DOES anybody ever ask what becomes of the _prime donne_ who break down
early? Madame Koller could have told something about their miseries,
from the first struggling steps up to the pinnacle when they can fight
with managers, down again to the point when the most dreadful sound
that nature holds--so she thought--a hiss--laid them figuratively among
the dead. Nature generally works methodically, but in Madame Koller’s
case, she seemed to take a delight in producing grapes from thorns.
Without one atom of artistic heredity, surroundings or atmosphere to
draw upon, Eliza Peyton had come into the world an artist. She had a
voice, and she grew up with the conviction that there was nothing in
the world but voices and pianos. It is not necessary to repeat how
in her girlhood, by dint of her widowed mother marrying a third rate
German professor, she got to Munich and to Milan--nor how the voice,
at first astonishingly pure and beautiful, suddenly lost its pitch,
then disappeared altogether. It is true that after a time it came back
to her partially. She could count on it for an hour at a time, but no
more. Of course there was no longer any career for her, and she nearly
went crazy with grief--then she consoled herself with M. Koller, an
elderly Swiss manufacturer. In some way, although she was young and
handsome and accomplished, she found in her continental travels that
the best Americans and English avoided the Kollers. This she rashly
attributed to the fact of her having had a brief professional career,
and she became as anxious to conceal it as she had once been anxious
to pursue it. M. Koller was a hypochondriac, and went from Carlsbad to
Wiesbaden, from Wiesbaden to Hyéres, from Hyéres to Aix-les-Bains. He
was always fancying himself dying, but one day at Vichy, death came
quite unceremoniously and claimed him just as he had made up his mind
to get well. Thus Eliza Koller found herself a widow, still young and
handsome, with a comfortable fortune, and a negative mother to play
propriety. She went straight to Paris as soon as the period of her
mourning was over. It was then toward the latter part of the civil war
in America, and there were plenty of Southerners in Paris. There she
met Colonel Berkeley and Olivia, and for the first time in her adult
life, she had a fixed place in society--there was a circle in which she
was known.
What most troubled her, was what rôle to take up--whether she should be
an American, a French woman, an Italian, a German, or a cosmopolitan.
For she was like all, and was distinctively none. In Paris at that
time, she met a cousin of her late husband--Mr. Ahlberg, also a Swiss,
but in the Russian diplomatic service. He was a sixth Secretary of
Legation, and had hard work making his small salary meet his expenses.
He was a handsome man, very blonde, and extremely well-dressed.
Madame Koller often wondered if his tailor were not a very confiding
person. For Ahlberg’s part, he sincerely liked his cousin, as he
called her, and quite naturally slipped into the position of a friend
of the family. Everything perhaps would have been arranged to his
satisfaction, if just at that time the war had not closed, and French
Pembroke and his brother came to Paris that the surgeons might work
upon poor Miles. They could not but meet often at the Berkeleys, and
Pembroke, it must be admitted, was not devoid of admiration for the
handsome Madame Koller, who had the divine voice--when she could be
persuaded to sing, which was not often. He had been rather attentive
to her, much to Ahlberg’s disgust. And to Ahlberg’s infinite rage,
Madame Koller fell distinctly and unmistakably in love with Pembroke.
If Ahlberg had only known the truth, Pembroke was really the first
gentleman that poor Madame Koller had ever known intimately since her
childhood in Virginia. Certainly the wildest stretch of imagination
could not call the late Koller a gentleman, and even Ahlberg himself,
although a member of the diplomatic corps, hardly came under that
description.
Pembroke had a kind of hazy idea that widows could take care of
themselves. Besides, he was not really in love with her--only a little
dazzled by her voice and her yellow hair. His wrath may be imagined
when after a considerable wrench in tearing himself away from Paris,
and when he had begun to regard Olivia Berkeley with that lofty
approval which sometimes precedes love making, to return to Virginia,
and in six weeks to find Madame Schmidt and Madame Koller established
at their old place, The Beeches, and Ahlberg, who had been their
shadow for two years, living at the village tavern. He felt that this
following him, on the part of Madame Koller, made him ridiculous.
He was mortally afraid of being laughed at about it. Instead of
holding his own stoutly in acrid discussions with Colonel Berkeley,
Pembroke began to be afraid of the old gentleman’s pointed allusions
to the widow. He even got angry with poor little Miles when the boy
ventured upon a little sly chaff. As for Olivia Berkeley, she took
Madame Koller’s conduct in coming to Virginia in high dudgeon, with
that charming inconsequence of noble and inexperienced women. What
particular offense it gave her, beyond the appearance of following
Pembroke, which was shocking to her good taste, she could not have
explained to have saved her life. But with Madame Koller she took a
tone of politeness, sweet yet chilly, like frozen cream--and the same
in a less degree, toward Pembroke. She seemed to say, “Odious and
underbred as this thing is, I, you see, can afford to be magnanimous.”
