A Top-Floor Idyl Part 25

Yet, who knows? It may be that, for many years yet, I may from time to time see Frances, even if her art should take her at times far from me.

She may teach Baby Paul to look upon me as some sort of uncle, who bears him great affection and even love. The boy may, in the future, come to me and tell me of his pleasures and his pains, and listen to the advice old fellows so freely and uselessly give. And I will talk to him of his mother, of the brave good woman who toiled for him, who shed the benison of her tenderness on him, and yet had some left that she could bestow on the obscure scribbler. Never will I tell him that the writer of stories loved her, for that is something that must remain locked up in my heart.

CHAPTER XVII

MISS VAN ROSSUM CALLS

For some time I have permitted these pages to lie fallow. I thought I would not continue to jot down the events and the feelings that crowded themselves upon me, since they could serve only to make more permanent to mind and memory a period of my life in which there has been much sweetness and comfort of mind mingled, however, with the sadness that comes upon the man who knows he can never achieve his heart's desire. I deemed it best to cease my unprofitable ruminations over things flavored with some distress. Why keep on rehearsing them over and over again and sitting down in the wee small hours to make confidants of heartless sheets of paper?

Yet to-day I feel that, in after years, they may possibly prove of value to me. Man is so fortunately const.i.tuted that he remembers happiness and joy more vividly than pain. The day may come when I shall pick up these sheets and smile a little over my sorrows, whose edges will be blunted, and think, dreamily and with a mind at ease, over many hours scattered here and there, which made up for the days of unprofitable longing.

Many surprising things have happened since I last wrote. In spite of what Frances told me, David Cole seems to have changed. In my own purview I can distinguish no alteration in my personality, but it appears to be rather evident to some of my acquaintances.

Jamieson, some weeks ago, met me on Broadway. His wide and hearty palm failed to smite me as usual on the back. He rushed across the street with hand extended and greeted me as a long lost friend, instead of a pleasant business acquaintance. His memory, the excellence of which I have heard him boast of, appeared to have suffered a partial lapse.

"Why! Mr. Cole!" he exclaimed. "Ever so happy to see you! I always told you I had every reason to believe that some day you would make a killing. It is great! Have you seen the _Nation_, and the _Times_, and the _Springfield Republican_ and the _Boston Observer_? Of course you have! They're giving columns to the 'Land o' Love.' The biggest shop on the Avenue keeps its show-windows filled with it. The first printing melted like a snowflake on a hot stove. Five more of them already, and another on the way. How are you getting on with the new ma.n.u.script?"

In his enthusiasm he appeared to remember nothing of his former rather dark views as to the prospects of my book. He was now exuberant, enthusiastic, and quite impressed by his infallibility. I informed him that the new book was coming on fairly well and expressed my delight at the popular demand for the novel so kindly spoken of by the critics. He insisted on my taking lunch with him, deplored my inability to accept his invitation and made me promise to dine with him very soon. He was anxious that I should meet Mrs. Jamieson and the children, and carefully saw to my safety as far as the Subway station.

Needless to say that this sudden stroke of good fortune, after first leaving me somewhat dazed, has given me a great deal of happiness. It was only a couple of days after I had been first informed of the way the public was clamoring for the book that I invaded my neighbor's room, stormily.

"Frances," I announced to her, "I have just been to see Professor Richetti. I had an introduction to him from Jamieson, who knows everybody. He received me very charmingly, quite in the manner of the _grand seigneur_, and then just melted. His bow is a revelation, and his smile a treat. It appears that he has heard of you. 'I know, I know,' he exclaimed, as soon as I mentioned your name. 'La Signora Francesca Dupont, oh, yes. More as one year ago I 'ear of la Signora. My friend Fiorentino in Paris he wrote me she come right away to America. Him say she has one voice _di primo cartello_, a very fine beautiful _mezzo-soprano_, very much _maravigliosa_. I much wonder I do not 'ear about the Signora. Her disappear, no one know nothing. Ah, her was sick in de throat! And now all well again. No use the voice long time. _Per favore_, Signor Cole, you bring me him lady _subito_, and I listen, I 'ear 'er sing, I take 'er and make a great _cantatrice_ of 'er again!'"

Frances looked at me. She rose from her chair and paced about the room, once or twice. Then she leaned against the piano, that had been placed in her room, and held her forehead in her hand.

"Listen, David," she said slowly. "Don't make me do this. Don't put such temptation before me. I'm only a weak woman."

