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Authors: Rosemary Pollock
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”
“I’m very healthy,” she told him quietly. “I’m quite strong enough.”
“ Bene, bene. Then to-morrow we will begin to work.” But something in her face still seemed to trouble him, and when his accompanist had been dismissed he passed a hand thoughtfully over his thinning black hair and gave her another very penetrating look. “You know, of course, the story of the opera La Traviata .”
“Yes, of course.”
“As you know, it is a love-story—a sad and a dramatic story. When you take the part of Violetta you must put everything you have into your voice, for unless the au di e nce are made to feel the power and the tragedy of her love your performance will be empty.” He paused for breath, spreading his hands in aft extravagant gesture. “When you are on the stage you must always remember that it is not you who are singing, but that other woman—the woman you are representing. Your music is very important—it is almost everything—but your music will be dead unless you realize this. You must try very hard to understand and to live everything that woman is supposed to be feeling. Joy, misery, anger, relief, boredom, contentment . .. love. Love, perhaps, is the most important of all. But ... ” For a moment he paused again, allowing his square-tipped brown fingers to drum a little on the top of the piano. “But in your own life, signorina, for the moment at least, there must be no thought of love. As I told you, all your heart must be in your singing. You have been unhappy, one can see, but that is almost over, I think. Lose yourself in your music, Signorina Wells, forget everything else—for a time, if not for ever. A brilliant artist cannot be an ordinary human being, remember that.”
She said nothing, and he walked over to one of the wide windows, beckoning to her to follow him. The windows commanded a panoramic view of the city—a view so staggering that she caught her breath a little when she saw it.
“Rome is a great city, no e vero ? One day, if you work hard—if you work very hard—it may be that you will become the fine singer I think you could be, and then . .. and then perhaps all that great city down there will be at your feet. And not only that city, but many others also, around Italy and around the world.”
Candy followed the direction of his eyes. “I want to work,” she told him. “Not because I think I might become famous”—she smiled rather enchantingly, causing him to relax and smile back—“but just because ... ” Her voice trailed away, and she finished abruptly: “I want to work more than anything else in the world.” When she emerged from the elegant dimness of Signor Galleo’s audition room she blinked a little in the unexpected brilliance of the winter sunlight, and it occurred to her that before she did anything else she was going to have to buy herself a pair of sunglasses. For a minute or two she stood hesitating on the well - scrubbed doorstep, wondering in which direction to start walking—for a taxi had delivered her to Signor Galleo’s door, and Caterina Marchetti wasn’t with her—and then, as she stood there, a man’s voice suddenly spoke her name, and she jumped.
“ Mi disp i ace ... I’m very sorry.” The owner of the voice stood before her on the pavement, and she saw that it was the Conte di Lucca. He had just emerged from an expensive-looking low-slung white Fiat which was parked beside the kerb, and in his beautifully cut light grey suit and immaculate shirt, his dark hair gleaming in the sun, he looked the most perfect example anyone would be likely to meet of a well-dressed and startlingly good-looking modern Italian nobleman. Candy hadn’t realized before that he was so good - looking, and briefly and in a detached sort of way she wondered why.
“I am sorry,” he said again. “I startled you. Caterina asked me to meet you, in case you should become lost ... but perhaps you would prefer not to be met?”
She smiled at
“I’m very healthy,” she told him quietly. “I’m quite strong enough.”
“ Bene, bene. Then to-morrow we will begin to work.” But something in her face still seemed to trouble him, and when his accompanist had been dismissed he passed a hand thoughtfully over his thinning black hair and gave her another very penetrating look. “You know, of course, the story of the opera La Traviata .”
“Yes, of course.”
“As you know, it is a love-story—a sad and a dramatic story. When you take the part of Violetta you must put everything you have into your voice, for unless the au di e nce are made to feel the power and the tragedy of her love your performance will be empty.” He paused for breath, spreading his hands in aft extravagant gesture. “When you are on the stage you must always remember that it is not you who are singing, but that other woman—the woman you are representing. Your music is very important—it is almost everything—but your music will be dead unless you realize this. You must try very hard to understand and to live everything that woman is supposed to be feeling. Joy, misery, anger, relief, boredom, contentment . .. love. Love, perhaps, is the most important of all. But ... ” For a moment he paused again, allowing his square-tipped brown fingers to drum a little on the top of the piano. “But in your own life, signorina, for the moment at least, there must be no thought of love. As I told you, all your heart must be in your singing. You have been unhappy, one can see, but that is almost over, I think. Lose yourself in your music, Signorina Wells, forget everything else—for a time, if not for ever. A brilliant artist cannot be an ordinary human being, remember that.”
She said nothing, and he walked over to one of the wide windows, beckoning to her to follow him. The windows commanded a panoramic view of the city—a view so staggering that she caught her breath a little when she saw it.
“Rome is a great city, no e vero ? One day, if you work hard—if you work very hard—it may be that you will become the fine singer I think you could be, and then . .. and then perhaps all that great city down there will be at your feet. And not only that city, but many others also, around Italy and around the world.”
Candy followed the direction of his eyes. “I want to work,” she told him. “Not because I think I might become famous”—she smiled rather enchantingly, causing him to relax and smile back—“but just because ... ” Her voice trailed away, and she finished abruptly: “I want to work more than anything else in the world.” When she emerged from the elegant dimness of Signor Galleo’s audition room she blinked a little in the unexpected brilliance of the winter sunlight, and it occurred to her that before she did anything else she was going to have to buy herself a pair of sunglasses. For a minute or two she stood hesitating on the well - scrubbed doorstep, wondering in which direction to start walking—for a taxi had delivered her to Signor Galleo’s door, and Caterina Marchetti wasn’t with her—and then, as she stood there, a man’s voice suddenly spoke her name, and she jumped.
“ Mi disp i ace ... I’m very sorry.” The owner of the voice stood before her on the pavement, and she saw that it was the Conte di Lucca. He had just emerged from an expensive-looking low-slung white Fiat which was parked beside the kerb, and in his beautifully cut light grey suit and immaculate shirt, his dark hair gleaming in the sun, he looked the most perfect example anyone would be likely to meet of a well-dressed and startlingly good-looking modern Italian nobleman. Candy hadn’t realized before that he was so good - looking, and briefly and in a detached sort of way she wondered why.
“I am sorry,” he said again. “I startled you. Caterina asked me to meet you, in case you should become lost ... but perhaps you would prefer not to be met?”
She smiled at
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