It was hard for Lavirotte, after his life of aspiration after musical
distinction, his devotion to the art, his study of it, his year at
Milan, to drop all this and take up a subject which, although it had,
now and then, occurred to his mind as one likely to enthral him, had
so little in consonance with that which he was about to lay down.
It was hard for him, at one cast of the die, to turn his face away
from all the bright, luxuriant pageantry that waits upon the gifted
and cultivated human voice, and give his thoughts to bones, and the
immediate clothing of bones; to disorders of the human frame, and the
immediate occasion of these disorders; to the coarse familiarity of
the dissecting-room, and the function of inquiry which must be attuned
to callous sentiment.
In the art of the singer, when the rudiments of his art are his,
perception, sympathy, sentiment, exaltation of emotional ideas, are
the basis upon which his success must rest. In the art of the doctor,
rigid, frigid examination, and mathematical deductions must lead to
the only results which he desires.
Lavirotte was torn anew with the conflict which years ago had raged
within him. His resolution of that morning, although it then seemed
firm as the solid earth on which he stood, now waved and swayed as
though it were no more than an instable ship upon an unstable sea.
Eugene's letter had brought back to him vividly all his dreams of the
past, and in that vision of Eugene's future he had done little more
than reproduce the dreams in which he had himself indulged as to his
own career.
His heart, as far as love was concerned, lay in the tomb, and to judge
by his present frame of mind, there was no likelihood the sight of
woman would ever again move him as it had when Dora was the guiding
star of his existence. Yet he knew that with time the acuteness of his
present suffering would pass away. He felt at that moment it would be
cruel that his woe should leave him. But his reason told him it would.
He knew that as years went by these love troubles of man's early life
grew less and less until they seemed insignificant, paltry, ludicrous.
But in this, the very height of his affliction, the notion his sorrow
might die was an additional cause of torture to him.
He knew that in his present state of mind the future was sure to
display a gloomy and forbidding aspect. He knew that people, in the
presence of great personal grief, were usually indifferent to any
considerations but those of their grief. He knew that when a man loses
all his fortune, it is no great additional blow to that man to hear
that a horse of his is killed. He was quite prepared that the
whirligig of time would, to some extent, set him right in the main
affairs of life. But now he was in no humour to discount his present
situation. His woe seemed to soothe him. It was the only consolation
he had.
Still he could not banish from his mind the influence of that
glorified vision. He could not get out of his mind the fact that some
day, soon, the voice of Eugene O'Donnell would burst upon English ears
and take them captive. To be a great tenor was one of the most
glorious privileges given to man during his lifetime. The general, the
statesman, the painter, had all during their lifetime periods of great
triumph. There was no period when, like the statesman, he was out of
power; when, like the general, his sword was sheathed in the days of
peace; or when, like the painter, he was busy at his easel at the work
which, when completed, would bring him applause.
Every time a popular tenor sang, the public testified to the utmost
their enjoyment and appreciation. The tenor was not bound to any land.
He needed no majority, no army, no colour-box. He was the only man who
could make a fortune with absolutely no stock-in-trade except what
nature and art had given him. He was equally effective by the Tiber or
the Neva, in Buda-Pesth or Chicago. Climates or tongues had no power
of limiting him. English, Italian, French, German, it did not matter
what his nationality, or what his language, he appealed to all hearts,
to all peoples.
In the face of this universality of tenors in power, what a limited
hole-and-corner thing the art of medicine seemed. It was all locked up
in crooked words, in dreary books. Its terminology was supplied by the
inarticulated bones of dead languages. The greatest glory it afforded
was an article in a learned magazine, a reference to one's labour by
some distinguished fellow-worker.
How had he ever come to think of this as a career? It was no livelier
than living in a vault, spending one's life in a charnel-house. Bah!
He would get away from this gloomy climate, and this still more gloomy
idea of medicine. He would change his mind again. A man had a perfect
right to change his mind. He would go south once more, to the land of
colour and song, and devote himself anew to the glorious art he had
long ago selected. He would be a singer--a tenor, a glorious tenor, an
unrivalled tenor. He would be a head and shoulders taller than any of
the pigmy tenors now on the boards. He would be town talk, world talk.
He would be a second and a greater Mario. Everything was in his
favour. He had a fine voice, fine manner, good stage presence, and he
felt sure he could act.
He would be greater than Eugene. He had more go and dash about him
than Eugene, and there was not much to choose between their voices.
Some people said Eugene's voice was more sympathetic and tender than
his, and that he never could approach the Irishman in _cantabile_
singing. But, after all, who cared much about _cantabile_ singing?
What people liked most was to hear the whole organ, the full chest;
and in the higher register of the chest he could walk away from
Eugene.
He would not deny to himself that the quality of Eugene's voice was
superior. It might be Eugene would never fail to melt his audience,
but he, Lavirotte, could rouse them, and in martial music would make
Eugene seem a tame and somewhat faded hero.
What was this? Here was O'Donnell once more occupying all his
thoughts, absorbing all his attention! It was only that morning he had
fully considered his relation with the O'Donnells, and traced their
hand in every misfortune which had befallen him of late. Taken in this
regard, it seemed as though Eugene was going to dominate the future.
One of his reasons for thinking of taking up mental pathology as a
career, was in order that he might escape from the circle in which
Eugene moved. If he had really adopted that gloomy art as a
profession, and if, when he was finally committed to it and could not
think of going back to singing, Eugene made a great reputation on the
boards, how should he feel?
There was no doubt whatever he should feel extraordinarily jealous.
There is no doubt whatever he could not endure to see Eugene's
triumphs. He could not go near the theatre, he could not read the
reports in the newspaper, he could not hear with patience those
praises of Eugene. It would have been a fatal mistake for him to take
to medicine and give up his present profession. It would have
embittered all his life and made him feel an undying enmity towards
Eugene.
Yes, it would be much better for him to go on and qualify himself for
opera, and spend the remainder of his life in friendly rivalry with
Eugene, rather than breed hatred of his friend by abandoning his
beloved career.
Where was he now! Ay, this was Covent Garden. This was to be the scene
of his future triumphs. He and Eugene were to be the leading tenors.
They were to sing alternately, and public favour was to be slightly on
the side of him, Lavirotte.
Just slightly in his favour. Enough to gratify him without hurting
Eugene. He would not like to hurt Eugene. He would let no man hurt
him. But he himself had little desire to play second fiddle. On the
lyric stage he should be first, and Eugene second. He did not want
more money than his friend. They should each have a hundred a night,
say, and he a little more popularity, a little more fame.
He would not stop in this dingy, murky climate any longer. He would
start at once for Italy. He would be in Milan before the end of the
week. He would embrace his old friend Eugene, take up his old studies,
and fall once more into his old ways.
Lavirotte hailed a cab and drove back to Porter Street. He had little
or no preparations to make for his departure, and that evening he was
on the way to Italy.
He lost no time in calling on his friends. He found Eugene and Nellie
at home. He shook hands cordially with both, and said: "Of course,
Eugene, the minute I got back I came to see you and your wife."
"And the boy?" said Mrs. O'Donnell with a smile, as the door opened
and the child was carried into the room by its little Italian nurse.
"And the boy," said Lavirotte, echoing her words, and touching the
plump cheek of the child with the forefinger of his right hand.