The Curtain Rises

by Mary Burchell

  'That was rather poor-spirited of you, dear,' com­mented Torelli. But when Nicola went on to say that she had merely gone round the block and back to the restau­rant, she laughed and remarked, 'That's better!'

  'By that time,' Nicola said, 'Michele had gone.'

  'So soon? You surprise me. I should have said she was more of a sticker. How long had you given them?'

  'About a quarter of an hour, I suppose.'

  'Well, well—' Torelli frowned consideringly, as though all this were of real importance. But then, as Nicola well knew, where other people were concerned, she was always either brutally indifferent or inordinately and almost childishly interested. It was simply a question of mood with her, and at the moment she was in the mood for trivialities. 'Had they both gone?'

  'No. He was still there. I didn't notice him until I came level with him—'

  'Dear child, you do have a talent for overlooking essentials, don't you?' protested Torelli.

  'I don't regard Julian Evett as an essential,' replied Nicola drily. 'Anyway, I joined him then and we—talked a bit.'

  'About what?' inquired Torelli, who considered curiosity a natural and acceptable reaction when applied to herself.

  Again Nicola laughed reluctantly and a little protestingly. But she said, 'He told me he had seen Michele, and that he understood you had auditioned her for Pamina and found her acceptable.'

  'Oh! I suppose he was annoyed about my taking things into my own hands?'

  'No, I don't think so. He said he was withdrawing his opposition, and that if she were cast for the role he would accept her.'

  'What on earth made him change his mind so com­pletely?'

  'I have no idea,' said Nicola stiffly. And then, as though she could not help it—'I think whatever differ­ences there had been between them were now made up.'

  'In a quarter of an hour?' Torelli looked sceptical.

  'It seems one can do quite a lot in a quarter of an hour.'

  'Well, of course. One can change one's life in ten minutes, come to that. But,' added Torelli reflectively, 'it is unusual to do it at a café table in the open air.'

  'I don't think any lives were changed,' Nicola said, with a faint smile. 'But at least he decided to let Michele have her chance if it came along.'

  'Which doesn't seem to have pleased you as much as it should.' Torelli gave her niece a shrewd glance.

  Nicola looked slightly startled and said, 'Should I have been so specially pleased?'

  'Well, of course, darling. Don't you remember? You were blazing with missionary spirit—which is always tiresome—when Michele looked like being pushed aside. I thought you felt it was a sacred trust to further her interests, since Brian Coverdale had recommended her. It seemed a little exaggerated to me at the time. But now you have got what you wanted, you might look a little more elated about it.'

  'I am elated—I suppose,' said Nicola defensively.

  'Then you have a singularly inept way of projecting it,' replied Torelli tartly. 'Now when I am elated the whole atmosphere crackles around me and everyone feels more intensely alive just because of it.'

  'But then you are unique,' Nicola told her, amusedly but sincerely.

  To which Torelli replied, with simple satisfaction, 'Yes, I suppose I am.'

  She then, to Nicola's relief, switched to her own affairs and announced that she intended to return to London in a couple of days' time, as Oscar Warrender was coming from South America a few days earlier than expected.

  'You haven't met Oscar yet, have you?' She smiled musingly.

  'Not personally—no. Though I've heard him conduct quite often, of course, and admire him immensely.'

  'It is impossible to do otherwise. There's someone unique, if you like!' It was seldom that she accorded any­one else such uninhibited praise. 'Well, it will be a great experience for you, Nicola, to see him and me work together. I'm looking forward to the "Macbeths" and "Trovatores".'

  'So am I!' exclaimed Nicola sincerely. 'And the "Magic Flute",' she added involuntarily.

  'Well, that comes later, of course, and will have a dif­ferent sort of interest. In the first case you have the combination of two top-grade, experienced artists.' She spoke impersonally, as though she were not one of them herself. 'In the second case there will be the interest of seeing how a tremendously gifted young conductor shapes up to a great artistic challenge. If he is wise he will come to most of Oscar's rehearsals.'

  'Shall—shall I be at most of the rehearsals too?' Nicola inquired.

