The Storm Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  Yours with admiration,

  Lars

  P.S. I enclose one of my poems, which I recently sent, along with others, to a publisher called Scribner in New York City, America. I have translated it back into Norwegian for you.

  Anna read the poem, titled ‘Ode on a Silver Birch’. As she had no idea what an ‘ode’ was, she skimmed through it briefly, not recognising many of the big words, then put it by the side of her plate to continue her breakfast. She wished her life was as exciting as Lars imagined it to be. So far, she had only been twice to the Christiania Theatre: once to perform for Herr Josephson just before Christmas, when it had been agreed that she should indeed sing the role of Solveig, and then again last week, when the actors had attempted their first run-through onstage so Anna could watch from the wings in order to understand the play.

  Having laboured under the misconception that such a grand place as a theatre would be heated, Anna had spent the day sitting on a stool in the draughty wings, freezing half to death. They’d only managed to get through the first three acts before there had been a crisis. Henrik Klausen, the actor playing Peer, had tripped over the length of blue fabric under which ten little boys knelt and moved their bodies to give the impression of Peer crossing a stormy sea. He’d sprained his ankle severely and as there was no play without the lead character, rehearsals had been suspended.

  Subsequently, Anna had caught a dreadful chill and had been in bed for the past four days, with Herr Bayer clucking like an old mother hen over her croaky voice.

  ‘And with only a week to go!’ he’d groaned to her. ‘The timing really could not be any worse. You must take as much honey as you can bear, young lady. Let us hope it can help repair your vocal cords in time.’

  Earlier this morning, she had tentatively sung a few scales after the obligatory dose of honey – she felt she might sprout wings and that yellow and brown stripes would appear on her body after the amount she had swallowed – and Herr Bayer had looked relieved.

  ‘Thank the Lord, your voice is returning. Madame Thora Hansson, the actress playing Solveig, will be arriving shortly so that the two of you can work together on the timing for her to mime to your singing. It is a great honour that she has agreed to come here to the apartment, as you are currently indisposed. As you know, she is one of the most famous actresses in Norway, and reputed to be Herr Ibsen’s favourite,’ Herr Bayer had added.

  At half past ten, Thora Hansson swept into the apartment in her beautiful fur-lined velvet cloak. She entered the drawing room in a haze of strong French perfume, where Anna was waiting nervously for her.

  ‘Kjære, excuse me if I do not approach you, for even though Herr Bayer tells me you are no longer infectious, I cannot afford to catch your ailment.’

  ‘Of course, Madame Hansson,’ Anna said demurely as she dipped a curtsey to her.

  At least I will not be using my voice this morning,’ she smiled. ‘For it is you who will be providing the heavenly sound. I will merely open and close my mouth and put my efforts into the visual portrayal of Herr Grieg’s beautiful songs.’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  As Herr Bayer entered and began fussing around Madame Hansson, Anna studied the actress. At the theatre, she’d only glimpsed her from a distance and had presumed she was quite old. Yet close up, she could see that Madame Hansson was actually young, perhaps only a few years older than herself. She was very beautiful, with fine features and a head of thick dark brown hair. Anna struggled to believe that even in traditional costume, this sophisticated young woman could convince an audience she was a simple peasant girl from the hills.

  A peasant girl like herself . . .

  ‘Right, shall we begin? Anna, poco a poco,’ Herr Bayer advised. ‘We do not want to strain your voice during its recovery. So, if you are ready, Madame Hansson, we will start with “Solveig’s Song” then move on to “The Cradle Song”.’

  For the rest of the morning, the two women practised what was in essence a duet, albeit with one of the singers mute. At various points, Anna could sense the actress’s frustration if she opened her mouth at the wrong time and Anna’s voice came in a beat later. Madame Hansson suggested that Anna leave the room so that Herr Bayer could get a feeling for whether the audience could truly believe it was her singing. Standing in the draughty corridor, with her head thumping and her throat now sore again from singing, Anna had begun to loathe the songs. She had to adhere exactly to the same length of notes and pauses so that Madame Hansson knew exactly when to open and close her own mouth. Part of what she normally enjoyed about singing was interpreting a song differently to her listeners each time, be they people, or just cows. Which in retrospect, seemed far preferable to singing, as she was at present, to a door.

