The Curtain Rises

by Mary Burchell

  'It wasn't?' It seemed to Nicola that an almost physical weight had been lifted from her heart, and she was able to breathe easily and naturally again.

  'Did Brian even hint such a thing in this letter?' Again Michele spoke casually, but again she looked not entirely at ease.

  'Oh, no! He treated the whole situation quite lightly and gaily. In fact,' Nicola recalled with a smile, 'he more or less coupled Julian Evett with you.'

  'He did?' Suddenly all the tension was relaxed, and that slow, secret smile came over the other girl's face. 'Then perhaps I should say that Brian knew what he was talking about. He wasn't the man in my life. Julian was. Or, if you prefer to have the truth brought up to date—Julian is.'

  Nicola heard someone gasp, and then realized it was herself. At the same time she became aware that her own smile was freezing on her face. She tried to find some words—any words. Congratulation or surprise or just conventional comment. But nothing came. It was as though everything stopped, while she stood alone con­templating some impossible, yet irrefutable fact.

  For in one moment of bewildering self-revelation she realized that though the statement about Brian had lifted a weight from her heart, the statement about Julian had placed an even heavier one upon it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  For a long time after her visitor had gone Nicola sat there alone in her aunt's elegant drawing-room, staring absently into space and trying to understand what had happened to her.

  While Michele had been there the absolute necessity of hiding her feelings had enabled her also to hide partially from herself the reason for this inner turmoil. Now she was alone the heart-shaking realization refused to be avoided. It was a matter of agonizing importance to her that Julian Evett should be the man in Michele's life. In the life of anyone but herself, come to that.

  'I can't be so disloyal to Brian, I can't,' she insisted to herself, and she made a deliberate attempt to conjure up his image before her, only to make the dismaying dis­covery that the once clear impression was now very slightly hazy. She could not have said when this had first happened. She only knew that total visual recall no longer existed for her where Brian was concerned.

  Common sense told her that this must eventually happen with even the dearest of faces. Life goes on, patterns change and present passion merges into fond recollection. But it seemed to her nothing less than shock­ing that she could replace Brian's image with that of the man responsible for his death.

  She was still feverishly trying to persuade herself that it was a sort of romantic madness that would pass, when Lisette came in with the evening papers. She glanced at Nicola and observed, 'Mam'selle looks pale.'

  It was so unlike her to concern herself about the wel­fare of anyone but her mistress that Nicola realized she must indeed look upset. So she made a great effort to pull herself together and said quickly, 'I'm all right, Lisette. When do you expect Madame?'

  'When she chooses to come,' replied the maid with a faintly sardonic smile. For though she worshipped the ground Torelli trod she often made it clear that she had no illusions about her mistress.

  Half an hour later Torelli returned. She had obviously had an enjoyable and stimulating day. And over the ex­cellent little dinner which Lisette served, she told Nicola in detail about it.

  'The manuscript was a curiosity rather than an excit­ing discovery,' she declared. 'Cherubini without doubt, but not at all in his strongest vein. Nothing in it for me.' By which she meant it was no vehicle for her particular combination of talents. 'But it was pleasant to be fêted and shown round the place. Oxford is quite charming.' She said this as though she were the original discoverer of the fact. 'And what happened with you, dear?'

  'Michele came all right. She was put out at first to find you were not here, but I made your apologies—'

  'That was unnecessary,' interjected Torelli. 'Does she think I have nothing better to do than sit around waiting for her to drop in? She has an altogether inflated idea of her own importance, that girl.'

  'You had invited her,' Nicola reminded her aunt mildly. 'Anyway, over tea I brought the conversation round to the Canadian Festival and her part in it. And finally I just asked her outright how much she had meant to Brian—or he to her.'

  'Just like that?' Torelli seemed to think this poor tech­nique. 'Without any real finesse?'

