PARIS.
Stella has scarcely closed her eyes, when the train reaches Paris,
about six o'clock. The morning is cold and damp, the usual darkness of
the time of day disagreeably enhanced by the white gloom of an autumn
fog,--a gloom which the street-lamps are powerless to counteract, and
in which they show like lustreless red specks.
Through this depressing white gloom, Stella and her mother are driven
in a rattling little omnibus, with a couple of other travellers,
through a Paris as silent as the grave, to the Hotel Bedford, Rue
Pasquier. An Englishwoman at Nice once recommended it to the Baroness
as that wonder of wonders, a first-class hotel with second-class
prices, and it is under English patronage. English lords and ladies now
and then occupy the first story, and consequently the garret-rooms are
continually inhabited by impoverished but highly distinguished scions
of English "county families." In the reading-room, between 'Burke's
Peerage' and Lodge's 'Vicissitudes of Families' is placed an album
containing the photographs of two peeresses. The _clientele_ is as
aristocratic as it is economical: each despises all the rest, and one
and all dispute the weekly bills. Stella and her mother are by no means
enchanted with this hotel, and they sally forth as soon as they are
somewhat rested, in search of furnished lodgings.
But the funds are scanty: their expenses ought to be paid out of a
hundred and fifty francs a month!
The first day passes, and our Austrians have as yet found nothing
suitable. The cheapest lodgings are confined and dark, and smell, as
the ladies express it, of English people; that is, of a mixture of
camphor, patchouli, and old nut-shells. The bedrooms in these cheap
lodgings consist of a sort of windowless closets, entirely dependent
for ventilation upon a door into the drawing-room which can be left
open at night.
Meanwhile, the living at the Bedford is dear. The Baroness arrives at
the conclusion that private quarters at three hundred francs a month
would be more economical, and finally decides to spend this sum upon
her winter residence.
For three hundred francs very much better lodgings are to be had; the
bedrooms have windows, but there are still all kinds of discomforts to
be endured, the worst of which consists perhaps in the fact that none
of the proprietors of these rooms, which are mostly intended for
bachelors, is willing to undertake to provide food for the two ladies.
At last in the Rue de Leze an _appartement_ is found which answers
their really moderate requirements; but just at the last moment the
Baroness discovers that the concierge is a very suspicious-looking
individual, and remembers that the previous year a horrible murder was
committed in the Rue de Leze; wherefore negotiations are at once broken
off.
A pretty _appartement_ in the Rue de l'Arcade pleases Stella
particularly, perhaps because the drawing-room is furnished with buhl
cabinets. The Baroness is just about to close with the concierge, who
does the honours of the place,--there is merely a question of five
francs to be settled,--when with a suspicious sniff she remarks, "'Tis
strange how strongly the atmosphere of this room is impregnated with
musk!"
Whereupon the concierge explains that the rooms have lately been
occupied by Mexican gentlemen, who shared the reprehensible Southern
habit of indulging too freely in perfumes; and when the Baroness
glances doubtfully at a dressing-table which scarcely presents a
masculine appearance, and which boasts a sky-blue pincushion stuck full
of different kinds of pins, he hastens to add, without waiting to be
questioned, that the Mexican gentlemen had chiefly occupied themselves
in collecting and arranging butterflies.
"Mexican men would seem to have long fair hair, mamma," Stella here
interposes, having just pulled a golden hair at least a yard long out
of the crochetted antimacassar of a low chair.
The face of the Baroness, who always suspects French immorality
everywhere, turns to marble; tossing her head, she grasps Stella by the
hand and hurries out with her, passing the astounded concierge without
so much as deigning to bid him good-bye.
She refuses to take a lodging in the Rue Pasquier, because it seems to
her 'too reasonable;' she is convinced that some one must have died of
cholera in a certain big bed with red curtains, else the rent never
would have been so low.
At last, after a four days' pilgrimage, the ladies find what answers
their requirements in a little hotel called 'At the Three Negroes,'
kept by a kindly, light-hearted Irishwoman.
