The Storm Sister

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘Sing “Solveig’s Song” again, Madame Hansson!’ she heard someone shout, a request which the actress graciously refused with a shake of her head and an elegant wave of her hand. Finally, after Herr Josephson had appeared onstage to pass on apologies from both Ibsen and Grieg for their absences, and the last bow had been taken, the curtain came down for good and the cast began filing off the stage. Everyone ignored Anna as they walked past her, full of adrenaline and chattering excitedly about what seemed to have been a resounding success after so many weeks of work.

  Anna went back to her dressing room to collect her cloak and said goodnight to the children, whose proud mothers were helping them change out of their costumes. Herr Bayer had said the carriage would be waiting for her outside and she must leave directly after the performance. As she made her way down the corridor towards the exit, she bumped into Herr Josephson as he emerged from Madame Hansson’s dressing room.

  ‘Anna, you sang quite beautifully. I doubt there was a dry eye in the house. Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Josephson.’

  ‘Safe journey home,’ he added with a nod and a small bow before turning away from her to knock on Henrik Klausen’s dressing room door.

  Anna walked to the stage door and reluctantly left the theatre.

  ‘So, who is the girl who sings “Solveig’s Song”?’ asked Jens, scanning the crowd in the foyer. ‘Is she here?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen her,’ commented Isaac the cellist, who was already the worse for wear. ‘She has the voice of an angel, but may look like a hag for all we know.’

  Determined to find out, Jens cornered the conductor.

  ‘Well done, my boy,’ Hennum said as he clapped him on the shoulder, clearly in a euphoric mood after the success of the evening. ‘I’m glad my faith in you was not misplaced. You could go a long way, with some practice and experience.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. Pray tell me, who is the mystery girl who sang the words of Solveig so beautifully tonight? Is she here?’

  ‘You mean Anna? She’s our real-life Solveig from the hills. I’d doubt she has stayed behind for the party, though. She’s Franz Bayer’s ward and protégée; very young and not used to the city. He keeps a tight rein on her, so my guess is that your Cinderella has scurried home before the clock strikes midnight.’

  ‘It is a shame, as I wished to tell her how her voice moved me. Also,’ Jens continued, seizing the opportunity, ‘I am a great admirer of Madame Hansson. Is it possible that you can introduce me so I can compliment her on her performance tonight?’

  ‘Of course,’ Herr Hennum agreed. ‘I’m sure she’d be delighted to make your acquaintance. Follow me.’

  18

  The next morning, ‘Cinderella’ was sitting opposite Herr Bayer in the drawing room. They were drinking coffee as he looked through the review of last night’s performance in Dagbladet, reading out any titbits he thought she might enjoy.

  ‘Madame Hansson proves a delight as the long-suffering peasant girl Solveig, and her pure, sweet voice was extremely pleasing to the ear.’

  ‘There.’ He looked up at her. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’

  If it was her name written in the newspapers this morning, Anna thought, and her voice whose virtues they were extolling, she would indeed think a lot of it. But as this wasn’t the case, she didn’t think much of it at all.

  ‘I am glad that they like the play and my voice,’ she managed.

  ‘Of course, it is the musical score by Herr Grieg the critics found particularly inspiring. His interpretation of Herr Ibsen’s wonderful poem was simply sublime. So, Anna, as there is no performance today, you will take a well-deserved rest. My dear young lady, you should be most proud of yourself. You could not have sung more beautifully. Sadly, this is not a day of rest for me and I must be off to the university.’ He stood up and walked towards the door. ‘When I return tonight, we will celebrate our success over dinner. Good day to you.’

  Once Herr Bayer had left, Anna finished her now lukewarm coffee, feeling deflated and strangely irritated. It was as if everything for the past few months had been leading up to last night. And now that it was over, nothing had changed. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to change, but she couldn’t help feeling that something should have done.

