The Champagne Girls

by Tessa Barclay

  Leroux wished she would sit down. He had got up from his afternoon nap to receive her and still felt bemused, and his embonpoint seemed to weigh heavily. But Netta was pacing up and down, so he was forced to remain standing. Such were the rules of etiquette with a young lady of good family. Had she been one of his ordinary pupils, he could have ordered her about.

  ‘Monsieur Leroux, you’ve told me I have a really good voice. Mama says it’s just flattery. Is it only that?’

  He was offended. ‘Mademoiselle, there is no need for me to flatter. I have other pupils among your acquaintance ‒ do I tell them that they sing well?’

  ‘I … No, I don’t think you do. Is it true, then? Do I really have a voice worth training?’

  ‘I no longer have any interest in flattering you since your Mama is no longer paying me fees. You have an exceptional voice. But if you don’t believe me, I can give you an introduction to a teacher whose opinion would be totally above suspicion.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Alfonsini.’

  ‘Alfonsini!’ This was one of the great names in opera. He had dominated the stage for twenty years and then retired when gout became too great a problem. As a teacher, the old singer had a reputation for being severe, difficult, but utterly honest.

  ‘I see you are impressed. As a matter of fact, it has crossed my mind once or twice that it would be good to send you to Ernesto, to see what he thinks. But there seemed little point if you were only taking lessons as a hobby.’

  ‘Would you give me the letter of introduction?’

  ‘Now, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, please, m’sieu. I very much want to know whether it’s worth fighting to go on with my lessons.’

  ‘Very well, Mademoiselle Tramont. Pray be seated. It will take a moment.’

  He went out of the room. When he came back with an envelope, he was smiling. ‘Even if you don’t come back to me for lessons, it’s good to know you feel so strongly … How will you get to Monsieur Alfonsini?’

  ‘I have a cab waiting downstairs.’

  He raised white eyebrows. ‘My word! This is a sudden surge of independence? Does your mama know what you are doing?’

  ‘Not yet,’ Netta replied with a little shiver of apprehension. What Mama was going to say didn’t bear thinking of.

  The address of Monsieur Alfonsini was in a respectable street not far from the Opera House. Once more she told the cab driver to wait. ‘Will you be long, mademoiselle?’

  ‘I don’t know … perhaps … Why?’

  ‘I’ll just give Jo-Jo his nosebag if we’re going to be hanging about.’

  ‘Oh.’ This was new to her. She had never dealt with horses that had to be out all day on the streets. ‘I think that may be a good idea. I’m likely to be about half an hour.’

  Monsieur Alfonsini had a pupil. She could hear the girl singing as she was shown into the downstairs waiting room. The servant took the note she offered and hurried upstairs.

  She heard the girl stop singing. She resumed again almost immediately. The servant reappeared. ‘Monsieur Alfonsini says he will have to keep you waiting about five minutes. He also says, since you are asking for an opinion, pray be so good as to look over this song.’

  It was a very simple piece by Franz Schubert, which she already knew. However, she sat with it in her hands for the requested five minutes. She saw with surprise that her hands were trembling. It was suddenly a great ordeal, to be heard by Ernesto Alfonsini.

  And why was she doing it? She still didn’t know.

  Her mind had been in a whirl ever since her mother gave her command that morning. She had wanted to see Monsieur Leroux, to tell him she was sorry at the abrupt way he was being dismissed, and to beg him perhaps to plead for her. But all that had changed now. She was going to speak to Alfonsini.

  It was the difference between talking to a friendly old uncle, and approaching a king. Alfonsini had trained some of the greatest singers now appearing on the international stage. The fact that Leroux even thought it worth while to send her to him for an opinion showed that it was important.

  The servant reappeared to show her upstairs. The upper room was long and comfortably furnished, but most of the room was taken up with a grand piano, a small group of chairs on which rested various musical instruments, and a comfortable couch on which the maestro himself rested.

  He made no effort to get up as she was shown in. Nor did he speak. He watched her come in and come close.

  ‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Alfonsini,’ she said in a trembling voice, seeing that he expected her to speak first. ‘I’m Nicolette Hopetown-Tramont.’

