Little sister

by Mary Burchell

  Varoni didn't answer. She had turned to speak to Moerling. Alix felt chilled beyond expression.

  "Nina."

  There was no immediate answer.

  She softly put her hand round Varoni's arm, and knew from her mother's expression that she was not unaware of the touch.

  "I should look very young in white," Alix whispered coaxingly, and at that Varoni's mouth gave in a reluctant smile.

  "You will look sweet in white," she said without glanc-

  ing round, but for a moment she patted the fingers on her arm.

  And so it was settled.

  The next morning Prescott handed over ten five-pound notes to the astounded Alix.

  "You're to choose what you like," she informed her. "Don't forget you'll need some sort of evening coat too. Do you know where to go?"

  "No," Alix admitted, still dazedly fingering the fifty pounds, which seemed to her a fortune.

  Prescott gave her the names of one or two shops.

  "And don't talk about your being Varoni's sister or some of them will charge you twice as much," she added grimly. "Now go along."

  Alix went.

  It was a terribly serious matter this spending fifty pounds on personal adornment, but she must dress the part of Varoni's sister worthily. And in this excellent cause, Alix inspected dozens of white dresses that morning — or so it seemed to her.

  In the end, she knew the right dress the moment she saw it. White muslin, with a demure high neck, tucked bodice and long sleeves, a long flounced skirt and a matching Victorian cape.

  "It's really beautiful — and so young" the assistant remarked. And on that, the dress and cape were unhesitatingly bought.

  There was no opportunity of submitting them for Varoni's inspection. Alix only saw her for ten minutes during the day, and then she was silent and preoccupied. Prescott, however, pronounced the outfit "very virginal, but perhaps none the worse for that", and Alix supposed she might take it that her choice was approved.

  During the afternoon she was called to the telephone, and with pleasure not unmixed with an absurd sense of guilt, she recognized Barry's voice.

  "Oh, Barry, hello!" That sounded more pleased than she had intended.

  "Hello. You're an elusive young person, aren't you?" "Am I? Why?"

  "I telephoned twice yesterday afternoon and once this morning, and each time you were out."

  "Was I? — I mean, did you?"

  "Yes to both of those." • Alix laughed.

  "I'm so sorry. Yesterday I was out with Nina most of the day, and this morning I — I was buying a dress for the opera."

  "You're going tonight, of course?"

  "Yes."

  "Good. Then I shall see you there."

  "Oh, will you? That's nice."

  "What colour is the dress, Alix?"

  "White. Why?"

  "Nothing. I want to be sure I recognize you. Will you come out to supper with me afterwards?"

  "I'd love — oh, I don't know — you see—"

  This was terribly difficult. Alix had not expected to be called on to make a decision so soon.

  If Nina resented the flowers, how would she react to a supper invitation? And if she were going to be angry about it, which was worse — to offend Nina or to miss going with Barry?

  "Well," Barry sounded amused, "what's the trouble? Are you trying to think of a nice way of choking me off?"

  "No! It's only — you see, I don't know what Nina will be doing."

  "Do you have to do whatever she does?"

  "No. But she — she might not like me to make plans without consulting her, and I can't disturb her now — she's resting."

  "What an extremely dutiful sister you are!"

  Alix supposed it did sound a little strange between sisters.

  "Do you mind, Barry, very much if I say 'no'?"

  "Yes, I mind horribly. It will spoil my evening," he said, but quite good-temperedly.

  "I'm so sorry."

  "No, you're not. You're just hoping Varoni will be gratified by the fresh sacrifice."

  "Barry!"

  She heard him chuckle.

  "Never mind. I'll see you this evening. And perhaps by the end of the second act, I shall agree that Varoni has a right to demand any sacrifice she likes."

  "Is she so wonderful?"

  "Well, you'll see and hear for yourself tonight," Barry said, and rang off.

  Alix almost found it in her heart to be vexed with him for what he had just said, but that evening she had to forgive him. For, while she was dressing, yet another spray of flowers arrived — this time waxy white roses, with glossy, dark green leaves — and the card read:

  "To go with the new white dress. — Barry."