  Eventually, Herr Bayer clapped his hands. ‘Perfect! I think we have it. Well done, Madame Hansson. Please, Anna, come back in.’

  Anna did so, and Madame Hansson turned to her and smiled.

  ‘I think it will work admirably. Just promise me that you will sing identically each night, won’t you, my dear?’

  ‘Of course, Madame Hansson.’

  ‘Anna, you look quite pale. I think the morning’s exertions have worn you out. I will tell Frøken Olsdatter that you will take a short rest and she will bring you luncheon in your room and some more honey to soothe your voice.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Bayer,’ she said obediently.

  ‘Thank you, Anna, and no doubt we will see each other at the theatre in the next few days.’ Madame Hansson smiled sweetly at her and Anna bobbed another curtsey before retiring to her bedroom.

  Apartment 4,

  10 St Olav’s Gate

  Christiania

  23rd February 1876

  Kjære Lars, Mor, Far and Knut,

  I write in haste for today is the dress rehearsal and tomorrow is the opening night of Peer Gynt. I dearly wish that you could all be there for the occasion, but I do understand that the cost makes a visit impossible.

  I am excited but a little nervous as well. Herr Bayer has shown me that all the newspapers are filled with stories about tomorrow, and there have even been rumours that the King and Queen will be in attendance in the Royal Box. (I personally doubt this – they live in Sweden, which even for the royal family would be a long way to travel just to see a play, but that is how the gossip goes here.) Inside the theatre the atmosphere is tense. Herr Josephson, the director, believes it will be a disaster as we are yet to run through the whole play without having to stop for hours while some technical problem is sorted out. And Herr Hennum, the conductor, whom I like very much and who has always seemed calm before, shouts endlessly at his orchestra for not counting the beats.

  Would you believe that I am yet to sing ‘The Cradle Song’ in the theatre itself because we still have not managed to get to the end of the play? Herr Hennum has assured me that it will definitely happen today.

  Meanwile, I spend my time with the children who have been employed to play small characters, such as trolls and the like. When I was first directed to their dressing room, I felt insulted, because the other ladies of the chorus are in another. Perhaps they do not realise how old I am? But now I am glad of it because the children make me laugh and we play card games together to pass the time.

  I can write no more now for I must leave for the theatre, but I should inform you, to what I know will be your great sadness, Lars, that Herr Ibsen has not yet appeared.

  I send my love from Christiania to you all.

  Anna

  As she left the apartment to go to the theatre, Anna placed the letter on the silver salver in the hall.

  The dress rehearsal had been running for almost four hours and Jens was tired, cold and irritable, as were the rest of the orchestra. The tension in the pit had risen to a crescendo over the past few days. More than once, Herr Hennum had shouted at him to pay attention, which Jens felt was unfair, given that Simen, the elderly first violinist who sat next to him, seemed to be permanently dozing. He imagined that he mu
st be the only member of the orchestra below the age of fifty. However, the musicians were a friendly bunch, and he enjoyed their droll camaraderie.

  So far, he’d managed to turn up on time every day, albeit with the occasional bad hangover. But as that seemed to be the case for the rest of the orchestra as well, Jens felt he fitted in perfectly. And of course, there were the lovely ladies of the chorus to admire on the stage during one of the interminable pauses while Herr Josephson arranged the actors to his liking.

  After he had been offered his position in the orchestra, his mother’s unbridled delight had almost brought him to tears.

  ‘But what will we say to Far?’ he’d asked her. ‘You know that I must miss my lectures at the university in order to attend rehearsals.’

  ‘I think it best that, for now, he is unaware of your sudden . . . change of direction. We will let him believe you are still attending the university. He will be none the wiser in the short term, I’m sure.’

  In other words, Jens had surmised, his mother was too scared to tell him.

