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‘Rustonbury?’
The prima donna’s brow contracted as if in the effort to recollect something.
‘I have read that name lately, very lately. It is a town – or a village, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, pretty little place in Hertfordshire. As for Lord Rustonbury’s place, Rustonbury Castle, it’s a real dandy old feudal seat, ghosts and family pictures, and secret staircases, and a slap-up private theatre. Rolling in money they are, and always giving some private show. She suggests that we give a complete opera, preferably Butterfly.’
‘Butterfly?’
Cowan nodded.
‘And they are prepared to pay. We’ll have to square Covent Garden, of course, but even after that it will be well worth your while financially. In all probability, royalty will be present. It will be a slap-up advertisement.’
Madame raised her still beautiful chin.
‘Do I need advertisement?’ she demanded proudly.
‘You can’t have too much of a good thing,’ said Cowan, unabashed.
‘Rustonbury,’ murmured the singer, ‘where did I see –?’
She sprang up suddenly, and running to the centre table, began turning over the pages of an illustrated paper which lay there. There was a sudden pause as her hand stopped, hovering over one of the pages, then she let the periodical slip to the floor and returned slowly to her seat. With one of her swift changes of mood, she seemed now an entirely different personality. Her manner was very quiet, almost austere.
‘Make all arrangements for Rustonbury, I would like to sing there, but there is one condition – the opera must be Tosca.’
Cowan looked doubtful.
‘That will be rather difficult – for a private show, you know, scenery and all that.’
‘Tosca or nothing.’
Cowan looked at her very closely. What he saw seemed to convince him, he gave a brief nod and rose to his feet.
‘I will see what I can arrange,’ he said quietly.
Nazorkoff rose too. She seemed more anxious than was usual, with her, to explain her decision.
‘It is my greatest rôle, Cowan. I can sing that part as no other woman has ever sung it.’
‘It is a fine part,’ said Cowan. ‘Jeritza made a great hit in it last year.’
‘Jeritza!’ cried the other, a flush mounting in her cheeks. She proceeded to give him at great length her opinion of Jeritza.
Cowan, who was used to listening to singers’ opinions of other singers, abstracted his attention till the tirade was over; he then said obstinately:
‘Anyway, she sings “Vissi D’Arte” lying on her stomach.’
‘And why not?’ demanded Nazorkoff. ‘What is there to prevent her? I will sing it on my back with my legs waving in the air.’
Cowan shook his head with perfect seriousness. ‘I don’t believe that would go down any,’ he informed her. ‘All the same, that sort of thing takes on, you know.’
‘No one can sing “Vissi D’Arte” as I can,’ said Nazorkoff confidently. ‘I sing it in the voice of the convent – as the good nuns taught me to sing years and years ago. In the voice of a choir boy or an angel, without feeling, without passion.’
‘I know,’ said Cowan heartily. ‘I have heard you, you are wonderful.’
‘That is art,’ said the prima donna, ‘to pay the price, to suffer, to endure, and in the end not only to have all knowledge, but also the power to go back, right back to the beginning and recapture the lost beauty of the heart of a child.’
Cowan looked at her curiously. She was staring past him with a strange, blank look in her eyes, and something about that look of hers gave him a creepy feeling. Her lips just parted, and she whispered a few words softly to herself. He only just caught them.
‘At last,’ she murmured. ‘At last – after all these years.’
Lady Rustonbury was both an ambitious and an artistic woman, she ran the two qualities in harness with complete success. She had the good fortune to have a husband who cared for neither ambition nor art and who therefore did not hamper her in any way. The Earl of Rustonbury was a large, square man, with an interest in horseflesh and in nothing else. He admired his wife, and was proud of her, and was glad that his great wealth enabled her to indulge all her schemes. The private theatre had been built less than a hundred years ago by his grandfather. It was Lady Rustonbury’s chief toy – she had already given an Ibsen drama in it, and a play of the ultra new school, all divorce and drugs, also a poetical fantasy with Cubist scenery. The forthcoming performance of Tosca had created wide-spread interest. Lady Rustonbury was entertaining a very distinguished houseparty for it, and all London that counted was motoring down to attend.
Mme Nazorkoff and her company had arrived just before luncheon. The new young American tenor, Hensdale, was to sing ‘Cavaradossi’, and Roscari, the famous Italian baritone, was to be Scarpia. The expense of the production had been enormous, but nobody cared about that. Paula Nazorkoff was in the best of humours, she was charming, gracious, her most delightful and cosmopolitan self. Cowan was agreeably surprised, and prayed that this state of things might continue.
After luncheon the company went out to the theatre, and inspected the scenery and various appointments. The orchestra was under the direction of Mr Samuel Ridge, one of England’s most famous conductors. Everything seemed to be going without a hitch, and strangely enough, that fact worried Mr Cowan. He was more at home in an atmosphere of trouble, this unusual peace disturbed him.
‘Everything is going a darned sight too smoothly,’ murmured Mr Cowan to himself. ‘Madame is like a cat that has been fed on cream, it’s too good to last, something is bound to happen.’
Perhaps as the result of his long contact with the operatic world, Mr Cowan had developed the sixth sense, certainly his prognostications were justified. It was just before seven o’clock that evening when the French maid, Elise, came running to him in great distress.
‘Ah, Mr Cowan, come quickly, I beg of you come quickly.’
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Cowan anxiously. ‘Madame got her back up about anything – ructions, eh, is that it?’
‘No, no, it is not Madame, it is Signor Roscari, he is ill, he is dying!’
‘Dying? Oh, come now.’
Cowan hurried after her as she led the way to the stricken Italian’s bedroom. The little man was lying on his bed, or rather jerking himself all over it in a series of contortions that would have been humorous had they been less grave. Paula Nazorkoff was bending over him; she greeted Cowan imperiously.
‘Ah! there you are. Our poor Roscari, he suffers horribly. Doubtless he has eaten something.’
‘I am dying,’ groaned the little man. ‘The pain – it is terrible. Ow!’ He contorted himself again, clasping both hands to his stomach, and rolling about on the bed.
‘We must send for a doctor,’ said Cowan.
Paula arrested him as he was about to move to the door.
‘The doctor is already on his way, he will do all that can be done for the poor suffering one, that is arranged for, but never never will Roscari be able to sing tonight.’
‘I shall never sing again, I am dying,’ groaned the Italian.
‘No, no, you are not dying,’ said Paula. ‘It is but an indigestion, but all the same, impossible that you should sing.’
‘I have been poisoned.’
‘Yes, it is the ptomaine without doubt,’ said Paula. ‘Stay with him, Elise, till the doctor comes.’
The singer swept Cowan with her from the room.
‘What are we to do?’ she demanded.
Cowan shook his head hopelessly. The hour was so far advanced that it would not be possible to get anyone from London to take Roscari’s place. Lady Rustonbury, who had just been informed of her guest’s illness, came hurrying along the corridor to join them. Her principal concern, like Paula Nazorkoff’s, was the success of Tosca.
‘If there were only someone near at hand,’ groaned the prima do
nna.
‘Ah!’ Lady Rustonbury gave a sudden cry. ‘Of course! Bréon.’
‘Bréon?’
‘Yes, Edouard Bréon, you know, the famous French baritone. He lives near here, there was a picture of his house in this week’s Country Homes. He is the very man.’
‘It is an answer from heaven,’ cried Nazorkoff. ‘Bréon as Scarpia, I remember him well, it was one of his greatest rôles. But he has retired, has he not?’