  ‘So this note informs me. Forgive me that I don’t rise to greet you. My foot is troubling me.’ He waved a hand. ‘This is Lipeti, my pianist.’ A thin old man at the keyboard nodded at her. ‘Did you look over the song?’

  ‘Yes, M’sieu. I already know it.’

  ‘Good. Lipeti, play. Mademoiselle, when you are ready …?’ His hand waved her towards the piano. His couch was placed so that he could watch and listen while leaning back on his cushions.

  The pianist played the introduction. Netta drew a deep breath, then launched herself into ‘Hark, Hark, the Lark’.

  She had sung two verses when the accompaniment died away. She glanced up from her score. Alfonsini was waving once more at the pianist.

  ‘That’s enough of that one. Lipeti, give her “Dove Sono”.’

  Lipeti ferreted in a pile of music on the piano top. He handed her the copy. Netta was scared. This was new to her, and was moreover from an opera by Mozart ‒ nothing like the pretty, easy pieces she’d spent most of her time on.

  But she’d seen The Marriage of Figaro many times and knew the aria. More than once she’d thought she would like to sing the piece, the wistful lament for days when love was new and faithful.

  She launched into the music, reading without difficulty and catching at the phrasing from memories of other singers. This time she was heard through to the end. Whether that was good or bad, she’d no idea. More importantly, Monsieur Alfonsini struggled to sit upright, picked up a stick from the floor, and got to his feet.

  ‘Well now … Lipeti, where’s the Rigoletto?’

  ‘I have it here, Maestro.’

  Alfonsini limped over, took the score from the pianist’s hand, and turned the pages rapidly. His thick moustachios seemed to quiver over the pages like antennae. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Try that.’

  It was ‘Caro Nome’, one of the greatest soprano arias in the repertory of opera. Netta looked at him in horror. ‘You want me to sing this?’

  ‘Don’t you think you can?’

  ‘Well … I can … I suppose … but …’

  ‘Stop stuttering. Lipeti?’

  With a look of amused mischief, the little old man launched into the long introduction, which ought to be played by a full orchestra. Netta pulled herself together. Either she was going to sing, or she wasn’t. Standing here feeling frightened was pointless.

  ‘Caro nome del mio cor’, Festi prima palpitar …’The first line was easy enough. It was when you came to the sudden leaps and the broken notes that you had to watch out. She knew she didn’t do it well, but it was an astonishment to her that she did it at all. Monsieur Leroux would never have dreamed of letting her loose on anything from Rigoletto.

  ‘Well …’ said the maestro when she quavered to a halt. ‘You’d never seen it before?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Not bad, then.’ He had a strong Tuscan accent, very attractive. ‘Perhaps you are not a Verdi singer. But then perhaps it’s too much to ask for passion at first sight at four o’clock in the afternoon. Have you sung choral music?’

  ‘In a choir, you mean ‒ yes, at school, and with the church on one or two occasions ‒ we did the Mass in B minor last Easter at Calmady.’

  ‘Ah, Bach! That is a thought. Lipeti, have we got “Sheep May Safely Graze”?’

  ‘No, Maestro ‒ you gave it to Mademoiselle Tirai
ne to study.’

  ‘I know it, sir.’

  ‘Oh, do you think you do? Lipeti let’s see if the young lady “knows” it.’

  He stood only a few yards away, watching with ironic amusement as Netta began to sing after the introduction. Already she was regretting having blurted out that she’d learnt it. It was a very, very difficult thing to sing, asking for purity of tone and perfect breath control.

  But, she said to herself, if he wants to find out my weaknesses, I may as well let him see them. Or, if possible, prove him wrong.

  Something came to her aid as she began on the repeat of the long, simple melody. She’d sung the first phrases well, but now she’d instinctively taken hold of the music ‒ she was no longer letting the accompanist force her along at the rhythm he wanted to impose. She lengthened the tempo, let her breath swell out the notes.

  When silence fell, and she looked at Alfonsini, he was standing with both hands clasped on his ebony cane and his head bowed. He stayed so for a few seconds. Then he glanced up and snapped his fingers. The pianist leaped up, to set a chair behind him. Alfonsini subsided thankfully into it.