  So that was why he had wanted to know the colour of her dress! Really, he was a darling!

  Varoni had already gone to the opera house some time ago, and Prescott with her. Alix, a little to her trepidation, had been told that Moerling would take her, and, hastily pinning the flowers in the front of her dress, she went into the sitting-room to wait for him, for she knew the great conductor disliked nothing so much as to be kept waiting.

  He arrived, punctual to the minute, as was his way, and when he saw Alix he raised his eyebrows in that amused but kindly way of his.

  "Oh," he said, regarding her with great attention, "we are a very elegant young lady this evening."

  This was better than Prescott's grudging praise, and Alix smiled at him shyly.

  "Do you like the dress? Did I choose well?" she asked, in a burst of confidence, because, somehow, it was not difficult to say these things to Moerling.

  "You chose very well," he said. "You are really very beautiful, my child." And, taking her hand, he kissed it gravely.

  Alix, who had never had her hand kissed before in her life, felt like a queen. And all the way down to the Opera House, she sat there in the car, smiling with transparent pleasure, unaware that the conductor watched her with kindly amusement

  He left her at the great pillared entrance to the Opera House.

  "Here is your ticket. You will find your way quite easily. Prescott will probably join you during the evening."

  Alix went into the foyer, breathless with excitement and

  interest at the brilliant scene around her. Behind her she heard some woman say:

  "Why, that was Moerling in the car. Who was the little blonde with him?"

  "Madame V. would probably like to know that," someone else retorted with a laugh.

  "Nonsense. She was young enough to be his daughter."

  "Oh, come! He wouldn't thank you for that. Grown-up daughters scarcely go with that sensationally black hair."

  Alix, flushing with annoyance, turned away sharply, and at that moment Barry's voice spoke beside her.

  "Good evening, Alix. My congratulations on the dress."

  "Oh, Barry! — thank you for the flowers. Don't they go beautifully with it?"

  "Beautifully," he said, but he looked at her and not at the flowers.

  Together they strolled along the crimson and mirror-hung corridor.

  "Barry," she exclaimed impulsively, "how old is Moerling?"

  "I haven't the slightest idea, child. It's one of the minor mysteries of the operatic world. Why do you want to know?"

  "Oh, nothing. I just heard someone being catty."

  "About Moerling?"

  "And Nina too, I suppose. People are hateful."

  Barry gave her a quizzical glance and took her arm.

  "Poor little Alix. Try not to mind. It's the penalty for being fond of famous people. They're public property, you see. Anyone can talk about them — nicely or nastily. After a while you'll get used to it, and simply think that all the ones who don't agree with you are fools and so it doesn't matter. It's a glorious state of mind, but it has to be acquired slowly."

  Alix laughed at that and squeezed his arm.

  "Barry, you are comforting," she said, as they went into the stalls.

  In th
e end, he sat beside her, because Prescott didn't come in for the first act, and so he was able to have her seat instead of his own.

  Not that Alix knew who was beside her, once the opera had begun.

  For the rest of her life she was never able to hear the dramatic opening chords of Tosca again without the unspeakable thrill of her first Varoni performance coming clearly before her.

  What she had expected she scarcely knew. Beautiful singing — yes. Her mother looking lovely — yes. Effective, though perhaps slightly crude drama — yes.

  But this incredible welding of music and drama into a burning flame of passion and reality she could never have conceived. She could not tell, of course, how much was due to the composer, how much to Moerling, and how much to Varoni. But it was like listening to the march of fate — watching the pages of life unfold. And through it all, the miracle of that golden voice, used as naturally as the spoken word, yet dazzling and radiant as sunlight on the water. She knew vaguely that the other singers were good, but Varoni was almost terrifying in her splendour.

  Alix felt life would never be quite the same again. She refused to come and walk with Barry during the first interval, insisting on sitting there, quiet and rather pale, trying to believe once more that this strange, miraculous creature was indeed her mother.