At the Baroness's first words, "We are looking for lodgings for two
quiet, respectable ladies," she instantly rejoins, "My house will
suit you exactly; the quietest house in all Paris. I never receive
any--hm!--a certain kind of ladies, and never more than one Deputy;
two always quarrel." Whereupon the Irishwoman and the Austrian lady
come to terms immediately, and the Meinecks move into the second
story of 'The Three Negroes' that very day, the Irishwoman being quite
ready also to provide them with food. The price for a salon and two
bedrooms--with very large windows, 'tis true, as Stella observes is
three hundred and twenty francs a month.
* * * * *
After the lodgings are thus fortunately secured the Baroness sets about
finding a singing-teacher for Stella. Always decided and to the point,
she goes directly to the man in authority at the Grand Opera to inquire
for a 'first-class Professor.' Oddly enough, it appears that this
authority has no time to attend to matters so important. Dismissed with
but slight encouragement, the Baroness tries her fortune at the office
of one of the smaller operas; but since she presents herself here with
her daughter without introduction of any kind, the official seated
behind a dusty writing-table has no time to devote to her, all that he
has being absorbed in a quarrel with two ladies who have just applied
to him for the ninth time,--"yes," he exclaims, with a despairing
flourish of his hands, "for the ninth time this month, for free
tickets!"
Whilst the Baroness and Stella linger hesitatingly on the threshold, a
slender, sallow young man with sharply-cut features, and with a
picturesque Astrachan collar and a very long surtout, enters the place
by an opposite door. He scans Stella's face and figure keenly, and,
approaching her, asks what she desires. The Baroness informs him of
their business, whereupon ensues an exchange of civilities and mutual
introductions.
The gentleman in the fur collar is none other than the famous
impresario Morinski, now on the lookout for a new Patti.
With a pleasant glance towards Stella, he asks who has been the young
lady's teacher hitherto.
Of whom has she not taken lessons! The list of her teachers embraces
Carelli at Naples, Lamperti at Milan, Garcia in London, and Tosti in
Rome.
Here Morinski shakes his black curly head, says, "Too many cooks spoil
the broth," and asks, "Why did you not stay longer with one teacher?"
The Baroness takes it upon herself to reply, and explains at
considerable length how her historical schemes and researches have
hitherto rendered a wandering life for herself and her daughter
imperatively necessary.
Morinski, who seems to take more interest in Stella's fine eyes than in
her mother's historical studies, interrupts the elder lady with some
rudeness, and, turning to Stella, asks, "Do you intend to go upon the
stage?"
"Yes," Stella meekly replies.
"Only upon condition of her capacity to become a star of the first
magnitude should I consent to my daughter's going upon the stage," the
Baroness declares, in her magnificent manner.
"It is a little difficult to prognosticate with certainty in such a
case," Herr Morinski observes, with an odd smile. "Hm! hm! You may
sometimes see a brilliant meteor flash across the skies, larger
apparently than any of the stars; you fix your eyes upon it, but hardly
have you begun to admire so exquisite a natural phenomenon when it has
vanished. Another time you scarcely perceive a small red spark lying on
the pavement, but before you are aware of it, it has set fire to half
the town. Just so it is with our artistic _debuts_."
At the close of this tirade, which Herr Morinski has enunciated in very
harsh French with a strong Jewish accent, he turns again to Stella and
asks, "Will you sing me something? It would interest me very much to
hear you."
Stella's heart beats fast. How many other singers have had to engage in
an interminable correspondence and to entreat for infinite patronage
before gaining admission to the famous Morinski and inducing him to
listen to them, while he has asked her to sing, unsolicited, after
scarcely ten minutes' conversation!
She gratefully accedes to his proposal.
"I should greatly prefer your making the trial on the stage itself,
rather than in the foyer," says Morinski. "I could decide far better as
to the strength of your voice. Have the kindness to follow me."
And, leading the way, he precedes them through an endless labyrinth of
ill-lighted corridors to the stage, which, illuminated at this hour by
only a couple of foot-lights, shows gray and colourless against the
pitch-dark auditorium.