Colonel Berkeley chuckled at this on the part of his daughter, as he
habitually did at the innocent foibles of his fellow creatures. It was
very innocent, very feminine, and very exasperating.
Nevertheless, within a week the big landau was drawn up, and Colonel
Berkeley and his daughter set forth, _en grand tenue_, with Petrarch on
the box, to call on Madame Koller. The Colonel had never ceased teasing
his daughter to go. Time hung heavy on his hands, and although he had
not found Madame Koller particularly captivating elsewhere, and Madame
Schmidt bored him to death upon the few occasions when she appeared,
yet, when he was at Isleham, the ladies at The Beeches assumed quite
a fascinating aspect to his imagination. The Colonel had a private
notion of his own that Madame Koller had been a little too free with
her income, and that a year’s retirement would contribute to the health
of her finances. Olivia, however, believed that Madame Koller had but
one object in returning to America, and that was because Pembroke had
come. She remembered one evening in Paris, Pembroke had “dropped in,”
American fashion. The doctors had then said that nothing could be done
to restore poor Miles to comeliness--and meanwhile, another blow had
fallen upon the two brothers. Their only sister, Elizabeth, a handsome,
high spirited girl, older than they, had died--and there had been a
violent breach between her and their father to which death alone put
a truce. When the country was overrun with troops, a Federal officer
had protected the plantation as far as he could, had saved the old
father from the consequences of his own rash conduct, and had taken
a deep and tender interest in the daughter. This was enough to blast
Elizabeth’s life. She gave up her lover--silently, but with a strange
unyielding gentleness, she kept aloof from her father. She was not
condemned to suffer long. The unhappy father followed her swiftly to
the old burying ground at Malvern. Men commonly seek distraction in
griefs. Pembroke was like the rest. He was popular, especially among
the English colony where his love of sports and manly accomplishments
made him a favorite--to say nothing of that prestige, which attaches to
a man who has seen service. He had gone into the war a lieutenant, and
had come out as major of his ragged, half-starved regiment. Therefore
when Pembroke idled and amused himself in Paris, for some time Olivia
could only feel sympathy for him. She knew well enough that his means
were small and the company he kept was liable to diminish them--but
after a while, she began to feel a hot indignation against him. So on
this particular evening, the Colonel falling asleep opportunely, she
took occasion to express her opinion to Pembroke, that their ruined
country needed the presence and the service of every man she could call
her own. Pembroke defended himself warmly at first. He came for Miles’
sake--the boy whom he had thought safe at school, and who ran away in
the very last days of the war to enlist--and almost the last shot that
was fired--so Pembroke said bitterly--disfigured the boy as he now
was. Miles had been eager to come, although Pembroke was convinced from
the beginning that neither the French, nor any other surgeons could
repair the work of that shot. He admitted that the boy had borne the
final decision with great manliness and courage “for such a little
chap,” the elder brother said fondly. When pressed hard by Olivia about
returning home, Pembroke though had no resource but epigrams.
“At all events,” she said presently, with a pretty air of heroism,
“Papa and I are going home just as soon as papa can do without his
crutch. Papa is a patriot, although he does talk so remarkably
sometimes.”
“Then, after you have got back, you can let me know how you like
Virginia as it is, and perhaps I will follow,” he answered, laughing
in a very exasperating way, Olivia thought. But when the Berkeleys
got home they found that the Pembrokes had arrived some weeks before
them--and soon afterward Madame Koller and her mother turned up quite
unexpectedly at their deserted old place, only to be followed shortly
after by Ahlberg, who, from his abode at the village tavern rode over
every day on a sorry nag, to see Madame Koller.
Imagine all this in a provincial country neighborhood!
Mr. Cole, the clergyman of Petsworth parish, was a bachelor, a small,
neatly-featured person, suspected of High Church leanings. The Colonel
had bluntly inquired of him if he intended to call on Madame Koller.
“Hardly, I think, sir,” responded Mr. Cole, with much severity. “She
has not once been to church since she returned to the county--and she
only two miles off--and I hear that she and her friend Mr. Ahlberg play
billiards all day long Sunday, when they are not playing cards.”
“Only the more reason for you to convert the heathen, ha! ha!”
answered the Colonel--“and let me tell you, Cole, if you hadn’t been a
clergyman, you would have been a regular slayer among the women--and
the heathen in this case is about as pretty a heathen as you can find
in the State of Virginia, sir.”
Evidently these remarks made a great impression on Mr. Cole, for on the
sunny afternoon, when Colonel Berkeley and Olivia drove up to the door
of The Beeches, they saw a clerical looking figure disappear ahead of
them within the doorway.
