"Is he all right by himself?" I asked.
"He's fine, but still not a hundred percent, he says. He wanted to come himself, but I told him to wait until the next Performance Night."
"What about your mother?"
"She's busy with her new social life. She said she would try. but I'm not holding my breath. and I'm not exactly sure how I would treat her if she did come."
Everyone was quiet, the depression as heavy as bad humidity, and then Rose looked up and said. "Maybe the theater will become our new life, and everyone in it our new family. Maybe Madame Senetsky isn't wrong about any of it."
No one disagreed, but it was apparent from the looks on all our faces that no one was completely happy about what that meant.
Sure, we could get close to other members of casts, directors, other musicians and even producers, but after the performances ended, they were all gone and we were alone again. The stage would become an empty place and our voices would just echo inside us. All of us were well aware that too many people in our line of work ended up on psychiatrists' couches, looking for answers. Who wanted to spend a lifetime having no one to confide in but psychotherapists?
Rehearsals were now stepped up in preparation for the Performance Night. Ms. Fairchild began dropping the names of people who had been invited and would attend. Most were, as we were promised, people from the theater, producers and actors, as well as some critics. Every dinner began with the announcement of another acceptance. I think it was designed to build the pressure on us.
Madame Senetsky was not subtle about that. One night at dinner she lectured us about how important it was for a performer to learn to deal with anticipation and with the pressure that came from an impending appearance.
"Even the most seasoned actors and musicians experience stage fright, butterflies, shattered nerves before stepping on stage. One never gets blase about the fact that hundreds of people, even thousands, and with television, millions are looking at you and only you at times, watching, listening, noticing mistakes. People are just naturally critical. It takes so much to please them, and even when you have a major success, there are those who detract from it, who find fault, who can nev
er be satisfied. You know that, and yet you go and expose your talents and your efforts under the spotlight.
"It takes courage, fortitude, and a great deal of self-confidence. There is quite a difference between self-confidence and arrogance, however. Arrogance will always get you into trouble. Self-confidence will insulate you against the slings and arrows."
'Hamlet," Howard whispered to us, in case we didn't get the "slings and arrows." reference.
Contrary to its purpose, Madame Senetsky's lectures served to make me, at least, more nervous than I had been before she pointed all these things out. She was so eager to do it. I thought it was exactly the result she was looking to achieve. As our big night drew closer and closer. I found myself developing a trembling in my hands. Mr. Bergman noticed it as well and had been making me pause, take breaths, and start again in our rehearsals.
Finally, one day, with Madame Senetsky sitting and watching me work, he slammed his palm down on the piano and cried. "Stop!"
I held my breath as he paced.
"Sit,' he ordered. and I did, holding my violin in my lap and glancing furtively at Madame Senetsky, who herself sat like some alabaster statue, her eyes frozen on the space between me and Mr. Bergman.
"You're. thinking too much." he began. "You are not separating yourself from the performance. You're worrying over every note and making it all sound mechanical. You are no longer submerged in the music, which was the well from which your talent has drawn its strength, its life's blood."
I glanced at Madame Senetsky, who nodded slightly, but continued to stare.
Mr. Bergman looked at me hard. too.
"Follow me," he suddenly decided and marched to the door, where he turned and waited. I was so confused that for a moment I just sat there. "Well, get up and bring your violin and your violin case along," he commanded.
I looked at Madame Senetsky and then rose and followed Mr. Bergman out the door. He led me down the corridor to the front door and held it open.
"What are we doing?" I asked.
"Getting rid of pretension," he declared. "Go on. Walk out."
I did and he followed, closing the door behind us. He walked down the steps and started down the driveway. Now, more confused than ever. I walked behind him, carrying my violin in its case and looking back occasionally at the house. He had me go all the way to the gate and then stopped and opened it. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and folded his arms over his chest.
"Come along," he directed. "Out here!"
I did as he asked. Pedestrians along the sidewalk and across the way gazed at us.
"Take out your violin." he said.
"What?"
"Take it out of its case. Now."