The weeks following were filled with a romantic glamour for them both.
Ames never realized how much his pupil was teaching him. After he had
given her the benefit of what little knowledge he possessed, Carlota
would coax him from the piano, and letting her own fingers stray over
the keys, would suggest carelessly:
“Do you not like it better this way?”
He never suspected that she was giving him all of Jacobelli’s tricks in
teaching, all she knew of the great maestro’s art of technique. He only
knew that the fame of his pupil was spreading through the Quarter and
that people were coming up the narrow stairs to inquire his rates as
teacher of voice culture.
“If I can only get enough to keep the friendly wolf jolly and
contented, I can find time to work on my opera,” he told her happily.
“I owe it all to you, though. You’ve got such a perfect voice
naturally, you don’t need a teacher, and here everybody who hears you
sing will give me the credit for it.”
Carlota smiled at him silently, delighted that her visits to the studio
were bringing him even a glimmer of success. To her they were all that
filled her days now with expectancy. Maria’s ill health continued to
prevent her from calling for Carlota every day at the uptown studio,
and while she longed to tell the Marchese, she feared that even his
solicitude might put an end to the only gleam of romance or adventure
that had come to her. So far as she knew, no one had discovered her
visits to the Square, yet never did she leave the arched doorway of
her home that the nonchalant stranger did not follow her. Patiently,
without haste or apparent malevolence, he shadowed her to Jacobelli’s
or downtown. Sometimes in the morning, he would lounge at Cecco’s cigar
store around the corner on Madison Avenue, smoking his endless store of
curious, long, thin cigarettes. From Cecco’s one could look through the
middle of the block towards Fifth Avenue, over the tops of intervening
fences. The only apartment house was the one where Maria Roma and
Carlota lived. And while he chatted over the latest juggling with the
fates of nations and peoples overseas, he would forget to look at Cecco
rolling cigarettes, and eye the distant fire escapes like a bird of
prey, gauging the flight.
One day, as she came from Ames’s place, the impulse swept over Carlota
to see the old Marchese and tell him. He would understand, she was
sure, and she longed to have him know Griffeth well, to appreciate his
work and help him.
Through Maria and Jacobelli she knew that even in New York, where the
power of great wealth dominated the will of the people through its
manifold channels of politics, society, and charity, yet there was an
altar erected even here to the unknown god of truth, and the Marchese
stood ever as a high priest of the eternal verities.
“You must not be discouraged, my dear,” he had told her one afternoon
at tea beside Maria’s couch. “Look beneath the surface of things.
The brass band is always at the head of the procession. Once one has
escaped its clamor, one may pay attention to the motive behind the
parade, yes? There is always in any race, in any period, a certain
group of people, in all walks of life, who worship truth wherever
manifest, in art or the grace of right living. It is absurd to
claim that any class has a monopoly of this spirit. Ogden Ward is a
multi-millionaire, doubtless a thorough robber baron in his way, yet he
serves a certain purpose through his fascination for the beautiful and
rarest in art. Some day, when, God willing, he passes on, perhaps his
collections will be given back to the people. I can do little except
encourage this spirit wherever I find it. Casanova, of the Opera, is a
noble fellow, yet he must perforce kowtow when the mighty atoms on the
subscribers’ list say they will have this or that. But that does not
prevent Casanova from his personal worship of real art, you see. I know
him very well, indeed, and some day he will meet you.”
Remembering this, Carlota stepped into a shop on Eighth Street and
telephoned to the Lafayette. It was the one golden moment when she felt
she must see the Marchese and tell him everything, take him back with
her to the old studio and make him listen to Ames’s compositions for
the new opera. But at that particular instant the Marchese was meeting
Ogden Ward at his club by appointment, and the message was left on a
slip in his box at the hotel unheeded.
“I want you to meet Count Jurka; used to be with the Bulgarian
Legation, remember. He has proven to be a very valuable agent along the
new lines of readjustment. I met him in Egypt first in connection with
the Rhodopis emeralds. They were found in the royal mummy, and there
was some argument in connection with them. I had furnished the means
for the research work and I have the emeralds. He is quite a savant in
his way when it comes to the history of famous jewels.”
“I do not care for them,” returned the old Marchese blandly, as he
ensconced himself in a deep leather armchair and smiled. “Relics of
barbarism, my dear Ward; rings in noses and bangles on leaping toes,
merely a variation of the same impulse in humanity to decorate itself
that we see to-day in certain types of women.”
“And men also. Say it.” Ward leaned forward on the polished table and
laid a small leather case before him. “I like to carry unset stones
around in my pockets, not for decoration. What would you call me,
Marchese?”
“An idolator, either of the beautiful or of the peculiar quality of
concentrated value that seems to lie in jewels.”
Ward lifted out two pearls, wrapped in tissue papers, and held them in
the hollow of his palm.
