Mr Gautier was a small man whose role as the director of the Royal Opera House made him appear bigger than he was. But today, as he sat down to eat his lunch, he felt the lack of every inch. For the first time he had to admit that if this morning’s dress rehearsal was anything to go by, the production of Frederick Massini’s new opera, The Saviour, was doomed to failure.
This time two years ago he had been full of excitement at the prospect of staging the opera. What had happened then had been a tragedy. Ellen Winther had been one of the greatest opera singers the city had ever produced but she, along with her husband and children, had been lost at sea. Not for the first time did Mr Gautier wonder if something in his fortunes had suffered a sea-change. Tonight’s Grand Opening should have been the jewel in the crown of the Royal Opera House’s autumn season. Instead, Madame Sabina Petrova was making everyone’s lives miserable. Sitting with Massini in the empty auditorium, the director had felt his age.
The dress rehearsal had started at ten o’clock. Immediately, the gauze that hung in front of the scenery had been badly torn by the batten of one of the main painted cloths. Mr Gautier had waved it aside as unimportant and the rehearsal continued. Madame Sabina refused to go on stage without it in place.
He had made a mistake when he’d told her the gauze was unnecessary and, if anything, distracted from the glorious sets. Madame had retorted that it made all the difference in the world to her, and that no one was there to see the scenery.
‘They are here to see me,’ she’d said. ‘The scenery doesn’t sing – I sing.’
Madame Sabina took to her dressing-room and refused to come out until Mr Gautier had apologised and assured her that the gauze would be in place when the curtain rose that evening.
‘Now, please,’ he’d begged, ‘we must finish the dress rehearsal. Imagine what tonight’s performance will be like if we don’t.’
To his complete surprise, she had said, ‘I don’t care. All I have to do is sing.’
When she had reappeared, she had just walked through her part. Then to the consternation of the conductor and the orchestra she had started to sing an aria from another opera altogether.
‘Stop, stop!’ shouted Mr Gautier. ‘Madame, what are you doing?’
‘I am singing an aria that I am famous for. This opera of Massini’s has no memorable tunes at all.’
Frederick Massini had stormed out of the theatre.
Mr Gautier knew that if Sabina Petrova insisted on singing that particular aria, Massini’s opera would be a disaster. It was a song that had been made famous by Ellen Winther. It also happened to be the last song she’d sung on this stage.
He had asked to speak to Madame Sabina alone. He had waited in his office, pacing back and forth, wondering who had been responsible for making this woman into an unbearable monster.
‘It would be most inappropriate…’ he had said when she eventually arrived, but Madame Sabina wasn’t listening.
She demanded coffee and ‘some of those little pastries’. Mr Gautier, conscious of every wasted second, watched them tick-tock away, defeated by a flurry of china coffee cups and pastries, forks and napkins.
‘Don’t you want a pastry?’ she’d asked with the innocence of a lamb.
‘No.’ He took a deep breath. ‘The aria you sang…’
‘Beautiful, wasn’t it?’
‘That aria would remind His Majesty of the loss of his son. It was a tragedy, you will remember, that also took the life of Ellen Winther, one of the opera house’s most beloved singers. That was the last song she ever sang on this stage.’
‘Most beloved?’ repeated Madame Sabina. ‘I don’t think so. I am far more highly regarded than ever Ellen Winther was. Her voice was rather thin, I recall.’
‘Madame, I’m sure, like us all, you want to impress the king,’ said Mr Gautier, speaking slowly as if he was dealing with a toddler on the cusp of a tantrum.
‘Of course.’
Mr Gautier swallowed before saying, ‘Then I suggest you sing the role Massini has written for you. I believe the opera stands a chance of being a success but not if you refuse to sing the correct score or act the part.’
Madame Sabina had stood up, knocking what was left of the pastries onto the floor. She’d flounced out of his office.
But to his surprise his words worked for she returned to the stage and finished the first act, singing the right words to the right score. But this time, instead of wearing the costume designed for the part, she was dressed in a gown sprinkled with diamonds.
‘No, no, no!’ Mr Gautier had shouted. ‘You are supposed to be a poor, homeless woman in this scene.’
Madame Sabina replied that she would wear what she pleased and it was so very unpleasant to be dressed in a nasty, shabby costume.
Raising his arms to the domed ceiling of the opera house, Mr Gautier had given in. And so the dress rehearsal continued only to be interrupted again when one of the footlights spluttered and set fire to a piece of painted scenery. The flames were doused but the damage meant that the scene painters would be working until the curtain rose. The gas-lighter, whose job it was to light the production, had strode on stage, announcing the place was no better than kindling. It wasn’t safe, and he wasn’t going to be held responsible if a fire broke out.
Mr Gautier had thanked him for his concern and suggested the rehearsal continue as they were running out of time.
It was at the end of Act One, when he was hoping things might improve, that Camille, the ballet school’s second-best ballerina, had tripped as she made her entrance. She sprained her ankle. There was a pause while a replacement, the best dancer from the corps de ballet, was found. By then, the stage had been transformed into a forest and in a pool of light a young girl, no older than twelve, tiptoed onto the stage. There was a hush, then the orchestra soared and for a few minutes Mr Gautier was transported by the clever little dancer. He could have happily watched her all day. How much better to work with children than with monstrous adults.
‘If she can sing,’ said a voice from the row behind him, ‘you should give her the role of Columbine in the pantomime.’
Mr Gautier had turned, pleased to see his old friend, Quigley, the clown. He was dressed, as always, in his chequered Harlequin costume.
The director had made a note to find out about the little dancer.
At the end of the dress rehearsal he’d said, ‘Well done,’ to the rest of the company, though none of them were happy with how it had gone, and all complained bitterly about Madame Sabina. She had sent Miss Olsen to tell the director that she wouldn’t see him until she’d rested.
Lunch was brought to his office. He ate slowly. Better, he thought, to go into battle on a full stomach than an empty one. But he wasn’t hungry, and he got up from his desk, which was covered with papers and manuscripts, and went to the window. He looked out over the copper domes of the city and he knew that he had four hours before the critics came, the curtain rose and his opera was destroyed by the eager scratching of their fountain pens. Four hours. He felt not unlike a man about to go to his execution. Not even the enchanting little dancer at the end of Act One would be able to save The Saviour.