A Remembered Serenade

by Mary Burchell

  'I have a sort of instinct about these things,' declared her mother happily, and Joanna saw no reason why she should dispute this.

  During the remaining three weeks before the per­formance she worked devotedly on the role of Fiora. Most of the time she managed to push into the back of her mind what Oscar Warrender had said about her voice not being an operatic one, and to remember only that, contrary to anything that anyone might have ex­pected, he intended to be there on the great night be­cause, in his own words, she 'interested him profoundly'.

  Joanna herself breathed not a word at the College about the likelihood of the famous Warrender attend­ing. But somehow some hint of it must have got out, because when she came to the final rehearsal, she found several of the cast in a state of what could only be described as blissful jitters.

  'Have you heard?' Martha Singleton, the other Fiora, said to her. 'The rumour is going round that Sir Oscar Warrender will be coming to the first night.'

  Just in time Joanna stopped herself from saying, 'No - the second night, I think,' and merely contented her-self with asking where Martha had heard this story.

  'Joyce Feldon got it from Dr. Evans's secretary. Ap­parently two tickets were sent to him, by request.'

  'Perhaps,' suggested Joanna somewhat disingenuous­ly, 'it's just a case of complimentary tickets being sent, whether he uses them or not.'

  'No. They were sent by request. That means they were requested by him, I take it.'

  'And Joyce was sure they were for the first night?'

  'Why, of course. People like that always come to hear the first cast,' replied Martha with almost naive self-confidence.

  Joanna was generous enough to feel sorry that there was a disappointment in store for Martha. But she would have been superhuman if she had not exulted a little in her certainty that Warrender was not coming to hear Martha.

  The first performance was, fortunately, a well-deserved success for most of the cast, and any disap­pointment that might have been engendered by the non-appearance of the famous conductor was swal­lowed up in the enthusiastic reception by the audience and the favourable notices which the performance re­ceived from the Press the next morning.

  'Yes, very nice, dear,' said Joanna's mother when Joanna asked if she had read the notices. 'But of course everyone is really waiting for tonight's performance.'

  'They aren't, you know,' Joanna felt bound to point out. 'It's usually the first performance which arouses most interest.'

  'Then why is Oscar Warrender coming to the second performance?' inquired her mother, unanswerably. At which Joanna most illogically felt a queer sense of chill

  emptiness somewhere in the pit of her stomach at the frightful thought that perhaps he might change his mind and not bother, after all, to come to either per­formance.

  Her sense of self-discipline, however, enabled her to ignore her fears and doubts for most of the day and to concentrate on doing her very best, whoever might come or not come. And she was cheered, as well as touched, to find on her arrival in her dressing-room that there, waiting for her, was a small but exquisite basket of flowers from Mr. Wilmore and some very handsome roses from Elliot Cheam.

  'Somebody somewhere remembered you, as the flower-shop advertisements say,' observed a fellow stu­dent who had looked in to wish her luck. 'Who sent that lovely little basket of flowers? Very choice, I must say.'

  'A friend of mine called Justin Wilmore. He has a famous—'

  ' The Justin Wilmore?'

  'Yes, I suppose one could call him that.'

  'He must be the distinguished-looking elderly man who arrived a few minutes ago with the War-renders.'

  'The - Warrenders?' Joanna gave a little gasp of mingled relief and alarm. 'They did come, then!'

  'Yes. Didn't you know? Oh, perhaps I shouldn't have told you. Will it make you nervous?'

  'Not more nervous than I am already,' replied Joanna with a shaky little laugh. And then her friend repeated her good wishes and left.

  The last quarter of an hour before the rise of the curtain was, naturally, nerve-racking. But when the actual moment of her entry on the stage came Joanna conquered her sense of tension, recalled with almost loving tenderness the girl who had made this part so much her own, and told herself she would try to be a worthy, if humble, successor. From there she slipped instinctively into the personality of the unhappy Fiora - and before she knew where she was she was on the stage and the drama was unfolding.

