“Why, of course you are. Quentin said so,’ replied her hostess simply.
‘Perhaps,’ Gail suggested diffidently, ‘Marc—’ she didn’t see what else she could call him—‘would prefer not to bother with a beginner like me.’
‘Why not?’ Marc’s mother looked genuinely surprised and, as her elder son came in at that moment she said, with a frankness that made Gail wince, ‘What’s this about your not wanting Gail to be tried out in something from “The Exile”?’
‘I don’t know.’ Marc dropped a cool kiss on his mother’s cheek in passing. ‘You tell me.’
‘She seems to think you might not like the idea. She’s shy about it or something.’
‘You surprise me,’ said Marc, going over to the sideboard.
‘There you are, dear.’ Mrs. Bannister smiled reassuringly at Gail. ‘You see Marc does want to hear you, after all.’
Gail simply did not know what to reply to this. She longed to explain to Marc that she had not been beating up further family support against him. But there was absolutely no way of doing this without labouring the point insufferably, so she remained uncomfortably silent, aware that her slightly heightened colour did nothing to establish her innocence.
Having helped himself to breakfast, he came and sat down beside her, somewhat to her dismay. But he merely inquired politely if she had slept well, and then if she had any plans for the morning.
‘Not—really.’ She glanced across at Oliver, but his mother was engaging his attention at that moment.
‘Well, come along to the music-room in half an hour,’ Marc said, more as an order than a suggestion. ‘I’ll tell you something of the dramatic situation of the first act and let you have a look at the score beforehand. Then Father and I will hear what you can do.’
‘But—’ she swallowed slightly—‘I thought you didn’t want to hear me in any work of yours.’
‘I don’t specially,’ he replied with brutal indifference. ‘But family pressure being what it is, the sooner we get this over the better.’
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly. ‘But I think I’d rather not.’
‘Don’t be silly. If you reserve the right to get offended over every harsh word that’s said to you, you won’t get very far in your chosen profession. Take the chance while it’s offered—’
‘Were you offering me some sort of chance in those few well-chosen words?’ she inquired drily. And at that he laughed, and once more she was very much aware of that unexpected, compelling charm.
‘Everything represents a chance if you can make someone listen to you,’ he told her grimly. ‘It’s too early yet to expect composers to go on their bended knee to you. One day they may, and you can then make your own terms, rejecting this and graciously accepting that. But not yet, my dear, not yet. You’ve a long way to go. Take the rough with the smooth, for I can assure you there’s a great deal of rough in the early days of anything that’s worthwhile.’
She knew this was all too true. She knew he was in a position to be thoroughly horrid to her and was indulging himself to the full. But she also knew that very few people had the chance of singing to either Quentin Bannister or Marc Bannister, and still fewer had even the remotest chance of being considered by either for an important role in a new and much discussed work.
So she swallowed her chagrin and said, ‘Very well. I accept what you say. And—and I’ll be glad to sing to you and your father if you’ll give me the opportunity.’
‘Fine.’ He gave her a nod of unmistakable dismissal and turned once more to his breakfast. And Gail, determined to use the half hour profitably, slipped away to her own room where she did some quiet vocalizing, in the hope that both she and her voice would be in a calm and confident condition by the time she faced the proposed opportunity—or ordeal.
When she came down once more and into the music-room, she found Marc already there, sitting at the piano. And he immediately pulled up a chair beside him and said, ‘Come over here and I’ll explain one or two things.’
She came at once and as she sat down he asked abruptly, ‘Are you a good sight-reader?’
‘Moderately so.’
In point of fact Gail was an exceptionally good sight-reader, but she was not going to make any exaggerated claims which she might not be able to fulfil.
‘Please tell me first something about the dramatic content of the work,’ she said. ‘Not just the first act, as you suggested, but the whole work. Otherwise I can’t think myself into the character of the girl.’
He gave her a glance of something like approval at that, but made no comment. Instead he plunged into a rapid sketch of the story.
‘It concerns a small group of people who have left their country by choice, facing incredible hardship and danger, with the idea of seeking freedom in place of tyranny—’
‘Then it’s a modern scene?’ Gail interrupted.
‘It is of this century—yes; though it could belong to almost any time in the last hundred years. For throughout that time, as you know, people have been driven into literal or spiritual exile in the name of one horrible tyranny or another. The hero has his scale of values clear, his hopes well defined, and he has absolutely no regrets for the country he has left behind. To him his flight represented escape, to a country where he could live and breathe and make his future his own way. With the girl, Anya, the issues are nothing like so clear.’
‘She has come because of him, of course?’
‘Yes. She loves him and has left everything that was familiar and dear to her, just to be with him. For her, freedom is more a word than a way of life. The high-sounding principles of her lover and his friends provide no real comfort for her. She came simply because if she had stayed behind she would have lost him.’
‘And so she does have regrets for the past?’
