Song Cycle (Warrender Saga Book 8)

by Mary Burchell

  “I’m going to miss seeing you every other day, of course,” her mother said. “But how beautiful it is here!” And she looked out so contentedly at the wooded parkland that it was obvious that the thought of just lying there doing nothing was still uncharacteristically welcome to her. She was, Anna saw, going to take a long time to recover her customary strength and energy.

  “I’ll come whenever I can,” Anna promised. “And so will Dad, of course.”

  “Don’t let him neglect his work, though!” Her mother did speak with some energy then. “He’s told me all about this song cycle he’s doing for your Festival, and I wouldn’t for the world have him miss that chance.”

  “N-no, of course not,” Anna agreed. But she was somewhat taken aback to realise that apparently her father had been undeterred by any doubts she had subsequently cast on the possibility of the church concert taking place. It seemed he had just gone ahead on the assumption that his song cycle would certainly be included.

  On the way home she tried worriedly to decide whether it would be kinder to damp down his hopes here and now, or more practical to let him go enthusiastically ahead. If the opportunity did in fact arise it would of course be most desirable that he should be fully prepared for it.

  In the event, the choice was taken out of her hands. For no sooner had she reached home and reported satisfactorily on her mother’s transfer to the convalescent home than her father said,

  “Come along to the church in about an hour’s time, Anna. I’ve been coaching young Tommy in the solo parts of the song cycle, and I want to take him over them now with the organ accompaniment.”

  She opened her lips to say that perhaps there would be no song cycle, at least so far as the Festival was concerned. But she decided suddenly that she simply could not be the one to quench that light of interest and happiness in her father’s eyes. Besides, she was genuinely eager to hear for herself what Tommy Bream made of it, even without the choir. So far she had heard no more than snatches of the work on the piano or hummed a few lines herself.

  So later she walked through the autumn twilight, carrying with her a duplicate copy of the words and manuscript of the music. It was almost dark when she reached the church, but her father had already put on a few lights, so that the beautiful fan vaulting was thrown into sharp relief, while alternating patches of light and shadow in the body of the church gave an almost mysterious air of peace and tranquillity to the scene.

  As she took her seat in one of the middle pews her anxieties receded. It was going to be all right — it simply had to be all right — she told herself, as the first notes, the fine, clear, heart-lifting phrases connected with spring, floated through the church. The beautiful air which had so captivated her was stated right away in that first section, and Tommy’s pure, clear voice sent it soaring up to the highest point of the vaulted roof.

  It was beautiful! She had not been mistaken. Quite, quite beautiful, and the first impact was something astonishing. But then, as the work went on, she began to wonder if she sensed a gradual slackening of the tension. Tommy was singing well, and of course there would be more drama to the whole work when the choir was added. And yet — and yet — somehow it was not absolutely what she had expected.

  She was tired, she told herself. Anxious about the final fate of the work. Not entirely in the right mood after being so concerned about her mother all day.

  But that was not, she knew to the marrow of her bones, the complete answer to her dwindling enthusiasm. Could it possibly be that, after all, it was not the inspiration they had hoped? The mere possibility agitated her so unbearably that the pages of manuscript shook in her hands. For how was she — the sole audience on this occasion — to convey to her father either the enthusiasm she could not feel or the doubts she was trying to suppress?

  And then suddenly she realised that she was not the sole audience. Someone who had been sitting at the back of the church had risen and was coming forward. She turned her head quickly and, to her immeasurable astonishment, she saw that Oscar Warrender was walking slowly down the centre aisle.

  He came and sat down beside her and said in a low voice, “The boy is quite remarkable, but this work is not for him. Who is the organist?”

  “My father,” Anna told him shyly.

  “And what is the work? It’s quite unknown to me.”

