Nello stood facing the big and fashionable audience. A celebrated
accompanist was already seated at the piano. There was perfect silence
in the vast assembly. In a few seconds the pianist would strike the
opening chords, and Nello Corsini, the unknown violinist, must justify
the faith that had been placed in him by Paul Degraux.
He felt sick and a little faint. As he looked dimly into that vast sea
of expectant faces, he realised the ordeal to which he was exposed. In
the little room in Dean Street, with Papa Peron and his worshipping
sister for an audience, it was not difficult to feel at ease, to pour
out his artistic soul. Even to Gay and Degraux, in the privacy of
their apartments, he had given of his best.
But to-night he was before a vast audience, critical and fastidious.
Had they not already sampled many executants, many equal to himself,
not a few superior?
The salient episodes of his later life floated before him. His meeting
with Papa Peron, his introduction to Gay, the placid evenings when he
had played at the Parthenon for a small wage, his accident and the
miserable days that had supervened, his desperate visit to the
powerful Degraux, the marvellous success of that interview. And behind
the recollection of all this, the memory of that dreadful time when
he had played in the streets for a few wretched coppers to keep
himself and his sister from want.
But to-night he was playing for fame and fortune, through the lucky
chance of the great Bauquel's absence. If he made good to-night, if he
could secure the plaudits of this fashionable crowd, coppers would no
longer be his portion, but sovereigns and Bank of England notes.
It was a brilliant assembly. In the Royal box sat the Queen of
England, with the Prince and Princess of Wales. Peers and Peeresses
were there by the dozen. Every other person was more or less
distinguished. This was no audience gathered from the corners of
mean streets.
As the pianist struck the opening chords, the mist cleared from the
young man's brain. Those upturned faces which met his fascinated gaze
were no longer charged with cold hostility, but full of friendliness,
of welcome to a new and untried artist. He drew his bow caressingly
across the strings, and began.
The last plaintive notes died away--he had chosen to open with an
exquisite romance of Greig's. The applause was sincere, but it was not
fervent. Degraux, standing anxiously in the wings, had to admit that
it was not fervent. And then, suddenly, Bauquel's noisy _claque_ burst
forth in a storm of hisses. They were paid by the popular favourite to
howl down any likely rival.
The young man's face went white as death. Was the chance going to
be snatched from him? Would he leave the theatre a failure, to the
disgust of the man who had befriended him and put faith in him?
The storm of hisses, hired disapprobation, died slowly down,
countered, as it was, with a little decorous and well-mannered
applause. The charming romance of Greig, though exquisitely played,
had failed to really touch the audience. If the great Bauquel, with
his well-established reputation, had rendered it, the house would have
been in a furore.
Corsini's next item was a piece by Chopin. Amid the din of the
contending hisses and applause, the pianist beckoned to the young man
and they exchanged whispers.
"Take my advice; leave the Chopin piece. They are not in the
melancholy mood to-night: they want something brilliant, an undernote
of pathos with a cascade of fireworks to relieve the sadness. Play
that romance of yours, _with_ the variations. Cut the theme as short
as possible; use it as just an introduction. Get to work on the
variations, those will fetch them."
Nello set his teeth firmly; opposition, the suspicion of failure, had
goaded him to fresh effort, to a fuller belief in his own powers. He
remembered the good old Papa's injunction: "If you do not outplay that
charlatan, Bauquel, I will never forgive you."
And he played as one inspired. The violin, a legacy from his father,
sang and sobbed and thrilled as it had never done before. When he had
finished the applause was hearty and vehement. The hisses of the
Bauquel _claque_ could no longer be heard. The unknown young
violinist had made good and won the plaudits of one of the most
critical audiences in Europe.
Degraux met him in the wings and shook him warmly by the hand. "A
thousand thanks. I see now I was right in engaging you, in speculating
on a chance. Now, come to my room. You told me something yesterday
about certain things in Dean Street. Cheques are no good to you. You
want ready money."
Nello admitted that it was so. Together they hastened into the
director's private room. Degraux went to a small safe, unlocked it and
drew forth a roll of notes.
"See here, my young friend, you have saved the position. For the
moment, that rascal Bauquel is temporarily eclipsed. Here is your fee,
double what I promised."
Nello protested faintly. "But, Monsieur, this is too much. And
remember, please, I was very nearly a failure. Bauquel's _claque_ was
almost too much for me."
Degraux laughed light-heartedly. "Very nearly, but not quite. You say
your good old Papa Peron calls him a charlatan. The expression is
perhaps a little strong. He is not that, but he is perhaps not the
genius he thinks himself, or his friends think him."
"I should be more than delighted to possess his reputation, Monsieur,"
interrupted the young Italian.