‘Yes, of course. She longs for the little simple, familiar things which have made up her life. She is heartbreakingly homesick, but she must hide the fact from the others, because to them it would be ridiculous and shameful even to query the incredibly good fortune which has brought them out of tyranny into freedom. Only one person understands something of how she feels. And that is a youth in the party who has suffered most back in his own country. Because of his experiences he is even a little simple-minded. But he is without rancour or bitterness, almost childlike in his innocence and his shining capacity to be happy on almost nothing.
‘The others are impatient with him and treat him more or less as a simpleton. But Anya and he find some comfort in each other because both, for different reasons, remember the old life with affection. He because he always forgets the bad and remembers the good, she because she is utterly homesick. It is only when she is alone—or with him—that she can voice her longing for what she has left behind. She still loves her man. He represents everything that is big and strong and wonderful.' Given the choice again, she would still have chosen to go with him. But she sings of her homeland when she is alone, for to her it is still inexpressibly dear, even though to most people it would be viewed with horror and distaste. This is what the music—and the singer—should convey.’
‘And this is what you want me to try out?’
‘No, my dear. This is what my father wants you to try out.’
‘You are a beast, aren’t you?’ said Gail conversationally. ‘May I see the score, please?’
He handed it over without a word, perhaps slightly taken aback by her candour. And for a minute or two Gail studied the pages and hummed a phrase or two under her breath. Then she looked up and said, ‘Tell me what happens later?’ just as though she had not flung that insult at him.
‘The inevitable. He falls in love with another girl. A girl who entirely represents the new country he has also fallen in love with. He has no more use for Anya. She is almost a reproach to him in his brave new world, because everything about her is reminiscent of what he has gladly left behind. She clings lovingly to the past, while he looks eagerly to the future. There is, o
f course, a big scene where he finally rejects her and goes off with the other girl.’
‘And then?’ Without knowing it, Gail actually sounded anxious—deeply involved—as though the girl were already in some way herself.
‘She comes back to the communal house they all shared in the early days, and the boy comes in with the homely request that she will sew a button on his shirt. She breaks down and tells him that her life is in ruins. She can never go back to the country she knew and loved, and for her there will never be a place in this new country. She is the eternal exile.’
‘And has he any comfort to offer her?’
‘Only the essential wisdom of the simple-minded and the good in heart. He tells her that no one is an exile except by their own conviction, because all people are needed by each other—if only for so small a thing as sewing on a button. He tells her to look for the light because, however small it is, she will not then see the darkness, and he begins to sing to her one of the simplest of the folk songs from their homeland. And after a minute or two she picks up the shirt and begins to sew on the button, and she joins in the song as the curtain falls.’
‘Why, it’s a lovely ending!’ exclaimed Gail. ‘You didn’t think of it yourself, surely?’
‘Why not?’ he looked amused.
‘Well, I shouldn’t have said you—you—’ she stopped, embarrassed by what she had been about to say. But he completed the sentence for her.
‘You wouldn’t have said I had the heart or imagination for it?’
‘That was in my mind,’ she admitted.
‘Well, I’m not entirely responsible for that last scene. David Eversleigh, the librettist, had more to do with that. The central situation was mine, but we talked it over together many times, of course, before we arrived at what we both wanted.’
‘If the music is worthy of the last scene—’ began Gail. And then Quentin Bannister came in and, to her surprise, he said without hesitation,
‘Oh, it is, it is. It’s the best thing Marc’s ever done. It takes you by the throat, in the way a last scene should.’
‘Thank you.’ Marc looked grimly amused and somewhat surprised, but Gail thought he was a good deal pleased.
‘Well,’ the older Bannister said, ‘the line between pure gold and pure corn is perilously thin in any form of art. If you can tread it successfully, you’re home and dry so far as the public is concerned, and at least two thirds of the critics will be with you. The other third won’t matter, because their praise is the kiss of death anyway. Come on, Gail, let’s see what you make of this first act monologue. Are you a good sight-reader?’
‘She says—moderately,’ interjected Marc on her behalf.
‘Well, she’s got to be better than moderately good to make the right impression. I’ll play it over first—and you listen attentively.’
Gail stood beside him, following so closely that before the first page was completed she was already singing under her breath.
‘All right—read it straight off,’ the older Bannister told her, and he went back to the beginning.
She sang it through, accurately and well, following quite easily the occasional direction that he gave her. Then at the end she said, ‘May I do it again, please? keeping in mind just how she is feeling.’
By now she had the musical shape of the monologue. What she wanted was' to show that she had taken the measure of the character and the situation. She stood there for a moment, deep in thought, trying to imagine herself in a foreign country with no chance of ever returning home or even glimpsing the family she loved. Although the situation was entirely theoretical she found herself unbearably moved by it, and presently she just nodded to Quentin Bannister to indicate that she was ready to begin.
But suddenly there was a great lump in her throat and she stopped and gulped and was unable to produce a note.
‘What’s the matter?’ the older man looked up and frowned.
‘She’s overcome by my music, I hope.’ Marc gave that flashing smile.
