the famous soprano’s existence until that moment. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Fussing round the great Warrender, at the moment. But of course she was in the house during the evening. You don’t think she’d let a protégée of his make a debut without her being there to hear for herself, do you? And now she’s backstage, pretty well managing everything for him.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Anthea was, inexplicably, both angry and alarmed. “She hasn’t any part in tonight’s proceedings.”

  And, brushing past Vicki, she went along once more to the conductor’s dressing-room.

  He was obviously just leaving, and he looked pale and exhausted. There were already too many people in the room. The Manager and one or two officials of the Opera House, the doctor, and Peroni, looking very lovely and concerned.

  For a moment he did not see Anthea. It was Peroni who smiled full at her and said softly and sweetly, “You were excellent, dear. One day you’ll make a really good Desdemona.”

  “Thank you, Madame,” replied Anthea, and walked past her to Oscar Warrender. Until she reached him she still had no idea what she was going to say to him. And then her mind went quite blank., and all she could produce was,

  “Thank you — for tonight. And — and thank you for my lovely roses.”

  “Oh, you got them all right?” He smiled slightly and, turning away from the company, seemed to have her for a moment to himself.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Any comment?” he enquired.

  She was puzzled, and a good deal confused by the crowd around them.

  “Only — that
they’re lovely and you chose my favourite flowers.”

  “I see.” Suddenly he looked tired and bored and rather disagreeable. And, because she could not possibly have him look like that, on this night of all nights, she whispered softly,

  “Would you like me to come to the hospital with you?”

  It was really her olive branch, her way of saying she was friends with him again, whatever hard things they had said to each other that morning. But no olive branch was ever more unceremoniously rejected.

  “Good heavens, no,” he said impatiently. “Do you think I need you to hold my hand?”

  Then he turned back to the room again, and without so much as a “goodnight” to her, he went off with Peroni and the doctor. And there was nothing for Anthea to do but go back to her own room, trying not to look as utterly snubbed as she felt.

  Here she found Vicki so full of loving congratulation and happiness that it would have been inconceivable not to try to appear happy too. She was happy, of course. Hadn’t she just passed through the most wonderful and exciting evening of her life? Was not the bright finger of fame and success beckoning to her? If she could not feel happy and elated tonight, then she never would.

  Determinedly, Anthea forced herself to be gay and sparkling. In her dressing-room, at the stage door where she had her first experience of being asked for her autograph, and finally on her way home with her friends from the boarding house — all of them in taxis to mark the importance of this great evening.

  Mrs. McManus, who had also, of course, been present in the Opera House to witness her protégée’s triumph, had gone on ahead, and when they all arrived a large and appetising supper was awaiting them.

  “The time will come, dear, when it will be supper at the Savoy for you after a performance,” she prophesied rather emotionally. “But I’ll always be proud to say I cooked supper for you on the night of your debut.”

  “And it’s lovely of you to celebrate with us tonight, instead of with a lot of notabilities,” one of the girls said appreciatively. “I suppose you could have gone out with almost anyone.”