seating themselves, Taffy and Little Billee and the Laird saw Trilby
being led by J---- down the platform, between the players, to the front,
her face smiling rather vacantly, her eyes anxiously intent on Svengali
in his box.
She made her bows to right and left just as she had done in Paris.
The band struck up the opening bars of "Ben Bolt," with which she was
announced to make her début.
She still stared--but she didn't sing--and they played the little
symphony three times.
One could hear Monsieur J---- in a hoarse, anxious whisper saying,
"Mais chantez donc, madame--pour l'amour de Dieu, commencez
donc--commencez!"
She turned round with an extraordinary expression of face, and said,
"Chanter? pourquoi donc voulez-vous que je chante, moi? chanter quoi,
alors?"
"Mais 'Ben Bolt,' parbleu--chantez!"
"Ah--'Ben Bolt!' oui--je connais ça!"
Then the band began again.
And she tried, but failed to begin herself. She turned round and said,
"Comment diable voulez-vous que je chante avec tout ce train qu'ils
font, ces diables de musiciens!"
"Mais, mon Dieu, madame--qu'est-ce que vous avez donc?" cried Monsieur
J----.
[Illustration: "'OH, DON'T YOU REMEMBER SWEET ALICE, BEN BOLT?'"]
"J'ai que j'aime mieux chanter sans toute cette satanée musique,
parbleu! J'aime mieux chanter toute seule!"
"Sans musique, alors--mais chantez--chantez!"
The band was stopped--the house was in a state of indescribable wonder
and suspense.
She looked all round, and down at herself, and fingered her dress. Then
she looked up to the chandelier with a tender, sentimental smile, and
began:
"Oh, don't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice with hair so brown,
Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile--"
She had not got further than this when the whole house was in an
uproar--shouts from the gallery--shouts of laughter, hoots, hisses,
catcalls, cock-crows.
She stopped and glared like a brave lioness, and called out:
"Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc, tous! tas de vieilles pommes cuites que
vous êtes! Est-ce qu'on a peur de vous?" and then, suddenly:
"Why, you're all English, aren't you?--what's all the row about?--what
have you brought me here for?--what have _I_ done, I should like to
know?"
And in asking these questions the depth and splendor of her voice were
so extraordinary--its tone so pathetically feminine, yet so full of hurt
and indignant command, that the tumult was stilled for a moment.
It was the voice of some being from another world--some insulted
daughter of a race more puissant and nobler than ours; a voice that
seemed as if it could never utter a false note.
Then came a voice from the gods in answer:
"Oh, ye're Henglish, har yer? Why don't yer sing as yer _hought_ to
sing--yer've got _voice_ enough, any'ow! why don't yer sing in _tune_?"
"Sing in _tune_!" cried Trilby. "I didn't want to sing at all--I only
sang because I was asked to sing--that gentleman asked me--that French
gentleman with the white waistcoat! I won't sing another note!"
"Oh, yer won't, won't yer! then let us 'ave our money back, or we'll
know what for!"
And again the din broke out, and the uproar was frightful.
Monsieur J---- screamed out across the theatre: "Svengali! Svengali!
qu'est-ce qu'elle a donc, votre femme?... Elle est devenue folle!"
Indeed she had tried to sing "Ben Bolt," but had sung it in her old
way--as she used to sing it in the quartier latin--the most lamentably
grotesque performance ever heard out of a human throat!
"Svengali! Svengali!" shrieked poor Monsieur J----, gesticulating
towards the box where Svengali was sitting, quite impassible, gazing at
Monsieur J----, and smiling a ghastly, sardonic smile, a rictus of hate
and triumphant revenge--as if he were saying,
"I've got the laugh of you _all_, this time!"
Taffy, the Laird, Little Billee, the whole house, were now staring at
Svengali, and his wife was forgotten.
She stood vacantly looking at everybody and everything--the chandelier,
Monsieur J----, Svengali in his box, the people in the stalls, in the
gallery--and smiling as if the noisy scene amused and excited her.
"Svengali! Svengali! Svengali!"
The whole house took up the cry, derisively. Monsieur J---- led Madame
Svengali away; she seemed quite passive. That terrible figure of
Svengali still sat, immovable, watching his wife's retreat--still
smiling his ghastly smile. All eyes were now turned on him once more.
Monsieur J---- was then seen to enter his box with a policeman and two
or three other men, one of them in evening dress. He quickly drew the
curtains to; then, a minute or two after, he reappeared on the platform,
bowing and scraping to the audience, as pale as death, and called for
silence, the gentleman in evening dress by his side; and this person
explained that a very dreadful thing had happened--that Monsieur
Svengali had suddenly died in that box--of apoplexy or heart-disease;
that his wife had seen it from her place on the stage, and had
apparently gone out of her senses, which accounted for her extraordinary
behavior.