"Frances, but for the thinness of my locks I'd pull out my hair in despair at your obstinacy," I cried. "I am telling you that they are selling that book faster than they can print it and that money will soon be flowing into my coffers. Jamieson has intimated that I could have a large advance at once, if I wanted it. Moreover, Richetti is--he isn't going to charge anything. He--he says that you can pay him long after your tuition is ended."

She came to me, swiftly, and put her hands on my shoulders, her eyes searching mine, which could not stand her gaze.

"My poor dear Dave. You--you are such a poor hand at deceiving. I--I don't think you could fool even Baby Paul. There is too much candor and honesty in you for that sort of thing."

"Well," I answered, rather lamely, "I--I told him, of course, that I would guarantee the payment of his honorarium, and he answered that he must try your voice first, because, if it was not promising, he would refuse to waste his time on it. He was very frank. Then he told me that Jamieson's note stated that I was a _scrittore celebre_, a _romanziero molto distinto_, and that whatever arrangements I wanted to make would be perfectly satisfactory. He declared, with his hand on his heart, that money was a great means to an end, but that the thing that really mattered in this world was art, _Per Bacco_! and the _bel canto_ from voices divine! And now, my dear child, you and I are trembling over the edge of a most frightful quarrel, of a bitter fight, of weepings and gnas.h.i.+ngs of teeth! You shall obey me, or I will take Baby Paul and feed him to the hippopotamuses--no, they eat hay and carrots and things; but I will throw him to the bears in the pit or squeeze him through the bars of the lion's cage. Do you hear me?"

She took a step back and sank in the armchair, her hands covering her face.

"h.e.l.lo! What's the matter?" came from the open doorway.

It was Frieda, a fat and rosy _dea ex machina_, arriving to my rescue.

"Frances," I informed her, "is beginning to shed tears, because she is going to Richetti's to have her voice made over again, renovated like my gray suit. She wants to weep, because she will have to sing scales and other horrid things, and be scolded when she is naughty and does not open her mouth properly."

"Oh! I'm so glad!" chuckled Frieda, her double chin becoming more p.r.o.nounced owing to the grin upon her features. "Isn't it fine!"

"But--but it means that David wants me to be a drag on him," objected Frances, rising quickly. "He is guaranteeing the fees, and--and I should probably have to stop working at Madame Felicie's, and it means----"

"It means that he will have to advance a little money for your expenses while you study," said Frieda judicially.

"Yes, of course, and after months and months of study we may find out that my voice will never again be the same, and that all this has been wasted, and that I shall never be able to pay it back. He has always worked dreadfully hard and denied himself ever so many things in order to be kind to others, and now----"

"And now he is making money hand over fist. I just went to see a friend off on the steamer to Bermuda and every other pa.s.senger has a copy of that blessed book in his hand. Now that Dave is being rewarded at last, and is ent.i.tled to a bit of extravagance, to a little of the comfort money can bring, you won't help him. You know that it will make him perfectly miserable, if you don't accept. Oh, dear! I think I'm talking a lot of nonsense. Do behave yourself, Frances, and let the poor fellow have his own way, for once."

And so it was finally settled, after another tear or two and some laughter, and Frieda joyously sat down to the piano and began to play some horrible tango thing and Baby Paul awoke and protested, as any sensible infant would. The next day, I took Frances over to Richetti's, and he was ever so pleasant and courteous to her, and most sympathetic.

I left her with him, fearing that my presence might distract her attention from more important matters, and went to a tailor to order a suit of clothes. It gratified me considerably to feel that, for the time being, there would be no sinful extravagance in eschewing the ready-made. There is indeed a great comfort in the inkling that one is beginning to get along in the world. After this I had my hair cut, and returned, exuding bay rum, to Richetti's studio.

Frances was waiting for me. The _maestro_ was already engaged with another pupil, and we went out to find seats on an open car.

"He says he thinks it will be all right," she told me, eagerly. "The tone is there and the volume. All I need is exercise, much judicious exercise. He is the first teacher I ever met who told me that my breathing was all right. They always want you to follow some entirely new method of their own. He will give me three lessons a week, in the morning. That will be enough for the present. At first, I must only practise an hour a day. And so I can go back to Madame Felicie, because she will be very glad to have me every afternoon and three mornings a week and so I can keep on making a little money and I won't have to borrow so much from you. Isn't it splendid?"

