A MUSIC-LESSON.
Following the advice of the little Italian conductor of the orchestra,
Stella refers to him in order to procure more reasonable terms from
Signor della Seggiola for her singing-lessons.
These 'more reasonable terms' are twenty-five francs for an hour
abbreviated at both ends, and sixty francs a month for a share in the
singing-class,--that is, in the musical dissertations which Signor
della Seggiola holds three times a week for six or seven pupils in a
small room in the Gerard piano-building.
For the sake of those who consider twenty-five francs an hour a
tolerably high price for lessons, and who are inclined to regard the
leader's recommendation as a humbug, it may be well to state that
twenty-five francs is really a lowered price, and that dilettanti
usually pay from thirty to thirty-five francs for a private lesson from
della Seggiola.
It is with the maestro's wife that Stella makes the business
arrangement, since della Seggiola himself--an artist, an idealist, a
child--understands nothing about money. He evidently labours under the
delusion that he gives the lessons for nothing, since he does not take
the slightest pains to give his scholars an honest equivalent in
valuable instruction for their twenty-five, thirty, or thirty-five
francs.
As we already know, Stella is tolerably familiar with the
singing-teachers of many lands: she knows that, as is the case also
with dentists, they all abuse one another and testify the same horror
at the misdeeds of their predecessors, declaring with the same tragic
shake of the head that it will be necessary to begin with the A, B,
C,--that is, with Concone's solfeggi, and that it is indispensable for
the scholar that she should procure the work upon the art of singing
with which the new teacher, as well as his predecessor, has enriched
musical literature. Stella already possesses five exhaustive works upon
the 'Bel Canto,' 'L'Art lyrique,' 'L'Art du Chant,' and so forth; each
cost twenty francs and contains a more or less valuable collection of
solfeggi. Some of these volumes are adorned with the portrait of the
author, others have prefaces in which some famous man, such as Rossini,
for example, recommends the work to the public as something
extraordinary, something destined by its intrinsic merit to outlast the
Pyramids.
Delia Seggiola's work differs from all these clumsy compositions.
Adorned neither with the portrait of the author nor with a preface by a
celebrity, it displays upon its first page the profile of a human being
cut in half,--an imposing proof of the maestro's anatomical knowledge,
as well as of his close study of the physical conditions of a true
training of the voice.
The large and magnificently-bound volume contains no series of
solfeggi, but simply some scanty, musically impossible fiorituri, or
musical examples borrowed from other works, which swim like little
islands in an ocean of text. As Signora della Seggiola expresses
herself, her husband's volume is no compilation of senseless solfeggi,
but a Bible for the lovers of song.
A Bible for those who believe in della Seggiola's infallibility.
At the private lessons--the maestro gives these, of course, only at his
own home--the accompaniments are played by an ambitious young musician
who has once been with Strakosch on a tour; in the class, Fraeulein
Fuhrwesen accompanies, her impresario having postponed for the present
the concert tour in South America.
Della Seggiola never touches the piano himself. He is a
broad-shouldered, jolly Italian, with a big, kindly, smiling face, and
a black velvet cap.
Without ever having possessed even a tolerably good voice, he ranked
for a time among the distinguished singers of the world. His fine
singing is, however, of little use to his pupils.
He passes the time of the lessons chiefly in reading aloud chapters
from his 'Bible,' while the accompanist, with unflagging enthusiasm,
praises the wisdom of the work; then the pupil sings some trifle, della
Seggiola meanwhile gazing at her with a solemn air, sometimes grimacing
to show the position of the lips, or tapping alternately her throat and
her chest, exclaiming, "_Ne serrez pas!_" or "_Soutenez! soutenez!_"
Then he directs the pupil to rest, tells something funny, clicks with
his tongue, throws his velvet cap into the air, and--kling-a-ling-ling
Signora della Seggiola gives the signal that the lesson is over.
The class is a rather more serious and artistic affair than the private
lessons, from the fact that there are no different prices to be paid
here, but that every one--with the exception of a _protege_ of Signora
della Seggiola's, a barytone from Florence, who pays nothing--pays as
in an omnibus the same sixty francs a month, whether the class consist
of thirty or only three persons.
And the company reminds one somewhat of an omnibus. Against the
background of usual shabbiness one or two brilliant social stars stand
forth, making one wonder how they came there. It can hardly be asserted
that even here among the disciples of della Seggiola, the only true
prophet of his art, any great progress in singing is made. During the
six weeks for which Stella has now belonged to the class it has been
singing the same thing, only with less and less voice; that is all the
difference.
