The house was full, partly because Nancy Sturridge was a popular singer, but also because the audience was curious to see La Divina in an unaccustomed role. As the second act drew to a close there was a distinct restlessness among the patrons, a sense of anticipation. How intriguing it was to be in the belly of the beast, to feel the emotions of the crowd packed into the floor of the old house. What he couldn’t sense was whether the beast was friendly. He suspected the audience wasn’t sure itself. The individual members were waiting for the consensus reaction to decide whether the foreign prima donna would be accepted back and granted her former adulation.
The denizens of the beau monde in their boxes, softened by Lady Clarissa’s imprimatur, would receive Tessa politely. The pit, open to anyone who could afford a five-shilling ticket—or cajole or bribe a check taker into a free pass—was a different matter. It was hard to predict the reaction of a miscellany of merchants, professional men, ladies of the night, and gentlemen unencumbered by their female counterparts.
Tessa had taken a risk in her choice of music. “The Soldier Tir’d of War’s Alarms” was perhaps the most famous single piece of English operatic music, a bravura aria from Dr. Arne’s Artaxerxes. Though the opera itself was less popular than it had been in the last century, the aria was often performed alone, most notably by Mrs. Billington who lived in the affectionate memory of London’s theater-goers as the most beloved and most English of sopranos. Max felt a twinge of alarm at Tessa’s audacity. The crowd might accept it as a compliment. But if they saw it as a foreign insult to a national heroine, her reception would be terrible.
Once the curtain fell, the usual exodus in search of relief and refreshments failed to materialize. For once no one wanted to miss the entr’acte performance.
Nerves taut, Max strained his ears for comments from his immediate neighbors and caught disjointed words and whispered phrases. Foreign. Chelsea Hospital. Tsar’s jewels. Bonaparte. Better than Catalani. Sturridge is the English soprano. Foreign. Insult. Foreign.
His immediate neighbors—a citizen of respectable appearance and his wife—sat in companionable silence. A couple of rows forward an obvious demimondaine was intent on flirtation with a stout middle-aged worthy whom Max guessed might be a banker. Not far away, he glimpsed a pair of bucks, aspirants to dandyhood rather than arrivals at that blessed state, judging by a pair of loud waistcoats in clashing stripes and overblown neckcloths. The young men did little to disguise their hilarity, likely fueled by an abundance of wine at dinner, or their possession of a knobbly parcel. It wasn’t unheard of for solid citizens to being their own refreshments to help them survive a long evening of entertainment, but these two didn’t seem the type. Max vowed to keep half an eye on them and if they had anything to throw he swore he’d jam it down their throats till they choked on their own Adam’s apples.
An expectant hush fell as the curtain opened again, revealing a painted flat of vaguely classical design, depicting some pastoral ruins. Then Teresa Foscari, resplendent in red velvet and gemstones, glided to the center of the stage.
Not a cough or rustle disturbed the silence of the vast auditorium. Every eye was fixed on the most glorious sight to ever grace a London theater. In the glow of the footlights she stood proud and tall, gazing haughtily at her observers as though daring them to do their worst. Then, as the orchestra broke into the introductory measures, she swept them a curtsey and bestowed upon them a dazzling smile.
It occurred to Max that La Divina on the stage was very different from Tessa off it. Her personality in the drawing room was unaffected and even reserved—always excepting that one glass-throwing incident, which Max acknowledged to have been provoked. In artistic matters she was consistently bold. Now she held some three thousand souls in her grasp as she embarked on the well-loved air. Almost every individual in the place knew it, but Max defied the memory of the oldest music lover to have heard it sung better. As she ran with ludicrous ease through the virtuoso trills of the first finale, Max knew it was going to be all right and relaxed into pure enjoyment. Even the Tavistock orchestra seemed to rise to the occasion, with a splendid trumpet voluntary signaling the soprano’s final ascent to unimaginable vocal heights. Max was ready to burst into applause. Surely everyone would feel the same way.
Then she stopped in mid-trill and was shaken by a paroxysm of coughing.
Max half-leapt from his seat.
A thin but steady cloud of smoke emerged from under the painted flat, and the theater erupted into panic.
*
The smoke hit Tessa’s lungs with her intake of breath for the soaring culmination of Arne’s masterpiece.
My God, I am going to die, was her first thought as searing pain filled her chest. Even as she coughed in desperation she realized what was happening. She’d been present in the wings when a theater in Prague caught fire and she had never suffered such terror. Pivoting on her heels, her first instinct was to flee off stage, but smoke now curled under the backdrop in several places. For all she knew the entire back of the theater was in flames.
Oh my God! Sofie, Angela, and Sempronio were all there, but to reach them she would have to thread her way through the scenery stored in the backstage area. She recalled the cries of agony of a Bohemian stagehand who’d been struck by a blazing beam falling from the flies. It was too dangerous to go that way and she could only pray that those in the dressing rooms got out safely.
Screams and shouts from the front of the theater penetrated her consciousness. Since the old Tavistock didn’t run to modern gas lighting, the auditorium was brightly illuminated by oil lamps and candles.