"I wish you would give up the shop," I told her.

But she shook her head, obstinately, and, of course, she had to have her own way. That evening we went to Camus, and I doubt whether the place ever saw three happier people. Frieda beamed all over and gorged herself on mussels _a la mariniere_. She had just finished a portrait that pleased her greatly, and was about to take up a nymph and faun she had long projected.

"I don't suppose I would do for the nymph?" asked Frances.

"You a nymph! I want some slender wisp of a child just changing into womanhood, my dear. You are the completed article, the flower opened to its full beauty. If I ever paint you, it will have to be as some G.o.ddess that has descended to the earth to mother a child of man."

"And I presume that as a faun I should hardly be a success," I ventured.

"What an idea! Frances, think of our dear old Dave prancing on a pair of goat's legs and playing pipes of Pan."

They laughed merrily over the farcical vision thus evoked, and, of course, I joined in the merriment. We remained for some time, watching the dancing that took place in a s.p.a.ce cleared of tables. Not far from us rose an old gentleman who might have been profitably employed in reading Victor Hugo's "Art of being a Grandfather," who danced with a pretty young girl who looked at him, mischievously. From the depth of my virtue I somewhat frowned upon him, until he returned to the table where a white-haired old lady and a young man were still sitting. The girl put her hand on the old lady's arm, and I heard her say something to the effect that Daddy was growing younger every day, so that I felt properly contrite.

There may be much folly in all this dancing, in the spending of many hours that might be employed in more useful pursuits, but, after all, our hearts are in great part such as we make them. The wicked will always find no lack of opportunity for the flaunting of evil ways, and the good will never be any the worse for anything that cheers them, that lightens drearier bits of life, that may bring smiles to lips trained to the speaking of truth and kindness.

After this little feast of ours, some more weeks went by, marked by the parading in the streets of a few old men engaged in selling p.u.s.s.y-willows, after which the shops displayed the first lilacs which presently grew so abundant that they were peddled on every street-corner, wherefore I knew that the Spring was fairly established and swiftly turning into summer. Frances was going to Richetti's, regularly, and practising every evening, with the a.s.sistance of my piano. To me her scales and exercises sounded more entrancing than any diva's rendering of masterpieces, I think. It was all in the voice, in the wonderful clear notes which, like some wonderful bloom come out of a homely bulb, had so quickly sprung from the poor little husky tones I remembered so well. Even then there had been charm and sweetness in them, but, now, her song added greater glory to Frances and seemed to be taking her farther away from me, to make her more intangible.

I met Richetti in the street, the other day, and he grasped my arm, enthusiastically.

"But a few more weeks of lessons," he told me, beamingly. "After that the _cara signora_ Francesca will work by herself for a few months, when I go to Newport. By September I return and we begin again. Ah! Signore Cole, we give again to the world a great voice, a ripe full-throated organ, with flexibility, with a timbre _magnifico_! She makes progress so quick I cease not to marvel. By middle of winter I give my concert of pupils. Yesterday, I make her sing Ma.s.senet's 'Elegie.' It make me cry very nearly. She have a soul full of music, _per Bacco! Addio, caro signore_! I see my friend Gazzoro-Celesti. A thousand pardons!"

He shook hands effusively and ran across Broadway, where he greeted the great _ba.s.so buffo_ of the Metropolitan, and I was left to rejoice by myself, as I went into a shop to buy a new typewriter ribbon.

And so a time came when the lessons were stopped for some weeks.

Richetti deplored the fact that Frances could not go to Newport, where he would have kept on teaching her, but a.s.sured her that she was getting on marvelously and that her practice would suffice to prevent her from losing anything she had gained back.

With the beginning of the hot weather, Frances grew somewhat anxious about Baby Paul, who was weaned and did not keep up his steady gain in weight. She was looking rather tired, and I insisted on calling in Dr.

Porter, who advised an immediate change of air.

"What you need is a month or two in the country," he declared. "You have been working very hard in that shop, and practising at night, and looking after that young ogre. If you expect to keep your health, you must take care of it. Without it, there can be no good singing, nor any big, vigorous Baby Paul."

"It isn't possible," a.s.serted Frances.

"It is, and shall be done," I contradicted severely. "When I took my gray suit over to Madame Felicie to clean and press, she complained that there was very little business now. I know that she can spare you for a time. She will have to do so anyway, when you begin to sing in public. I know just the place for you to go to."