Degraux laid his hand lightly on Nello's shoulder.
"I see, Corsini, you have a head upon your shoulders. Will you permit
me to give you a few words of sound advice?"
"A thousand if you are so disposed, Monsieur."
"You have scored a triumph of sorts to-night, but don't let it give
you a swollen head."
"It will not, Monsieur, I can assure you," was the answer.
"That is well; preserve the business head as well as the artistic
instinct. This profession is full of ups and downs. Look at Bauquel!
In spite of his considerable earnings, he is always in debt, always in
the hands of money-lenders. He earns easily, he spends more easily. In
five years he will be ousted from his position by younger and more
talented rivals, and he will be penniless. He will probably come to me
to borrow a sovereign."
"And you will let him have it, I am sure, Monsieur," said Nello
warmly. "You have a very kind heart."
"Of course I shall let him have it. But, at the same time, I shall
take advantage of the opportunity to say, 'here it is, friend Bauquel.
But why did you not save in the fat years, instead of spending your
money on a miserable _claque_, in order to spoil my show? And you
know, moreover, you were absolutely in the wrong.'"
Nello could not refrain from smiling. Paul Degraux was very human. He
could not forgive Bauquel for his cavalier treatment.
"I am a frugal Italian, Monsieur. I shall never waste my money."
Paul Degraux swelled out his broad chest. "You will get on, my young
friend. Look at me! Twenty or twenty-five years ago I was playing in a
small orchestra with Gay at a few shillings a week--I have no doubt
Gay has told you of that little episode. I know he is a very garrulous
person--a dear good chap, but garrulous. Well, Gay is there and I am
here. Why?"
He thundered out the question, expanding still further his broad
chest.
Nello temporised. The great director was evidently in a confidential
mood. It was as well to fall in with his humour.
"Ah, why, Monsieur? I should like to know. I am sure I should learn a
good deal."
Degraux, in his present mood, was pleased to have a listener. The
concert was going on splendidly with experienced stars. It no longer
required his attention.
"Listen, my young friend! I devoted myself to the business side of
art. I saw more money was to be made out of exploiting other people
than being exploited by others. Do you understand?"
"I think I do," said the young Italian, who was fairly shrewd for his
years. "In fact, I am sure I do."
"Good! Gay followed the artistic side." Degraux snapped his fingers
contemptuously. "The result: poor Gay, at his age, conducting a small
orchestra at the Parthenon--a good one, I admit; but what is the
remuneration? I, Paul Degraux," again he tapped his broad chest
significantly, "am here in a great position. I have followed the
business side of art; poor old Gay has followed the artistic side.
Bah!"
"You advise me, Monsieur, to cultivate the business side?" queried the
young man.
"Of course. I am giving you good advice; sound advice. You have made a
little stir here, certain things may follow from it. But still, you
have not the reputation of Bauquel, second-rater that he is. Bauquel
will be on his knees to me next week, and of course I shall take him
back. It may be, when you come to me again, I can only give you a
second place in the programme. The way will be hard from the artistic
point of view."
Nello listened with deep attention. Degraux was a man of business to
his finger-tips. Certainly he was giving him good advice.
"And what are they, these artists, except the very few who are in the
front rank--creatures of an hour, of the public's caprice? Joachim,
Sarasate, those are names to conjure with; they are permanent. But the
others come and go. I, one of the directors of the Italian Opera,
remain while they disappear. The exploiters are permanent, the
exploited are transitory."
"What do you advise, Monsieur?" asked Nello timidly. This whirlwind of
a man half fascinated, half repelled him.
Monsieur Degraux held out his hand with his frank, engaging smile.
"Be exploited as long as it suits your book. Then save money and
exploit other people. I cannot stay any longer. I have given you a
few hints. You must work them out for yourself."
A new world was opening to Nello Corsini, the talented young violinist
who, only a few weeks ago, had played in the street on the chance of
the coppers flung by passers-by. But it was absurd! How could he ever
be a Paul Degraux? And yet, Degraux had played twenty-five years ago
in a small orchestra for a pittance. What was his income now?
Something princely.
He longed to hasten back to Dean Street with that precious sheaf of
notes. How the dear old Papa's eyes would lighten up at the news of
his success, when he told him the tale of how Bauquel's _claque_ had
been silenced. And the dear little Anita too! Tears of joy would run
down her cheeks.
Degraux, or Bauquel, after such a night of triumph, would have taken a
cab. But such an idea was alien to Nello's frugal temperament. It was
only a few moments' walk. He took his violin case in his hand and
stepped along bravely.
As he emerged from the theatre a footman in handsome livery laid his
hand upon his arm.