  Had Herr Bayer known about the need for a ‘ghost’ singer when he had found her in the mountains last summer, Anna wondered? And was that the reason why he had brought her to the city? She was fully aware that everyone at the theatre wished her to be invisible so that her voice could be attributed to Madame Hansson.

  Picking up one of the newspapers, she stabbed her finger at the mention of the actress’s ‘pure’ voice.

  ‘It’s my voice!’ she cried. ‘Mine . . .’

  Perhaps from the sheer build-up of pressure that had been released last night, like a cork popped from a bottle of Herr Bayer’s French champagne, she threw herself onto the sofa and wept.

  ‘Whatever is wrong Anna, kjære?’

  Anna looked up, her face wet with tears, and saw that Frøken Olsdatter had entered the room unannounced.

  ‘Nothing,’ she muttered, hastily drying her eyes.

  ‘Perhaps you are exhausted and overwhelmed by last night. And still recovering from your chill.’

  ‘No, no . . . I am perfectly well, thank you,’ Anna said firmly.

  ‘Perhaps you are missing your family?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am. And the fresh air of the country. I . . . think I want to go back home to Heddal,’ she whispered.

  ‘There, there my dear. I understand. It is always the same for those of us who come from the country to the city. And the life you lead is a lonely one.’

  ‘Do you miss your family?’ Anna asked her.

  ‘Not any longer, because I have grown used to it, but to begin with, I was very unhappy. My first employer was a mean-spirited woman who treated me and the other maids worse than her dogs. Twice I ran away, but I was found and brought back. Then I met Herr Bayer when he came to dinner at my mistress’s house. Perhaps he sensed my misery, or maybe he genuinely required a housekeeper, but whatever the reason, he offered me a position that very evening. My employer didn’t make a fuss. I think she was glad to be rid of me. And so Herr Bayer brought me here. For all his eccentricity, Anna, you should rest assured that he is a good and kind man.’

  ‘I know,’ said Anna, feeling even more guilty that she’d been feeling sorry for herself, when Frøken Olsdatter’s life had been so much more difficult than her own.

  ‘If it helps put your mind at rest, I can tell you I have seen a number of Herr Bayer’s protégées walk through the front door during my years in his service. But I have never seen him as excited as he is by your talent. He told me himself last night that everyone had been in raptures about your singing.’

  ‘But almost nobody knows it’s me,’ Anna said in a small voice.

  ‘Not at present, no, but you must believe that one day they will. You are very young, kjære, and are lucky to have been part of such an auspicious production. The most important people in Christiania have heard you sing. Be patient, and trust in the Lord to guide your fate. Now, I am late for the market. Will you come with me to get some air?’

  ‘Yes, I would love to,’ Anna replied, rising to her feet. ‘And thank you for being so kind.’

  Not more than two miles away, Jens Halvorsen was also seriously discomfited and pacing his bedroom as he listened to the sound of raised voices coming from the morning room below. The deception that he and his mother had played on his father for the past few weeks had come to an abrupt end over breakfast this morning when his father had read the rapturous review of Peer Gynt in the newspaper. The reviewer had very kindly thought to mention that ‘“Morning Mood” at the beginning of Act IV is, I believe, one of the highlights of Herr Grieg’s musical score, with the enchanting and memorable opening bars played sublimely on the flute by Jens Halvorsen.’

  His father’s expr
ession had resembled a copper kettle forgotten on the stove and left to boil over.

  ‘Why am I only hearing of this now?!’ he had exploded.

  ‘Because I felt it was unimportant for you to know,’ Margarete had answered, and Jens knew she was steeling herself for a dreadful scene.

  ‘You think this is “unimportant”?! I, a father who believes his son is studying hard at the university, discovers through a newspaper that he is moonlighting as a member of the Christiania orchestra! It is no less than an outrage!’

  ‘He has missed little of his studies, I promise, Jonas.’