‘N-not only that. It’s the situation,’ Gail explained. And then, as though she could not help it—‘I was trying to think how I would feel if I could never see my home or my family again, and it—it was a bit too much for me.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the elder Bannister with unexpected impatience. ‘You should never let your emotions interfere with your art. They’re there to serve it, not smother it.’
‘Don’t bully her,’ cut in Marc, equally unexpectedly. ‘She’s doing her best.’
‘Her best isn’t good enough if it stops her singing,’ growled his father in return. ‘Come on, Gail. Stop snivelling and start again.’
So Gail started again. And this time she did manage to convey in the tone of her voice something of the pathos of the words and music, while at the same time allowing her admirable technique to take her safely over the emotional pitfalls. She felt she was giving only half of what she would have liked to express. But at the end the elder Bannister turned from the piano and said to Marc,
‘She’s good, you know. And the colour of the voice is just right.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Marc slowly, ‘the colour is exactly what I had in mind. And she’s musical too. But—’ he spoke exactly as though Gail were not there or were stone deaf—‘I doubt if she has the emotional depths for the part.’
‘You said I was too emotional a few minutes ago,’ objected Gail rather indignantly.
‘No, I didn’t. I said you were doing your best,’ Marc reminded her drily. ‘It was my father who warned you against sobbing all over the place. But that isn’t what I mean. It’s not a question of musical expression exactly. It’s—well, I suppose it’s an inner knowledge of what suffering really is. You give an acceptable touch of pathos—’
‘And absolute pathos is a very rare gift,’ put in his father.
‘Yes, I know. But it’s not enough in this case,’ Marc said quickly.
‘Well—I don’t know—’ Quentin Bannister pulled his underlip thoughtfully—‘there’s a sort of basic simplicity about Anya. And I’d say this girl has the same quality.’ He also spoke as though Gail were deaf or not there, and for quite some minutes they went on discussing her performance in candid detail until she said diffidently,
‘Would you rather I went?’
‘No. Why?’ Quentin Bannister looked surprised. ‘I thought you were going to try something from the last act.’
‘I’d like to,’ Gail admitted. ‘But I thought maybe you wanted to talk things over in private, without me there.’
‘Nothing is ever talked over in private in this house,’ Marc told her disagreeably. ‘Everyone volunteers an opinion at the drop of a hat. Apart from which, the Bannisters tend to like living in a sort of showcase. They adore being noticed.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I’m not sure that you do either,’ exclaimed his father, going an angry brick-red. Then he turned back to the piano, struck a violent chord or two and said impatiently to Gail, ‘The very last scene. And Marc can put his undistinguished tenor voice to the service of the boy’s part. Come on.’
They both obeyed him unquestioningly, Marc providing his part of the musical dialogue in an agreeable light tenor which had, as his father said, no special distinction about it. But he sang the beautiful final folk like tune with unexpected feeling, and Gail found herself joining in with real artistic pleasure.
‘It’s absolutely lovely,’ she exclaimed involuntarily at the end. ‘Whoever sings the part is going to have a wonderful time. I wish it could be me. But I can’t think I’m either gifted or experienced enough for it. I’m grateful, though, to have had even the chance of trying it through. I do hope it will be an enormous success, Marc.’
‘Why—thank you.’ He looked taken aback for a moment. And then, almost as impulsively as she had spoken, he added, ‘And don’t think you have been absolutely written off. No decisions have been made yet.’
Gail was speechless with astonishm
ent and pleasure. A few words of encouragement from the elder Bannister would not have surprised her. But she had supposed that Marc had rejected her in his own mind from the very beginning.
As it was, his father got up from the piano and said, ‘Well, these are early days yet. A great many things have to be discussed before any decisions are made. But we shall keep you in mind, Gail. Now run along and enjoy yourself with Oliver. He probably thinks we have appropriated you for long enough.’
So she went away and found Oliver, out on the terrace. He made no complaint about her having been appropriated by his father and brother. On the contrary, he inquired with genuine enthusiasm how she had got on at the impromptu audition.
‘I hardly know,’ she said slowly. ‘Both of them said I was not entirely out of the running. Perhaps they were just being polite, of course, but—’
‘Good lord, no!’ Oliver laughed that notion to scorn. ‘Neither of them would dream of being polite over anything so important. More likely to be crushingly impolite. They both believe in speaking their minds—and rightly so, I think—over anything to do with their profession. If they say you are still in the running for the part, that’s exactly what you are. No more and no less. And frankly, Gail, that’s as much as I dared to hope at this stage.’
‘It’s much, much more than anything I dared to hope!’ Gail also laughed, but in sheer delight, and she clasped both her hands round his arm in excited joy and gratitude. ‘I could never even have dreamed of such a thing. To be seriously considered for an important role in a new work, even at a hundred-to-one chance—’
‘I think you might shorten the odds a little,’ Oliver told her amusedly. ‘There aren’t likely to be ninety-nine other talented contraltos milling around, I assure you. And even if there were—’
Music of the Heart (The Warrender Saga No. 6) Page 4