  'Without any finesse,' Nicola agreed. 'She was in­clined to tell me to mind my own business—understand­ably, I suppose. But I reminded her that I had been more or less engaged to Brian and that I had heard this story about her on quite good authority. She suddenly became quite expansive then and denied categorically that Brian had been anything to her. She added, for full measure—' Nicola steadied her voice carefully—'that it was Julian Evett who was, to use her own phrase, the man in her life. He still is, apparently.'

  'Then I was right in the beginning!' Torelli was highly delighted. 'I must tell Oscar so. Well, dear child, that's very satisfactory, isn't it?'

  'Very,' said Nicola unhappily, and her aunt looked at her sharply. But, uncharacteristically, she made no further comment. Possibly because she was unwilling to enlarge upon a matter she now considered settled.

  During the next few days Nicola made great efforts to be cheerful, normal and affectionately concerned with her aunt's affairs only. She succeeded so well that not only was the observant Torelli satisfied, but she even half convinced herself that she had largely imagined that tremendous moment of self-revelation.

  Not until she accompanied her aunt to the first com­bined stage and orchestral rehearsal of 'The Magic Flute" did she really put her feelings to the test, and then in circumstances she could not have imagined.

  As usual Torelli sent her into the front of the house, telling her to observe, make notes in case she wished criti­cism later.

  'I've told you,' Nicola said with a smile. 'You're beyond criticism so far as I am concerned.'

  'Then go and criticize the others,' retorted Torelli good-humouredly. 'And watch Julian. He's going to be a really great operatic conductor one of these days.'

  'Isn't he one already?' asked Nicola.

  'No, of course not!' Torelli flashed round on her with an expression of something like fury. 'Never say that of a young artist you wish well. It's the absolute kiss of death! However gifted one is it takes years of study and experi­ence and steady, humble work to make a great artist. These poor little flash-in-the-pan creatures who are heralded as "great" when they're no more than gifted beginners never have a chance. They're doomed from the start by fatuous friends and by critics drunk with the pomposity of their own shallow judgments. Julian is thrillingly promising—which is all he should be at his age. Remember that.

  'Now go. You tire me when you talk to me so much before a rehearsal,' declared Torelli, obviously quite un­aware that she had done most of the talking. 'Go—and watch Julian.'

  So Nicola went.

  She sat almost alone in the empty stalls and watched Julian. She watched the others too from time to time, of course. Particularly Torelli who, in spite of no stage cos­tume or make-up, created the now familiar impression of demonic power to an almost hair-raising extent each time she made her appearance.

  But the Queen of the Night makes only two appear­ances in the whole opera, so there was plenty of time to watch Julian, even if one spared some uneasy attention also for the unquestionably gifted Michele Laraut.

  By now, experience had sharpened an already keen judgment, and Nicola was able to appreciate to the full that strong yet flexible beat, that eloquently expressive left hand and, perhaps most of all, the almost intangible rapport which he immediately established with his singers. He seemed to forestall difficulties, so that sup­port was always there when needed, and he tempered exact musical discipline with the occasional artistic in­dulgence which can be risked only when taste and judg­ment are instinctive.

  As she watched that thin, sensitive, intensely lively face in the light from the conductor's desk it seemed to
Nicola that she was seeing him fully for the first time. Here was the artist as well as the man, not only directing a great work, but living it and loving it as though he and it were part of each other.

  'None of it is for his own glory,' thought Nicola, in­describably moved. And then she was almost frightened by the wave of admiration and actual love which swept over her at this realization.

  One could love him as an artist, she hastily assured her­self, while disliking him as a man. But after a minute she recognized that for the piece of hollow nonsense that it was. And suddenly she capitulated to something stronger than herself and allowed the complete and simple truth to engulf her. She loved him.

  'It's ridiculous and hopeless and rather contemptible in the circumstances,' she told herself. 'But I love him.' And then, as though clutching some small rag of protection round her—'No one must ever know!'

  During the interval she remained in her seat. Lisette was of course in faithful attendance on her mistress, and Nicola could not imagine that she herself would be required. So she could stay safely where she was, in the half darkened auditorium, and not risk meeting Julian backstage.

