Portrait of a Girl (5 page)

Chapter Three

The day was chill when Mr Verne and I set off in the chaise for Truro and my auspicious meeting with Signor Luigi. No sunlight swept the landscape; under the grey skies, the scattered grey hamlets appeared sombre as the smoky mine stacks standing back against the moorland hills. A thin wind blew through the almost naked branches of bushes and trees. A few gulls drifted overhead, and an occasional dead leaf brushed the window as we clattered along. I drew my cloak close under my chin, and tidied a stray, straggling curl from my cheek under the frivolous headgear, feeling suddenly out of place and uncharacteristically self-conscious.

Mr
Verne was so quiet. Any slight movement from him, any contact at all would have lifted my spirits, but he gave no indication at all of any pleasure in my company, and I wondered if I could have offended him in some way the day before, or if the ‘chatelaine’ — that is how I now thought of his lady wife — ‘the Chatelaine of Kerrysmoor’ — had somehow contrived to put a barrier between us. I couldn’t help remembering the cold contempt of that icy stare as she passed in the carriage the previous afternoon. It was probable, I thought, that she violently disagreed with her husband sponsoring me. She might even have some knowledge of the stage, and had made up her mind already I would be a failure and the venture a waste of money.

Well,
I would have to show her how wrong she was. The challenge gradually lifted depression to determination and a burst of anger. After all, I wasn’t just a nobody. Pierre, my father, had taught me from an early age how to have pride in myself, and when the occasion arose behave as his Princess. Because of this I’d gathered what education was possible during my colourful ‘vagabondish’ days in Falmouth, learning much from listening to conversation of all types of people, and secretly mastering the art of reading in both English and French.

So
I had nothing to fear from her ladyship, I told myself stubbornly, and for the rest of the journey felt better and in a more courageous mood to meet Signor Luigi.

By
the time we reached Truro the skies had slightly brightened, though no trace of sunlight caught rooftops or the imposing shape of the Cathedral. I was surprised when we left the town centre behind and travelled towards the outskirts.

‘
My friend owns a property that was once a small playhouse,’ Rupert told me. ‘It’s now only used on rare occasions and for individual cultural performances. Mostly it’s empty — but to Luigi it holds memories — his own dwelling is nearby — and the acoustics are good, especially for vocal requirements and rehearsing sometimes. You may find the interior somewhat gloomy and neglected, but I can assure you, you won’t have time to be depressed.’

This
proved to be true.

The
granite building was square and bleak-looking, of no particular period, looking more like an abandoned chapel than an ex-theatre. Except for a house huddled in trees a short distance away, and a few cottages, the landscape appeared curiously without life or activity. The house I guessed was Luigi’s home, and was probably more attractive from the other side because the glint of water showed through the interlaced branches of woodland, which could have been the river winding below.

‘
So here we are,’ I heard Mr Verne saying, as the chaise came to a halt. He took my gloved hand and helped me from the vehicle, adding a second later, ‘You’re very quiet. Nervous?’

‘
No,’ I told him, ‘well, a little perhaps. I was just thinking how deserted everything seems—’ My voice trailed off vaguely.

‘
Oh, Luigi likes solitude, except for opera and good music.’

‘
Is there an organ inside?’ I asked thoughtlessly.

‘
Good heavens, no. There might have been once of course. Before it was a theatre, in early Methodist times the place was a chapel.’

So
I’d been right. ‘I
thought
so.’

‘
Did you now?’

‘
Yes. I kind of felt it.’

‘
Well, bring your thoughts to what is important at the moment and think of how to make a good impression on my friend,’ Mr Verne said almost sternly.

I
could feel myself flush, resentful that he should address me like that, as though I was a child.

‘
I shall do my best,’ I said stiffly. ‘I’m not entirely an ignoramus.’

His
hand involuntarily tightened on my arm.

‘
Calm yourself,’ he said, as we mounted the few steps to the door. ‘There’s no need to snap. I’m more concerned for your welfare than my own. Just be your natural self and put on no airs then everything will be all right.’ There was a pause before he touched the bell-pull. ‘You look — quite adorable,’ he added encouragingly after a hurried glance at my profile.

The
compliment startled me, sending a rush of exhilaration through my veins. I raised my head proudly in anticipation of the meeting, and as the heavy bell clanged, reverberating with a hollow sound through the silence, I smoothed my gloves and then lifted my cloak a few inches so the hem was saved from dust or catching the toes of my pointed boots.

There
was a rattle of a bolt being drawn, and we went in. My instant impression was of emptiness and tall narrow windows in recesses where lamps had been lighted. At the far end was a raised platform, presumably a one-time stage. The whole effect was gloomy rather than inspiring. I could imagine in the past, before the building had been a theatre, dark-clad preachers issuing dire forebodings to congregations of sombre religious converts. The singing would be of doleful psalms and hymns.

I
felt suddenly trapped, with a wild instinctive desire to turn and rush out into the fresh air. Just as quickly I came to myself again. The nerve-crisis was over, and I was aware of Mr Verne presenting another shorter figure — Signor Luigi. I lifted my right hand instinctively, and as dutifully the rather portly little man raised it to his lips brushing the tips of my fingers briefly, before straightening up to his full height so the light fell directly on his face.

His
brow was wide under thick crisply curling white hair; his complexion, though olive, was flushed at the high cheek bones, and this somehow added to the intense piercing quality of curiously light grey eyes under beetling brows. A carefully clipped grey beard added to an air of almost regal distinction which was emphasised by a maroon-coloured waisted velvet jacket and carefully cut black fitting trousers. He wore a white silk neckcloth. In spite of his somewhat florid appearance, there was still an aura of theatre about him, and I guessed he had a temper and could be irascible.