  “He — he composed it. It’s a song cycle. We were hoping that it might be performed during the Festival.” Her words came out in a confidential rush. “But now — I don’t know—”

  “Yes, of course, it must be heard,” was the astonishing reply. “But not with the boy. He must do Mendelssohn or Schubert or something like that. Have you the manuscript of this work there?” He indicated the pages she was holding and, without a word, Anna handed them to him.

  He took them in his strong, expressive fingers and during the rest of the performance he said nothing more, merely studied the manuscript with close attention. At the end he said abruptly, “Introduce me to your father.” With the strange sensation of being in some sort of improbable dream, Anna followed him out of the pew and then led the way towards the choir stalls from which her father and Tommy Bream were now emerging.

  “How did it sound to you, Anna?” Her father spoke eagerly before she could attempt any introductions.

  “Very beautiful, so far as I could judge without the choir,” she said nervously. “But—”

  “It’s not a work for a boy soprano, Mr. Fulroyd,” stated Oscar Warrender with an air of absolute authority. “Good though he is.” And he clapped Tommy on the shoulder with unexpected firmness, a gesture which suggested he knew a good deal about choirboys and the way their angelic looks belied their natural toughness. “It’s a remarkable voice and, as I was telling your daughter, will sound splendid, I don’t doubt, in Mendelssohn or Schubert or even Haydn perhaps. But this particular song cycle is for a woman soprano. Everything about it cries out for a female voice.”

  “My dear sir—” Mr. Fulroyd looked surprised and not a little incensed. “May I ask if you know anything about—”

  “Dad, this is Mr. Warrender,” exclaimed Anna urgently.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, sir, since my daughter seems to know you. But, if I may so—”

  “Mr. Oscar Warrender. The conductor.” Anna amplified her first statement desperately.

  “Well—” Then suddenly her father got the message of her words and tone. “Mr. Warrender, I do beg your pardon! I hadn’t realised—”

  “There’s no need for apology. Your enquiry was completely in order. You are the composer of this unusual work, I understand. You were quite justified in querying anyone else’s right to make suggestions.”

  “But from such a distinguished authority—”

  “Never mind the mutual compliments.” Suddenly Warrender gave his rare but very charming smile. Then he turned to Tommy Bream and said, “You can run along now, I think. I’d like to hear you again some time, but I want to talk with your choirmaster now.”

  Tommy withdrew — reluctantly because he scented some sort of drama in the air and would have liked to take part in it. Then, at a gesture from Warrender, Anna and her father sat down in the front pew, while he stood in front of them, in a perfectly natural attitude of authority, the manuscript copy of the song cycle still in his hands.

  “Let me say right away—” he turned the pages consideringly — “that I find the work extraordinarily interesting and attractive. It is completely singable, for one thing. Something of a novelty in these days.”

  “Some people would say — a little old-fashioned,” suggested Mr. Fulroyd deprecatingly.

  “Possibly. But they would be wrong,” replied Warrender with an almost careless confidence in his own judgment which put discussion out of the question. “There is no special fashion about it — in the sense of its being dated, I mean. But, as I said before, it is not for the passionless soprano of a choirboy. It is for a warm, brilliant lyric soprano, and I
would say that the ideal exponent is sitting beside you.”

  “Anna, do you mean?” Mr. Fulroyd turned to look at his daughter, his eyes shining with interest and surprise. “I never thought of it! Perhaps one never does think of one’s own child singing one’s effusions.” He laughed, that half shy laugh, and took off his spectacles and polished them diligently. “Anna! What a remarkable and delightful suggestion. At least, it is to me. How does the idea of your singing it appeal to you?”

  “I’d adore to do it!” cried Anna.

  Her father put his hand quickly over hers and then turned to the great conductor and asked curiously, “How do you happen to know that my daughter has the right voice for this work?”

  “I heard her sing some weeks ago. I never forget a voice of quality,” stated Oscar Warrender positively.

  “And you think she has that?”

  “I have no doubt of it, so far as the voice itself is concerned. And she is, I noticed, intensely musical. How much drive and power of concentration and application she may have I don’t know.”