  ‘Then please explain why the eminent critic goes on to describe how “Herr Johan Hennum, conductor of the Christiania orchestra, has spent many months gathering together, and then rehearsing with, his musicians in order to do justice to Herr Grieg’s complex orchestrations.” Do you seriously expect me to believe that our son, who is actually named in this very newspaper, merely learnt this music on a whim overnight? Good God!’ Jonas shook his head vehemently. ‘The pair of you must think that I’m an idiot from the hills. It would serve you both to refrain from treating me as such any longer.’

  Margarete had then turned to Jens. ‘I know you have some studying to do. I suggest you go and continue with it.’

  ‘Yes, Mor.’ With a mixture of guilt for leaving his mother to deal with his father’s wrath and relief that he didn’t have to face it himself, Jens had nodded at both of them and done as he’d been told.

  Now as he paced his room, listening to his father still roaring at his mother, Jens decided that perhaps the newspaper incident was serendipitous: his father was bound to have learnt of his extra-curricular activities eventually. Part of him was sad that Jonas couldn’t celebrate the fact that his son had been singled out for such praise, but he understood. Musicians in Christiania had no social status and a limited income. There was nothing for his father to admire in his pursuit of it as a career. Let alone in the thought of his son not taking his rightful place at the head of the Halvorsen Brewing Company.

  Besides, Jens felt far too happy to let his father bring him down. He’d found his future in the orchestra and finally felt fulfilled. With the camaraderie of the other musicians, their humour and consummate drinking skills as they gathered at the Engebret Café after the performance each night, it was a world in which Jens felt totally comfortable. Not to mention the noticeably relaxed attitude of the young ladies in the play . . .

  Last night, Herr Hennum had done as Jens had asked and introduced him to Madame Hansson. When the first-night celebrations were at an end, he’d noticed her eyes upon him and had subsequently offered to see her home safely to her apartment. It had been a pleasant interlude indeed – Thora was both experienced and eager and Jens had not left her bed until an icy dawn had broken. Tomorrow, he’d have to finesse the situation with Hilde Omvik, a pretty chorus girl who he had been seeing. It wouldn’t do at all for Madame Hansson to hear gossip about his behaviour around the theatre. And after all, Hilde was due to be married in a week’s time . . .

  There was a knock on his door and he answered it immediately.

  ‘Jens, I have done all I can, but your father would like to see you. Now.’ His mother looked pale, her features strained.

  ‘Thank you, Mor.’

  ‘We will talk further when he has left for the brewery.’

  She patted him on the shoulder, and Jens made his way downstairs to be informed by Dora that his father was waiting for him in the drawing room.

  He sighed, knowing that anything serious which took place in the Halvorsen household happened in the drawing room. It was as cold and austere as his father. He opened the door and walked in. As usual, there was no fire in the grate, and a stark white light reflected from the snow heaped up outside streamed in through the large windows.

  His father was standing by one of the windows and turned as Jens entered the room. ‘Sit down.’ He indicated a chair. Jens did so, trying to arrange his own face to display a suitable mix of apology and defiance.

  ‘Firstly,’ Jonas began, seating himself opposite his son in a large leather wing-backed chair, ‘I want to tell you that I don’t blame you. This is all your mother’s fault for encouraging you in this ridiculous notion. However, Jens, you are of age in July and will become an adult who must make his own decisions. And you must decide to no longer be held in your mother’s thrall.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘The situation is as it has always been,’ Jonas continued. ‘You will join me at the brewery when you have finished your studies this summer. We will work together and one day, the company will be yours. You will be the fifth generation of Halvorsens to run the business that my great-great-grandfather began. Your mother insists that your studies have remained undisturbed by your performances in the orchestra, although personally I doubt that. What do you say, young man?’

  ‘My mother is correct. I have missed very few lectures,’ Jens lied smoothly.

