staircases, and a slap-up private theatre. Rolling in money
they are, and always giving some private show. She suggests
that we give a complete opera, preferably Butterfly." "Butterfly?" Cowan nodded.
"And they are prepared to pay. We'll have to square Covent Garden, of course, but even after that it will be well
worth your while financially. In all probability, royalty will
be present. It will be a slap-up advertisement."
Madame raised her still beautiful chin.
"Do I need advertisementT' she demanded proudly.
"You can't have too much of a good thing," said Cowan, unabashed.
"Rustonbury," murmured the singer; "where did I
116 Agatha Christie
She sprang up suddenly and, running to the center table, began turning over the pages of an illustrated paper which
lay there. There was a sudden pause as her hand stopped,
hovering over one of the pages, then she let the periodical
slip to the floor and returned slowly to her seat. With one
of her swift changes of mood, she seemed now an entirely
different personality. Her manner was very quiet, almost
austere.
"Make all arrangements for Rustonbury. I would like to sing there, but there is one condition--the opera must be Tosca."
Cowan looked doubtful.
"That will be rather difficult--for a private show, you
know, scenery and all that."
"Tosca or nothing."
Cowan looked at her very closely. What he saw seemed
to convince him; he gave a brief nod and rose to his feet. "I will see what I can arrange," he said quietly.
Nazorkoff rose too. She seemed more anxious than was usual, with her, to explain her decision.
"It is my greatest role, Cowan. I can sing that part as no other woman has ever sung it."
"It is a fine part," said Cowan. "Jeritza made a great hit in it last year."
"Jeritza?" cried the other, a flush mounting in her cheeks. She proceeded to give him at great length her opinion of
Jeritza.
Cowan, who was used to listening to singers' opinions of other singers, abstracted his attention till the tirade was
over; he then said obstinately:
"Anyway, she sings 'Vissi D'Arte' lying on her stomach.''
"And why not?" demanded Nazorkoff. "What is there to prevent her? I will sing it on my back with my legs waving
in the air."
Cowan shook his head with perfect seriousness.
"I don't believe that would go down any," he informed her. "All the same, that sort of thing takes on, you know."
"No one can sing 'Vissi D'Arte' as I can," said Nazorkoff confidently. "I sing it in the voice of the convent--as the
good nuns taught me to sing years and years ago. In the
SWAN SONG 117
voice of a choir boy or an angel, without feeling, without
passion."
"I know," said Cowan heartily. "I have heard you; you
are wonderful."
"That is art," said the prima donna, "to pay the price,
to suffer, to endure, and in the end not only to have all
knowledge, but also the power to go back, right back to the
beginning and recapture the lost beauty of the heart of a
child."
Cowan looked at her curiously. She was stating past him
with a strange, blank look in her eyes, and something about
that look of hers gave him a creepy feeling. Her lips just
parted, and she whispered a few words softly to herself. He
only just caught them.
"At last," she murmured. "At last--after all these years."
II
Lady Rustonbury was both an ambitious and an artistic
woman; she ran the two qualities in harness with complete
success. She had the good fortune to have a husband who
cared for neither ambition nor art and who therefore did not
hamper her in any way. The Earl of Rustonbury was a large,
square man, with an interest in horseflesh and in nothing
else. He admired his wife, and was proud of her, and was
glad that his great wealth enabled her to indulge all her
schemes. The private theatre had been built less than a
hundred years ago by his grandfather. It was Lady Rustonbury's
chief toy--she had already given an Ibsen drama in
it, and a play of the ultra new school; all divorce and drugs,
also a poetical fantasy with Cubist scenery. The forthcoming
performance of Tosca had created widespread interest. Lady
Rustonbury was entertaining a very distinguished house party
for it, and all London that counted was motoring down to
attend.
Mme. Nazorkoff and her company had arrived just before
luncheon. The new young American tenor, Hensdale, was
to sing "Cavaradossi," and Roscari, the famous Italian baritone,
was to be Scarpia. The expense of the production had
been enormous, but nobody cared about that. Paula Na
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zorkoff was in the best of humours; she was charming, gracious, her most delightful and cosmopolitan self. Cowan
was agreeably surprised, and prayed that this state of things
might continue.
After luncheon the company went out to the theatre and inspected the scenery and various appointments. The orchestra
was under the direction of Mr. Samuel Ridge, one
of England's most famous conductors. Everything seemed
to be going without a hitch, and strangely enough, that fact
worried Mr. Cowan. He was more at home in an atmosphere
of trouble; this unusual peace disturbed him.
"Everything is going a darned sight too smoothly," murmured Mr. Cowan to himself. "Madame is like a cat that
has been fed on cream. It's too good to last; something is
bound to happen."