  ‘Well,’ he remarked. ‘You can sing.’

  ‘I … I can.’

  ‘Have you had any other teacher than Leroux?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Thought not. These damned French teachers they concentrate too much on elegance. You were at a loss in the Verdi, but you liked the Mozart. You may be a Mozart singer.’

  ‘Sir, I ‒’

  ‘But when you sang the Bach, you stopped being frightened. There’s something there. How old are you?’

  ‘Nineteen, sir.’

  ‘Um … The voice is green, of course. But you’ve plenty of time to ripen it. What are you planning to do?’

  ‘Planning? I … I …’

  ‘Do you always stutter like this?’

  ‘No, sir,’ she replied, pulling herself together. ‘No, in general I can make myself understood without trouble. It’s just that ‒ to tell the truth, I’ve no plans, I only wanted to know whether I really could sing.’

  ‘What you need is a woman teacher, of course.’

  ‘Really? Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you’re young and shy and well brought up. You wouldn’t like this, for instance.’ He advanced upon her, limping heavily, but with one arm outstretched and the fingers of his hand splayed at about her midriff.

  She drew back hastily.

  ‘There, you see? You wouldn’t like me to touch your diaphragm. Yet it is necessary to feel the rib-cage, to see whether it is extending properly. And necessary to mould the spine, to make sure you stand properly. Look at you now, feet together and hands politely linked. If you stood like that while you sang a big aria you’d never have the muscle power. No, you need someone like Signora Mangioni in Milan ‒’

  ‘Oh, that’s quite out of the question. Monsieur Alfonsini. My parents ‒’

  ‘You can’t go to Milan?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Um … Mademoiselle Licelle might take you, but she’s got a lot of pupils and they don’t really get enough time. You need someone to concentrate on you a little, get rid of your well-brought-up manners ‒’

  ‘Would you give me a letter of introduction to Madame Licelle?’

  He hesitated, then shook his head. ‘If you’re going to train in Paris … I’d rather take you myself. If you could come to terms with the fact that your body is just an instrument, and that I have to poke you about sometimes ‒’

  ‘You’d take me, sir?’

  ‘I’ve just said so, haven’t I?’

  She gulped. She’d expected nothing like this. It was such an honour that she hardly knew what to say. ‘Monsieur Alfonsini, do you really think I could sing in opera?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I could have a career?’

  ‘We-ell … You have the beginnings of a voice. As to a career, that’s a different thing. A singer needs good health, a certain ruthlessness ‒ and luck. All the same, you have several advantages. You’re pretty, you have personality, and from the look of your clothes you have money. All those things are very helpful. And I of course am not without influence ‒ if I took you as a pupil it would have its effect.’

  Netta’s mind was racing as she tried to take it all in. ‘How long would it take, m’sieu? Before I could make my debut?’

  He pondered, tweaking his moustache. ‘Two years? Three? Three, I think, because you have a few French “trimmings” to shed before you can really address the big roles in Italian opera ‒ although you might get by on vocal agility at first.’

  Three years … ‘Sir,’ she said, clasping her hands in great earnestness, ‘please tell me. Would you really take me as a pupil and teach me for three years?’

  The old Italian glanced in exasperation at his pianist. ‘Tell her, Lipeti ‒ do I generally talk like this to people I don’t want to teach?’

  ‘No, signore, you generally tell me to show them the door within five minutes.’

  Alfonsini raised his shoulders in a huge, expressive shrug, as if to say, ‘You see?’

  ‘I have to speak to my parents. It may be very difficult to persuade them. They are not in favour of my taking my music seriously ‒’

  ‘What?’ It was an explosion of annoyance. ‘Who are they, these philistines?’

  ‘My father is Monsieur Hopetown-Tramont, of the House of Tramont, the champagne-maker ‒’

  ‘Ah!’ the old man stared. ‘You’re one of the Champagne Girls?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘A champagne heiress who wants to make a career in opera?’ He was shaking his head. ‘No, no. I think I have misled you. I could see you had money, of course, but I thought … I thought you came from some lesser background. No, mademoiselle, I’m sorry. I think we had better forget all I’ve just said. You have a very fine voice ‒ one that I should have enjoyed bringing to perfection. But I don’t think the project is likely to begin.’