  During the last interval, however, she had just risen to go out with him, when someone grasped her arm excitedly.

  "Alix! Alix dear, I wondered if you would possibly be here." And, turning, she found herself face to face with Jenny Denver.

  "Jenny! Oh, I'm so glad to see you!" Alix almost hugged her. "I thought you were still in Switzerland."

  "We were until yesterday. We flew home today, and I was determined to come to the performance tonight. Isn't she marvellous? What on earth does it feel like to have anyone like that for one's—"

  "Sister?" finished Alix firmly, just in time. And then, while Jenny was recovering from her astonishment, she hastily introduced Barry.

  Jenny was no fool, and Alix saw to her unspeakable relief that she had grasped the situation entirely. She talked of the performance and referred to Varoni as "your sister" with complete composure.

  Finally, Barry strolled off to speak to someone else, and Jenny said with typical directness:

  "So you have to figure as her sister?"

  "Yes. It can't be helped, you know. It wouldn't do for her to have a grown-up daughter."

  "No, I see."

  "It isn't her fault," Alix said defensively.

  "No, of course not. Is she as thrilling off the stage as on?"

  "Oh yes."

  "I'd like to meet her some time."

  "Jenny, of course! Come round back-stage with me afterwards."

  "No, dear, I can't do that. I'm with a whole crowd. We were going on somewhere afterwards to dance. I had thought you and your nice Barry What's-his-name might join us—"

  "How lovely!" Alix's eyes sparkled. Surely she could get Varoni's permission for that. It was quite natural to want to go with her school-friend, and perhaps she needn't even mention the fact that Barry would be there too. And oh, the relief of escaping for a while to Jenny and the world she knew!

  But Jenny was looking at her with something oddly like pity.

  "I'm — afraid it can't be managed, though, can it?"

  "Why not?"

  "Well, I mentioned to one or two of our party, of course, that I half expected to see Varoni's daughter here. If the whole thing is being kept a secret, I — don't think it would do for you to materialize. Do you?"

  "No, you're right. It certainly wouldn't do. Besides, Barry would have to know." Alix swallowed her bitter disappointment.

  "I'm sorry." Jenny looked at her kindly. And then as though she could hardly help it, she said: "Is it a very lonely life, Alix?"

  "A bit. There are other things as well, though."

  "Of course."

  They were silent for a moment, the barrier of slight embarrassment between them.

  Then Jenny said good-bye and went to join her friends.

  Alix sat very still when she had gone, overwhelmed all at once by the most frightening sense of loneliness. It was only by chance that she couldn't join Jenny and her friends,

  of course, but somehow there was something symbolical about it.

  In front of her yawned the empty orchestra pit. Behind her stretched rows of seats left vacant for the moment. She seemed to be isolated in a sea of space.

  Where did she belong? Not to that world beyond the footlights, she knew — nor yet to the everyday world of Jenny and her friends now.

  In something like panic she glanced to left and right, as though seeking somewhere for reassurance. And as she did so, she saw Barry making his way back towards her.

  Barry! She had forgotten him. But now he made everything all right.

  Gradually the frightened beat of her heart slowed'down* Her clenched hands uncurled from her programme.

  Barry was coming back to her. It was all right.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  "ARE YOU really not coming to supper with me afterwards?" Barry dropped into his seat and smiled engagingly at Alix.

  "I don't — know. Could we just wait and see how things work but?"

  "We could," he agreed with some amusement. "Hang it! Here comes Prescott. I suppose she'll want her seat."

  "Not if yours is a better one. She could have that."

  Barry addressed himself shamelessly to Prescott as she came up.

  "I have a much better seat than this, Prescott. Three rows further back and rather to the side. Would you like it?"

  Prescott smiled grimly.

  "I don't mind. I've seen Tosca too often to need someone to hold my hand when the firing squad lets fly."

  "Ah, thanks for the hint. I shall look after Miss Alix's nerves in that respect."