  “She is a dedicated worker,” insisted Mr. Fulroyd without hesitation. “In a minor way I have been concerned with singers all my life, and I can truly say I have never known anyone more devoted to her art.”

  “Really?” The conductor’s glance passed thoughtfully over Anna. “That was not the impression of my friend Jonathan Keyne.”

  “Then he was mistaken, sir,” replied Anna’s father with dignity.

  “Possibly.” Warrender looked amused, but not unkindly so. “The best of us have been so in our time. But — I was going to ask you — may I make a few further suggestions about this work of yours?”

  “I should appreciate anything you have to say about it,” said Mr. Fulroyd with sincerity, and his hand tightened instinctively on Anna’s as it lay in her lap.

  “Well, if I followed correctly, it is your idea that the cycle should start with the Spring section?”

  “It is customary to regard that as the first season, isn’t it?” Mr. Fulroyd said with a slight smile.

  “I’m sure that was the Almighty’s plan,” agreed Warrender, and he smiled too in a dry way. “And even I wouldn’t seek to improve on it in actual fact. But for the purposes of this particular work, I suggest you should plunge straight into the warmth and exuberance of high summer. There’s nothing against that. Your opening chords are tremendously arresting and you have, I think —” he consulted the manuscript — “a particularly fine choral opening passage here.”

  “But it’s a contradiction in terms,” protested Anna’s father. “I can’t presume to alter the course of the seasons to suit my humble work.”

  “No. But you can enter the cycle of the seasons at any point you choose. Here, boldly stated, is the condition of full maturity. It is followed by the quite exquisite melancholy of decline in your autumnal scene — lovely bit for your middle voice here, Miss Fulroyd — and then the almost grim finality of winter, with those extraordinary bare phrases telling of life ebbing and virtually ceasing.”

  “Surely making the obvious ending?” interjected Anna’s father.

  “Not if you wish to send your audience away feeling uplifted and transported, Mr. Fulroyd. It is neither artistically — nor I think ethically — correct to give such finality to death. Both in the seasons and —” he glanced round the church — “I would suggest in this beautiful building, there is the absolute affirmation of returning life. The certainty of re-awakening. Of resurrection, if you prefer the term. Your spring section makes that claim in this strangely heart-lifting melody. It is of such perfect simplicity that it carries its own conviction. Believe me, that is the section which you should leave in the hearts and minds of your listeners.”

  Anna, who by now felt tears of happiness in her eyes — for never before had anyone spoken to her father like this — stole a glance at him and saw that he was regarding Warrender with something like awe as well as infinite pleasure.

  “I never thought of it like that,” he said slowly. “Mr. Warrender, you’re a genius.”

  “Oh, Dad, everyone knows that,” muttered Anna uncomfortably.

  “No, not everyone.” The great conductor looked amused again. “I’m not absolutely sure of it myself, though I have my moments. But one thing I do know, Mr. Fulroyd. I recognise real music when I hear it. And that is what I have heard tonight. I congratulate you, and I beg you to revise the order of your work to some extent, and to let your daughter sing the solo part at the Festival.”

  “Nothing — but nothing would give me more pleasure!” cried Mr. Fulroyd, as he wrung Oscar Warrender’s hand. “And I thank you more than I can say for your advice, which I shall follow to the letter.”

  “There’s just one thing!” exclaimed Anna, hating to be the one to cast even a shadow of doubt on the glory of the moment. “It hasn’t been actually decided that there should be a church concert at all during the Festival.”

  “Nonsense.” Warrender brushed the protest aside as though it were a small and tiresome fly. “Of course there must be a church concert. With this work — composed by someone actually living in the festival district — and that boy soprano singing a well-chosen solo or two, it will be the highlight of the Festival.”

  “But—”

  “Believe me, I know.” He spoke quite pleasantly, but he gave Anna the glance which had been known to quell even the most stout-hearted of prima donnas.