“You’re right. Here are the largest gems from the collections of the
murdered Empress Elizabeth of Austria. They always darkened when she
wore them. She had them dipped regularly in a perforated casket into
the sea to restore the luster. It is not alone the value of them that
interests me. I like stones that have tragic stories connected with
them. There was a necklace of pearls around the throat of Marie
Stuart as she was being led to execution. I have never been able
to find them. Jurka is also a collector and lover of gems from the
historic standpoint. He is standing by the desk now, the tall fellow,
fair-haired. Do you recognize him?”
The Marchese looked through the arched doorway at the man Ward had
designated. He was trying to place where he had seen him, and suddenly
smiled, one forefinger at his forehead.
“He was at the Lafayette a week ago Saturday, dining with Palmieri,
Collector of the Port, a delightful person.”
“Well posted on the valuation of jewels,” Ward remarked laconically. He
paused to light his favorite pipe with the air of assured bonhomie he
assumed when relaxed. “How is Carlota?”
“She progresses well.”
“Why not after two years under Jacobelli? He tells me her technique is
faultless, but she lacks temperament.”
“He does not know her,” the Marchese answered placidly. “The
temperament is there dormant. It needs but the awakening. She is still
a child.”
“Her mother married before she was her age.”
“And never sang at all. Waken the Paoli nature in a girl like Carlota
and you will lose her. We do not wish her to experience love, to run
the gamut of emotion--it is fatal to a woman of genius. Then, too,
afterwards, you always reach her through the husband. Husbands of
geniuses--ah, my dear Ward, I could tell you of many catastrophes.”
“Not marriage.” Ward knocked the tobacco from his coat sleeve that had
fallen there while he had filled his pipe. “An affair possibly. A quick
flurry of passion that might sweep over her like a clarifying fire,
burning out the underbrush in her nature. You might arrange a quiet
little dinner at my apartment with Signora Roma and Carlota. I do not
think I have heard her sing lately.”
He rose at the approach of Count Jurka and presented him. The old
Marchese was genial and full of welcome. Had he not seen him already
down in the haunt of the selective with Palmieri?
“I did not see you there.” Jurka spoke with a very clear, careful
enunciation, his large blue eyes never winking as he met the other’s
pleased scrutiny. “Palmieri is interested in some fête for Italian
child sufferers of the war--very worthy object. I wished him to meet
Mrs. Carrington Nevins, who has been most helpful to me in organizing
committees for my own stricken land.”
As they sat down Ward began without preamble, his fingers pressing
nervously on the small leather case containing the pearls.
“I told Jurka I thought you could assist him. He is gathering data on
rubies. Do you know of one called the Zarathustra? It is a perfect
pigeon blood, second to the largest in the world.”
“I am absolutely ignorant concerning jewels,” smiled the Marchese
indulgently. “Consider me a perverted mind.”
Jurka leaned slightly towards him.
“I have already traced it to Italy, but many years ago. It was part
of a collection, rubies and pearls. I thought it might have come over
here and been disposed of to Mr. Ward. It is almost impossible now to
find out what has become of most royal jewels, I mean the historic
ones. Sooner or later, I have understood, if their tale of tragedy is
terrible enough, they find their way here.”
Ward did not pick up the opening. Sauntering away from the club up the
Avenue, the Marchese pondered later, not upon the Zarathustra ruby,
but on Ward’s invitation. At first he hesitated at a crossing, wishing
he might talk it over with Maria, but finally contenting himself with
telephoning to her. Carlota caught the rising inflection of exultation
as Maria accepted for them both.
“Certainly I’m well enough to go,” she cried; then, hanging up the
receiver, “Ah, beloved child, you do not understand the conquest you
have made already. But it will not do to appear too eager. You must
learn to act like your grandmother, distant, gracious, always the
queen.”
But Carlota was supremely indifferent to the favor shown her by Ward.
For weeks she had been full of strange, gay little moods and sudden,
tempestuous caresses that left Maria breathless and speculative. She
smiled over her shoulder now, brushing her long dark curls before the
Venetian mirror.
“Surely, bella mia”--Signora Roma spoke with emphasis--“surely you
comprehend what this means to your progress. There are yet two years
before you, possibly more, before you make your début. Therefore, you
must be diplomatic and save your independence until you are assured
that the race is won. You must appear perfect at Mr. Ward’s dinner. I
will dress you like the starlight, like the pearl from the sea, très
ingénue, so he will see the great sensation you will make.”
Carlota laughed teasingly.
“I would love to make my début in some splendid barbaric opera, where
I could wear cloth of gold and armlets, bangles. I wish I could sing
Semiramide at the very beginning, or Fedora, and you, you adorable old
tanta, will probably persuade Jacobelli to make me bow as Juliette or
Marguerite.”
“The Veronese are very dark like you, and, thank God, you will still be
slender and maiden-like,” sighed Maria reflectively. “It is a wonderful
opportunity to impress Mr. Ward. You had better effect Juliette that
night.”