The boards of the stage are marked with various lines in chalk,
cabalistic signs of mysterious significance to Stella; in front of the
prompter's box stands a prima donna with her bonnet-strings untied and
her fur cloak hanging loosely about her shoulders, singing in an
undertone a duet with a tenor in a tall silk hat who is kneeling at her
feet; at the piano, just below, sits the leader of the orchestra, a
little Italian, with long, straight, white hair, and dark eyebrows that
protrude for at least an inch over his fierce black eyes, pounding away
at the accompaniment, evidently more to accentuate the rhythm than with
any desire to accompany harmoniously the duet of the pair.
"The rehearsal will be over immediately," Morinski assures the two
ladies.
In fact, the duo between the prima donna and the tenor shortly comes to
an end. A short discussion ensues, during which the prima donna
alternately scolds the leader, whom she accuses of paying no attention
to the _ritardandos_, and the tenor for his "lamentable want of all
passion."
Morinski throws himself metaphorically between the disputants and
kisses the prima donna's hand. Without paying him much attention, she
scans Stella from head to foot, says, with an ironical depression of
the corners of her mouth, "Ah! a new star, Morinski!" and withdraws,
with an intensely theatrical stride, her loose fur dolman trailing
behind her.
"Hm! a new star, Morinski!" the leader repeats also ironically,
stuffing an immense pinch of snuff the while into his nose.
"Let us hope so," Morinski replies, with reproving courtesy.
"Is the signorina to sing us something? It is twelve o'clock, Morinski;
I am hungry. If it must be, let us be quick. What shall I accompany for
you, mademoiselle?"
"_Ah fors' e lui che l'anima!_" Stella says, in a shy whisper,
"from----"
"I know, I know,--from Traviata," the leader replies. "You sing it in
the original key?"
"Yes."
Almost before Stella has time to take breath, the little man has struck
the chords of the prelude. In the midst of the aria he takes his hands
from the keys, and shakes his head disapprovingly, so that his long
hair flutters about his ears.
"_Eh bien?_" Morinski calls, with some irritation.
"I have heard enough," the other declares, decidedly. "Haven't you,
Morinski? It is a perfectly impossible way to sing,--a perfectly
impossible way!"
"Do not be discouraged, Fraeulein," says Morinski, reassuringly. "Your
voice is superb, full, soft,--one of the finest that I have heard for a
long time."
"I do not say no, Morinski," the leader interposes, with the croak of a
raven, "but she is absolutely lacking in rhythm, routine, and aplomb."
"She needs a good teacher," says Morinski.
"The teacher has nothing to do with it!" shouts the leader, and with an
annihilating stare at Stella he sums up his judgment of her in the
words, "_C'est une femme du monde_. You will never make a singer of
her!" Then, with the energy that characterizes his every movement, he
sets about trying to repair the injury he has just done to his silk hat
by brushing it the wrong way.
Poor Stella's eyes fill with tears. Morinski takes both her hands:
"Do not be discouraged, I beg of you, my dear mademoiselle, I entreat;"
and with an ardent glance at her delicate face he assures her, "Believe
me, you have great qualifications for success on the stage."
"Trust to my experience,--the experience of forty years; you never will
succeed on the stage!" shouts the Italian.
"Never mind what he says," Morinski whispers. "I will do all I can for
you. I shall take great pleasure in superintending your lessons
personally."
But the leader has sharp ears: "_Pas de betises_, Morinski!" He has put
on his hat, and is searching with characteristic eagerness in all his
pockets. "There is my card," he says, at last, drawing it forth and
handing it to the Baroness. "If you want your daughter taught to sing,
take her to della Seggiola, Rue Lamartine, No ----, the singing-teacher
of the Faubourg Saint-Germain and the Faubourg Saint-Honore, precisely
what you want. Refer to me if you like; he will make his charges
reasonable for you. _Dio mio_, how hungry I am! _Allons_, Morinski!"
This is the exact history of Stella Meineck's trial of her voice at the
lyric opera in Paris.
The Baroness has just enough sense and prudence left not to allow
Stella to take lessons of Morinski.
Following the advice of the energetic Italian, she takes her daughter
to Signor della Seggiola.