He added that the money would be returned at the doors, and begged the
audience to disperse quietly.
Taffy, with his two friends behind him, forced his way to a stage door
he knew. The Laird had no longer any doubts on the score of Trilby's
identity--_this_ Trilby, at all events!
Taffy knocked and thumped till the door was opened, and gave his card to
the man who opened it, stating that he and his friends were old friends
of Madame Svengali, and must see her at once.
The man tried to slam the door in his face, but Taffy pushed through,
and shut it on the crowd outside, and insisted on being taken to
Monsieur J---- immediately; and was so authoritative and big, and
looked such a swell, that the man was cowed, and led him.
They passed an open door, through which they had a glimpse of a
prostrate form on a table--a man partially undressed, and some men
bending over him, doctors probably.
That was the last they saw of Svengali.
Then they were taken to another door, and Monsieur J---- came out, and
Taffy explained who they were, and they were admitted.
La Svengali was there, sitting in an arm-chair by the fire, with several
of the band standing round gesticulating, and talking German or Polish
or Yiddish. Gecko, on his knees, was alternately chafing her hands and
feet. She seemed quite dazed.
But at the sight of Taffy she jumped up and rushed at him, saying: "Oh,
Taffy dear--oh, Taffy! what's it all about? Where on earth am I? What an
age since we met?"
Then she caught sight of the Laird, and kissed him; and then she
recognized Little Billee.
She looked at him for a long while in great surprise, and then shook
hands with him.
"How pale you are! and so changed--you've got a mustache! What's the
matter? Why are you all dressed in black, with white cravats, as if you
were going to a ball? Where's Svengali? I should like to go home!"
"Where--what do you call--home, I mean--where is it?" asked Taffy.
"C'est à l'hôtel de Normandie, dans le Haymarket. On va vous y
conduire, madame!" said Monsieur J----.
"Oui--c'est ça!" said Trilby--"Hôtel de Normandie--mais Svengali--où
est-ce qu'il est?"
"Hélas! madame--il est très malade!"
"Malade? Qu'est-ce qu'il a? How funny you look, with your mustache,
Little Billee! dear, _dear_ Little Billee! so pale, so very pale! Are
you ill too? Oh, I hope not! How _glad_ I am to see you again--you can't
tell! though I promised your mother I wouldn't--never, never! Where are
we now, dear Little Billee?"
Monsieur J---- seemed to have lost his head. He was constantly running
in and out of the room, distracted. The bandsmen began to talk and try
to explain, in incomprehensible French, to Taffy. Gecko seemed to have
disappeared. It was a bewildering business--noises from outside, the
tramp and bustle and shouts of the departing crowd, people running in
and out and asking for Monsieur J----, policemen, firemen, and what not!
Then Little Billee, who had been exerting the most heroic self-control,
suggested that Trilby should come to his house in Fitzroy Square, first
of all, and be taken out of all this--and the idea struck Taffy as a
happy one--and it was proposed to Monsieur J----, who saw that our three
friends were old friends of Madame Svengali's, and people to be trusted;
and he was only too glad to be relieved of her, and gave his consent.
[Illustration: "THE LAST THEY SAW OF SVENGALI"]
Little Billee and Taffy drove to Fitzroy Square to prepare Little
Billee's landlady, who was much put out at first at having such a novel
and unexpected charge imposed on her. It was all explained to her that
it must be so. That Madame Svengali, the greatest singer in Europe and
an old friend of her tenant's, had suddenly gone out of her mind from
grief at the tragic death of her husband, and that for this night at
least the unhappy lady must sleep under that roof--indeed, in Little
Billee's own bed, and that he would sleep at a hotel; and that a nurse
would be provided at once--it might be only for that one night; and that
the lady was as quiet as a lamb, and would probably recover her
faculties after a night's rest. A doctor was sent for from close by; and
soon Trilby appeared, with the Laird, and her appearance and her
magnificent sables impressed Mrs. Godwin, the landlady--brought her
figuratively on her knees. Then Taffy, the Laird, and Little Billee
departed again and dispersed--to procure a nurse for the night, to find
Gecko, to fetch some of Trilby's belongings from the Hôtel de Normandie,
and her maid.
The maid (the old German Jewess and Svengali's relative), distracted by
the news of her master's death, had gone to the theatre. Gecko was in
the hands of the police. Things had got to a terrible pass. But our
three friends did their best, and were up most of the night.