  Fiora's music is quite exacting, technically speaking, but almost more important is the projection of the drama and the subtle shift from mood to mood. It was a task peculiarly suited to Joanna's talents and, once she had conquered her initial nervousness, she found herself almost exulting in the challenge.

  At the end of the first act the applause was at least as hearty as it had been on the first night. And the bass -the only complete professional in the cast - said to Joanna, 'You're better than the girl last night, good though her voice is.'

  In the interval her mother came to the dressing-room, sparkling with reflected glory.

  'You're splendid, darling,' she declared. 'Everyone is saying so. Elliot Cheam - nice fellow - introduced me to his uncle, and the old gentleman said you reminded him of the best Fiora he ever heard. Even that silly Oscar Warrender applauded, I noticed.'

  'Mother, he is NOT silly. He only happens to be the finest conductor in the country - possibly in the world -if you must know. And the mere fact that he's here is the sort of compliment most singers would give their eye teeth for.'

  'Not eye teeth, dear. They're too noticeable. Back teeth perhaps,' conceded her mother goodhumouredly. 'Anyway, don't get cross and temperamental, even if you are singing just like a prima donna. Keep on as well as you're doing now, and you can't fail, - Oh, who sent those lovely roses?'

  'Elliot Cheam. But go back now, darling. I have to think myself into the second act. It's the real test.’

  Her mother went immediately. And Joanna sat there at her dressing-table, put her head in her hands and thought of the guilt and the innocence and the tragedy of Fiora.

  Fortunately, the bass was an excellent actor as well as singer, with something of the terrifying power needed for the old blind king. He was pleased to find that, in a mere student, he had a Fiora who could play up to him. And the tremendous scene of mounting terror and horror, culminating in the murder of the guilty girl, was played with such conviction by them both that, as he slowly groped his way from the stage, carrying her sagging body, the silence in the theatre was absolute. Indeed, for half a minute after the last chords had sounded the almost stunned silence con­tinued, and then was succeeded by the kind of applause rarely heard at a students' performance.

  In the opinion of Mrs. Ransome the third act could be nothing but an anticlimax, since all her girl had to do was to lie there 'looking very dead' as her mother put it. But the rest of the audience seemed to appreciate it, and the performance ended in a general atmosphere of congratulation and good feeling.

  Oscar Warrender exchanged a few gracious words with the Principal of the College, several students in the audience asked Anthea for her autograph, and two very bold ones asked for his. But when the Principal went on to introduce Mrs. Ransome as the mother of the gifted heroine, the famous conductor acknowl­edged the introduction with almost the minimum degree of politeness which the occasion warranted.

  Mrs. Ransome, however, was not going to leave it at that. In her view, her daughter had been done less than justice on a previous occasion, and with this very much in mind, she said boldly,

  'And what did you think of her tonight, Sir Oscar?'

  'She is very gifted,' replied Warrender, without specifying in what way, and then he turned away, extricated Anthea from a buzzing group of admirers, and bore her off without more ado.

  Slightly deflated, though she was not quite sure why, Mrs. Ransome went backstage to Joanna's dressing-room, where she found Mr. Wilmore displaying what she considered to be a much more i
ntelligent reaction than that of Sir Oscar. He was frankly delighted and moved by Joanna's performance, and did not hesitate to say so.

  'I couldn't have done it without all the help you gave me,' Joanna said sincerely.

  'My dear child, it is your own talent and hard work that are responsible,' he replied. 'I hope if there are other occasions when my collection might be of use to you, you will let me know. Even without that, please come and see me sometimes when you visit your aunt.'

  Joanna said most willingly that indeed she would. And then Elliot came in, with apologies for the fact that he had been detained by friends he had not seen for some time. He added very real congratulations to those of his uncle.

  'I had no idea you were so good,' he said frankly. 'I don't know why Warrender said it was not an operatic voice. I should have thought it was, and I wish you lots of luck in what ought to be a good career,'

  'Sir Oscar was there, wasn't he?' Joanna tried to make that sound calm and not too eager.

