Singular life
Singing in the rain
Petronella Wyatt
Idon't know what it was that prompted me to say yes when it was suggested I give a recital at a charity ball in Hungary, my mother country. It was just one of those things that seems like a good idea at the time. So it was only the following morning that it occurred to me, with cold and creep- ing horror, that I might have to do it. I had been taking singing lessons for just Over a year and was rash enough to confide In some friends that it would be enormous- ly jolly to give a little concert. I had just graduated from Gershwin to Lieder and was .s tempting fate with a smattering of Mozart and some light opera. Not that I had sung any of this in public. My perfor- mances before an audience had been con- fined to a few breathy, almost contralto renditions of lili Marlene'. , The next thing I knew was that these friends had taken action. Their name is karolyi, which is a very big name in Hun- gary, resonant of the great days of the ancien regime. Laszlo and Elizabeth had moved back into one of the family's ances- tral houses outside Budapest, had started a foundation for drug-addicted young people and were keen to put on charity events. It Seemed that I was to be the charity event. Steaming inexorably through the post srfie a copy of a printed invitation. It said, 4isPring Ball in Budapest'. That was fine but ,`Ii° next bit wasn't. The next bit read: Petronella Wyatt will give her debut recital °cif arias by Mozart and Rossini.' The only drawback aWback was that I knew only one aria by Mozart , imperfectly, and knew no arias at all by Rossini. s,_ MY singing teacher took the news th;einarkably well. There was an aria from e Cenerentola about Cinderella forgiving hae,itigly Sisters. Maybe if I worked very be,r`` I might be able to master it. It soon ,i—arne clear, however, it had mastered wie. ud There was a particularly tricky run an ere You had to go a, a a a a ah-no, up wa down the scale. It was a struggle and I the lowers it. The secret of singing is to use mus- cles tomach muscles, the thigh mus- ativs and the bit in between, as it were, liter- thr'e t° support the voice. They kept is atenjw. 6 to stick the thin end of a 7 °In stick up my middle. Finally, con- ciudi,, . ini„, 'tg it would take more than a cleaning viement to turn me into Cecilia Bartoli Wei-„°Pted for a less demanding programme. The idea of a short recital is to begin with a few Lieder-type songs and then warm up to something more serious. We decided on a Spanish number by Nestor called 'Del Cabellos', followed by a cycle of classical French songs, Mozart, 'Songs My Mother Taught Me' by Dvorak and some Johann Strauss. My hostess decided I should sing outside in the courtyard as it would hopefully be a warm, dry evening. She wanted me to sing after dinner. I pre- ferred to sing before. That way I could eat. No one could do a high C on a stomach swollen with goose liver.
Of course, when we arrived in Hungary it began pouring with rain for the first time in three months. The recital would have to be moved indoors. This was not the only thing making me nervous — 160 people were attending the party. They had each paid £75 each. What if they didn't like me and asked for their money back? Did they imagine I was a professional? By what exacting standards would my voice be judged? As Saturday night approached I felt iller and iller. As soon as I stepped in front of the piano a paralysis would deprive my brain of all powers of recall and render me voiceless. There would be nothing to look forward to but ignominy and disgrace.
My fears were not allayed as the evening commenced. One of the guests, the wife of a diplomat, showed herself lacking in those skills. 'Are you the singer?' she demanded. I could do nothing but nod in affirmation. `You'd better be careful,' she said. 'Hun- garians know a lot about music.' With those kind words of encouragement ringing in my ears I made my way into the room that would serve as a concert hall. The acoustics were good, but would this be a curse or a blessing? Supper tables and chairs left little space for a stage, though. I was almost sitting on the piano. The audi- ence began to troop in holding champagne glasses. Our host came over to announce me. There was nothing for it now but to go through with the damn thing. I looked out across the room at a sea of aristocratic faces whose families had been exiled by the communists, many belonging to people who had not seen each other for decades: Palffys, Karolyis, Batthyanys. After the pri- vations their families had suffered they would, I hoped, be compassionately dis- posed towards me. My teacher had advised me not to drink beforehand. Naturally I did not take her advice. For a moment it might have been a singing version of Gussie Pre- sents the Prizes but fate was merciful.
It is not often that a singer is able to write their own review, so I might as well take advantage of this unusual situation. Suffice to say that I did not make a total fool of myself. The house didn't fall down either, but nor did I, which was somewhat more important. I even quite enjoyed it though one probably can't say as much for the audience. They bore with me patiently and politely. The hostess had even ordered a bouquet. The only snag was that someone had locked it in a bathroom by mistake.
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