  Presently Dermot Deane came to have a word with her, and it was obvious that a more satisfied impresario could not have been imagined.

  'Gina's unique,' he remarked. 'She lifts me out of my seat every time she does that first act aria, and yet I must have heard her do it dozens of times.'

  'Then you can imagine what it does to me,' Nicola re­plied. 'I haven't a quarter of your experience.—Michele is good too, isn't she?'

  'Yes, yes, she's holding her own all right. But the one who is going to make the sensation is Evett. I didn't know he had it in him. He's a fine orchestral conductor, of course. But I didn't realize he is also that rarest combina­tion on God's earth—a singers' conductor and a man of the theatre. You don't see it more than two or three times in a lifetime. Damned lucky if you see it as often, to tell the truth,' he added reflectively.

  'Have you told Gina?' Nicola inquired with a smile.

  'Told Gina? Gina doesn't need telling,' Dermot Deane laughed. 'She probably spotted it before I did. And she'll be the first to pay tribute, I can tell you. She can be sheer hell to an inconsiderable rival. But she's generosity itself to an artist of equal calibre. That,' he added almost carefully, 'is why I love her, even though sometimes I could cheerfully strangle her.'

  'She scolded me for applying the word "great" to Julian just before this rehearsal,' said Nicola slowly. 'She said all the potential was there, but one must never spoil a young artist by allowing them to think they had arrived when they were still near the beginning.'

  'Evett is a long way from the beginning,' Dermot Deane laughed again. 'But she's right, of course. Gina is always right about timing. Miraculous sense of timing even in personal matters. She says it's the basis of all art. Perhaps she's right.—Well, here comes Evett. So perhaps we'd better stop talking about his potential greatness, and keep it as a secret between ourselves.'

  Nicola contrived to smile faintly at this sally, but she found it difficult not to go tense as Julian came purpose­fully up the gangway to speak to Dermot Deane on some technical matter.

  For a moment or two the conversation passed to and fro over Nicola's head. Then suddenly the conductor seemed to become aware of her, glanced down and said,

  'Hello, Nicola. How is it going?'

  'Wonderfully.' Her voice came out rather huskily in spite of all her efforts to sound clear and unperturbed.

  'Satisfied with your protégée?' His laugh was almost gay.

  'My—? Oh, you mean Michele?'

  'Yes, she's excellent. Don't you think so, Dermot? Musical and poised and yet extraordinarily touching.'

  Nicola had not really thought of Michele as extra­ordinarily touching. But then it is difficult to think of one's rival in that light. She murmured something sincerely admiring about her musicality, and left the rest of the comments to Dermot Deane. In a few minutes the two men went away together and almost immediately the rehearsal was resumed.

  'So he finds her extraordinarily touching. He could hardly do otherwise. To be in love with a girl and have her singing Pamina's heavenly music within a few yards of you must be irresistibly moving. No wonder he looks really happy at last. He's always looked a trifle melan­choly before. It's because she is there, singing under his direction. Everything's all right between them now, and they are making beautiful music together. What an utter joy that must be!'

  And for the first time in her life Nicola wished quite passionately that she had a voice.

  When the rehearsal was over she went round to her aunt's dressing-room, where she found Torelli in radi­antly good spirits.

  'Everything is perfect!' she declared with a compre­hensive gesture of her eloquent hands. 'I sang marvellously.' Torelli believed in neither conceit nor false modesty where self-appraisal was concerned; this was merely a statement of fact. 'Then there's a cable from Peter to say he will be in London on Thursday, in good time for the first performance on Friday. And finally—Julian!

  'He was pretty good, wasn't he?' Nicola ventured cautiously.

  'He was superb! The most fantastic discovery. I said that boy was a singers' conductor the very first time I heard him.' This was not strictly correct, as Nicola well knew, but it would have been churlish to argue the point at that moment.

  Instead, she smiled radiantly in her turn and said, 'At the risk of speaking too early in his career, don't you think one might say after all that he is a great operatic conductor?'