So much for la Svengali's début in London.
The present scribe was not present on that memorable occasion, and has
written this inadequate and most incomplete description partly from
hearsay and private information, partly from the reports in the
contemporary newspapers.
Should any surviving eye-witness of that lamentable fiasco read these
pages, and see any gross inaccuracy in this bald account of it, the P.
S. will feel deeply obliged to the same for any corrections or
additions, and these will be duly acted upon and gratefully acknowledged
in all subsequent editions; which will be numerous, no doubt, on account
of the great interest still felt in "la Svengali," even by those who
never saw or heard her (and they are many), and also because the present
scribe is better qualified (by his opportunities) for the compiling of
this brief biographical sketch than any person now living, with the
exception, of course, of "Taffy" and "the Laird," to whose kindness,
even more than to his own personal recollections, he owes whatever it
may contain of serious historical value.
* * * * *
Next morning they all three went to Fitzroy Square. Little Billee had
slept at Taffy's rooms in Jermyn Street.
Trilby seemed quite pathetically glad to see them again. She was dressed
simply and plainly--in black; her trunks had been sent from the hotel.
The hospital nurse was with her; the doctor had just left. He had said
that she was suffering from some great nervous shock--a pretty safe
diagnosis!
Her wits had apparently not come back, and she seemed in no way to
realize her position.
"Ah! what it is to see you again, all three! It makes one feel glad to
be alive! I've thought of many things, but never of this--never! Three
nice clean Englishmen, all speaking English--and _such_ dear old
friends! Ah! j'aime tant ça--c'est le ciel! I wonder I've got a word of
English left!"
[Illustration: "'THREE NICE CLEAN ENGLISHMEN'"]
Her voice was so soft and sweet and low that these ingenuous remarks
sounded like a beautiful song. And she "made the soft eyes" at them all
three, one after another, in her old way; and the soft eyes quickly
filled with tears.
She seemed ill and weak and worn out, and insisted on keeping the
Laird's hand in hers.
"What's the matter with Svengali? He must be dead!"
They all three looked at each other, perplexed.
"Ah! he's dead! I can see it in your faces. He'd got heart-disease. I'm
sorry! oh, very sorry indeed! He was always very kind, poor Svengali!"
"Yes. He's dead," said Taffy.
"And Gecko--dear little Gecko--is he dead too? I saw him last night--he
warmed my hands and feet: where were we?"
"No. Gecko's not dead. But he's had to be locked up for a little while.
He struck Svengali, you know. You saw it all."
"I? No! I never saw it. But I _dreamt_ something like it! Gecko with a
knife, and people holding him, and Svengali bleeding on the ground. That
was just before Svengali's illness. He'd cut himself in the neck, you
know--with a rusty nail, he told me. I wonder how!... But it was wrong
of Gecko to strike him. They were such friends. Why did he?"
"Well--it was because Svengali struck you with his conductor's wand when
you were rehearsing. Struck you on the fingers and made you cry! don't
you remember?"
"Struck _me_! _rehearsing?_--made me _cry_! what _are_ you talking
about, dear Taffy? Svengali never _struck_ me! he was kindness itself!
always! and what should _I_ rehearse?"
"Well, the songs you were to sing at the theatre in the evening."
"Sing at the theatre! _I_ never sang at any theatre--except last night,
if that big place was a theatre! and they didn't seem to like it! I'll
take precious good care never to sing in a theatre again! How they
howled! and there was Svengali in the box opposite, laughing at me. Why
was I taken there? and why did that funny little Frenchman in the white
waistcoat ask me to sing? I know very well I can't sing well enough to
sing in a place like that! What a fool I was! It all seems like a bad
dream! What was it all about? _Was_ it a dream, I wonder!"
"Well--but don't you remember singing at Paris, in the Salle des
Bashibazoucks--and at Vienna--St. Petersburg--lots of places?"
"What nonsense, dear--you're thinking of some one else! _I_ never sang
anywhere! I've been to Vienna and St. Petersburg--but I never _sang_
there--good heavens!"
Then there was a pause, and our three friends looked at her helplessly.
Little Billee said: "Tell me, Trilby--what made you cut me dead when I
bowed to you in the Place de la Concorde, and you were riding with
Svengali in that swell carriage?"
"_I_ never rode in a swell carriage with Svengali! omnibuses were more
in _our_ line! You're dreaming, dear Little Billee--you're taking me for
somebody else; and as for my cutting _you_--why, I'd sooner cut
myself--into little pieces!"