  “I don’t doubt it, Mr. Warrender! and I wouldn’t query your judgment for a moment. But — but it’s Miss Delawney who will decide what will be performed at this Festival.”

  “Or Jonathan Keyne,” retorted the conductor imperturbably.

  “Or Jonathan Keyne,” Anna agreed. “But I think,” she added diffidently, “he will do what she wants.”

  “I wouldn’t say it has gone as far as that,” said Oscar Warrender, with an unexpected touch of humour. “But, in any case, I intend to hear that song cycle in this church, and I assure you it will be performed. All you and your father have to do is to ensure that the performance is as perfect as it can be.” Then he glanced at his watch and said, “I must go. I’m driving to London tonight.”

  “So late?” exclaimed Anna’s father.

  “I prefer to drive through the night. Good-bye, Mr. Fulroyd. And don’t just stop at this song cycle. It’s too good to be only a flash in the pan, and I’d like to hear anything else you have done. Work hard, Miss Anna. A good performance is going to mean a lot to your father at this point.”

  And then he was gone, walking swiftly up the aisle and out at the centre door, and after a moment or two they heard the sound of a high-powered car being driven away.

  Only then did Anna and her father relax from the sort of spell which had descended upon both of them. They looked at each other and she hugged him suddenly and exclaimed, “Did it really happen?”

  “He said he wanted to hear more of my work. Oscar Warrender said that I” Mr. Fulroyd shook his head unbelievingly. Then on a note of happy urgency he added, “Anna dear, if you’re not tired, what about our trying over one or two passages right away?”

  So she came and stood near him in the choir stalls and sight-read, first of all the lovely autumnal air, with its almost nostalgic touch of recollection and resignation,

  and then the beautiful spring-time melody which spoke in terms of irrefutable simplicity of the indestructible life-cycle.

  Her voice had been well rested recently, of course, though she had never neglected her daily practice, and it sounded fresh and brilliant, with a shimmering colour all its own. As the notes floated upward, and seemed to linger in the beautiful carved arches of the roof, Anna felt as though her soul lifted too. A sort of spiritual strength was generated within her, giving her the strange feeling that she could almost lift poor suffering humanity on the wings of her singing to something just a little beyond the mundane level of daily life.

  At the end she glanced across at her father and saw that he was sitting at
the organ with his head in his hands.

  “Oh, Dad—” she went to him and touched his shoulder gently — “I know. It’s almost unbearably lovely, isn’t it?”

  “I can’t believe I wrote it.” He looked up and wiped his glasses in that half-nervous way. “I simply don’t know where it came from.”

  “Perhaps one never does know where it comes from when it’s as lovely as that,” she said gently. “But Mr. Warrender is so right. It’s for a woman soprano, of course. It sounds quite different that way.”

  “And I’d never have known it if that dear, good man hadn’t told me I”

  It occurred to Anna that few people would have described Oscar Warrender as a dear, good man. But she thought he had made good his claim to that phrase that evening. So she said with genuine warmth,

  “He’s one of the few people who really do know. If he says it will be a success — it will.”

  “For you as well as for me,” her father added, with a smile. “You sing it so beautifully, my dear. It’s largely your singing which makes such a wonderful new thing of it. We must practise very thoroughly between now and the concert.”

  Again a tremor of anxiety passed through Anna at the thought that no one had yet confirmed that concert. But she felt it would be poor-spirited to say anything about that now. If Oscar Warrender felt confident about it, who was she to have doubts?

  But she could not help wondering during the next day or two just how even Warrender was going to combat the bitter prejudice of Teresa Delawney. He could not have raised the subject with her personally, because he had driven straight off to London the same evening. Was he relying on persuading Jonathan Keyne to his viewpoint? And, through him, the jealous and dictatorial Teresa? If so, it seemed to Anna — particularly in her less optimistic moments — a rather frail line to cling to. Even with Warrender giving the orders.

  And then she was summoned back to Coppershaw Grange.