Remembered Serenade (Warrender Saga Book 9)

by Mary Burchell

  ‘Hello,’ she said breathlessly into the phone. ‘It’s me — Joanna Ransome, I mean. Who is that, please?’

  ‘Oscar Warrender. I apologize if I have roused you too early, but I have to go out - ’

  ‘It’s quite all right. I just happened to sleep a little late after the performance. But — can I do anything for you?’

  She thought immediately that the words sounded idiotic from a struggling student to a famous man, and he seemed to find it rather funny too. At any rate, there was a hint of amusement in that cool, incisive voice as he replied,

  ‘Yes, you can. You can come along and see me this afternoon at three o’clock. Do you know the address? Killigrew Mansions, St. James’s. The porter will bring you up.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be there,’ Joanna promised, quite breathless again, but this time not with running. ‘And, Sir Oscar - ’

  ‘I have no time to discuss anything else at the moment,’ he cut in, pleasantly but firmly. ‘But I would advise you not to talk about this appointment with anyone else at present.’

  ‘Very well,’ Joanna said meekly, and as she heard the receiver replaced at the other end, she wondered if even her mother were to be included in this injunction.

  Of course, any appointment which Oscar Warrender might make with a singer must carry with it a sort of news value, and he was obviously warning her against talking too confidently or too soon about — what?

  There was nothing in his words or tone to give her the slightest clue. But she felt she must obey him to the letter. And so, when she rejoined her mother, she simply said, ‘It was Sir Oscar. He — and his wife - ’ she added in a moment of inspiration, ‘want me to go to tea there this afternoon. Perhaps it’s their way of making up for not coming round to see me after the performance last night.’

  Probably no one but Mrs. Ransome would have regarded this as likely behaviour on the part of a famous conductor and his equally famous wife. But she had been reading the uniformly good Press notices and saw no reason why anyone should be less than eager to meet her wonderful daughter and make much of her.

  With difficulty Joanna concealed her own overwhelming excitement and curiosity about the afternoon’s appointment. And in this she was helped by the many telephone calls of congratulation and the happy perusal of her Press notices.

  Later she did a little practising, in case Sir Oscar should, for some reason, want to hear her sing again. Then, having dithered for at least ten minutes over what she should wear, she chose what she hoped was a suitable compromise between the elegance demanded by what might be a distinguished social call and the plain restraint of something which would make her look like a very serious student.

  The moment she was shown into the big studio in the Warrenders’ handsome apartment she knew it mattered not at all what she wore, and she wondered momentarily why she had ever supposed it should. The whole place was suggestive of dedicated work, and those who came or went merely added to or detracted from the purpose of the man who greeted her.

  ‘Sit down, Miss Joanna.’ He conceded that degree of informality to the occasion, but gave the impression of having no time to waste on social preliminaries. ‘Tell me — was last night the first time you had been on stage?’

  ‘No, not quite.’ Joanna explained briefly about her modest experience in the touring company and her few other college performances.

  ‘I see. Who has been responsible for your actual stage training? As distinct from whatever is included in your college curriculum, I mean.’

  ‘Why, no one.’ She looked slightly puzzled. ‘I’ve had no extra tuition, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘That is what I mean,’ he told her. ‘Have you ever studied mime? apart from whatever might be taken along with general stage technique?’

  ‘No,’ Joanna shook her head.

  ‘Interesting,’ he observed. ‘Do you sight-read well?’

  ‘M-moderately well.’ She glanced nervously in the direction of the piano.

  ‘There’s no need to be frightened,’ he told her, assessing her mood at once. ‘Come over here and see if you can sight-read this for me.’

  She went with him to the piano and accepted the manuscript score which he put into her hands, with the injunction to study it for a few minutes.

  This she did, wishing all the time that she could keep the pages from trembling quite so obviously. Then, after a few minutes, she began to be attracted by what she was examining. The words were in English and obviously formed the end of some work, and as she no hummed the main air to herself she was aware that there was a compelling and most appealing simplicity about it.

  ‘I’ve never come across this before.’ She looked up and across at the conductor, who was now seated at the piano.

  ‘No. No one has ever sung it before,’ he replied coolly, and his words sent a current of extraordinary excitement through her.

  ‘I think I could read it all right. Shall I stand behind you and read over your shoulder?’

  ‘No. I know the work by heart — at least, that part of it. Keep the manuscript with you. And tell me what you have gathered from the words.’

  ‘It’s — it’s a simple but impassioned plea for love — someone’s love, isn’t it? With a sort of implication of tremendous sacrifice. And at the high point of the aria — she dies.’

  ‘Correct. Sing it for me.’

  Instinctively, she remembered his previous order to stand where he could see her, so she came and stood in the curve of the grand piano and turned to face him. To her mortification, she made a false start, but he was unexpectedly patient, showed her where she had made an unnecessary difficulty for herself, and gave her plenty of time to begin again.

  The second time she managed better, and after the first page she found herself profoundly moved and intrigued by the beauty of the music and the way it merged with the words in a complete synthesis of the two modes of expression.

  She sang it through to the end, and exclaimed, ‘It’s quite lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘I think so. Try it again. And now that you are a little more familiar with it, give me some light and shade in the music and more expression in your face.’

  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 J
oanna, ‘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 of 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 it’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.’

  ‘He5s 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.