  'The later ones certainly. Probably not the studio rehearsals, which are intimate work-sessions. You would only be in my way there.' And Torelli took her feet off the stool and stood up, to indicate that the discussion was over.

  In actual fact, Nicola met the famous Oscar Warrender for the first time on their arrival at London Airport. It seemed he had just come in from Buenos Aires and, on hearing from Dermot Deane that Torelli was expected in half an hour, had insisted on coming across to the European Building to meet her.

  She was indescribably flattered and pleased—Nicola could see that—and she flung her arms round the tall conductor and embraced him, while his wife stood by and smiled understandingly.

  'Oscar thought she would like the attention,' Anthea whispered to Nicola as she claimed acquaintance with her again. 'It's rather touching to see anyone so famous delighted by so small a thing, isn't it?'

  'Yes. But she's like that,' Nicola said, smiling in her turn. 'It's that childlike streak which makes her so lov­able.' She did not add 'in spite of everything'. But per­haps the words were implicit in her tone. At any rate, Anthea laughed softly and very kindly.

  Then Torelli introduced Nicola and, to her surprise, Nicola heard herself described for the first time as 'my niece'.

  The great conductor took Nicola's hand briefly, smiled and said, 'One doesn't think of you as having anything so domestic-sounding as a niece, Gina.'

  'By marriage, of course,' replied Torelli, as though in some way that made the connection almost non-existent. 'And we don't emphasize the relationship, do we, Nicola?'

  'In point of fact, we never mention it,' said Nicola with a laugh. 'I'm flattered to hear myself so described.'

  'Oh, well, one doesn't pretend with Oscar,' explained Torelli simply. 'I'm not quite sure why.'

  'Because he usually finds things out anyway,' inter­jected Anthea, with an air of amused resignation. 'He calls it inspired guesswork, but I believe it's a sixth sense.'

  'Take no notice of their nonsense, Miss Nicola,' said the conductor, as they moved slowly towards the exit, past press photographers flashing bulbs and manoeuvring for good positions. 'I'm a hard-working musician with no sure instinct about anything else. But I'm glad to meet Peter Denby's niece. He is an old friend of mine. By the way, Gina—' he turned once more to Torelli—'I saw him for an hour or two on my way out. His ship put into New York for a few days.'

  'You saw Peter?' For a moment the strong lines of Torelli's face softened. 'How did he look?'

  'Extraordinarily well. I haven't seen him look so rested and relaxed for years. He was missing you, though.'

  'Don't tell me that, or those wretched photographers will get a shot of me crying,' said Torelli, smiling into the lens of the nearest camera. 'I miss him too—terribly. And would do so more if it were not for Nicola.'

  'Oh, darling!' exclaimed Nicola, sufficiently touched to use what was for her an extravagant term of endear­ment.

  'He told me that his niece was holding the fort for him,' began Warrender. Then he stopped, laughed and made a deprecating little gesture with his expressive hand.

  'You see what I mean,' exclaimed Torelli resignedly to Nicola. 'I told you Oscar always knows somehow.'

  They all drove back to London together. And although Nicola took little part in the conversation, she was fascinated by the musical and professional talk which eddied round her. Inevitably, Julian Evett's name came up eventually, though not until they were near their journe
y's end.

  'I was genuinely sorry not to conduct for you at your London concert, Gina,' Oscar Warrender said. 'But I hear Julian made a splendid job of it.'

  'He was very good indeed,' Torelli agreed graciously. 'So good that I am suggesting—' she paused, considered that word and changed it to—'insisting that he should conduct "The Magic Flute" at the Garden. Did you know that they want me to sing the Queen of the Night?'

  'Dermot Deane told me so. It's an inspired piece of casting. Is the rest of the cast to be from the resident company?'

  'Largely so, I imagine. Except that I should like to have Michele Laraut for the Pamina. You remember her in Canada?'

  'Of course. She's good.' Then he smiled drily and said, 'That suggestion did not come from Julian, I presume?'