  It hardly mattered now, he thought, as he tuned his violin, because if his resolve not to join the brewery was strong before, now it was unbreakable. Despite the long hours, the cold, and Hennum’s often scathing comments, Jens knew for certain that the joy he’d once had in his music had returned to him. Herr Grieg’s score contained a wealth of evocative passages, from the lively ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’ to ‘Anitra’s Dance’, during which Jens only had to close his eyes to mentally conjure up the exoticism of Morocco as he played the notes on his violin.

  Yet still, his favourite passage was ‘Morning Mood’ at the beginning of Act IV. It formed the musical backdrop to the part of the play when Peer wakes at dawn in Africa, suffering from a hangover and knowing he’s lost everything. Then Peer’s thoughts turn to Norway, his homeland, and the sun rising over the Norwegian fjords. Jens never tired of playing it.

  At present, both he and the other flautist, who was perhaps three times his age, were taking turns to play the haunting notes of the first four bars. As Hennum appeared in the pit and tapped his baton to gain their attention, Jens realised he wanted to be the one who played them on the opening night more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.

  ‘So, we commence Act IV,’ the conductor announced, the break between acts having taken over an hour so far. ‘Bjarte Frafjord, you will play first flute this morning. Five minutes, please,’ Hennum added, as he went off to consult with Herr Josephson, the director, before they began.

  A wave of disappointment swept over Jens. If Bjarte was playing the first flute part at the dress rehearsal, then the chances were that Hennum would want him to play it tomorrow on opening night too.

  A few minutes later, Henrik Klausen, who was playing the title role of Peer Gynt, arrived to take his place hanging over the edge of the orchestra pit, from where he would pretend to vomit on the musicians, as his character recovered from the hangover he was supposed to be suffering.

  ‘How are you all tonight, boys?’ Henrik called down affably to the musicians below him.

  There was a general murmuring as Hennum reappeared and took up his baton. ‘Herr Josephson has promised me that we can run through Act IV with minimal interruption, so that we can finally get to Act V. Everybody ready?’

  Hennum raised his baton and the sound of Bjarte’s flute drifted up from the pit. He really isn’t as good as me, Jens thought sulkily as he tucked his violin under his chin and prepared to play.

  An hour later, apart from one minor hitch that seemed to have been quickly sorted out, they were nearing the end of Act IV. Jens glanced up at Madame Hansson, who was playing the part of Solveig. Even in her peasant costume, Jens could see she was extremely attractive and hoped he’d get a chance to make her acquaintance at the after-show party tomorrow evening.

  He hastily refocused himself as Herr Hennum lifted his baton once more and the violinists launched into the first poignant bars of ‘Solveig’s Song’. Jens listened as Madame Hansson began to sing. It was a voice so pure, so perfect and evocative, that Jens found himself mentally disappearing off to the hillside hut in which Solveig and her sorrow resided. He’d had no idea that Madame Hansson could sing like this. It was one of the most glorious female voices he’d ever heard. It seemed to symbolise fresh air, youth, yet also the pain of lost hopes and dreams . . .

  So enraptured was he that he earned a hard stare from Hennum when he came in a beat too late. When they finally reached the end of the play and the achingly sad notes of ‘The Cradle Song’ – sung by Solveig as the returned and chastened Peer rests his weary head in her lap – reverberated around the auditorium, Jens felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise at the sheer perfection of Madame Hansson’s rendition. As the curtain fell a few minutes later, there was spontaneous applause from the assortment of theatre staff who had gathered to watch and listen.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Jens said to Simen, who was already packing his violin away, ready to move swiftly out of the pit and across the road to the Engebret Café before last orders. ‘I didn’t know Madame Hansson had such a beautiful voice.’

  ‘The Lord bless you, Jens! What we just heard is indeed a beautiful voice, as you say, but it does not belong to Madame Hansson. Couldn’t you see that she was miming? The woman can’t sing a note, so they had to bring in the voice of another to give the impression that she can. I’m sure Herr Josephson will be pleased that his illusion has succeeded.’ Simen chuckled and patted Jens on his shoulder as he left the pit.