"_Where_ were you staying with Svengali in Paris?"
"I really forget. _Were_ we in Paris? Oh yes, of course. Hôtel Bertrand,
Place Notre Dame des Victoires."
"How long have you been going about with Svengali?"
"Oh, months, years--I forget. I was very ill. He cured me."
"Ill! What was the matter?"
"Oh! I was mad with grief, and pain in my eyes, and wanted to kill
myself, when I lost my dear little Jeannot, at Vibraye. I fancied I
hadn't been careful enough with him. I was crazed! Don't you remember
writing to me there, Taffy--through Angèle Boisse? Such a sweet letter
you wrote! I know it by heart! And you too, Sandy"; and she kissed him.
"I wonder where they are, your letters?--I've got nothing of my own in
the world--not even your dear letters--nor little Billee's--such lots of
them!
[Illustration: "POENA PEDE CLAUDO"]
"Well, Svengali used to write to me too--and then he got my address from
Angèle....
"When Jeannot died, I felt I must kill myself or get away from
Vibraye--get away from the people there--so when he was buried I cut my
hair short and got a workman's cap and blouse and trousers and walked
all the way to Paris without saying anything to anybody. I didn't want
anybody to know; I wanted to escape from Svengali, who wrote that he
was coming there to fetch me. I wanted to hide in Paris. When I got
there at last it was two o'clock in the morning, and I was in dreadful
pain--and I'd lost all my money--thirty francs--through a hole in my
trousers-pocket. Besides, I had a row with a carter in the Halle. He
thought I was a man, and hit me and gave me a black eye, just because I
patted his horse and fed it with a carrot I'd been trying to eat myself.
He was tipsy, I think. Well, I looked over the bridge at the river--just
by the Morgue--and wanted to jump in. But the Morgue sickened me, so I
hadn't the pluck. Svengali used to be always talking about the Morgue,
and my going there some day. He used to say he'd come and look at me
there, and the idea made me so sick I couldn't. I got bewildered, and
quite stupid.
"Then I went to Angèle's, in the Rue des Cloîtres Ste. Pétronille, and
waited about; but I hadn't the courage to ring, so I went to the Place
St. Anatole des Arts, and looked up at the old studio window, and
thought how comfortable it was in there, with the big settee near the
stove, and all that, and felt inclined to ring up Madame Vinard; and
then I remembered Little Billee was ill there, and his mother and sister
were with him. Angèle had written me, you know. Poor Little Billee!
There he was, very ill!
"So I walked about the place, and up and down the Rue des Mauvais
Ladres. Then I went down the Rue de Seine to the river again, and again
I hadn't the pluck to jump in. Besides, there was a sergent de ville who
followed and watched me. And the fun of it was that I knew him quite
well, and he didn't know me a bit. It was Célestin Beaumollet, who got
so tipsy on Christmas night. Don't you remember? The tall one, who was
pitted with the small-pox.
[Illustration: "THE OLD STUDIO"]
"Then I walked about till near daylight. Then I could stand it no
longer, and went to Svengali's, in the Rue Tire-Liard, but he'd moved to
the Rue des Saints Pères; and I went there and found him. I didn't want
to a bit, but I couldn't help myself. It was fate, I suppose! He was
very kind, and cured me almost directly, and got me coffee and
bread-and-butter--the best I ever tasted--and a warm bath from Bidet
Frères, in the Rue Savonarole. It was heavenly! And I slept for two days
and two nights! And then he told me how fond he was of me, and how he
would always cure me, and take care of me, and marry me, if I would go
away with him. He said he would devote his whole life to me, and took a
small room for me, next to his.
"I stayed with him there a week, never going out or seeing any one,
mostly asleep. I'd caught a chill.
"He played in two concerts and made a lot of money; and then we went
away to Germany together; and no one was a bit the wiser."
"And _did_ he marry you?"
"Well--no. He couldn't, poor fellow! He'd already got a wife living; and
three children, which he declared were not his. They live in Elberfeld
in Prussia; she keeps a small sweet-stuff shop there. He behaved very
badly to them. But it was not through me! He'd deserted them long
before; but he used to send them plenty of money when he'd got any; I
made him, for I was very sorry for her. He was always talking about her,
and what she said and what she did; and imitating her saying her prayers
and eating pickled cucumber with one hand and drinking schnapps with the
other, so as not to lose any time; till he made me die of laughing. He
could be very funny, Svengali, though he _was_ German, poor dear! And
then Gecko joined us, and Marta."
"Who's Marta?"