Perhaps as the result of his long contact with the operatic world, Mr. Cowan had developed the sixth sense, certainly
his prognostications were justified. It was just before seven
o'clock that evening when the French maid, Elise, came
running to him in great distress.
"Ah, Mr. Cowan, come quickly; I beg of you come quickly."
"What's the matter?" demanded Cowan anxiously. "Madame got her back up about anything--ructions, eh, is that
it?"
"No, no, it is not Madame; it is Signor Roscari. He is ill; he is dying!"
"Dying? Oh, come now."
Cowan hurried after her as she led the way to the stricken Italian's bedroom. The little man was lying on his bed, or
rather jerking himself all over it in a series of contortions
that would have been humorous had they been less grave.
Paula Nazorkoff was bending over him; she greeted Cowan
imperiously.
"Ah! There you are. Our poor Roscari, he suffers horribly. Doubtless he has eaten something."
"I am dying," groaned the little man. "The pain--it is terrible. Ow!"
He contorted himself again, clasping both hands to his stomach, and rolling about on the bed.
"We must send for a doctor," said Cowan.
SWAN SONG 1 1 9
Paula arrested him as he was about to move to the door.
"The doctor is already on his way; he will do all that can
be done for the poor suffering one, that is arranged for, brat
never, never will Roscari be able to sing tonight."
"I shall never sing again; I am dying," groaned the Italiarl.
"No, no, you are not dying," said Paula. "It is but an
indige
stion, but all the same, impossible that you shoul,d
sing."
"I have been poisoned."
"Yes, it is the ptomaine without doubt," said Paula. "Sta3, with him, Elise, till the doctor comes."
The singer swept Cowan with her from the room.
"What are we to do?" she demanded.
Cowan shook his head hopelessly. The hour was so far
advanced that it would not be possible to get anyone fropn
London to take Roscari's place. Lady Rustonbury, who had
just been informed of her guest's illness, came hurrying
along the corridor to join them. Her principal concern, like
Paula Nazorkoff's, was the success of Tosca.
"If there were only someone near at hand," groaned the
prima donna.
"Ah!" Lady Rustonbury gave a sudden cry. "Of course!
Br6on."
"Br6on?"
"Yes, Edouard Br6on, you know, the famous French
baritone. He lives near here. There was a picture of his
house in this week's Country Homes. He is the very man."
"It is an answer from heaven," cried Nazorkoff. "Br6on
as Scarpia, I remember him well, it was one of his greatest
r61es. But he has retired, has he not?"
"I will get him," said Lady Rustonbury. "Leave it to me.'
And being a woman of decision, she straightway ordered
out the Hispano Suiza. Ten minutes later, M. Edouartl
Br6on's country retreat was invaded by an agitated countess.
Lady Rustonbury, once she had made her mind up, was a
very determined woman, and doubtless M. Br6on realized
that there was nothing for it but to submit. Also, it must be
confessed, he had a weakness for countesses. Himself a
man of very humble origin, he had climbed to the top of
his profession, and had consorted on equal terms with dukes
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Agatha Christie
and princes, and the fact never failed to gratify him. Yet,
since his retirement to this old-world English spot, he had
known discontent. He missed the life of adulation and applause,
and the English county had not been as prompt to
recognize him as he thought they should have been. So he
was greatly flattered and charmed by Lady Rustonbury's
request.
"I will do my poor best," he said, smiling. "As you know,
I have not sung in public for a long time now. I do not even
take pupils, only one or two as a great favour. But there--
since Signor Roscari is unfounately indisposed---"
"It was a terrible blow," said Lady Rustonbury.
"Not that he is really a singer," said Br6on.
He told her at some length why this was so. There had
been, it seemed, no baritone of distinction since Edouard
Br6on retired.
"Mme. Nazorkoff is singing 'Tosca,'" said Lady Rustonbury.
"You know her, I dare say?"
"I have never met her," said Br6on. "I heard her sing
once in New York. A great artist--she has a sense of
drama."
Lady Rustonbury felt relieved--one never knew with
these singers--they had such queer jealousies and antipathies.
She re-entered the hall at the castle some twenty minutes
later waving a triumphant hand.
"I have got him," she cried, laughing. "Dear M. Br6on
has really been too kind. I shall never forget it."
Everyone crowded round the Frenchman, and their gratitude
and appreciation were as incense to him. Edouard
Br6on, though now close on sixty, was still a fine-looking
man, big and dark, with a magnetic personality.
"Let me see," said Lady Rustonbury. "Where is Madame--?
Oh! There she is."
Paula Nazorkoff had taken no part in the general welcoming
of the Frenchman. She had remained quietly sitting
in a high oak chair in the shadow of the fireplace. There
was, of course, no fire, for the evening was a warm one
and the singer was slowly fanning herself with an immense
palm-leaf fan. So aloof and detached was she, that Lady
Rustonbury feared she had taken offence.