Condemned by the formation of his throat, which is extraordinarily ill
adapted to song, to spare the organ, della Seggiola never allows one of
his faithful disciples to sing one natural, healthy note, but condemns
them also to a constant mezzo-voce which cannot but contract the
throat.
Thus artificially restrained, Stella's warm rich voice diminishes with
extraordinary rapidity. When she complains to the maestro that this is
so, he remarks that it is a very good sign, her great fault being that
she has too much voice, and only when she has lost it entirely can the
cultivation of a really _bel canto_ begin.
This astounding assertion gives Stella food for reflection, and it
occurs to her to-day as she sits at the piano preparing for the
class-lesson and finds that two of her notes break as she sings the
scale.
"Della Seggiola ought to be pleased with my progress," she says to
herself, with some bitterness, and her heart beats hard as the
constantly-recurring question arises in her mind, "If I should really
lose my voice----? But where is the use of thinking of it?" she answers
herself, with a shrug. The clock on the chimney-piece, the one with the
manchineel-tree, strikes a quarter of ten. "It is high time to go," the
girl says aloud. Slipping on the still handsome sealskin jacket which
her father had given her five years before for a Christmas-present, she
hurries along the various thronged streets, broad and narrow, through
the pale-yellow January sunshine, to her destination.
The 'hall' in the Gerard piano-warehouse, Rue du Mail, where della
Seggiola holds his classes, is hardly more spacious than an ordinary
room in Berlin or Vienna, and, being partly filled with pianos sewed up
in linen, leaves something to be desired from an acoustic point of
view. The lesson has already begun when Stella enters. Fraeulein
Fuhrwesen, in her tassel-bedecked water-proof, is seated at the piano,
upon the lid of which the 'Bible' lies open. Della Seggiola, resting
his right hand upon its pages, and gesticulating with his left, is
delivering an inspiring discourse upon the art of song, while a tall,
sallow young man, with very little hair upon his head, but all the more
upon his face, is awaiting with ill-disguised impatience the moment
when he can burst into song.
This young man's name is Meyer (pronounced Meyare): he is clerk in a
banking-house, and is studying for the stage.
A second barytone, a young Italian, is also waiting with longing for
his turn. He is the star of the class, a Florentine, who has wandered
to Paris with his two sisters, who regularly come to the class with
him. They are sallow and elderly, wear very large Rembrandt hats,
which, as they privately inform Stella, they purchased in the Temple,
sit on each side of their brother, and keep up a constant nod of
encouragement.
In strict seclusion from the young men, and guarded by a gray-haired
duenna, across whose threadbare brown sacque she gaily ogles the
barytone from Florence, sits a dishevelled little soprano, the daughter
of a diva and a journalist.
Of course she has no idea of going on the stage; she speaks with horror
of the theatre, and thinks a dramatic career not at all _comme il
faut_.
An elderly Englishwoman, quite copper-coloured, with very long teeth
and the figure of a tallow dip, seems to be of a different opinion. She
is just confessing in very problematical French to the barytone from
Florence how much she repents not having voice enough '_pour remplir un
opera_,' and her eyes fill with tears.
Natalie Lipinski has not yet arrived.
With a pleasant greeting to the two sisters of the barytone, and to the
crazy Miss Frazer, Stella passes as quietly as possible to her place.
After della Seggiola has ended his discourse, and Monsieur Meyare has
finished his '_Dolcessi perduti_,' Miss Frazer sings the waltz from
'Traviata' transposed a fifth lower than the original key, breathing
very loud, and singing very low. In the middle of it she stops short,
lays her red hand, covered to the knuckles with a knitted wristlet,
upon her heart, and sighs.
"What is it?" asks della Seggiola, not without a certain impatience.
"What is the matter?"
"This aria is so deeply affecting," sighs the Englishwoman; "it always
gives me palpitation of the heart."
"That is very unfortunate," says della Seggiola, taking a pinch of
snuff. "Pray consult a physician; he will prescribe digitalis."
"Oh, the doctor could not help me," Miss Frazer asserts, wagging her
head to and fro with enthusiasm. "My nervous system is too highly
strung. If my voice were only stronger I should certainly have a
_succes_ upon the stage,--_parce que je suis tres-passionnee_."
Della Seggiola bites his lip. At this moment the door opens, Natalie
Lipinski enters, and behind her--Stella can hardly believe her
eyes--Zino Capito!
"Permit me to present to you my cousin, Prince Capito, Signor
della Seggiola," says Natalie, in her fluent but hard-sounding
Russian-French. "He hopes to be allowed to profit by your
instructions."