"Pardon me, Signor Corsini. The Princess Zouroff wishes to speak to
you. Will you follow me, please? I will lead you to her carriage."
He followed the tall footman. The Princess, a grey-haired woman of
tall and commanding presence, leaned through the carriage window.
"Ah, Signor Corsini, I have been enchanted with your playing to-night.
I am giving a reception at the Russian Embassy, in Chesham Place,
to-morrow evening. I shall be so pleased if you will come and play
for us--at your own fee, of course."
Nello shot a swift glance into the carriage. On the back seat, facing
the horses, were the grey-haired woman and a beautiful young girl. On
the front seat was a dark, handsome man of about thirty-five.
He recognised them at once, the man and the young girl. They were the
two who had driven down the street to the Royalty Theatre on that dark
winter night when he had been playing in the streets.
"Enchanted, Madame. I will present myself to you to-morrow evening.
Will you forgive me if I render you only very brief thanks at the
moment? I have a very dear friend, I fear at the point of death, to
whom I must hasten."
The grey-haired Princess inclined her head graciously. "Pray do not
wait a moment. I am sorry such trouble is awaiting you on the night of
so great a success."
Nello raised his hat and was moving away, when the charming girl
leaned forward and spoke impetuously.
"One second, Signor; we might be of assistance to you. Will you please
give me the name of your friend, and his address?" She had recognised
him the moment he appeared on the platform as the wandering musician
she had passed on her way to the Royalty Theatre.
She turned eagerly to the Princess, her mother. "We might send our own
doctor, Sir Charles Fowler, he is so very clever. Perhaps this
gentleman's friend has not had the best medical advice."
The Princess assented graciously. She was a very kind-hearted woman,
if not quite so enthusiastic in works of charity as her more impulsive
daughter.
Nello, with burning cheeks, gave the name of poor old Papa Peron and
the number of the small house in Dean Street. His cheeks flamed,
because he was wondering if she had recognised him as he had
remembered her. It was evident she thought he was poor by that remark
about the best medical advice.
He thanked both the ladies in a low tone, and for the second time
turned away. The man, Prince Zouroff, who had been fidgeting
impatiently during the short interview, leaned out of the window of
the carriage, and in a sharp, angry voice commanded the coachman to
drive on.
Ho sank back in his seat and darted a glance of contempt, first at his
sister, then at his mother.
"Your foolish sentimentality makes me sick, Nada. And I am surprised
at you for abetting her in it," he added for the benefit of the
Princess.
The Princess answered him in calm, sarcastic tones. "Would it not be
better, Boris, if you left off interfering with every word and act of
poor little Nada? If she has too much compassion, you redress the
balance by having none."
Nello hastened with quick strides in the direction of Dean Street. His
one fear was that Peron might have already passed away. It would be
heart-rending if he were not alive to hear the splendid news.
But the vital flame, although very low, was still burning. The old man
had had a long sleep, the sleep of exhaustion. By some strange effort
of will, he had allayed the impending dissolution, had awoke about
the expected time of Nello's return, and was sitting up in bed,
propped up against the pillows, awaiting the arrival of the young man
whom he had grown to regard as a son.
"It is well, I can see," he said in the low, husky voice that was so
soon to be hushed for ever. "It is well. Triumph is written all over
your face. You have scored an even greater success than you
anticipated, eh?"
Nello sank on his knees beside the bed, at which his sister had
devotedly seated herself, to watch the least movement of the dying
man. He possessed himself of one of the long, wasted hands--those
hands which had once made such eloquent music--and kissed it
reverently.
"All thanks to you, my more than father. There was a trying moment. My
first piece did not touch them much, and the Bauquel _claque_, as
Degraux warned me would be the case, did their best to hiss me down.
Then I set my teeth and vowed that I would not be a failure and return
home disgraced. I played that little romance, with my variations. I
finished in a storm of applause."
"Ah!" sighed Peron amongst his pillows, a wan smile lighting his livid
face. "That is your masterpiece. That would always stir the dullest
audience."
"And listen, dear good Papa. Degraux was so pleased with my success
that he has paid me double the fee he promised. No more short commons
for any of us. Little Anita here shall keep the purse and maintain
us in royal state." He threw his head back and laughed almost
hysterically. "Oh, it must be a dream, a wild, mad dream. I cannot be
the same Nello Corsini who, a few weeks ago, used to play in the
streets for coppers."
Then he recovered from his overwrought mood. There was more yet to be
told to this kind old man.
"Then, dear Papa, I had an adventure--it was the first-fruits of
success. As I came out, a tall footman in livery accosted me; he was
to lead me to the carriage of the Princess Zouroff."