My
deduction proved to be correct.

Following
the first introductions Rupert Verne left, saying he would return in an hour to collect me.

After
that my testing period — more of an interrogation, I felt — began.

First
of all, under his frightening gaze, and from the platform, he put me through my scales, not once but time after time. Then I was allowed to sing one of the faraway Celtic melodies taught to me by my father. He gave no word of criticism or encouragement — simply stared, looking, I thought, more contemptuously critical than pleased.

It
’s difficult now to recall exactly what further endless exercises I was put through, but at last he said flatly, ‘Not too bad. You have a good range. Your voice has possibilities. But ignorant — no control — no instinctive knowledge at
all
of discipline or of what the opera demands. Have you ever heard of Wagner, Miss Lebrun? Or Offenbach? Verdi? — But no. Of course not.’ He shrugged. ‘You are simply raw and very doubtful material.’

My
temper flared.

‘
You must have known that,’ I said hotly. ‘Rupert — Mr Verne — surely told you, or I wouldn’t be here. But as a matter of fact, I
have
heard of your great composers and some singers — but I can assure you I never aspired to such — such great heights. I didn’t even ask to meet you. It was him. Rupert—’ Unconsciously the Christian name slipped out. Before he could interrupt I continued. ‘Obviously you have no use for me, so I’d rather you just said so, instead of scolding and deriding.’

I
broke off breathlessly.

There
was a pause, then the great man — or
once
great man — said, almost appeasingly, ‘My dear child, you astonish me. Famous singers in the past would have been gratified to earn even a word of criticism from Arnoldo Luigi. If I thought you had no promise do you imagine I would trouble one jot about you—’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Eh?’

I
was confused, even a little ashamed.

‘
I — I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. I—’

‘
Aha!’ he smiled then, a gesture with a kind of mischief, even wickedness in it, ‘ — you have a temper, temperament. That is good. No one without the flame, the longing, the glory and despair in the blood would have a chance to stir the heart and bring audiences to joy and tears. I can give you no promise, of course. But in time perhaps, with hard work and many, many scoldings from me — well, perhaps — just
perhaps
— we may, together make something of you.’

So
that was the beginning.

The
following week my training in voice production and stage craft commenced under the strict tuition of Arnoldo Luigi for, hopefully, a successful debut as a possible future prima donna.

Twice
weekly the Vernes’ chaise drove me to Truro for long sessions that were frequently tiring, leaving me chafing at what appeared to be my own inadequacies. Luigi was an irate critic, and sparse in praise, although at points when I was in a sudden too-low an ebb or on the verge of flouncing away in a temper he would unexpectedly produce a compliment and smile to restore confidence. There were also occasions when he allowed me to revert to my own choice of Celtic ballads and give full expression to the sense of romantic drama inherited from my mother. This I discovered later was not merely for my pleasure but to provide a yardstick for judging voice control — of what I’d learned so far in giving subtle but full power to my vocal range.

‘
Yes,’ he said once, ‘you have learned something, not much, but a little. In six months’ time maybe — only
maybe
, you hear me? — we will give you a real test on a real stage. For that you will have to learn to move properly.’

‘
But—’

‘
Aha!’ he waved a hand disparagingly, ‘do not interrupt. Sometimes you show a
minimum
of grace, yes; at others you are a calf — a young cow — or a colt galloping in.
Discipline
, Miss Lebrun. Only discipline can give the essential dignity to any singer of repute. You have yet
much
to learn in every way.’

Such
admonishments frequently depressed me, at other times fired my temper. Surprisingly, he was amused then, and gradually understanding developed between us.

The
months passed, bringing a winter of wild gales and high seas lashing the gaunt granite coast. Apart from sessions at Truro I spent most of my time helping Dame Jenny, or attending to my duties dusting the precious treasures and figurines in the locked room. Being there was like entering another world — mostly because the girl’s portrait so dominated the atmosphere. I couldn’t help wondering about her — why Rupert had replied so brusquely when I’d questioned him about it. I was sure the painting meant more to him in some way than that of a mere acquisition hung where it was because it fitted the place. Was it the likeness of some dead relative that his wife objected to? Or was she still alive living perhaps in another country because of a family quarrel?

I
brought the subject up more than once to the old lady. She dismissed my queries with a shake of the head and fierce look each time.

‘
I know nothing ’bout her,’ she said, ‘neither should you be digging and delving. Too curious you are by half ’bout things not your business. And remember what they say — “curiosity killed the cat”.’

‘
But I’m not a cat,’ I replied pertly, sensing she was withholding at least a shred of truth.

‘
No. Well — sometimes you do act like one,’ she remarked meaningfully — ‘The way you go prowling of an evening sometimes t’wards Rosecarrion. I saw you yesterday, staring up the path that’s forbidden you. “If she takes one step up”, I said to myself, “I’ll give a shout, and have to tell the master too”.’

I
shrugged. ‘It seems so stupid. It’s only a hill, an ordinary moorland hill, and the afternoon was quiet yesterday, I’d have enjoyed a walk in a different direction for a time.’

‘
What you enjoy and what’s allowed can be two separate things,’ she told me sharply. ‘You should watch yourself and take care not to anger Mr Verne. You’ve a deal to thank him for, and be grateful. Remember that, girl.’

I
did. I remembered all the time, and wished I had more opportunity for telling him so. But I seldom saw him. After the first visit to Truro the chaise called for me and I was driven there alone, then picked up at a certain hour and taken back to Tregonnis in the same manner unaccompanied.