Panicked patrons shoved their way to the exits. In Prague over one hundred people had died, as many of them trampled during their escape as had been caught by the flames and smoke. But that had been a small house. There were almost three thousand people out there in the galleries, boxes, and pit of the Tavistock.
Including Max. For a moment she looked frantically into the milling crowd until a fragment of sense told her there was nothing she could do to help him. Unless…
Retaining just enough wit not to take a deep breath, she edged to the very front of the stage, standing between two oil-fueled footlights. Should she extinguish them? No, she decided, a desperate plan forming in her frightened brain. It would be better if people could see her. Just below her feet, members of the orchestra fought for the exit, some through the under-stage door, others abandoning their instruments and scrambling over the barrier into the auditorium to join the teeming crowd. Countless men and women were on the move, shoving along the rows to the aisles or leaping over the benches, but with the same end: to reach the door in the center back of the pit. A door that looked very small and very far away. Unless the retreat was made in some kind of order, hundreds would be injured and trapped.
Taking a quick, shallow breath she found that the air downstage was still clean and inhaled deeper. Not too high, she thought. It might be mistaken for a scream. With as much concentration as she’d ever brought to a single note, she pitched an octave above middle C.
“Sto-o-o-o-op!”
To her surprise the terrified cries subsided and a thousand eyes turned back to the stage.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” she said, summoning her training to project her voice as though she were singing. “Please be calm. Let me guide you to safety.”
While far from silent, a good portion of the crowd gave her its attention. But she sensed the backward surge had only abated and would continue in force at the least provocation. Somehow she needed to control the crowd.
“The fire has not yet reached the front of the theater,” she went on, enunciating slowly and trying to ignore the smoke behind her. “Those at the back should leave first, everyone else stand still. There is ample time for all of you to find the way out.”
Holy Saint George, she hoped that was true. She had no idea of the state of things behind the backdrop, of how far the fire had spread. If it took hold and reached th
e cellar area below the pit, how much time was there before it broke through the floor of the auditorium? Pray God her friends managed to escape.
She continued to speak calmly, repeating the call for order. A number of men appeared to be taking charge of the evacuation of the pit. Those at the rear had already exited and the crowd moved slowly, disturbed only by the occasional panicked scuffle. Heart in her mouth, she scanned the tiers of boxes, trying to recall exactly which one was Max’s. She could find no sign of him but was encouraged by what appeared to be an orderly migration from those levels. At least the broad corridors outside the boxes were manned by members of the theater staff to assist the departing ton. As for the galleries, she sensed movement and noise above her and could only hope her calls for calm were having their effect.
Her own mind settled into eerie tranquility. “Be quiet, walk slowly, wait for those in front of you,” she said over and over again.
While keeping up her soothing litany, she considered her own escape. Directly in front of her the descent to the orchestra was about three feet and there was a further decline to the audience level. She’d be hampered by the heavy skirts and long train of her velvet gown and there was the danger of injuring herself among the instruments. She could imagine spearing herself on the floor spike of a cello. At either end of the stage the floor was clear of orchestral accoutrements but the drop was deeper. In some theaters there would be stairs but they had been removed at the Tavistock to prevent patrons invading the stage. Quickly she decided she’d take that path, but not until the way ahead was almost clear of people, or until the fire reached her.
Smoke now billowed onto the stage and caught her throat. She tried to cover her mouth and still speak loud enough to be heard. If she got out alive would her vocal cords survive?
*
At the first puff of smoke, Max’s only instinct was to charge forward and grab Tessa. But a dozen rows of panicked citizenry surged in the opposite direction, cutting him off from the red-clad figure alone on the stage. He shouted her name and raised his arms helplessly as she approached the edge of the orchestra.
A single word on a single note from that matchless voice pierced the shrieks of terror surrounding him and he realized what Tessa was trying to do. What incredible courage! And what could he do to assist her? His own seat was close to the center aisle and once he reached it he stood firm, blocking the way of those who would push their way along the already clogged corridor.
“Stay back,” he shouted. “Let others go first.”
His erstwhile neighbor, an arm around his hysterical wife, tried to press through.
“You’ll be crushed if you go forward now,” Max warned.
The man nodded. “I’ll help you with the crowd,” he said, “but let my wife go ahead.” He whispered something to the woman who gulped back her tears and quietly joined the queue in the aisle.
“Let the ladies through,” Max commanded. One of the drunken bucks jumped onto his bench and started to bound from row to row, knocking several others back onto their seats and scattering rotten fruit in his wake. As soon as he was within reach Max snatched the fellow by his neckcloth and thrust him down.
“Let others go first, especially the ladies,” he ordered.
“Ladies!” The man sneered at a couple of members of the world’s oldest profession coming up behind.
In Max’s opinion the whores were showing a great deal more refinement than this young idiot. “You can behave like a man,” he said firmly. “But if you’d rather not I’ll be happy to put you under until it’s your turn to leave.”
The sight of Max’s brandished fist sobered the youth and he took his place quietly in the aisle, even standing aside to let the prostitutes pass.