“I don’t like this thing you call opportunity. I like, as the Marchese
says, what is to be will be. I like the inevitable. It must have been
delightful to feel your destiny was written in the stars.” She pinned
her hair up carelessly. “Mr. Ward is the only person from whom we have
been compelled to borrow money. He will be repaid amply--in money.”
“Only a person who could appreciate the priceless value of such a voice
as yours could have had such faith. He is the greatest patron of the
arts in the world--”
“I hate patronage. It simply means that he can pay the highest price
for what he desires, that is all.” Carlota turned to her stormily.
“Another may have a million times more appreciation, more love, more
yearning to aid, and still stand with hands bound because he has
no money. I hate patronage. I would rather sell every jewel in your
treasure chests than give a man like Ogden Ward the right to order my
appearance at his dinner.”
At Maria’s gesture of despair her mood changed instantly to one of
coaxing tenderness. To please her only would she go, not because Ward
wished her to. She had hurried home after telephoning the Marchese, and
his message had come when she had felt most rebellious. It had become
increasingly difficult for her to get away for her lessons with Ames
twice a week. To-day Signora Roma had been more curious than ever, and
it had taken the most elusive of excuses to soothe her. All manner
she had made up so far, little necessary trips to the art shops, the
galleries, the quiet cathedral, feeling that she was indeed playing
Columbine in the garret studio down on the Square. Yet she was almost
forced to attend a dinner given by Ward as if it were an honor bestowed
by him. This they would urge her to do, Maria, Jacobelli, and even
the Marchese; yet, if they knew of her visits to Ames, she would be
compelled to stop them because they were unconventional.
Almost in a spirit of audacious bravado, she deliberately started for
the studio the following morning. It would be a surprise to Ames,
and she wanted to talk over the dinner with him. For the first time
in weeks the watching figure was absent from its customary post near
Cecco’s store. When she left the ’bus, it seemed as if she could have
lifted her whole heart to the Quarter in relief. It was like some
enchanted realm to her where hopes and dreams were tangible, and
only facts untrue. Spring stood tiptoe on the Arch and scattered her
soul-disturbing germs abroad. She knelt at the edge of the old fountain
and mimed at herself in the water that had just been permitted to
splash therein from the far-off springs of Askohan quite as if they
had flowed from Castalian founts. She flirted with the rainbow that
hangs over the leaping spray on sunny mornings, and wigwagged joyous
discontent to every possible shepherd in the distance.
From a flower-stand at the corner Carlota recklessly bought daffodils
and narcissus. They had grown in phalanxes along the wall of Tittani.
Almost she had decided to tell Maria and Jacobelli she would never go
to the dinner, never accept any more aid from Mr. Ward, when suddenly
she was arrested by the sight of a dark gray limousine standing at the
curb in front of Ames’s residence. Clinging around it was a flock of
little Italian children, trying to peer into the interior sanctum,
a study in suède leather with dark red Jacqueminot roses in slender
French gray silver vases in each corner.
She hesitated outside the studio door. A clear, well-modulated voice
came from within, a woman’s voice.
“Twice a week, then, Mr. Ames, and we will not speak of terms. I
have heard of your wonderful success with beginners, and Nathalie’s
temperament requires an environment like this, unusual and bizarre,
don’t you know? It wilts at any touch of the customary or mediocre
that you find in most musical studios uptown. Here you fairly radiate
atmosphere.”
She hesitated just as Ames opened the door. He looked flushed and
elated, and seized her hand to present her to his callers.
“Oh, but we have already heard of you, Miss--er--Carlota!” Mrs.
Carrington Nevins exclaimed. “This must be your little Italian pupil
who sings so charmingly, Mr. Ames. Chandos told us all about you at
his tea last week, how you came and went like a little flitting city
sparrow, and not even Mr. Ames knew your real name.”
Carlota stood in silence, her chin lifted, her long lashes downcast
as she drew off her gloves slowly. The daffodils and narcissus lay in
the curve of her arm. She caught a little smile on the face of the
girl standing with Ames, this tall, fair girl with the ice-blue eyes,
and a wave of fiery scorn swept over her at this invasion of her own
particular haunt, Columbine’s special chimney-pot.
“You must hear her sing,” Ames said positively, going to the piano.
“Lay off your things, Carlota. I want you just to try that little
barcarolle you taught me.”
“I cannot sing to-day, Mr. Ames.” Carlota met his surprised eyes
serenely. “It is impossible.”
“But just this one--” He stopped abruptly, warned by the expression of
her face.
Mrs. Carrington Nevins raised her lorgnette, the slenderest excuse for
one in carven tortoise shell and platinum, gazing at the girl amusedly.
“My dear, I believe you are temperamental like all singers should be.
It is your prerogative. But you must remember all that Mr. Ames is
doing for you, and try to obey him. Isn’t she a dear little thing,
Nathalie?”
“Do you live right down here in the Sicilian quarter?” asked Nathalie
eagerly. “It’s so funny. I made mother drive through there to-day and
the car made quite a sensation.”
Carlota turned her head and looked at her in a haughty, detached way.
“I have never been there. I am a Roman.”