Of course the lesson is interrupted. Miss Frazer's eyes, which
always remind one more or less of a melancholy-minded rabbit, and
which now wear a very sympathetic air, rest with benevolence upon the
Prince, who offers della Seggiola his hand with the _aplomb_ for which
he is justly celebrated throughout Europe, hurriedly thanks him for
the great pleasure he has given him by his art, and prays beforehand
for indulgence and patience, since he is, as he maintains, a
beginner,--only a beginner.
Natalie conscientiously presents him to the class, blundering, of
course, with all the names.
He bows stiffly, looks directly over the gentlemen's heads, scans the
ladies with a curious glance, and then goes directly to Stella, beside
whom he takes his place, after bowing to her with the most attractive
mixture of courtesy and deference. Without being deterred by Miss
Frazer's starting off with her transposed song and getting through as
much of it as asthma and palpitation of the heart will permit, he
begins:
"I made an attempt to see you the day after meeting you at my sister's,
but, unfortunately, in vain. Did you get my card?"
"Yes."
"I was so very sorry not to find the ladies at home. Might I be
admitted some evening?"
"I will ask mamma; but----"
"And how have you amused yourself meanwhile?"
"Oh, I have been very gay this week; Madame de Rohritz took me with her
once to the theatre and once to the Bois de Boulogne."
"And when Therese does not take you out a little do you devote your
entire time to historical studies and to your singing?"
"Sometimes I sit about in the Tuileries,--I have made the acquaintance
of an old governess, who chaperons me,--and sometimes I go to the
Louvre, which I know as perfectly as ever a guide in Paris."
Is it by mere chance that just at this point of the conversation, which
is carried on in an undertone, Fraeulein Fuhrwesen turns and stares at
the Prince and Stella?
Meanwhile, it is Natalie's turn to sing. Her song is the grand cavatina
from 'I Puritani,' '_Qui la voce sua soave!_'
Natalie is an odd little person, short, slender, undeveloped as to
figure, with a face rather too sallow, but with regular delicate
features and dazzling teeth. With a fanatical enthusiasm for art and a
determination to go upon the stage she combines a fortune of some
millions of roubles, and, what is in still more comical contrast with
her proposed career, a strict unbending sense of propriety, far
transcending the prudery of the most English of Englishwomen,--not that
shy sense of propriety which is always on the defensive, but that which
is quick to look down with aggressive contempt upon any infringement of
the rules of decorum.
Too well bred to speak when a lady whom he knows, were she a hundred
times his cousin, is singing, Zino listens with exemplary attention to
the Bellini cavatina, not indeed without a merry twinkle of the eye now
and then.
Natalie's voice is rather shrill, her Italian accent harsh; her
rendering of the impassioned aria is strictly confined to following the
musical directions, _p.p_., _cresc_., _ritard_., and so forth; even at
the point where the inspiration of the love-stricken Elvira culminates
in the words '_Vien' ti posa--vien' ti posa sul mio cor!_' she never
ceases to beat the time with her right hand.
After this brilliant outburst della Seggiola interrupts her. The
Fuhrwesen lifts her hands from the keys, and Natalie looks inquiringly
at the maestro, who takes a pinch of snuff and shakes his head.
"_Tres-bien, mon enfant_," it is needless to say that this
familiar address is very little to the taste of the haughty
Russian,--"_tres-bien, mon enfant_; you sing in excellent time,
but you must try to infuse animation into your style. Fancy the
situation,--half crazy with love and longing, you are calling out into
the night, 'Ah, come--come to my heart!' You must sing that with--how
shall I express it?--with more conviction, thus:"
The Fuhrwesen drums the accompaniment, and della Seggiola, stretching
out his arms like angels' wings, throws back his head a little, and
warbles, '_Qui la voce!_'
Estimate as you please his method of instruction, all who still find
delight in the old Italian traditions must admit his art in singing.
And Prince Zino--a musical Epicurean to his finger-tips, rejecting
everything clumsy and indigestible in music,--Prince Zino, for whom
Mozart is the only god of music and Rossini is his prophet--strokes his
moustache, delighted, and calls "Bravo!" and della Seggiola bows.
The lesson continues to be quite interesting.
Signor Trevisiani, the barytone from Florence, sings something very
depressing, with the refrain,--
'Maladetto sulla terra,
Condannato nel ceil sard.'
The little soprano sings, '_Plaisir d'amour_,' and Zino perfectly,
gravely, goes through a scale, swelling the notes, during which two sad
facts are brought to light,--first, that he is the third barytone in
the class,--della Seggiola had hoped for a tenor,--and, secondly, that
he cannot read by note. Della Seggiola, however, praises the charming
timbre of his voice, and asks if he may not send him a teacher to
correct his defective reading; whereupon Fraeulein Fuhrwesen declares
herself ready to give the Prince lessons. He pretends not to hear this
heroic proposition, seeming not even to perceive her; whereby he makes
a mortal enemy of that extremely sensitive and irritable person.