SWAN SONG
121
"M. Bron." She led him up to the singer. "You have
never yet met Madame Nazorkoff, you say."
With a last wave, almost a flourish, of the palm leaf,
Paula Nazorkoff laid it down and stretched out her hand to
the Frenchman. He took it and bowed low over it, and a
faint sigh escaped from the prima donna's lips.
"Madame," said Br6on, "we have never sung together.
That is the penalty of my age! But Fate has been kind to
me, and come to my rescue."
Paula laughed softly.
"You are too kind, M. Bron. When I was still but a
poor little unknown singer, I have sat at your feet. Your
'Rigoletto'--what art, what perfection! No one could touch
you."
"Alas!" said Br6on, pretending to sigh. "My day is over.
Scarpia, Rigoletto, Radams, Sharpless, how many times
have I not sung them, and now--no more!"
"Yes--tonight."
"True, madame--I forgot. Tonight."
"You have sung with many 'Tosca's," said Nazorkoff
arrogantly, "but never with me!"
The Frenchman bowed.
"It will be an honour," he said softly. "It is a great part,
"It needs not only a singer, but an actress," put in Lady Rustonbury.
"That is true," Br6on agreed. "I remember when I was
a young man in Italy, going to a little out-of-the-way theatre
in Milan. My seat cost me only a couple of lira, but I heard
as good singing that night as I have heard in the Metropolitan
Opera House in New York. Quite a young girl sang 'Tosca';
she sang it like an angel. Never shall I forget her voice in
'Vissi D'Arte,' the clearness of it, the purity. But the dramatic
force, that was lacking."
Nazorkoff nodded.
"Tha comes later," she said quietly.
"True. This young girl--Bianca Capelli her name was--I
interested myself in her career. Through me she had the
chance of big engagements, but she was foolish--regrett-ably
foolish."
He shrugged his shoulders.
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"How was she foolish?"
It wa Lady Rustonbury's twenty-four-year-old daughter, Blanche Amery, who spoke--a slender girl with wide blue
eyes.
The lrenchrnan turned to her at once politely.
"Alas! Mademoiselle, she had embroiled herself with some lo,w fellow, a ruffian, a member of the Camorra. He
got into trouble with the police, was condemned to death;
she came to me begging me to do something to save her
lover."
Blanche Ataery was staring at him.
"And did you?" she asked breathlessly.
"Me, madenoiselle, what could I do? A stranger in the country."
"You might have had influence?" suggested Nazorkoff in her low, vibrant voice.
"If I Iad, I doubt whether I should have exerted it. The man was not worth it. I did what I could for the girl."
He scailed a little, and his smile suddenly struck the English girl as having something peculiarly disagreeable
about it. She felt that, at that moment, his words fell far
short of representing his thoughts.
"You did wh
at you could," said Nazorkoff. "That was kind of you, and she was grateful, eh?"
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.
"The man was executed," he said, "and the girl entered
a convert. Eh, voild.t The world has lost a singer." Nazotkoff gave a low laugh.
"We Russians are more fickle," she said lightly. Blanche Amery happened to be watching Cowan just ,,
the singer spoke, and she saw his quick look of astonishment,
arid his lips that half opened and then shut tight in
obedience to some warning glance from Paula.
The !utler appeared in the doorway.
"Dimaer," said Lady Rustonbury, rising. "You poor things, I am so sorry for you It must be dreadful always to have
to starve yourself before singing. But there will be a very
good supper afterwards."
"We shall look forward to it," said Paula Nazorkoff. She laughed softly. "Afterwards!"
SWAN SONG 123
III
Inside the'theatre, the first act of Tosca had just drawn
to a close. The audience stirred, spoke to each other. The
royalties, charming and gracious, sat in the three velvet
chairs in the front row. Everyone was whispering and murmuring
to each other; there was a general feeling that in the
first act Nazorkoff had hardly lived up to her great reputation.
Most of the audience did not realize that in this the
singer showed her art; in the first act she was saving her
voice and herself. She made of La Tosca a light, frivolous
figure, toying with love, coquettishly jealous and exacting.
Br6on, though the glory of his voice was past its prime,
still struck a magnificent figure as the cynical Scarpia. There
was no hint of the decrepit rou6 in his conception of the
part. He made of Scarpia a handsome, almost benign figure,
with just a hint of the subtle malevolence that underlay the
outward seeming. In the last passage, with the organ and
the procession, when Scarpia stands lost in thought, gloating
over his plan to secure Tosca, Br6on had displayed a wonderful
art. Now the curtain rose upon the second act, the
scene in Scarpia's apartments.
This time, when Tosca entered, the art of Nazorkoff at