  'Yes. He and Anthea were mobbed by some of the students just as they were leaving.'

  'They've left already, then?' She tried not to let that sound disappointed. 'Did he say anything to you about the performance?'

  'No.' She thought Elliot was sorry that he had to say that. And he added, a trifle too quickly, 'He almost never goes backstage to see anyone, you know.'

  'Oh, no! I didn't expect that,' said Joanna, who naturally had hoped against hope that the famous con­ductor would sweep in and tell her she was magnificent.

  'He said you were very gifted,' her mother put in.

  ' Did he, Mother?' Joanna turned eagerly to her. 'Do you mean he volunteered the opinion - just like that?'

  'No. I don't think he's generous enough to volunteer praise,' replied Mrs. Ransome censoriously. T asked him his opinion outright. I thought he deserved that.'

  'Oh—' the air of eagerness faded - 'I see. Well, that's not quite the same thing, is it?'

  Then she turned to the mirror and began to remove her make-up. And at this hint Elliot and his uncle took their leave. One or two other people drifted in and out, all with nothing but praise for Joanna's performance, and she managed somehow to look and sound elated and happy.

  She was elated and happy, of course. She knew she had done her very best, and she had been a resounding success. - But Oscar Warrender had left the theatre without a word to her and, try as she would, she could not help feeling that somehow, somewhere she had failed.

  Joanna made every effort to hide from her mother the fact that the evening had in some way disappointed her. She said she was tired, that she was feeling the reaction after all the work and strain, and that was why she could not eat much supper and why she really just wanted to go to bed.

  'Of course, my dear - of course!' Her mother seemed to regard this as the perfectly understandable behaviour of a nearly fledged prima donna. Indeed, she would possibly have been disappointed if Joanna had shown her usual good appetite and cheerful dis-position.

  'Being murdered - even on the stage - must take it out of one,' was her original explanation? 'You go to bed, darling, and I'll bring you something nice on a tray. Just some soup, perhaps, and a little bit of cold chicken. And then you shall have a good night's rest, and when you wake up you'll have forgotten all about it.'

  Presumably she meant all about being murdered. Anyway, Joanna accepted her suggestion thankfully, had her light supper in bed and then, to her subsequent surprise, fell straight asleep and slept dreamlessly until she woke to find her mother shaking her gently and saying,

  'I'm so sorry, Joanna dear, but could you wake up and take a phone call? He's very insistent?'

  'Who is?' muttered Joanna? 'And what is the time?'

  'It's ten o'clock. And I don't know who it is on the phone. Someone very sure of himself. If it didn't seem so improbable, I'd say it was that Oscar Warrender, but—'

  ' Mother! ' Joanna was instantly wide awake and out of bed, groping for her dressing-gown which she flung around her as she ran downstairs.-

  'Hello,' she said breathlessly into the phone. 'It's me - Joanna Ransome, I mean. Who is that, please?'

  'Oscar Warrender. I apologize if I have roused you too early, but I have to go out—'

  'It's quite all right. I just happened to sleep a little late after the performance. But - can I do anything for you?''

  She thought immediately that the words sounded idiotic from a struggling student to a famous man, and he seemed to find it rather funny too. At any rate, there was a hint of amusement in that cool, incisive voice as he replied,

  'Yes, you can. You can come along and see me this afternoon at three o'clock. Do you know the address? Killigrew Mansions , St. James's. The porter will bring you up.'

  'Yes, I'll be there,' Joanna promised, quite breath­less again, but this time not with running. 'And, Sir Oscar—'

  'I have no time to discuss anything else at the moment,' he cut in, pleasantly but firmly. 'But I would advise you not to talk about this appointment with anyone else at present.'

  'Very well,' Joanna said meekly, and as she heard the receiver replaced at the other end, she wondered if even her mother were to be included in this in­junction.