The glory of the class is the closing performance,--the famous duet
between Don Giovanni and Zerlina, rendered by Signor Trevisiani and
Natalie Lipinski.
It would be difficult to imagine a more lugubrious Don Giovanni than
the young man from Florence. He is freshly shaven, perhaps in honour of
his part; his cheeks are covered with red scratches, like those of a
German youth who bears about in his face the record of his bravery; his
hair, artistically dishevelled about his forehead and ears, falls over
his coat-collar at the back of his neck. Except for a grass-green
cravat, he is dressed entirely in black, like the page in 'Marlbrook;'
his costume, evidently provincial, comes from the same quarter of Paris
that has produced his sisters' hats,--the Temple.
Much intimidated by his haughty Zerlina, his throat contracts so that
his voice, naturally fine and resonant, comes from his dry lips hoarse
and miserably thready. Although Natalie sings, as ever, in faultless
time, the notes that should be in unison are far from sounding so,
whereupon della Seggiola advises the singers to take each other's
hands. Mademoiselle Lipinski edges away still farther from her Don
Giovanni, and extends to him her finger-tips.
Della Seggiola makes them repeat the duo three times, does his best to
make it go smoothly, gently entreats Zerlina to be more coquettish,
orders Don Giovanni to be more seductive. In vain. Zerlina draws down
the corners of her mouth and looks at the wall; Don Giovanni scratches
his ear. The duo sounds worse and worse. Much irritated at this
melancholy result, which she ascribes entirely to Signor Trevisiani's
awkwardness, Natalie at last says crossly to the young Florentine, "I
beg you not to torment me any more: it will never do!" Then across her
shoulder to her cousin she explains, impatiently, "Zino, Signor
Trevisiani is hoarse; you and I used to sing the duo together. Come,
try it."
"If there is time," Zino says, with amiable readiness, taking his place
beside his cousin.
There is really no time for it, as della Seggiola would have informed
any one save the Prince. Twelve o'clock has struck, but he does not
mention that fact to Zino. Hungry and resigned, he sits down beside the
piano, his hands clasped upon his stomach, his eyes fixed upon the tips
of his boots stretched out before him, prepared to endure the blessed
duo for the fourth time. But what is this? He listens eagerly, all
present listen, all eyes are riveted upon the Prince, from whose lips
there flows such melody as we expect only from the greatest Italian
singers.
Without paying any further attention to Zerlina, della Seggiola
inquires at the close of the duo,--
"Do you sing the serenade also?"
"_A peu pres_," says Zino, whereupon the Fuhrwesen strikes the first
notes of the accompaniment, and he sings it.
The singers of the new high-art school, the interpreters of Wagner,
curse out the notes at their auditors; Prince Zino smiles them at his
hearers, and the strong infusion of irony in his smile only heightens
the effect of his style.
Erect but unstudied in attitude, his hands in the pockets of his
jacket, his head slightly thrown back, he is the veritable
personification of the gay, thoughtless _bon-vivant_, Mozart's Don
Giovanni as the master created him.
As he ends, Miss Frazer, bathed in tears, rushes up to him with both
hands held out, exclaiming, "_Merci! merci!_"
Stella, laughing, claps applause, and Signor Trevisiani gazes at him as
if he longed to learn his art. But della Seggiola asks,--
"Where did you learn to sing, mon Prince?"
"Everywhere."
"From whom?"
"From no one."
"That's right!" exclaims Seggiola, forgetting all humbug in genuine
artistic enthusiasm. "For, between ourselves be it said, singing is
never taught."
And when the Prince laughs, and hopes on the contrary to profit much
from the art of the maestro, the latter replies, with the inborn
courtesy of his nation,--
"If you will kindly help me to reveal to my class here the beauty of
song, you shall always be welcome, mon Prince. I can teach you
nothing."
* * * * *
The lesson is over. Zino helps Stella and his cousin to put on their
wraps, takes leave of della Seggiola with his brilliant smile and
cordial pressure of the hand, of the rest with a very brief nod, and
leaves the room with his two special ladies.
"A charming man, that Principe Capito," says della Seggiola, rubbing
his hands delightedly. "And he can sing like Mario in his best days. I
used to give his sister lessons."
"I have met him before in Vienna," Fraeulein Fuhrwesen mutters. "He is
an Italian, to be sure, but his arrogance he learned in Austria."