  ‘Even though I wish I could do it, I am aware it would do our family reputation no good at all to pull you out of the orchestra pit now, having made the commitment to Herr Hennum. So, it seems it is a fait accompli. Your mother and I have agreed that you must be allowed to continue until the run of Peer Gynt ends next month. During that time, I hope you will fully accept where your future lies.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Jens watched as his father paused and cracked his knuckles, a habit that irritated him beyond measure.

  ‘So, there we are. Once this . . . novelty is over, I warn you, it will be the last time I will tolerate such behaviour. Unless you wish to continue a career as a professional musician, in which case I’d have no choice but to cut you off without an øre and have you leave this house immediately. The Halvorsen men have not worked for over one hundred and fifty years to watch our sole heir fritter away their legacy playing the fiddle.’

  Jens was determined not to give his father the pleasure of seeing the shock register on his face. ‘Yes, sir, I understand.’

  ‘So then, I will be off to the brewery. I’m already over an hour late, and I must always set an example to my employees, as you must too when you join me. Good day to you, Jens.’

  His father nodded at him and left, leaving Jens alone to think over his future. Feeling he couldn’t face his mother, or, in fact, anybody at all, he collected his skates from the hallway, put on his fur jacket, hat and gloves and left the house to blow off some steam.

  Apartment 4

  10 St Olav’s Gate

  Christiania

  10th March 1876

  Kjære Lars, Mor, Far and Knut,

  Thank you for your last letter and for saying that my spelling is better. I don’t think it is, but I am trying hard. It is two weeks now since Peer Gynt opened on the stage (although I didn’t stand on it) at the Christiania Theatre. Herr Bayer tells me the whole city is talking about it and the ‘house’, as everyone calls the auditorium, is sold out for the whole time. They are talking of putting on more performances now because of the demand.

  Life goes on as normal here, apart from the fact that Herr Bayer is having me learn some Italian arias, which I find very difficult. Once a week, I have a professional opera singer called Günther come in to teach me. He is German and his accent makes it hard to understand a word he says. Also, he smells of unwashed clothes and he takes snuff all the time, which often dribbles out of his nose and lands in a puddle on his top lip. He is very old and thin, and I feel quite sorry for him.

  When the run of Peer Gynt comes to an end, I am not sure what I will do, other than what I always do every day here, which is learn to sing better and stay inside and eat fish. The theatre’s season starts after Easter and there is talk of doing Peer Gynt again in the future. You will be pleased to hear that Herr Ibsen is rumoured to be coming from Italy to see the performance. I will let you know if he does.

  Please thank Mor for the new vests she knitted me. They are useful in this long winter. I look forward to warmer weather and I
hope I can come home soon.

  Anna

  Anna folded the letter and sealed it with a sigh. She supposed her family was waiting avidly to hear gossip from the theatre, but she had none to offer. Closeted in the apartment day after day and hurried from the theatre at night, she was running out of new things to write.

  She walked to the window and glanced up at the sky, seeing that it was still light at four o’clock in the afternoon. Spring was finally on its way, and after that would come summer . . . Anna put her forehead against the cool pane that separated her from fresh air. The thought of spending the warmer months shut away in here instead of up in the mountains with Rosa was almost too much to bear.

  Rude arrived promptly in the orchestra pit for his nightly mission.

  ‘Hello, Rude, how are you tonight?’ Jens asked him.

  ‘I am well, sir. Do you have a note or a message for me to deliver?’

  ‘Indeed I do. Here.’ He bent down so he could whisper in the boy’s ear. ‘Deliver this to Madame Hansson.’ Jens pressed a coin and a letter into his small and eager hand.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I will, sir.’

  ‘Very good,’ Jens said as Rude made to leave. ‘Oh, by the way, who was that young lady I saw you leaving the stage door with last night as I passed by? Have you a girlfriend?’ he teased his messenger.

  ‘She may be the same height as me, but she’s eighteen, sir. And far too old for me at the age of twelve,’ Rude replied seriously. ‘It was Anna Landvik. She’s in the play.’