  "If I were you," Prescott said dryly, "I should start from the moment that tenor begins addressing the stars. Personally I find the firing squad more soothing to the nerves." And she moved away.

  Alix looked after her doubtfully.

  '7 thought the tenor was good," she ventured.

  "I've heard worse," Barry admitted indulgently. "But I've never known Prescott praise a singer who didn't get on with Moerling."

  "Why not?"

  "Because she's nuts on him herself."

  "Nonsense!" Alix looked quite startled. "You don't mean that?"

  "Oh yes. Those very unattractive people often have a doggy devotion for something picturesque like Moerling. That's partly why she puts up with Varoni's tantrums — if you'll forgive my saying so — because it means trailing round doing things for Moerling, too, most of the time."

  "And what about him?" Alix asked in a disturbed tone. "I mean — does he know?"

  "I shouldn't think so," Barry said indifferently. "He's as blind as a bat about all the women that run after him. There is Varoni for him, and nobody else."

  At the end of the performance Prescott came over to join them. Alix was standing up clapping excitedly. It was simply wonderful to see those great crimson and gold curtains rise, almost as though the surges of applause drew them apart, and then to see Nina there, smiling and bowing — the identity of the tragic Tosca gone now, and the radiance of the triumphant Varoni replacing it.

  Then it was over, and the three of them headed for the stage door.

  It was Alix's first visit to that half-sordid, half-glamorous world that lies behind the footlights, and to her there was an indescribable thrill about having a way made for her through the crowd. It was a little like being royalty — especially when the doorkeeper first frowned at her, and then, seeing she was in the company of Prescott and Barry, waved her majestically on.

  The dirty stone passages, the notice boards with rehearsal lists pinned to them, the chorus rooms with their long mirrors opposite, the opening and shutting of important-looking doors as dressers came in and out. It was all deliriously new and exciting to Alix.

  They paused at
last outside a door to which was pinned a printed card with the two words "Madame Varoni" on it. And Alix went into the operatic holy of holies, Prescott leading the way.

  Her first impression was that the room was much too small to contain the electric personality of Varoni — her. next that her mother had never smiled more sweetly than now, as she turned to her, with her arm along the back of her chair. Her hair was down, her wrap half slipping from her bare shoulders, and she would have been almost insolently beautiful except for the sweetness of that smile.

  Alix went over and kissed her, and only when she felt how warm and damp Varoni's cheek was did she realize the enormous physical effort that must go to make such a performance as hers.

  "Well?" Varoni held her hand tightly and laughed up at her with those great sparkling eyes. "It was good, the performance?"

  "It was glorious/' Alix said huskily. "I never imagined. And when you smiled at me from the stage—" To her great surprise she felt the tears come into her eyes.

  Alix was terribly ashamed of herself, but Varoni was enchanted.

  "You baby!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet. And then, putting her arms round Alix: "My baby," she whispered half teasingly, and kissed her again. "There! Now sit over there, darling, out of my way. I must hurry."

  Alix watched, fascinated, at the rapid, capable way her mother managed for herself. No dresser was allowed to touch her, once her stage costume was off.

  She was almost ready now, slipping a wonderful ermine cape over her moonlight-blue dress.

  "Who is outside?"

  "Barry Elton and several others too, by now, I suppose."

  "Let them in."

  Prescott went over and opened the door.

  Alix watched in silent admiration as her mother caught up a bouquet of pale pink roses, and stood there ■■ — the perfect picture of the Queen of Song, receiving homage from her admirers.

  Barry said something to her in Italian, in a laughing undertone, and received a specially brilliant smile in return. And then Moerling came in, and everyone drew aside instinctively to let him pass.

  "Are you ready?" He smiled at Varoni and made her a bow which was sufficient tribute to her beauty.

  "Yes." She turned to Alix. "I'm sorry, darling, but Moerling and I are going on to supper at Lady Fonley's. We can't take you because it's a formal affair. But Prescott will look after you."