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“I’m flabbergasted,” said Troy.
“You will be even more so when you have heard it. You do not know who I am, of course.”
“I’m afraid I only know that your name is Lattienzo.”
“Ah-ha.”
“I expect I ought to have exclaimed. ‘No! Not the Lattienzo?’”
“Not at all. I am that obscure creature, a vocal pedagogue. I take the voice and teach it to know itself.”
“And — did you—?”
“Yes. I took to pieces the most remarkable vocal instrument of these times and put it together again and gave it back to its owner. I worked her like a horse for three years and I am probably the only living person to whom she pays the slightest professional attention. I am commanded here because she wishes me to fall into a rapture over this opera.”
“Have you seen it? Or should one say ‘read it’?”
He cast up his eyes and made a gesture of despair.
“Oh dear,” said Troy.
“Alas, alas,” agreed Signor Lattienzo. Troy wondered if he was habitually so unguarded with complete strangers.
“You have, of course,” he said, “noticed the fair young man with the appearance of a quattrocento angel and the expression of a soul in torment?”
“I have indeed. It’s a remarkable head.”
“What devil, one asks oneself, inserted into it the notion that it could concoct an opera. And yet,” said Signor Lattienzo, looking thoughtfully at Rupert Bartholomew, “I fancy the first-night horrors the poor child undoubtedly suffers are not of the usual kind.”
“No?”
“No. I fancy he has discovered his mistake and feels deadly sick.”
“But this is dreadful,” Troy said. “It’s the worst that can happen.”
“Can it happen to painters, then?”
“I think painters know while they are still at it, if the thing they are doing is no good. I know I do,” said Troy. “There isn’t perhaps the time lag that authors and, from what you tell me, musicians can go through before they come to the awful moment of truth. Is the opera really so bad?”
“Yes. It is bad. Nevertheless, here and there, perhaps three times, one hears little signs that make one regret he is being spoilt. Nothing is to be spared him. He is to conduct.”
“Have you spoken to him? About it being wrong?”
“Not yet. First I shall let him hear it.”
“Oh,” Troy protested, “but why! Why let him go through with it? Why not tell him and advise him to cancel the performance?”
“First of all, because she would pay no attention.”
“But if he refused?”
“She has devoured him, poor dear. He would not refuse. She has made him her secretary-accompanist-composer, but beyond all that and most destructively, she has taken him for her lover and gobbled him up. It is very sad,” said Signor Lattienzo, and his eyes were bright as coal nuggets. “But you see,” he added, “what I mean when I say that La Sommita will be too much engagée to pose for you until all is over. And then she may be too furious to sit still for thirty seconds. The first dress rehearsal was yesterday. Tomorrow will be occupied in alternately resting and making scenes and attending a second dress rehearsal. And the next night — the performance! Shall I tell you of their first meeting and how it has all come about?”
“Please.”
“But first I must fortify you with a drink.”
He did tell her, making a good story of it. “Imagine! Their first encounter. All the ingredients of the soap opera. A strange young man, pale as death, beautiful as Adonis, with burning eyes and water pouring off the end of his nose, gazes hungrily at his goddess at one a.m. during a deluge. She summons him to the window of her car. She is kind and before long she is even kinder. And again, kinder. He shows her his opera — it is called The Alien Corn, it is dedicated to her, and since the role of Ruth is virtually the entire score and has scarcely finished ravishing the audience with one coloratura embellishment before another sets in, she is favorably impressed. You know, of course, of her celebrated A above high C.”
“I’m afraid not!”
“No? It’s second only to the achievement recorded in the Gui
“Oh, come!”
“Believe me. It is the truth. You see before you the assembled company engaged at vast cost for this charade. The basso: a New Zealander and a worthy successor to Inia te Wiata. He is the Boaz and, believe me, finds himself knee-deep in corn for which ‘alien’ is all too inadequate a description. The dear Hilda Dancy on the sofa is the Naomi, who escapes with a duet, a handful of recitatives, and the contralto part in an enfeebled pastiche of ‘Bella figlia dell’ amore.’ There she is joined by a mezzo-soprano (the little Sylvia Parry, now talking to the composer). She is, so to speak, Signora Boaz. Next comes the romantic element, in the person of Roberto Rodolfo, who is the head gleaner and adores the Ruth at first sight. She, I need not tell you, dominates the quartet. You find me unsympathetic, perhaps?” said Signor Lattienzo.
“I find you very fu
“But spiteful? Yes?”
“Well — ruthless, perhaps.”
“Would we were all.”
“What?”
“‘Ruth’-less, my dear.”
“Oh, really!” said Troy and burst out laughing.
“I am very hungry. She is twenty minutes late as usual and our good Monty consults his watch. Ah! We are to be given the full performance — the Delayed Entrance. Listen.”
A musical whooping could at that moment be heard rapidly increasing in volume.
“The celestial fire engine,” said Signor Lattienzo, “approaches.” He said this loudly to Alleyn, who had joined them.
The door into the hall was flung wide, Isabella Sommita stood on the threshold, and Troy thought: “This is it. O, praise the Lord all ye Lands, this is it.”
The first thing to be noticed about the Sommita was her eyes. They were enormous, black, and baleful and set slantwise in her magnolia face. They were topped by two jetty arcs, thin as a camel-hair brush, but one knew that if left to themselves they would bristle and meet angrily above her nose. Her underlip was full, her teeth slightly protuberant with the little gap at the front which is said to denote an amorous disposition.
She wore green velvet and diamonds, and her celebrated bosom, sumptuously displayed, shone like marble.
Everyone who had been sitting rose. Alleyn thought: A bit more of this and the ladies would fall to the ground in curtseys.
He looked at Troy and recognized the quickened attention, the impersonal scrutiny that meant his wife was hooked.
“Dar-leengs!” sang La Sommita. “So late! Forgive, forgive.” She directed her remarkably searching gaze upon them all, and let it travel slowly, rather, Alleyn thought, in the ma
“But you have come!” she cried at last and appealed to everyone else. “Isn’t it wonderful!” she demanded. “They have come!” She displayed them, like trophies, to her politely responsive audience.
Alleyn said “Hell” inaudibly and as a way of releasing himself kissed the receptive hand.
There followed cascades of welcome. Troy was gripped by the shoulders and gazed at searchingly and asked if she (the Sommita) would “do” and told that already she knew they were en rapport and that she (the Sommita) always “knew.” Didn’t Troy always know? Alleyn was appealed to: “Didn’t she?”
“Oh,” Alleyn said, “she’s as cu