The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

Lady Elaina swept into the room, her indignation apparent. “So you've read it.” Unlike Nicolette, Lady Elaina was already dressed, her auburn hair arranged in an elegant coiffure atop her head, her aquamarine eyes blazing.

  Nicolette opened her mouth but could find no words. Possibly she had lost her voice forever.

  “Don't believe a word of it, Nicolette.” Lady Elaina needed no encouragement to address the unspoken disaster. “I was there, and your performance was stupendous. I don't know when I was ever so impressed.”

  Lady Elaina glanced at the tray and moved to pour a cup of tea. She commanded, “Drink this.”

  Nicolette shook her head.

  “I command you to drink! Take a morsel of toast! You need sustenance.”

  Nicolette somehow managed to bring the teacup to her lips, her hands shaking. The warm fluid trickling down her throat bringing her somewhat out of her stupor.

  Lady Elaina paced the room with the energy and appearance of a much younger woman, wearing a gown of pale gray crepe de chine with a sheer chiffon overlay of embroidered dots in silver thread.

  Nicolette glanced at the newspaper before her eyes, still not believing the black and white characters which danced before her, mocking her.

  “This is absolute rubbish!” Lady Elaina seized the newspaper from Nicolette's limp hands and in an agitated motion swatted the bed with it. “You are the greatest coloratura soprano I’ve ever heard. You can perform feats with your voice which put even the celebrated sopranos to the pale.”

  “I gave everything to the audience, Grandmamma, everything.” Nicolette didn't know if she said the words or only thought them. Moving slowly in a daze, she set down her teacup and placed herself into an eighteenth-century Venetian fainting couch where she sat stunned. She stared at the winding designs of an Aubusson tapestry rug at her feet and wondered if she might faint from dizziness.

  “Believe me, I know. It was the performance of a lifetime.”

  “And this is what becomes of it. I can't give any more.” Nicolette shook her head in disbelief.

  “No one has ever prepared for a role as you prepared for this one. Before beginning the study of the part, did you not go to Spain for several weeks and mingle with the people, learning the Spanish dances?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, feeling a headache coming on. Large mirrors on her walls made the room appear much larger than it was, and the myriad reflections of light seemed to be laughing at her, just as the entire world was. “I was captivated with the factory cigarette girls and I patterned my characterization of Carmen after them.”

  “Your rendition of Carmen positively vibrated with sensuality. The role took on a life of its own.” Lady Elaina sat down beside her, patting her hand. “That is the problem.”

  “What…was the problem?” Nicolette gasped, afraid to hear the answer.

  “It became too real.” Lady Elaina opened the newspaper she clutched with a crisp *pop* and began searching with her eyes.

  “Is that not the goal of theatre? Of opera?”

  “Ah. Renault, one of the most respected critics in the business, writes, If ever a more lewd and licentious interpretation was given, it is difficult to picture,” Lady Elaina read aloud, her voice shaking. “The part calls for a woman who has power over men. But this performance by Mademoiselle Nicolette Genevieve made a mockery of the soprano's role. It made one blush to see it. I hope I shall never see the likes of it again.”

  “Stop, Grandmamma! Stop!” Nicolette gasped, tearing the newspaper from her grandmother's hands. Unable to keep from scanning the paper, her eyes alighted upon a picture of her kissing Caruso. She commenced reading aloud where Lady Elaina had left off. “Enrico Caruso was excessively theatrical as well; his exaggerated Italian pretensions overshadowing the part.”

  Nicolette continued reading the next review out loud. “Armand LeStrange writes, Mademoiselle Nicolette Genevieve's coloratura singing I found hopelessly overdone. One wonders if one was at a circus performance instead of the opera as she made a spectacle of her voice acrobatics. Worse, her voice is dark and invasive, like a black fog slowly encroaching upon an abandoned cemetery—and equally as disturbing. Her low register is bold and unrefined, almost as powerful as a man's voice. She was well aware of it, too, immodestly utilizing this part of her voice for climactic effect in a way that was both suspenseful and vulgar: maintaining its rich timbre much higher on the scale than do most sopranos. Her voice is amazingly agile, but much too ornate. Enrico Caruso sang magnificently, it is most unfortunate the soprano did not compliment his exceptional ability.” She dropped the newspaper onto the couch, her mouth wide open.