“The parson’s here, by Jove,” chuckled the Colonel.
The house was modern and rather showy. Inside there were evidences that
Madame Koller was not devoid of taste or money either. The Berkeleys
were ushered into a big square drawing-room, where, seated in a
high-backed chair, with his feet barely touching the floor, was the
little clergyman.
“Why, Cole, I am deuced glad you took my advice,” cried the Colonel,
advancing with outstretched hand and with a kind of hearty good
fellowship that pleased Mr. Cole, and yet frightened him a little. He
was a good soul and divided his small salary with his mother, but he
thought Colonel Berkeley’s society rather dangerous for a clergyman. He
used too many expletives, and was altogether too free in his notions of
what a churchman should be--for the Colonel was a stanch churchman, and
would have sworn like a pirate at anybody who questioned his orthodoxy.
“Doing missionary work, hay, Mr. Cole?” continued Colonel Berkeley,
while Olivia and Mr. Cole shook hands.
A faint pink mounted into the clergyman’s face. His curiosity had got
the better of him, but the excellent little man fancied it was his
Christian charity that won the victory.
“Well, Colonel,” he begun, “upon reflection I concluded it was my duty
to call on Madame Koller. I wasn’t in this parish--in fact, I wasn’t
ordained at the time Madame Koller was Miss Eliza Peyton, and Madame
Schmidt was Mrs. Edward Peyton. And being the niece of my excellent
friend--Mrs. Sally Peyton--”
“Excellent friend, eh--well, don’t you trust Sally Peyton too far, my
good fellow. She was a mighty uncertain kind of a friend thirty or
forty years ago--not that I have any particular reason for saying so.
But you are quite right in paying your respects to Eliza Peyton--I mean
Madame Koller, and I only hope she’ll find our society agreeable enough
to stay here.”
A considerable wait ensued. Olivia had begun to wonder how long it
took Madame Koller to make a complete toilet, when a white hand moved
the curtain from a doorway, and noiselessly and gently Madame Koller
entered.
She was heartily glad to see them--their call was not very prompt,
but it would have been a cruel mortification had they omitted to
come. Olivia’s hand she pressed--so she did the Colonel’s--and also
Mr. Cole’s, who colored quite violently, although he struggled for
self-possession.
“We are very glad you have come,” said Olivia, with her sweetest
affability, “you will be a great acquisition to the neighborhood. You
see, I am already beginning to think more of our own neighborhood than
all the rest of the universe.”
“Thank you for your kindness,” answered Madame Koller, with equal
cordiality. The two women, however, did not cease to examine each other
like gladiators.
“And Mr. Cole, I think you were not here when I lived at The Beeches as
a girl.”
“No, madam,” replied Mr. Cole, who had now shaded from a red to a pink.
“And did I not have the pleasure of seeing you at the Campdown races
the other day?”
Mr. Cole turned pale and nearly dropped off his chair. The Colonel
roared out his pleasant cheery laugh.
“No madam, you did not.” Mr. Cole made his denial so emphatic that he
was ashamed of himself for it afterwards.
“But you, Miss Berkeley, were there. My cousin Ahlberg saw you.
He praised you. He complimented you. ‘I have often seen that
face,’ he said. ‘There are some faces which one remembers even
in the whirl of the greatest cities. I drive around the Bois de
Boulogne--once--twice--three times. I speak to a hundred friends. I see
a thousand faces. They pass before me like shadows of the night. One
face strikes me. It rises like a star from out the sea. Ah, I exclaim,
‘here is another photograph for my mental portrait gallery.’”
Neither the Colonel nor Olivia was fully prepared to accept Ahlberg.
Consequently, Madame Koller’s remark was received with a cool smile by
Olivia--and a sniff by the Colonel. But Mr. Cole was quite carried away
by Madame Koller’s declamatory manner, and her really beautiful voice.
“What a gift of tongues,” he said. “Madame Koller, if a--er--public
speaker--a religious instructor had your felicity of expression--”
“I trust,” answered Madame, “some time to have the pleasure of hearing
_your_ felicity of expression. I am not what you call a Christian. I
believe in a system of ultimate good--a philosophy if you will--”
“Yes, yes,” cordially chimed in Colonel Berkeley with something
dangerously like a wink, “I knew Madame, as soon as I saw you that you
believed in a system. It’s very useful and elastic and philosophic.”
Madame playfully waved her hand at the colonel, and turned to Mr. Cole.
“We will be friends, nevertheless,” she said with a captivating
smile. “I will visit your church in the morning, and you will return
to luncheon with me, and we will have a little game of billiards
afterward.”