  'No. But he has agreed—after persuasion. And you needn't look as though you're the only one who knows a thing or two about that situation,' Torelli added, as the car drew up outside the block where she had her flat. 'I also can do my inspired guessing. But, however much he may have been infatuated and then snubbed—'

  'My dear Gina! Wherever did you get that story?' Amusedly, the conductor leaned over to open the car door.

  'I drew my own obvious conclusions,' said Torelli in a dignified sort of way.

  'Well, you drew the wrong ones,' Warrender assured her flatly. 'Whoever Michele Laraut dragged at her chariot wheels, it was not Julian Evett, I assure you.'

  'Who was it, then?' Torelli challenged, with irresistible curiosity.

  'Never mind now.' He laughed, handed her out of the car and kissed her with obvious affection on both cheeks. Then, as the car bringing Lisette and all the luggage drew up behind, he bade Nicola good-bye and, getting back into the car with his young wife, drove away.

  'Men always think they know everything,' observed Torelli vexedly as they went into the apartment block. 'But I'm perfectly sure I am right.'

  Then she dismissed the matter as quite unimportant. An opinion with which Nicola agreed just a trifle too emphatically.

  During the next week or ten days Nicola was very busy indeed. A considerable amount of mail had piled up while they were away, and there were all kinds of things to arrange in connection with costume-fitting, wigs, press releases and so on. Torelli remained in an excellent humour throughout, so Nicola guessed that everything was going well, though she herself was not able to attend the earlier rehearsals.

  Lisette, who went with her everywhere, reported only meagrely. Though she did deign to say once, 'Madame is in what you call the good form.'

  'She loves singing under Mr. Warrender, doesn't she?' Nicola responded. 'Though I suppose anyone would.'

  'Not unless they know their job,' replied Lisette darkly. 'He is a monster, that one, if he is angry. I have seen him assassinate an over-confident amateur.'

  Presuming that this need not be taken too literally, Nicola said, 'Oh, indeed?' and waited more impatiently than ever for her own chance to go and hear a rehearsal.

  This did not come until the dress rehearsal itself. And by that time her aunt was under some nervous strain and not in the best of tempers. She was, however, very clear about Nicola's part in things.

  'Go into the auditorium,' she ordered, 'and use what sense and judgment you have. If anything is inaudible, obscure or out of line with the character as an organic whole, make a note of it and let me know afterwards.'

  'Are you asking me to criticize you?' Nicola was a good deal shocked.

  'Of course. How else can you be of use to me?'

  'But I don't know that I'm qualified to do so,' objected Nicola.

  'Nor are eighty-five per cent of the fools who will nevertheless do so very confidently after the first per­formance,' was the acid reply. 'Go and do your best. An ignorant opinion is better than none. Provided, of course, that one knows it is an ignorant one.'

  So with this doubtful encouragement ringing in her ears, Nicola made her way to the big, darkened, almost empty auditorium. Far up in the amphitheatre crowded a number of privileged public with special passes to the rehearsal, but downstairs there was hardly anyone, except the producer at his desk, his over-anxious expression clear in the lamp fixed over the desk.

  Just before the performance began, while there were still exciting premonitory little runs and trills coming from the orchestra tuning up, someone came into the row in front of Nicola and sat down a few seats away. She turned her head quickly and discovered, slightly to her agitation, that it was Julian Evett.

  But he had obviously not noticed her, and at that moment Oscar Warrender came to the conductor's desk, tapped slightly with his baton, and the performance began. After that, although with one layer of her mind Nicola was acutely aware of the man sitting only a yard or two away, most of her attention and all her emotions were almost savagely gripped by the drama on the stage.

  She knew the play quite well, and knew that the opera followed the story closely. But it so happened that she had never until now seen a really great Lady Macbeth. That Torelli could sing superbly, colouring her magnifi­cent voice with any emotion she wanted, Nicola already knew. What was a complete discovery to her was the amazing stagecraft and, above all, the complete oneness of music, word and gesture.