  “Insufferable Man!” Lady Elaina exclaimed.

  “My life is over, Grandmamma. All my dreams destroyed.”

  “Nonsense, child,” Lady Elaina pronounced resolutely. “You must turn it to your advantage. If you do not know how to do so, something is lacking in your education, and that is why this has been given to you. I regret to tell you, Nicolette, this is the first genuine challenge you have ever had in your life: You must rise up to meet it and defeat it.”

  “The first challenge?” Nicolette repeated incredulously. “My entire life has been nothing but challenge. I have hardly known a moment I wasn't working towards this goal each and every waking hour. No! And while I sleep as well.”

  “I can assure you, Nicolette, the rest of the world is privy to pain every day of their lives. Up until now, you have worked very hard, but things have gone well for you. You have been given an enormous talent and every advantage. You were born much more intelligent and gifted than the average person. How many people work equally hard but without the same results? Emily, your maid, is exactly your age. And what are her prospects?” She shook her head. “No, you do not truly know disappointment.”

  “I do now,” Nicolette murmured, tears forming in her eyes. “Never fear on that score.”

  She glanced about her room. Everything is music. A lyre back chair beside her music stand holding the score from Carmen. A pair of bronzedoré sconces over the mantel of a white marble fireplace framed a Parisian scene from Puccini's La Bohéme. A painting of Mozart next to her desk.

  “This is not the time for self-pity. It serves no purpose.” Lady Elaina rose and began pacing again, crossing in front of the marble fireplace before turning to face Nicolette abruptly.

  Nicolette was accustomed to her grandmother's unrelenting pragmatism, but she felt as if those eyes were drilling a hole into her when she least needed to be scrutinized.

  “There is no longer a purpose, Grandmamma. It is over.” She felt herself choking on the words. “If perfect isn’t good enough, there is nothing I can do. Even my assets were used against me.”

  “It most certainly is not over! And I'll thank you never to use such a phrase in my presence again.” Lady Elaina’s expression was defiant. “Having had a protected childhood raised alongside Tibetan monks, some of the purest and most loving people alive, who sought no gain for themselves at the expense of others, you now work in a world replete with jealousy, falsity, thievery, and cruelty. There are those who do not believe they can be successful on their own merit: they must, instead, attempt to make everyone around them appear unfavorable by comparison.”

  “Why do you tell me this, Grandmamma? I have no control over any of this.”

  Lady Elaina smiled smugly. “You must learn to live in this world the rest of us inhabit, my darling.”

  “You sound like the Dalai Lama, Grandmamma, who told me that my suffering is a gift! Can you not see that this is disaster?” Nicolette stared at her beloved grandmother in horror, not believing what she was hearing.

  “Pish-tosh!” Lady Elaina huffed indignantly. “Do not allow such an outcome, Nicolette. Refuse to accept it and a solution will present itself. I would not call this unfortunate turn of events a gift—it is a serious detriment and an injustice—but it must be dealt with nonetheless, and you will be a stronger person for it I guarantee.”

  “I
t is immaterial if I am strong or weak.” Nicolette sobbed. “It only matters that I sing.”

  “It is quite relevant, I assure you. Your own mother was outcasted on the very day of her presentation to society, the day she had been planning for all her life. I see many similarities with your current situation.” Lady Elaina’s lower lip began to tremble as she turned to face Nicolette, her auburn hair catching the morning light. “I never saw anyone so distraught in my life. And yet, reticent, terrified Alita—whom most didn't think had an ounce of backbone in her—set her own course, sailed to Egypt, and rescued not only herself but thousands of others in the bargain.”

  “Yes, I know but…” Nicolette began. “Honestly, all Mama ever wanted was to be at home and to raise a family. She married the earl of Ravensdale and never wished for anything else.”