His area of the house now reduced to order, Max scanned the rest of the place. Several others were organizing their own corners and above he could see most of the boxes empty. Then, on the opposite side of the house, a figure swung down from a second tier box, landed gracefully on his feet and offered a hand to a woman who’d stumbled and fallen in the side aisle.
Somerville. Max had to give the marquess credit for courage. It would have been easy for him to make his exit via the broad corridors and staircases of the upper level.
And all this time, Max had no idea how long, Tessa stood on the stage, keeping up a stream of soothing directives. “Not long now,” she assured the crowd. “More than half the pit is empty. The fire remains backstage. You have time.”
But did they? Max knew a good deal about theatrical fire hazards. The Regent was designed with every modern safety precaution, but the Tavistock was old. He could almost imagine he felt the heat under the floor and flames bursting through at any moment. And every time he looked back at Tessa, terror clutched his chest. More and more smoke billowed under the scenery. She didn’t have much longer until the fire reached her.
Glimpsing a passage to the stage over the seats, mostly empty now, he leaped up, bounding from bench to bench towards the stage where Tessa stood, an incongruous vision in red and diamonds, lit by a pair of footlights amid growing darkness. Her beautiful voice continued to roll out words of calm and encouragement into the emptying chamber.
Then the golden tones faded into a fit of coughing as the backdrop burst into flames.
*
Tessa doubled over, hands pressed to her mouth, and found a swirling haze of black smoke masking her feet. A blast of heat struck her back and terror seized her, her escape plan vaporized from her mind.
I’m going to die, she thought. I’m going to burn like Joan of Arc. A sob racked her grated throat. Stiff as a gouty old man, she straightened her back and looked upward. The flies were on fire. A burning beam swung loose from its ropes and descended, slow as the stateliest largo.
Paralyzed, unable to move an inch, she didn’t want to see the instrument of her demise. Saying a silent last prayer, she peered into the auditorium. If only everyone had escaped … Then a figure appeared through the smoke, a dark angel come to take her to death.
*
A fiery beam was falling right over Tessa as Max crashed through the instruments of the orchestra.
“Jump, Tessa!” he cried. But she didn’t hear, or move.
Kicking aside everything in his path, he stepped onto the tight vellum membrane of a timpanum and seized her around the legs. She slumped over his shoulder and he staggered backward until he lost his balance, landing with a mouthful of velvet and his back against something sharp.
An incoherent croak emerged from her throat and somehow she managed to get her arms about his neck.
The stage had turned into an inferno as burning beams and rolled backcloths rained from the flies. The main curtains and the old wooden proscenium arch were fully engaged by flames.
“Come, we need to move,” he urged, trying to loosen Tessa’s death grip. “Come on, love, it’s time to go.”
Terrified beyond reason or movement, she refused to be dislodged, clinging and moaning through bouts of coughing. Murmuring words of reassurance, he pushed away her weight, struggled to his feet and helped her up.
“Up you go,” he coaxed, lifting her over the low orchestra wall and scooping up the train of her gown as he followed. “Can you run?” He snatched her hand, dragged her to the aisle and back towards the exit. If any lights remained, they did nothing to pierce the black smoke that filled the chamber. He ran blind, on instinct alone, knowing only that he had to keep hold of Tessa or lose her in the impenetrable darkness. His lungs burned but he dared not stop. He closed his mouth tight and clenched his nostrils against the invading fumes. Time enough to breathe when they reached clear air.
Her hand slipped from his grasp and he sensed her fall. Heedless of her weight, he hefted her onto his shoulder and staggered on. Mercifully he found the single door out of the auditorium and burst into the lobby.
Still clutching Tessa, he fell to his knees and sucked in welcome gulps of air.
“Is she alive?” Somerville pulled Tess
a’s limp body off his back. Max labored to stand up and pulled her back into his own arms.
“Tessa,” he croaked. “Tessa. Wake up, love, wake up.” He feared his heart would stop.
Her head lolled on his shoulder but she opened her eyes, glazed with fear, and managed a nod. Max had never felt such exquisite relief in his life.
“Did everyone get out?” he asked.
“Yes, thanks to her,” replied the marquess. “Without her the theater would never have been safely cleared. We’re the last. I came back to find you. Now let’s go.”
Frightened people thronged the street. Several fire engines had arrived on the scene, but none of the water pumps were yet working and there seemed to be an argument going on among the firemen.
“Why aren’t they doing anything?” Max asked.
Somerville looked grim. “It seems the theater management failed to make payments to the fire insurance company. They are only agreeing to work at the insistence of owners of the neighboring buildings.”
A loud bang drowned his words and a column of fire erupted from the roof of the theater, reaching high into the sky and lighting the street as though it were noon.
“I don’t think it matters,” Max said. “Nothing can save it now.”
*
Tessa stood within the circle of Max’s arm, her head against his chest, the steady beat of his heart assuring her that she was, miraculously, alive. Beyond rational thought or independent movement, she’d been half-carried out of the lobby. Aroused from her state of shock by the noise and glare, she tried to speak.
“S…” Not a sound emerged. She followed Max’s gaze to the conflagration in the sky. No one left in the theater could possibly survive.
Secrets of a Soprano Page 17