  Never once was there an unnecessary movement or one without reason or significance. Often, indeed, there was a terrible stillness about her. But a stillness of such menac­ing power and intensity that it conveyed more than any gesture could have done. Quite simply, drama flowed naturally outward from her, and where she stood there was the centre of the stage.

  When, in her incredibly flexible speaking voice, she read aloud Macbeth's letter detailing the prophecies of the witches, it seemed as though it had been written only a matter of hours ago, breathing the deadly growth of human ambition and the first terrible impulse to murder.

  She stood quite still as the servant announced the news that the king would sleep at the castle that night. Then, when he had gone—still almost without moving—she launched into her wild outburst of triumphant song, with such fearful purpose in every note that Nicola felt the hair lift at the nape of her neck.

  Not until the first interval did she draw a completely easy breath. And then, as the lights went up, Julian Evett turned and saw her.

  He hesitated a second and then said, 'Hello—I didn't notice you there.' But his tone expressed no pleasure in the discovery, and his glance passed coolly over her before he smiled a greeting to someone several rows back.

  She was not sure if it was pique or something much deeper which forced her to make a bid for his more com­plete attention.

  'She is wonderful, isn't she? Torelli, I mean.'

  'Yes, of course. So is Warrender. Did you notice how he practically breathes with his singers and forestalls almost every difficulty for them?'

  Nicola had not, particularly. But she was quite willing to accord Oscar Warrender his share of the praise.

  'It's the first time I've heard him conduct an opera,' she volunteered. 'In fact, it's the first time I've ever heard "Macbeth" right through.'

  'Lucky you,' he said indifferently, and turned away to speak to the producer, leaving her with the sensation of having been completely snubbed.

  Not that it mattered, of course. Not that anything Julian Evett did or said mattered. Only he had smiled at her so compellingly that afternoon in Paris, with such charm and sudden friendliness, and now there was some­thing inexpressibly chilling about the withdrawal of that momentary friendliness.

  'I don't want to be friends with him,' she assured her­self. 'How could I after what he did to Brian? I don't even like him personally. He's too cool and too sure of himself. Almost arrogant—'

  She glanced surreptitiously at him as he stood there at the end of the row, still talking to the producer, and there was nothing at all cool or arrogant about him at the moment. He was smiling with almost boyish eagerness, asking questions and listening attentively to the replies. And presently the two men strolled down the gangway t
o join Warrender, who was still at the conductor's desk.

  Nicola felt shy and unimportant and extraordinarily alone somehow. Everyone in the great, half empty house had some purpose or significance. Even the crowd up there in the amphitheatre, from which there came a steady hum of conversation, were there expressly to enjoy them­selves and to add, by their very presence, to the illusion that this was actually a public performance.

  Only she had no real place there. True, her aunt had made the preposterous suggestion that she should note whatever she felt was wrong with the performance. But, after what she had just seen and heard, Nicola felt it would be both ridiculous and impertinent of her to take that seriously. The remark had been flung off in the same way that one tells a dear but tiresome child to run away and play.

  If Brian had been there it would have been different, she told herself. But the thought was rather deliberately induced, for she did not really associate Brian with an opera house. If Julian Evett had not snubbed her, but had just gone on talking to her—

  And at that moment he came back and dropped into the seat beside her and said, 'So it's your first "Macbeth"?'

  'Yes!' She was so astonished and gratified to have him pick up the conversation where they had left it that she gave him a quick, shy smile before she realized what she was doing.

  'It's always a great experience to make one's first acquaintance with a masterpiece—particularly if it's a performance like this.'

  'Yes. I feel I'm lucky.'

  'In fact, it's your lucky day,' he told her lightly. 'The casting for "The Magic Flute" has been completed and your protégée is in.'

  'My protégée?'

  'Michele Laraut. Isn't that how you would describe her? You stood up for her fiercely enough.'

  'I should have thought,' Nicola said in a dignified sort of way, 'that she was more Madame Torelli's protégée.'

  'No, I'm that,' he retorted, and he laughed so gaily that Oscar Warrender glanced in their direction before tap­ping once more with his baton to indicate that the rehearsal was to continue.