  Of course, any appointment which Oscar War-render might make with a singer must carry with it a sort of news value, and he was obviously warning her against talking too confidently or too soon about -what?

  There was nothing in his words or tone to give her the slightest clue. But she felt she must obey him to the letter. And so, when she rejoined her mother, she simply said, 'It was Sir Oscar. He - and his wife—' she added in a moment of inspiration, 'want me to go to tea there this afternoon. Perhaps it's their way of making up for not coming round to see me after the per­formance last night.'

  Probably no one but Mrs. Ransome would have re­garded this as likely behaviour on the part of a famous conductor and his equally famous wife. But she had been reading the uniformly good Press notices and saw no reason why anyone should be less than eager to meet her wonderful daughter and make much of her.

  With difficulty Joanna concealed her own over­whelming excitement and curiosity about the after­noon's appointment. And in this she was helped by the many telephone calls of congratulation and the happy perusal of her Press notices.

  Later she did a little practising, in case Sir Oscar should, for some reason, want to hear her sing again. Then, having dithered for at least ten minutes over what she should wear, she chose what she hoped was a suitable compromise between the elegance demanded by what might be a distinguished social call and the plain restraint of something which would make her look like a very serious student.

  The moment she was shown into the big studio in the Warrenders' handsome apartment she knew it mat­tered not at all what she wore, and she wondered mo­mentarily why she had ever supposed it should. The whole place was suggestive of dedicated work, and those who came or went merely added to or detracted from the purpose of the man who greeted her.

  'Sit down, Miss Joanna.' He conceded that degree of informality to the occasion, but gave the impression of having no time to waste on social preliminaries. 'Tell me - was last night the first time you had been on stage?'

  'No, not quite.' Joanna explained briefly about her modest experience in the touring company and her few other college performances.

  ‘I see. Who has been responsible for your actual stage training? As distinct from whatever is included in your college curriculum, I mean.'

  'Why, no one.' She looked slightly puzzled. 'I've had no extra tuition, if that's what you mean.'

  'That is what I mean,' he told her. 'Have you ever studied mime? apart from whatever might be taken along with general stage technique?'

  'No,' Joanna shook her head.

  'Interesting,' he observed. 'Do you sight-read well?'

  'M-moderately well.' She glanced nervously in the direction of the piano.

  'There's no need to be frightened,' he told her, as­sessing her mood
at once. 'Come over here and see if you can sight-read this for me.'

  She went with him to the piano and accepted the manuscript score which he put into her hands, with the injunction to study it for a few minutes.

  This she did, wishing all the time that she could keep the pages from trembling quite so obviously. Then, after a few minutes, she began to be attracted by what she was examining. The words were in English and obviously formed the end of some work, and as she hummed the main air to herself she was aware that there was a compelling and most appealing simplicity about it.

  'I've never come across this before.' She looked up and across at the conductor, who was now seated at the piano.

  'No. No one has ever sung it before,' he replied coolly, and his words sent a current of extraordinary excitement through her.

  'I think I could read it all right. Shall I stand behind you and read over your shoulder?'

  'No. I know the work by heart - at least, that part of it. Keep the manuscript with you. And tell me what you have gathered from the words.’

  'It's - it's a simple but impassioned plea for love -someone's love, isn't it? With a sort of implication of tremendous sacrifice. And at the high point of the aria - she dies.'

  'Correct. Sing it for me.'

  Instinctively, she remembered his previous order to stand where he could see her, so she came and stood in the curve of the grand piano and turned to face him. To her mortification, she made a false start, but he was unexpectedly patient, showed her where she had made an unnecessary difficulty for herself, and gave her plenty of time to begin again.

  The second time she managed better, and after the first page she found herself profoundly moved and intrigued by the beauty of the music and the way it merged with the words in a complete synthesis of the two modes of expression.

  She sang it through to the end, and exclaimed, 'It's quite lovely, isn't it?'

  'I think so. Try it again. And now that you are a little more familiar with it, give me some light and shade in the music and more expression in your face.'