Swan Song by Crispin Edmund

Author:Crispin, Edmund [Edmund Crispin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2009-02-05T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE REHEARSAL, WHEN they reached it, was in a state of confusion which really amounted to total deadlock. It had been called, rather suddenly, for five o’clock; and since most of those concerned had assumed that there would be no rehearsal that day, and had gone out in search of such merriment as Oxford affords on a week-day afternoon, there were considerable gaps in the ranks, and it was difficult to do any useful work. However, the new Sachs had arrived with remarkable promptness – he was a competent singer whom Adam knew and liked – and Rutherston, in the absence of about a third of the orchestra, was taking him through moves. The remaining two-thirds of the orchestra, along with the chorus and one or two of the principals, pottered funereally about engaged in muted execration of Peacock, who had declined to let them go home on the grounds that the remainder of the cast and of the orchestra might yet appear, and so enable them to do at least an hour’s work. Adam thought that on the whole he was justified, in view of the fact that the performance was due in less than a week’s time.

There were few lights in the auditorium, though it was possible to make out the coffered ceiling and the white balcony with the illuminated clock set in its centre. On either side there was one tier of boxes, almost antiseptically severe in design, with blue velvet curtains and concealed lighting; while on the carved shield above the proscenium-arch two symbolic young women were sprawled, scantily clad, lubriciously curved, and holding slender angelic trumpets to their lips. (‘They represent,’ said Fen, ‘the proctorial authority, summoning the youth of Oxford to virtue and sobriety.’) On the stage, Rutherston could be heard complaining to George Green about the demeanour of the apprentices in the brawl at the end of the second act. ‘They scamper about,’ he said, ‘like a herd of deer attacked by a Pekingese.’ In the orchestra-pit, a trombonist was doing a very creditable imitation of a Spitfire diving, and a clarinettist was surreptitiously playing jazz. John Barfield was seated in the front row of the stalls, consuming a large orange.

Adam went to make his apologies to Peacock, whom he found talking to Mr Levi in the wings. Mr Levi was a large, kindly, polyglot Jew, with a powerful if somewhat inaccurate command of the English language.

‘’Allo, Langley,’ he said. ‘Terrible ’old-up, this. Schrecklich, gar fabelhaft. I tell you, I ’ave no use for that twister someone knock-off, see, but ’e ’ad a voice. nothing like it since Chaliapin, famos, nicht wahr? And now,’ said Mr Levi with some relish, ‘’is tonsils’ll be dinner for coffin-worms’ sarcophaguses, clever little insects.’

Adam introduced him to Fen.

‘Still,’ Mr Levi resumed cheerfully, ‘we get the show on none the less.’ He patted Peacock encouragingly on the back. ‘The maestro ’ere, ’e’s good. I tell you – ’e keep that orchestra right where ’e want ’em. The

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