Swan Song. Edmund Crispin

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       Chapter Four

      Presently the orchestral rehearsals began, and with them, trouble.

      Adam sighed windily, took out a packet of Spearmint chewing-gum, and placed part of its contents slowly in his mouth. His gaze, roving over the auditorium, came to rest on John Barfield, who was slumped in one of the front stalls, gobbling a ham sandwich and dropping the crumbs down the front of his waistcoat. The rapid and rhythmical movement of his jaws was obscurely fascinating. Adam stared until Barfield looked up sharply and caught his eye; then turned, with some dignity, to reconsider what was going on on the stage.

      Or rather, what was not going on. ‘It is extraordinary,’ thought Adam, ‘that Edwin is able to find something wrong even when he’s only sitting still, singing a monologue.’ The cause of the present stoppage had eluded Adam in the first instance, but it appeared from the logomachy that was now in progress that it had something to do with tempo. ‘Naturally I defer to you absolutely, Mr Peacock,’ Shorthouse was saying without a hint of deference across the footlights. ‘It’s simply that I’ve not been used to such a marked accelerando at that point, and I felt that Sachs’ dignity was rather lessened by it.’

      George Peacock fidgeted with his baton and looked harassed. And well he might, Adam reflected: rehearsing Die Meistersinger with Edwin Shorthouse in the cast had unnerved many an older and more experienced conductor. It was really all a great pity; Peacock was an able young man; this production would certainly be important to his career; and after four weeks’ nagging by Edwin Shorthouse he might easily make a mess of the actual show. Moreover – Adam glanced at his watch – time was getting on; they still had the third act to get through that afternoon.

      ‘Why, in the name of God,’ he whispered to Joan Davis, ‘can’t Edwin shut his trap for ten minutes at a time?’

      Joan nodded briskly. ‘Inelegantly put,’ she returned, ‘but I could scarcely agree with you more. I’m very sorry for that young man. It’s just the greatest pity in the world that Edwin happens to be so good.’

      ‘He wouldn’t have lasted five minutes if he hadn’t been,’ said Adam. ‘And I’m inclined to think that someone may stick a knife in him yet.’

      ‘… So if you’ve got no objection,’ Peacock was saying from the rostrum, ‘we’ll keep it as it was. I think the extra impetus is wanted at that point.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Shorthouse. ‘Of course. I must try to follow your beat more closely. If I might have a more definite down-stroke at “springtime’s behest”—’

      ‘Ass,’ Joan commented in a vehement whisper from the wings. ‘Contemptible ass. The wretched man’s beat is perfectly clear.’

      ‘If we have many more hold-ups,’ Adam replied gloomily, ‘we shall never get on to the third act at all. Not that I should be altogether sorry,’ he added as an afterthought. ‘I tried to sing a top A in my bath this morning, and nothing but a sort of whistling sound came out.’

      The music began again. Adam had heard it hundreds of times, but still it cast its warm enchantment over him. They reached the disputed passage. Shorthouse was dragging.

      ‘Now we shall see,’ said Joan.

      Peacock tapped with his baton and the orchestra faded into silence. ‘I’m afraid we were a little ahead of you. Mr Shorthouse,’ he said pointedly.

      ‘Oh, Lord,’ groaned Adam. ‘Not sarcasm. Not sarcasm, you fool.’

      The result was as he expected. There was a moment’s dead silence, and then: ‘If my efforts displease you, Mr Peacock,’ said Shorthouse, ‘I would be obliged if you would tell me so in a straightforward way, and not by means of cheap witticisms.’

      There was another silence. Peacock flushed scarlet. Then: ‘I think we’ll leave that passage for the moment,’ he said quietly, ‘and go on. We’ll take it from scene four – Eva’s entry. Are you ready, Miss Davis?’ he called.

      ‘Perfectly,’ Joan called back. ‘Even the pretence of flirting with Edwin,’ she said to Adam, ‘makes me shudder.’

      ‘Never mind. Perhaps he’ll object to something you do. Then you can give him hell.’

      ‘How nice that would be,’ said Joan dreamily. ‘But there’s not much hope of it. He only picks on the young and inexperienced, who can’t answer back … Here we go.’

      ‘Ta-ta,’ said Adam. ‘Meet you under the lime-tree, and don’t bring a friend.’ He returned to his reflexions.

      The situation was, in fact, worrying. There could be no doubt that Peacock was breaking up under the strain of incessant objections, interruptions, and superfluous requests for information about tempo, dynamics, and all the paraphernalia which should have been, and in fact had been, settled at the piano rehearsals; doing a complex, five-hour opera is labour enough without any member of the cast’s making a wilful nuisance of himself. What made it more objectionable was that where the opera management was concerned, Shorthouse could twist Peacock round his little finger, for Shorthouse was the box-office attraction, and Peacock virtually a nonentity; so that although nominally Peacock’s word was law …

      Adam sighed, took another piece of chewing-gum, and again caught the eye of Barfield, who was beginning to eat a tomato. Barfield grimaced and nodded СКАЧАТЬ