“I totally disagree with this procedure of witnessing a performance of this work,” said the Professor. “It brings in elements extraneous to what we are to decide.”

“You don’t care if it can be seen as effective on the stage?”

“I care only if it is effective on the page. I agree with the late Ernest Newman: a great score is more finely realized when one reads it in the tranquillity of one’s study than when one sits in a crowd and endures the ineptitudes of orchestra and singers.”

“You mean you can do it better in your head than a hundred accomplished artists can do it for you?”

“I can read a score.”

“Better than, say von Karajan? Than Haitink? Than Colin Davis?”

“I do not follow the purpose of your line of questioning.”

“I am just trying to find out how great a man you are so that I can treat you with appropriate reverence. I can read a score, too. Am pretty well known for it, in fact. But it’s still better when I raise the baton and a hundred and twenty artists set about their work. I am not an opera company in myself.”

“So? Well—make of it what you will, but I rather think I am. No, I never drink wine. A glass of Perrier, if you please.”

What Professor Pfeiffer did not drink was certainly compensated for by what the others drank. It had been a thirsty morning. Before lunch was over, all but Pfeiffer were jovial, and Professor George Cooper showed a tendency to bump into tables, and laugh at himself for doing so. They were, after all, musicians under the professorial gown, and a well-set table was one of the elements in which they lived. They all thanked Arthur and Maria with a heartiness that made Professor Pfeiffer suspect the worst. But he could not be bought. Oh no, not he.

First in the line of dressing-rooms on the stage level was a small kennel reserved for the use of the conductor, when there was one, and a quick-change room if that should be needed. Here sat Schnak, desolate and alone. She had known rejection before this: had there not been the boy who said that sex with her was like sleeping with a bicycle? She had known the loneliness of leaving home and parents. She had known the bitterness of being a loner, of not fitting into any group, while being still too young and insignificant to wear loneliness like a badge of honour. But never had she known wretchedness like this, when she was about to take a great step forward in her life as an artist.

She knew that she would not fail. Francesco Berger had made it clear to her, a few weeks ago, that the examination was a rite of passage, a ceremonial and scholarly necessity; the School of Music would not permit the examination to take place if it were not ninety-five per cent certain to be a success. The examination was either the last and most demanding of the torments of student life, or the first and simplest of the torments of professional life. She had nothing to fear.

Nevertheless, she feared. Her experience as a conductor had been confined to a few bouts with a student orchestra, which was fractious enough, because inexperienced. A professional orchestra was something very different. These old pros were like livery-stable horses: they were used to all sorts of riders, and they were determined to do, so far as possible, what they chose. Oh, they wouldn’t wreck the performance; they were musicians, through and through. But they would be sticky about tempi, sluggish about entrances, perfunctory in phrasing; they wouldn’t be bossed by a raw kid. Gunilla would conduct at all the public performances, unless Gunilla was kind and let her do one or two mid-week shows. Gunilla knew how to get what she wanted out of an orchestra, and she had the kind of sharp tongue musicians respect—professionally severe, but not personal. What had she said to the harpist yesterday? “The arpeggi must be deliberate, like pearls dropping in wine, not slithering like a fat woman slipping on a banana skin.” Not Oscar Wilde, but good enough for a rehearsal. Gunilla had coached her, had allowed her to conduct a full orchestra rehearsal, and had given her an hour of notes afterward. But once she lifted her baton this afternoon, she was alone. And that old hellion Pfeiffer would be watching every minute.

The dressing-room was unbearable. She wandered out to the stage, which was set for the Prologue, and as it was lighted only by one harsh lamp high up in the flies it was as charmless as an unlit stage always is. Below her, under the device of rollers, like corkscrews, that produced the effect of gently heaving waves, she heard voices: Waldo Harris, Dulcy, and Gwen Larking, arguing with Geraint.

“They work perfectly well, but they make too much noise,” said Waldo. “I don’t suppose you’d agree to leaving them out altogether? We could probably rig up something that would look like moving water.”

“Oh, no!” said Dulcy. “These are the darlings of my heart—and absolutely authentic for the way they did things in 1820.”

“They’ve cost a fortune to make,” said Waldo. “I guess it would be a shame to scrap them.”

“But what can you do?” said Geraint.

“We’d have to dismantle the three rollers and put rubber on the parts that engage. That’d do it, I think.”

“How long will it take?” said Geraint.

“An hour, at least.”

“Then take an hour, and do it,” said Geraint. “I want to see it this afternoon.”

“Can’t,” said Gwen Larking. “The curtain must go up sharp at two. It’s Schnak’s examination, remember?”

“What of it? An hour won’t kill them, surely?”

“From what I hear about this morning, an hour’s delay would put them in a very bad temper. Especially that old fellow who makes all the trouble. We mustn’t make things difficult for Schnak.”

“Oh, damn Schnak! That miserable little runt is more bother than she’s worth!”

“Come on, Geraint, be a sport. Give the kid her chance.”

“You mean Schnak’s chance is more important than my production?”

“Yes, Geraint, from now till half past four Schnak’s chance is more important than anything else. You said so yourself, to the whole cast, yesterday,” said Dulcy.

“I say whatever is best at the moment, and you know it.”

“What’s best at the moment is that we leave this piece of machinery till later.”

“This is just the trade-unionism of women. God, how I hate women.”

“All right, Geraint; hate me,” said Gwen. “But give Schnak her chance, even if you hate her later.”

“Gwen’s right,” said Waldo. “I said an hour, but it could be two. Let’s leave it for the moment.”

“O Jesu mawr! O anwyl Crist! Have it your way then!” Geraint could be heard going off in a huff.

“Don’t fuss! We’ll manage the appearance of the sword! It’ll do for today,” said Waldo, but there was no sound of an appeased director.

Schnak threw up her lunch-time sandwich and cup of coffee into the toilet. It had turned to gall within her. When she had wiped her face and doused it with cold water, she went back to her dressing-room and looked at herself in the mirror. Damned Schnak. Miserable little runt. Yes, Geraint was right.

He’d never love me. Why would anybody love me? I love Geraint even better than I love Nilla, and he hates me. Look at me! Short. Scrawny. Awful hair. Face like a rat. Those legs! Why did Nilla say I had to wear a black jacket and this white blouse? Of course he hates me. I look just bloody awful. Why can’t I look like Nilla? Or that Maria Cornish? Why is God so mean to me?

A tap at the door, and a gofer (the prettiest gofer) put her head inside.

“Fifteen minutes, Schnak,” she said. “And the best of luck. All the girls have their fingers crossed for you.”

Schnak snarled, and the gofer withdrew quickly.

After fifteen minutes more of repetitious self-hate the last call came—from outside the door—and Schnak made her way downstairs, through the undercroft to the stage, and into the orchestra pit. There they sat, the thirty-two villains who meant to destroy her. Some of them nodded to her pleasantly; the concert-master, and Watkin Bourke at the harpsichord, whispered, “Good luck.”