Peron's voice grew a little stronger. "The mother of the Russian
Ambassador, Boris Zouroff. In the long ago I used to know her. Her
husband was a brute. She has two children, Boris and a girl much
younger than he. I have heard that Boris is a brute like his father.
Go on, Nello. Finish your adventure; but I can guess what is coming."
"The Princess is giving a reception to-morrow evening at the Embassy
in Chesham Place. She has asked me to play, at my own price."
Tears welled up into the old man's eyes. "You are made, my son, but we
must not be too jubilant. Artists are creatures of the hour. To-day
Bauquel, to-morrow Nello Corsini. Take advantage of the present, but
it will be wise to look out for something more permanent than the
caprice of public favour, which dethrones its idols almost as quickly
as it has crowned them."
Nello started. There was in Peron's mind the same thought that Degraux
had expressed a short time ago.
The poor old man rallied himself for a last effort. "In that little
cupboard yonder there is a packet containing a few private papers. You
will destroy all except a letter addressed to yourself; in it you will
find my last instructions. But you will not open that cupboard till I
am dead. You both know as well as I do that it is only a question of a
few hours. Well, my son, I do not regret; I have lived long enough to
know of your success. And you have both been a great comfort to me. My
heart was starved till I met you. You have taken the place of the
children I never had."
As he finished, there was a thundering knock at the door. Nello jumped
up, remembering. Had not the Princess Nada promised to send their own
physician?
"I forgot to tell you, _bon_ Papa. I told them I was in a hurry to get
back to you because you were so ill. The young Princess, a most
beautiful girl, inquired your name and address. I gave them. She
wished you to have the best medical advice. She is sending you their
doctor, Sir Charles Fowler. I am sure that is he. I will go down and
see."
In good health, Papa Peron, in spite of his kind heart and still
kinder actions, had a little spice of malice in him. He was not quite
exhausted, as his next words showed.
"I know him well by reputation." This remarkable old man knew of
everybody, so it seemed. "Rather pompous and very suave, a good
bedside manner, rather despised by his fellow practitioners. But he
has a large and very aristocratic connection: he panders to their
whims. But it was very sweet of the young Princess. Evidently she
does not take after her father, she inherits the sweetness of her
mother. Twenty Sir Charles Fowlers cannot keep me alive. But show him
up, out of deference to the Princess. He is as much a charlatan in his
profession as Bauquel is in his."
Nello went downstairs into the shabby sitting-room, where the
slatternly maid had just shown in the popular physician.
Sir Charles addressed the young musician in his most bland and
courteous accents. He must privately have been very annoyed to be sent
at this time of night to such an obscure patient, but he did not
betray his annoyance. The Princess Zouroff and her daughter were
demi-goddesses to him. Their whims were equivalent to a Royal command.
"Signor Corsini, I presume? The Princess has told me over the 'phone
of your great success to-night; I congratulate you. She has sent me
to see a friend of yours, who I understand is seriously ill. Of course
it is not very strict professional etiquette that I should intrude
myself without a request from his local doctor. But the Princess is
a little autocratic, and will be obeyed." He waved his plump hands
deprecatingly, in well-bred apology for the unaccountable vagaries of
the aristocracy. "Will you take me to him, please?"
Corsini led him up the shabby, narrow staircase into the small
apartment containing the two beds, in one of which the now successful
violinist was used to sleep.
Anita was hanging over the bed, with a white face, the tears raining
down her cheeks. In those few seconds of the conversation between her
brother and the doctor, the poor old man's soul had taken flight to
happier realms.
Sir Charles stepped to the other side, and his trained eye took in the
situation at once.
"Alas, my dear sir, too late! He has passed away, absolutely without
pain, I assure you. But I could have done nothing for him. He is very
old: a clear case of senile decay, aggravated by the malady from which
he has been suffering. Your local doctor will give you a certificate."
He looked intently at the white countenance. Sir Charles might not be
a very clever physician, as his less opulent colleagues were always
very fond of affirming, but he had special gifts of his own.
"A fine, intellectual head, a distinguished face. I should not be
surprised if he had once been a man of some distinction. Do you know
anything of his antecedents?"
Nello shook his head. "Next to nothing. Our acquaintance has been too
recent for much confidence, but he has been very kind to myself and
sister. I gather that he was at one time a very celebrated pianist."
"His name, the Princess told me over the 'phone, was Peron. With the
recollection of all the great artists for, say, fifty years, I cannot
recall that name. We have here, my dear sir, a mystery, and probably a
tragedy also. I will keep you no longer. A thousand regrets that my
visit has been so useless."
Nello saw the plump, urbane man to the door, and then returned to the
little bedroom where poor old Papa Peron, of the kind heart and the
caustic tongue, lay in the last sleep of all.