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Authors: Sherwood Smith
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Her being Madame’s protégé
seemed to have cleared the way: in a short time she stepped for the first time
on the stage, looked over the candles into the cavernous house, then turned
uncertainly. “What shall I sing?”
“Sophie’s song will do,” someone called from the back, and
the voice lowered, still audible, “How old is she? Fourteen? Fifteen? If she
sings half as well as you say, she will do.”
Feeling very much on her mettle, Anna took in a deep breath,
and sang.
“Fine voice, but light,” was the verdict when she was
finished. “She will do nicely in the chorus.”
She was given brisk directions about rehearsals and what
type of costume she must procure, and by the end of the week she had met all
her fellow performers.
By month’s end, Anna stood on stage in the heat of hundreds
of candles, bringing to life a two-act opera for the dimly-perceived, rustling,
whispering crowd in the seats. And at the end, amid resounding applause,
‘Signorina Bernardo’ joined the rest of the cast in bowing; next time, she
hoped, it would be she taking a personal bow.
When she retired to change, she found Parrette with her arms
tightly crossed as she stared with furrowed brow at the stool Anna usually sat
upon to have her hair done.
“What is amiss?” Anna asked. “Is there bad news?” She looked
around the crowded little alcove that functioned as her dressing room, as if
the evidence lurked in the shadows behind the flickering candles.
“No,” Parrette said. After a short struggle, she said in
Neapolitan, “I know you have spoken to few. They think you are a young girl,
and innocent, and in many regards it is true. But there is something you need
to know.”
Anna put her hands up to her ears. “Oh, if it is rumor and
scandal about Madame, I don’t want to hear it. I hate such things. I will not
believe any of it.”
Parrette shook her head. “No, no, I have heard nothing ill
about Madame, though perhaps a little about her play.”
“ Sappho ? That was
her great opera.”
“No, this is a play, Camille ,
which was to be performed at the Comédie-Française, in the rue de la Loi.” Her
eyes widened as she repeated this prestigious address.
“She never mentioned a word of this,” Anna murmured
wonderingly.
“Charlotte says because they refused to do it. She says the
true reason is because she is a woman, that the freedoms of the revolution are
coming to an end, but that is not what I wished to tell you.” Parrette drew in
a deep breath as she extracted a bit of carefully cut newsprint from her
pocket.
Anna read it in astonishment. The article smugly crowed over
the fact that the English frigate of 20 guns Danae had been taken by its crew, the officers killed or
imprisoned, and the ship restored to France.
“Is Captain Duncannon dead, then?”
“It says nothing about that.”
“A mutiny! Like those other mutinies the English had. I
remember the Hamiltons talking about it. They said it was because of terrible
captains who flogged and hanged seamen on whim. He must have been another such
terrible captain.”
Parrette shook her head. “Surely a terrible captain would
not have written back to you about Michel.”
That surely silenced them both; there was nothing more to be said. Conjecture was futile
for want of fact. But afterward, Anna noticed that Parrette no longer referred
to The Captain.
6
Captain Duncannon had by necessity been carried to
Gibraltar again and thence northward, after beating against recalcitrant winds
for so long that, as often happened, news of events he had left behind him
reached London before he did.
He read about his former ship in the English newspapers when
he reached Portsmouth just before Christmas. Where the French had been smug,
the English deplored, the more in light of the mutinies two years previous.
Captain Duncannon also read the less sensational account in
the Naval Chronicle , and shook his
head over the grim tidings, wondering what his
seemed to have cleared the way: in a short time she stepped for the first time
on the stage, looked over the candles into the cavernous house, then turned
uncertainly. “What shall I sing?”
“Sophie’s song will do,” someone called from the back, and
the voice lowered, still audible, “How old is she? Fourteen? Fifteen? If she
sings half as well as you say, she will do.”
Feeling very much on her mettle, Anna took in a deep breath,
and sang.
“Fine voice, but light,” was the verdict when she was
finished. “She will do nicely in the chorus.”
She was given brisk directions about rehearsals and what
type of costume she must procure, and by the end of the week she had met all
her fellow performers.
By month’s end, Anna stood on stage in the heat of hundreds
of candles, bringing to life a two-act opera for the dimly-perceived, rustling,
whispering crowd in the seats. And at the end, amid resounding applause,
‘Signorina Bernardo’ joined the rest of the cast in bowing; next time, she
hoped, it would be she taking a personal bow.
When she retired to change, she found Parrette with her arms
tightly crossed as she stared with furrowed brow at the stool Anna usually sat
upon to have her hair done.
“What is amiss?” Anna asked. “Is there bad news?” She looked
around the crowded little alcove that functioned as her dressing room, as if
the evidence lurked in the shadows behind the flickering candles.
“No,” Parrette said. After a short struggle, she said in
Neapolitan, “I know you have spoken to few. They think you are a young girl,
and innocent, and in many regards it is true. But there is something you need
to know.”
Anna put her hands up to her ears. “Oh, if it is rumor and
scandal about Madame, I don’t want to hear it. I hate such things. I will not
believe any of it.”
Parrette shook her head. “No, no, I have heard nothing ill
about Madame, though perhaps a little about her play.”
“ Sappho ? That was
her great opera.”
“No, this is a play, Camille ,
which was to be performed at the Comédie-Française, in the rue de la Loi.” Her
eyes widened as she repeated this prestigious address.
“She never mentioned a word of this,” Anna murmured
wonderingly.
“Charlotte says because they refused to do it. She says the
true reason is because she is a woman, that the freedoms of the revolution are
coming to an end, but that is not what I wished to tell you.” Parrette drew in
a deep breath as she extracted a bit of carefully cut newsprint from her
pocket.
Anna read it in astonishment. The article smugly crowed over
the fact that the English frigate of 20 guns Danae had been taken by its crew, the officers killed or
imprisoned, and the ship restored to France.
“Is Captain Duncannon dead, then?”
“It says nothing about that.”
“A mutiny! Like those other mutinies the English had. I
remember the Hamiltons talking about it. They said it was because of terrible
captains who flogged and hanged seamen on whim. He must have been another such
terrible captain.”
Parrette shook her head. “Surely a terrible captain would
not have written back to you about Michel.”
That surely silenced them both; there was nothing more to be said. Conjecture was futile
for want of fact. But afterward, Anna noticed that Parrette no longer referred
to The Captain.
6
Captain Duncannon had by necessity been carried to
Gibraltar again and thence northward, after beating against recalcitrant winds
for so long that, as often happened, news of events he had left behind him
reached London before he did.
He read about his former ship in the English newspapers when
he reached Portsmouth just before Christmas. Where the French had been smug,
the English deplored, the more in light of the mutinies two years previous.
Captain Duncannon also read the less sensational account in
the Naval Chronicle , and shook his
head over the grim tidings, wondering what his
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