  ‘Who is she?’ he called to Simen’s departing back as he disappeared under the stage.

  ‘I think that’s rather the point,’ came the reply over Simen’s shoulder. ‘She is a ghost voice and no one has any idea.’

  The owner of the voice that had so moved Jens Halvorsen was currently sitting in a carriage being driven home to Herr Bayer’s apartment. Feeling conspicuous in the national costume that he’d said she should wear for her ‘performances’ so that she looked like the other ladies of the chorus who were clad in the same, she was glad to be alone for the journey home. It had been another long, exhausting day and she was grateful when Frøken Olsdatter opened the door to her and took her cloak.

  ‘You must be very tired, Anna kjære. But tell me, how do you think you sang?’ she asked as she gently ushered her charge towards her bedroom.

  ‘I really don’t know. When the curtain came down, I did as Herr Bayer told me: went to the stage door and got straight into the carriage. And here I am,’ she sighed as she let Frøken Olsdatter help her undress and get into bed.

  ‘Herr Bayer says you are allowed to sleep in tomorrow morning. He wants you and your voice to be fresh for the opening night. Now, your hot milk and honey is there on the nightstand.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Anna picked up the glass gratefully.

  ‘Goodnight, Anna.’

  ‘Goodnight, Frøken Olsdatter, and thank you.’

  Johan Hennum appeared in the pit and clapped his orchestra to attention. ‘So, everyone is ready?’

  The conductor looked down at his orchestra fondly, and Jens mused how different the atmosphere in the theatre was compared to this time yesterday. Not only was the orchestra in full evening dress rather than their usual motley collection of street clothes, but the first-night audience, buzzing with expectation, had entered and taken their seats in the auditorium. The women unwrapped their furs to reveal an array of stunning gowns adorned with sumptuous jewellery, which sparkled in the soft glow of the ornate chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Hennum continued, ‘tonight we are all honoured to be taking our place in history. Even though Herr Grieg cannot be present, we intend to make him proud. And to give his wonderful music the rendition it deserves. I’m sure that one day you will all tell your grandchildren you were part of this. And Herr Halvorsen, tonight you will play the first flute part in ‘Morning Mood’. Right, if we are all ready . . .’

&n
bsp; The conductor stood up on his plinth to indicate to the audience that the performance was about to begin. There was a sudden hushed silence, as if the entire auditorium was holding its breath. And in that moment, Jens sent up a prayer of gratitude that his most fervent wish had been granted.

  No one waiting backstage during the performance knew quite what the audience was thinking. Anna walked slowly to the wings to perform her first song, accompanied by Rude, one of the young boys who performed in the crowd scenes.

  ‘You can hear a pin drop out there, Frøken Anna. I’ve watched the audience from a hidden spot in the wings, and I think they like it.’

  Anna took her position at the side of the stage, hidden by the flats of scenery, but placed so that she could still see Madame Hansson, and she felt suddenly frozen with fear. Even if she couldn’t be seen and her name had only been put in the programme under the long list of ‘Chorus’, she knew that somewhere out there, Herr Bayer was listening. As was every important person in Christiania.

  She felt Rude’s small hand squeeze hers. ‘Don’t worry, Frøken Anna, we all think you sing beautifully.’

  He left her alone then, and Anna stood watching Madame Hansson and listening carefully for her cue. As the orchestra played the first bars of ‘Solveig’s Song’, Anna took a deep breath. And thinking of Rosa and her family back in Heddal, she let her voice soar.

  Forty minutes later, as the final curtain fell, Anna was standing in the wings once more, having just sung ‘The Cradle Song’. There was a stunned silence from the audience as the rest of the cast assembled onstage for the curtain call. Anna had not been asked to take a bow, so she remained where she was. Then, as the curtain rose again to reveal the cast, she was almost deafened by the sudden tumultuous applause. People were stamping their feet and shouting for an encore.