Mr. Cole’s delicate face grew ashy. He, John Chrysostom Cole, playing
billiards on Sunday! What would his mother say--and what would the
bishop say! Olivia looked a little shocked because of course Madame
Koller must know better. Not so the Colonel. He laughed heartlessly at
Mr. Cole, and began to think Eliza Peyton was a more amusing person
than he had fancied.
“Madame Koller,” began Mr. Cole solemnly after a moment, “your
long absence from this country--your unfamiliarity with clergymen
perhaps--and with the American Sabbath--”
“Oh, yes, I remember the American Sabbath very well,” replied Madame
Koller laughing and raising her eyebrows. “My aunt, Mrs. Peyton, always
took me to church with her, and I had to listen to Dr. Steptoe’s
sermons. Oh those sermons! However,” she added, turning her expressive
eyes full on Mr. Cole. “I know, I _know_ yours must be very different.
Well, I will go. And forgive me, if I sometimes shock you--forgive and
pity me.”
Mr. Cole thought that only a heart of stone could have hardened against
that pretty appeal. And the widow was so deliciously charming with
her half-foreign manner and her whole-foreign look. But billiards on
Sunday!
“Extend the invitation to me, ma’am,” said the Colonel. “I go to church
on Sunday--I have no system, just the plain religious belief of a
churchman and a gentleman--my ancestors were not a lot of psalm-singing
hypocrites, but cavaliers, madam, from the Court of Charles the Second.
But after I’ve been to church to please my conscience and my daughter,
I don’t mind pleasing myself a little. I’ll play billiards with you--”
The door opened and Ahlberg appeared. Now Mr. Ahlberg was not a
favorite of Colonel Berkeley’s at any time--still less of Olivia’s; but
it was in the country, and it was very, very dull, so he got the most
cordial greeting he had ever had from either of them. The conversation
became general, and as soon as Ahlberg had the opportunity, he edged
toward Olivia. He was no gentle, unsophisticated creature, like Mr.
Cole. He knew that Olivia Berkeley’s polite and self-possessed manner
toward him concealed a certain hardness. He made no particular headway
in her good graces he saw--and not much more in the Colonel’s. But
both gentlemen were hard up for amusement, and each was willing to be
amused, so, when Mr. Ahlberg, after a few well-bred vacuities with
Olivia, devoted himself to Colonel Berkeley, he was rewarded with the
intimation that the Colonel would call on him at the village tavern,
and this was followed up by another hint of a dinner invitation to
follow. This cheered Mr. Ahlberg very much, for to tell the truth he
was as near starvation as a man could be in this nineteenth century,
who had money in his pocket. If, however, Mr. Ahlberg had made it
his business to horrify Mr. Cole, he could not have done it more
thoroughly. He bewailed the absence of book-makers at the races, and
wished to know why elections were not held in America on Sunday, took
occasion to say that religion was merely an affair of the State, and
he too was a believer in a system. When they all rose to go, poor Mr.
Cole was quite limp and overcome, but he made an effort to retain
his self-possession. He urged both Madame Koller and Mr. Ahlberg to
attend the morning service on the following Sunday. Both promised
conditionally.
The clergyman had walked over from the rectory where his mother
presided over his modest establishment.
“Come, Cole,” cried the Colonel, who was the soul of hospitality,
“here’s another seat in the carriage. Come back to dinner with us. I’ve
got some capital champagne, and Olivia will play for you.”
“I don’t care about the champagne, thank you,” answered Mr. Cole, “but
I’ll come for the pleasure of Miss Olivia’s playing and her society
also.”
Scarcely had the carriage turned into the lane, when Mr. Cole burst
forth:
“Miss Olivia, did you ever meet a more godless person in your life than
Mr. Ahlberg?”
“I don’t think I ever did,” answered Olivia, with much sincerity.
“But the widow--Eliza Peyton--eh, Cole? I think you have made some
headway there,” cried the Colonel, wagging his head at the little
clergyman. Mr. Cole’s heart began to thump. Strange it was that
although he ought, as a Christian and a clergyman, to disapprove of
Madame Koller with her beautiful blonde hair, he could not find it in
his heart to feel it. Nevertheless he could say it easily enough.
“I very much doubt, sir, the propriety of my visiting at The Beeches.”
“Pooh, pooh. You’ll get over it,” chuckled Colonel Berkeley.
Ah, John Chrysostom! Has it never been known that the outward man
denounced what the inward man yearned and hankered after? At this very
moment do you not remember the turn of Madame Koller’s handsome head,
and the faint perfume that exhaled from her trailing gown?
“We must invite them to dinner,” said the Colonel, decidedly. “Cole,
you must come, too. That poor devil, Ahlberg, is almost starved at the
tavern on fried chicken three times a day, and claret from the tavern
bar.”