  'Between these four walls—' Torelli glanced round and added accurately but ungraciously—'between these four very grubby walls—yes.'

  'Nowhere else?'

  'You can go and tell him if you like.' Torelli smiled indulgently, and patted her niece's cheek.

  'I?' Nicola was a good deal startled. 'Oh, I wasn't thinking of expressing any opinion to him. I think it would come much better from you.'

  But Torelli shook her head. 'No, darling, not from me,' she said firmly. 'That would be an authoritative opinion. In your case, however,' she added, obviously without any intention of being offensive, 'he would know it for what it was. A charming gesture of appreciation from someone whose opinion is of no special value.'

  Nicola swallowed slightly.

  'I don't think-I'll do that.'

  'But I think you should.' Her aunt smiled indulgently again. 'In fact, I think it would be rather nice for him to have such an unsolicited tribute.'

  'No, no, it wouldn't mean the least thing to him.'

  'Of course it would, darling. Don't be silly and coy.' Torelli did not like her opinions cast aside. 'Everybody likes to be paid a compliment, particularly a rather naïve, heartfelt one. Run along. You'll find him in his dressing-room—the one Oscar uses.'

  She turned away to her dressing-table, while Nicola stood there for a moment mutinous and undecided. And then there crept over her the delightful thought that perhaps it would please him to have her go and offer her uninhibited congratulations. Not that pleasing or dis­pleasing him need be a matter of any great moment to her either way, of course. But—

  She was already moving towards the door, and a moment later she was on her way up the flight of stairs which led to his dressing-room.

  When she knocked and entered in answer to his bidding, she found him standing by the dressing-table in his shirt­sleeves, and his head was bent over the business of fastening a cuff-link.

  'Yes?' The tone was curt, almost as though he had expected her—without pleasure. Then he looked up, gave a surprised smile and exclaimed, 'Why, Nicola! What do you want? Or rather, I suppose it's a case of what does Madame Torelli want?'

  'No, it isn't. I—I didn't come from her.' She felt she should make that clear in view of what her aunt had said about not being quoted. But immediately that seemed to make the visit a much more personal matter than she had intended, and she hastened on so as not to give too much importance to what she had to say
. 'I just wanted you to know—I just wanted to say that I thought you were quite wonderful.'

  She had not really meant to say that at all, of course. Nothing quite so naïve, and certainly not in that awed and breathless tone. But the words were out before she could stop them, and he gave a slight, rather incredulous little laugh and, coming forward, took both her hands in his.

  'My dear, how very kind of you! Did you really come specially to tell me that?'

  She looked down at the hands holding hers and she nodded. Though she would much rather have said some­thing pleasantly gay and sophisticated, if only she could have thought of it.

  'Almost what one might call a friendly act,' he remarked, and she could hear from his voice that he was a good deal amused. But there was another note too in his voice which seemed to take the edge off the amusement, and it was only with difficulty that she remembered he was the man in Michele Laraut's life.

  She pulled her hands away determinedly then and said more composedly, 'It was the first time I'd heard you conduct a whole opera. You really do have it all, don't you?'

  'Oh, no! I wouldn't say that' He laughed with genuine amusement. 'I think I am basically a singers' conductor, and opera is my first love because the theatre fascinates me. But I don't know that I could claim more at the moment. What comes to me naturally I do well.' There was the same calm, impersonal assessment of his own qualities which Torelli so often displayed. 'But I've a great deal to learn yet, Nicola. I only hope I get the opportunity. Experience, experience and lots of hard work, that's what I need. And if this "Flute" is a real success I may get my chance. Wish me luck!'

  'I wish you luck with all my heart,' she said gravely, before she could remember about Brian.

  'Oh, thank you!' He leaned forward and very lightly kissed her cheek.

  For one moment only she was intensely aware of those very firm lips against her cheek. Then interruption came. With no more than the slightest rap on the door, Michele entered, with an air which suggested that she had every right to be there.

  If she had seen that kiss she gave no sign of the fact. She merely said, 'Are you ready, Julian? I'm ravenous after all that work.'