"His aunt. She cooked for us, and all that. She's coming here presently;
she sent word from the hotel; she's very fond of him. Poor Marta! Poor
Gecko! What _will_ they ever do without Svengali?"
"Then what did he do to live?"
"Oh! he played at concerts, I suppose--and all that."
"Did you ever hear him?"
"Yes. Sometimes Marta took me; at the beginning, you know. He was always
very much applauded. He plays beautifully. Everybody said so."
"Did he never try and teach you to sing?"
"Oh, maïe, aïe! not he! Why, he always laughed when I tried to sing; and
so did Marta; and so did Gecko! It made them roar! I used to sing 'Ben
Bolt.' They used to make me, just for fun--and go into fits. _I_ didn't
mind a scrap. I'd had no training, you know!"
"Was there anybody else he knew--any other woman?"
"Not that _I_ know of! He always made out he was so fond of me that he
couldn't even _look_ at another woman. Poor Svengali!" (Here her eyes
filled with tears again.) "He was always very kind! But I never could be
fond of him in the way he wished--never! It made me sick even to think
of! Once I used to hate him--in Paris--in the studio; don't you
remember?
"He hardly ever left me; and then Marta looked after me--for I've always
been weak and ill--and often so languid that I could hardly walk across
the room. It was that walk from Vibraye to Paris. I never got over it.
"I used to try and do all I could--be a daughter to him, as I couldn't
be anything else--mend his things, and all that, and cook him little
French dishes. I fancy he was very poor at one time; we were always
moving from place to place. But I always had the best of everything. He
insisted on that--even if he had to go without himself. It made him
quite unhappy when I wouldn't eat, so I used to force myself.
"Then, as soon as I felt uneasy about things, or had any pain, he would
say, 'Dors, ma mignonne!' and I would sleep at once--for hours, I
think--and wake up, oh, so tired! and find him kneeling by me, always so
anxious and kind--and Marta and Gecko! and sometimes we had the doctor,
and I was ill in bed.
"Gecko used to dine and breakfast with us--you've no idea what an angel
he is, poor little Gecko! But what a dreadful thing to strike Svengali!
_Why_ did he? Svengali taught him all he knows!"
"And you knew no one else--no other woman?"
"No one that I can remember--except Marta--not a soul!"
"And that beautiful dress you had on last night?"
"It isn't mine. It's on the bed up-stairs, and so's the fur cloak. They
belong to Marta. She's got lots of them, lovely things--silk, satin,
velvet--and lots of beautiful jewels. Marta deals in them, and makes
lots of money.
"I've often tried them on; I'm very easy to fit," she said, "being so
tall and thin. And poor Svengali would kneel down and cry, and kiss my
hands and feet, and tell me I was his goddess and empress, and all that,
which I hate. And Marta used to cry, too. And then he would say,
"'Et maintenant dors, ma mignonne!'
"And when I woke up I was so tired that I went to sleep again on my own
account.
[Illustration: "'ET MAINTENANT DORS, MA MIGNONNE!'"]
"But he was very patient. Oh, dear me! I've always been a poor,
helpless, useless log and burden to him!
"Once I actually walked in my sleep--and woke up in the market-place at
Prague--and found an immense crowd, and poor Svengali bleeding from the
forehead, in a faint on the ground. He'd been knocked down by a horse
and cart, he told me. He'd got his guitar with him. I suppose he and
Gecko had been playing somewhere, for Gecko had his fiddle. If Gecko
hadn't been there, I don't know what we should have done. You never saw
such queer people as they were--such crowds--you'd think they'd never
seen an Englishwoman before. The noise they made, and the things they
gave me ... some of them went down on their knees, and kissed my hands
and the skirts of my gown.
"He was ill in bed for a week after that, and I nursed him, and he was
very grateful. Poor Svengali! God knows _I_ felt grateful to _him_ for
many things! Tell me how he died! I hope he hadn't much pain."
They told her it was quite sudden, from heart-disease.
"Ah! I knew he had that; he wasn't a healthy man; he used to smoke too
much. Marta used always to be very anxious."
Just then Marta came in.
Marta was a fat, elderly Jewess of rather a grotesque and ignoble type.
She seemed overcome with grief--all but prostrate.
Trilby hugged and kissed her, and took off her bonnet and shawl, and
made her sit down in a big arm-chair, and got her a footstool.
She couldn't speak a word of anything but Polish and a little German.
Trilby had also picked up a little German, and with this and by means of
signs, and no doubt through a long intimacy with each other's ways, they
understood each other very well. She seemed a very good old creature,
and very fond of Trilby, but in mortal terror of the three Englishmen.