  “Nicolette Genevieve Stanton! Don't ever let me hear you diminish someone else's dreams and disappointments simply because they are not your own. I assure you Alita's challenges were every bit as great as your own. Possibly greater. As I said, life has spoiled you terribly until now.”

  “I didn't mean…Oh, Grandmamma! Can you not see that I am suffering terribly?” she burst into tears. “That I have already been destroyed? There is no need for you to chime in with my failings. Does this really serve any purpose?”

  Lady Elaina rushed to her granddaughter and put her arm around Nicolette as she sobbed. “There, there, my dear. You shall make it all well, you'll see, probably in half the time it took the rest of us. I merely want you to see you are no different from women who have gone before you and overcome incredible odds.”

  “But, Grandmamma…” she sobbed.

  “It took me six years to overcome my difficulties and to realize my dreams.”

  “Six years?...Oh, what am I saying? I will never be a star now. Six years would be a miracle! It simply cannot happen now.”

  “Don't tell me this is different, my girl. In 1860 I myself was shunned by all when I went into nursing school. Believe me, things are much better for women now than they were then. I know, I helped bring many of those changes about myself.”

  “Yes, it is quite an achievement, Grandmamma, you earned your nursing degree and are now London’s most sought after political hostess.” Nicolette sniffed, forcing herself to gain control of herself, “but opera…”

  “Don't think for a moment, Nicolette, that you are the first to face a trial. Or that the world of music is any more difficult and cutthroat than any other world. Many have gone before you and succeeded. We are original women, all of us, and there will always be setbacks for those who live authentically. But it is only temporary, I assure you.”

  “Many have gone before us and failed as well.” Nicolette fought back tears as she wrung her hands, shaking her head in anguish.

  “True, and if you give up now you will, without a doubt, be among them.”

  “There is no solution, Grandmamma. Singers do not endure if public opinion is not with them. And the critics define public opinion.”

  “Do they now? Public opinion is ever changing with a life of it's own.”

  “Oh, what could I have been thinking, Grandmamma? I thought I could hold to a higher ideal in a profession which depends upon the approval of the public. I wanted so desperately to be true to myself—to the music—and it was just a dream.”

  “You must not despair, Nicolette. You were right to focus on the development of your talent first and foremost. No one does anything great without being disliked by someone. When I went to nursing school, you would have thought it was a personal attack on womankind.”

  “How could anyone possibly object to a woman living according to her ideals and serving society?” Nicolette asked, disgusted, forgetting her own problems for a moment.

  “It was said I was an unfeeling, bitter woman driven by selfish ambition. Women like me would destroy the fabric of the family. When I began working for political reform and universal suffrage, I was either too strong or not strong enough—and the devil's tool, either way.” Lady Elaina shrugged. “Now we can scoff, but it was very painful at the time with far-reaching consequences. I lost everything.”

  “But this isn't like nursing, Grandmamma.” Nicolette's heart was sinking. “This is the stage.”

  “You must be like Caruso, and laugh in the face of cruelty.” Lady Elaina took her by the shoulders. “What was the prank he played on Melba?”

  “Oh, not now, Grandmamma. Now is not the time to reminisce . . .”

  “It was La Traviatta. “ Lady Elaina snapped her fingers. “Now I recall. She . . . “

  “It was in La Bohéme. But I do not see . . . “

  “Ah, yes. And did not Melba play the tender Mimi, delicate and ill, dying in fact?”

  “Yes, oddly enough Melba is made for a role like that. She has the personality of a hornet, but her stage persona and voice are very feminine.”

  “And Caruso played her lover, Rodolfo.”

  “A young, handsome poet without a penny to his name.” Nicolette smiled to herself as she recalled the vivacity and earnestness Caruso brought to the romantic role.

  “Mimi and Rodolfo had just met, and there is a beautiful scene in which Rodolfo takes Mimi's hand and sings Che gelida manina, se la lasci riscaldar. How does that translate into English, precisely?” Lady Elaina asked pointedly, demanding an answer.

  “What a cold little hand, let me warm it,” Nicolette replied softly. Slowly she released her breath, reveling in the memory. “It is very touching. I sang Mimi's part for the Sultan of Constantinople years ago.”

