Джеймс Кейн - Mildred Pierce

Then there was the question of the newspapers, and how they should be handled. Here again, it seemed out of the question merely to call up the editors, tell them a local girl was going to appear, and leave the rest to their judgment. Veda did a great deal of telephoning about the “releases,” as she called them, and then when the first item about her came out, she went into a rage almost as bad as the one that had been provoked by Mr. Hobey. At the end of an afternoon in which she tried vainly to locate Mr. Levinson, that gentleman arrived in person, and Veda marched around in a perfect lather: “You’ve got to stop it, Levy, you’ve got to kill this society girl stuff right now! And the Pasadena stuff! What do they want to do, kill my draw? And get me razzed off the stage when I come on? How many society people are there in this town, anyway? And how many Pasadena people go to concerts? Glendale! And radio! And studied right here in Los Angeles! There’s twenty-five thousand seats in that place, Levy, and those boobs have got to feel that I’m their little baby, that I’m one of them, that they’ve got to come out there and root for me.”

Mr. Levinson agreed, and seemed to regard the matter as important. Mildred, despite her worship of Veda, felt indignant that she should now claim Glendale as her own, after all the mean things she had said about it. But the mood passed, and she abandoned herself to the last few days before the concert. She took three boxes, holding four seats each, feeling sure that these would be enough for herself, Monty, and such few people as she would care to invite. But then the Bowl began calling up, saying they had another lovely box available, and she began remembering people she hadn’t thought of before. In a day or so, she had asked Mom and Mr. Pierce, her mother and sister, Harry Engel and William, Ida and Mrs. Gessler, and Bert. All accepted except Mrs. Gessler, who rather pointedly declined. Mildred now had six boxes, with more than twenty guests expected, and as many more invited to the supper she was giving, afterwards.

According to Bert, who sat on the edge of her box and unabashedly held her hand, it had been a magnificent job of promotion, and the thing was a sell-out. So it seemed, for people were pouring through all entrances, and Bert pointed to the upper tiers of seats, already filling up, by which, he said, “you could tell.” Mildred had come early, so she “wouldn’t miss anything,” particularly the crowd, and knowing that all these people had come just to hear her child sing. It was almost dark when Monty, who had driven Veda, slipped into the box and shook hands with Bert. Then the orchestra filed into the shell, and for a few minutes there was the sound of tuning. Then the lights went up, and the orchestra came to attention. Mildred looked around, and for the first time felt the vastness of the place, with these thousands of people sitting there waiting, and still other thousands racing up the ramps and along the aisles, to get to their seats. Then there was a crackle of applause, and she looked around in time to see Mr. Treviso, who was to conduct, mounting his little stand, bowing to the audience and to the orchestra. Without turning around, Mr. Treviso raised his hand. The audience stood. Bert and Monty stood, both very erect, both with stern, noble looks on their faces. Bewildered, Mildred stood. The orchestra crashed into The Star-Spangled Banner , and the crowd began to sing.

The first number, called The Firebird , meant nothing to Mildred. She couldn’t make out, after reading her program, whether there was to be a ballet or not, and she wasn’t at all certain, after it finished, whether there had been one or not. She concluded, while Mr. Treviso was still acknowledging his applause, that if there had been one she would have noticed it. He went out, the lights went up, and for a long time there was a murmur like the murmur of the ocean, as the later comers ran, beckoned to each other, and followed hurrying ushers, to find their seats. Then the murmur died off a little. The lights went out. A drawstring pulled tight on Mildred’s stomach.

The parasol, wide open and framing the bonnet in a luminous pink circle, caught the crowd by surprise, and Veda was in the center of the stage before they recovered. Then they decided they liked it, and the applause broke sharp. For a moment Veda stood there, smiling at them, smiling at the orchestra, smiling at Mr. Treviso. Then expertly, she closed the parasol, planted it on the floor in front of her, and folded both hands over its rather high handle. Mildred, having learned to note such things by now, saw that it gave her a piquant, foreign look, and something to do with her hands. The first number, Caro Nome , from Rigoletto, went off well, and Veda was recalled for several bows. The second number, Una Voce Poco Fa , from the Barber of Seville, ended the first half of the concert. The lights went up. People spilled into the aisles, smoking, talking, laughing, visiting. Bert was sitting on the box again, saying it was none of his business, but in his opinion that conductor could very well have allowed Veda to sing an encore after all that applause. By God, that was an ovation if he ever heard one. Monty, not much more of an authority in this field than Bert was, but at least a little more of an authority, said it was his impression that no encores were ever sung in the first half of a program. All that, said Monty, in his understanding at least, was reserved for the end. Mildred said she was sure that was the case. Bert said then it was his mistake and that explained it. Because if he knew anything about it, these people were eating it up, and it did look as though Treviso would want to give the kid a break, if he could. All agreed that the people were eating it up.

The New World Symphony had little effect on Mildred, except that three airplanes went over while it was being played, and she became terrified lest one go over while Veda was singing, and ruin everything. But the sky was clear when she appeared again, looking much smaller than she had in the first half, quite girlish, a little pathetic. The parasol was gone, and the bonnet, instead of being on Veda’s head, was carried in her hand. A single orchid was pinned to Veda’s shoulder, and Mildred fiercely hoped that it was one of the six she had sent. The program said merely “Mad Scene from Lucia di Lammermoor,” but there seemed to be a little more tension than usual before Mr. Treviso raised his stick, and presently Mildred knew she was present at a tremendous vocal effort. She had never heard one note of this music before, so far as she knew; it must have been rehearsed at the studio, not at home. After the first few bars, when she sensed that Veda was all right, that she would make no slip, that she would get through to the end, Mildred relaxed a little, permitted herself to dote on the demure, pathetic little figure pouring all this elaborate vocal fretwork out at the stars. There came a tap on her shoulder, and Mr. Pierce was handing her a pair of opera glasses. Eagerly she took them, adjusted them, levelled them at Veda. But after a few moments she put them down. Up close, she could see the wan, stagey look that Veda turned on the audience, and the sharp, cold, look that she constantly shot at Mr. Treviso, particularly when there was a break, and she was waiting to come in. It shattered illusion for Mildred. She preferred to remain at a distance, to enjoy this child as she seemed, rather than as she was.

The number was quite long, was in fact the longest number Mildred had ever heard, but when it was done the sound that swept over the vast amphitheatre was like thunder. Veda came out for bow after bow, and presently, after her dozenth or so reappearance, she came out followed by Mr. Treviso, and without hat or any encumbrance, just a simple, friendly little girl, hoping to be liked. A gentleman with a flute stepped forward, carrying a chair, and camped near Veda. When she saw him she went over and shook his hand. Then Mr. Treviso took the orchestra briskly through the introduction of Lo, Hear the Gentle Lark , and there was a ripple of applause, for this was one of the things that Veda had made popular on the radio. When she got through there were cheers, and she began a whole series of her radio numbers: Love’ s Old Sweet Song , Schubert’s Ave Maria , an arrangement of the Blue Danube Waltz that permitted her to do vocal gingerbread while the orchestra played the tune, and a Waldteufel waltz Mr. Treviso had dug up for her, called Estudiantina .