  ‘I’ll speak to my father ‒’

  ‘Will you? And what will he say?’

  ‘I’ll convince him!’

  The old teacher took her by the elbow and led her to the door. ‘Do as you like, mademoiselle. I don’t expect to see you again, however. And all I can say is, it’s a waste … Good afternoon.’

  When she reached home, Mama was nearly at the end of a five-o’clock with some friends, and Papa was upstairs changing for dinner. If the butler noted that she paid off a hackney cab, it wasn’t his business to remark upon it. She sent a message by her father’s valet that when he had dressed she would like to speak to him privately for a few minutes before he went into the drawing room for his pre-dinner drink.

  The reply was that he would see her in the library. He was glancing through a newly delivered copy of the London Times when she came in.

  ‘Well, kitten, if it’s about your singing lessons, you’re out of luck. Mama has already told me the story and I go along with her decision.’

  ‘It can’t be dismissed quite as easily as that, Papa.’

  ‘Oh?’ He frowned at her. Although still only in his mid-forties, he had gone grey early, and the adoption of a beard and moustache after the mode of the English Prince of Wales made him seem older. He didn’t look like a man to argue with, even though he was an indulgent father as a rule.

  ‘I went to see Monsieur Leroux ‒’

  ‘Netta! Although you promised Mama you would not?’

  ‘I promised no such thing. She asked if I heard what she said, and I said I heard. But I felt I owed it to Monsieur Leroux to explain. And I wanted to ask him ‒’

  ‘I’m surprised to hear excuses for wriggling out of your promise. I think you know that what you did was wrong.’

  ‘Not at all, Papa! What I did was right, the more so as Monsieur Leroux sent me to see Monsieur Alfonsini.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ernesto Alfonsini ‒ he’s the best teacher in Paris. He ‒’

&n
bsp; ‘If he were the best teacher in the world, you would still have no reason for going to see him. You are to take no more music lessons.’

  ‘You can’t say such a thing, Papa! You have no right!’

  Gavin sprang up from his chair, letting The Times fall about in disarray. He towered over his daughter. All at once he was very formidable.

  ‘Nicolette, that is quite enough. You forget yourself.’

  ‘No, Papa.’ Although she was frightened, she refused to back down. ‘Monsieur Alfonsini told me I had a fine voice. He told me he would accept me as a pupil for the next three years. Papa, he wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t believe I had the chance to make good in opera ‒’

  ‘Nicolette!’ The shock in his tone was so great that she drew back in alarm. He seemed to catch a breath then said: ‘Have you a fever? Is there something wrong with you? For I can’t account for your words in any other way.’

  ‘But Papa, you must listen! Monsieur Alfonsini said it might take three years, and of course I would need determination and luck, but he said I might be able to tackle the great roles.’

  ‘You are not suggesting, girl, that you should appear on the operatic stage?’

  ‘I … I … Yes, of course, Papa. That’s what Alfonsini said.’

  ‘You’ve taken leave of your senses. Opera? Opera?’

  ‘But Papa, you like opera! You’ve gone every season. And I’ve heard you express admiration for Mademoiselle Tettrazini.’

  ‘Of course I admire Tettrazini. I also admire the little ballet girl in short skirts who leads the corps in the Faust dances. But I would no more think of allowing you to dance in scanty clothes than let you sing in opera. What are you thinking of?’

  ‘But Papa. Mademoiselle Tettrazini ‒’

  ‘Stop talking about Tettrazini. She’s a pretty lass and has a fine voice, but she could never be invited to the house. You know that as well as I do. Theatrical people are not of our world. We may admire them but we can never know them.’

  ‘But all that is changing. Papa. People invite ‒’

  ‘People invite performers to play or sing at an evening drawing room ‒ certainly. But they are paid off and let go through a side door. And even then, these are the more respectable kind. Opera singers ‒ you know as well as I do that they have the morals of …’ He broke off. Even in the midst of his indignation he recalled that you couldn’t use an expression like that to a young lady of nineteen.