  “Did you indeed?”

  “And to think that the warrior king, the Red Sultan, was an easier audience than London's critics.” Nicolette smiled despite herself, recalling the performance as if she were there. “I never would have imagined so at the time.”

  “It is critical to the scene that Mimi is frail and shy, is it not?” Lady Elaina persisted, ignoring her pity. “In order to make the audience believe in the role?”

  “Which Melba is not!” Nicolette turned abruptly to stare at her grandmother who had a mischievous smile on her face. She could not suppress a giggle despite herself. “The role calls greatly upon Melba's acting ability; she must appear docile and sweet. She must not let her fierceness of character or her drive reveal itself.”

  “And in the midst of this tender scene, what did Caruso do?”

  “Oh, Grandmamma, you know very well what he did. At the moment he sang What a cold little hand, let me warm it, Enrico pressed a hot sausage into her hand which he had hidden in his pocket.”

  Lady Elaina burst into laughter, as if she were hearing the story for the first time. “This called upon every ounce of control Melba had to stay in character.”

  “And Enrico knew it! Melba had shown her anger so many times and so inappropriately in hurting others.”

  “If she had released her anger on this occasion, it would have hurt no one but herself.”

  “No doubt Enrico wished she would. But Grandmamma…” Nicolette giggled at the memory, but a gloom quickly washed over her. “What does that to do with my situation? Am I to press warm sausages into the critics' hands?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” Lady Elaina smiled calmly. “Melba tormented Caruso and everyone in the cast unmercilessly. Did he cry in his bed and resign himself to the persecution? Did he give up?”

  “No, but…”

  “And he has had an almost identical challenge to this.” Lady Elaina shook her finger at Nicolette. “You know very well Caruso was spurned in his own home town of Naples, a man of such enormous talent. Inconceivable.”

  “How that must have pained him,” Nicolette murmured. It suddenly felt very real.

  Lady Elaina picked up the newspaper and opened it again, scanning the columns. “Here's one,” she announced. “Let us read this.”

  “No, I don't think I can endure any more,” gulped Nicolette, her world spinning out of control, feeling the dreams she had devoted h
er life to being crushed.

  Lady Elaina ignored her and began reading. “Stupendous performance, positively enthralling, writes Depardieu. With Nicolette Genevieve and Enrico Caruso in the leading roles, one felt oneself to be in Madrid as they sang. One could not be anywhere else but on the stage with them. This was the performance to bring the house down, the experience of a lifetime. Mademoiselle Genevieve and Monsieur Caruso gave their hearts and souls to this performance which was of the highest caliber. A truly memorable performance with phenomenal voices.”

  “Could one critic make a difference…?” Nicolette experienced a wave of hope, but it was quickly diminished. She fluffed her dressing gown around her involuntarily.

  “Of course it can! People will want to see what all the fuss is about when there is such a variance in the reviews. Proof that you touched the emotions: people loved your performance or hated it. You never want the reaction to be one of indifference.”

  Nicolette raised an eyebrow. “I might, on this occasion.”

  “You see Nicolette, you have one of those voices,” Lady Elaina pronounced. “It disturbs as many people as it thrills. And it awakens them all.”

  “In my profession, unfortunately, one must be liked to be successful,” Nicolette countered hopelessly. As she rose to pace the room, her bishop sleeves opened into gathered frills as she waved her arms about her. She considered her grandmother's words and realized her original assessment had not encompassed the full magnitude of the problem. She moaned, “And not just me. I might damage my father's life’s work as a diplomat. Like me, his profession means everything to him, it is his raison d'etre. He has won great notoriety in facilitating the Entente Cordiale, but he is not untouchable. Reputation is everything in the field of diplomacy.”

  “There can be no doubt about it.”

  “As long as I was to be successful, I did not worry about my father's career—and I never supposed I would be anything else—but if I am made to look ridiculous, it could truly harm him. The association cannot long be hidden.”

  “It is not widely known,” Lady Elaina murmured.