"Yes, when Martin sings it, it's delightful. Shall we have much singing
to-night?"
"Oh! we shall have some sport. Raymond is to sing the aria from
_Joconde_; that tall girl yonder is to sing the inevitable song from
_Montano et Stéphanie_; the pupil from the Conservatoire has brought a
song, too; and Monsieur Crachini will obligingly deafen us with a
romanza or two. Then Chamonin and his friend are to make an attempt at a
duo from the Bouffes. That's enough, I hope! God grant that Gripaille
doesn't take his guitar to accompany us! if he does, we are lost."
As the chubby-faced little man finished speaking, Gripaille accosted
him, and was greeted with:
"Well, my dear Gripaille, aren't we to have the pleasure of hearing you?
Come, bring out your guitar; these ladies are dying for some of your
chords."
Gripaille, who considered himself the first guitarist in Paris, replied,
casting a seductive leer upon the ladies who surrounded us:
"What the devil do you expect me to sing you? I don't know anything!
I've got a cold, too; and then, Vauvert's guitar is such a wretched
instrument! a regular chestnut stove! it's impossible to play on it."
"With such talent as yours, one can play on anything," observed a little
old woman, throwing herself back in her chair and clasping her hands
ecstatically, while tears of pleasure started from her eyes. "Mon Dieu!
what blissful moments I owe to you! Music produces such an effect on
me--such an effect! you can't form any idea of it; my nerves are so
sensitive, I abandon myself so utterly to the melody! Take your guitar,
enchanter! take it and make me dream! You remind me of a handsome
traveller who played the guitar under my windows when I was young!"
The chubby-faced gentleman and I turned away, to avoid laughing in the
face of the old woman, from whom Gripaille had great difficulty in
extricating himself. Old age is certainly most worthy of respect; but it
is hard to keep a serious face before such old idiots, who fall into a
trance during a ballad or an _adagio_.
I saw the old man who usually played the 'cello part look at his watch,
and heard him mutter between his teeth:
"This is very disagreeable! I must be at home at eleven o'clock, and we
are wasting all this time doing nothing; and I've been here since seven!
They were laughing at me when they told me that they were going to begin
early, and that there would be a full quartette here; but they won't
catch me again."
At last Monsieur Vauvert appeared, panting, almost breathless, drenched
with perspiration, and bending beneath the burden of a tenor violin and
several portfolios of music.
"Here I am! here I am!" he exclaimed, bustling into the room with an air
of great bewilderment; "I've had hard work collecting all the parts, but
I've succeeded at last."
"You must have been diverting yourself between whiles," said Madame
Vauvert, pursing her lips.
"Oh, yes! parbleu! that's very likely; diverting myself, indeed! I'm
bathed in perspiration!--You can begin the quartette, messieurs."
"Let's begin, let's begin!" said Monsieur Pattier, the 'cello player;
"we have very little time.--But have you brought my score?"
"Yes, yes! there it is on the stand."
"Come, messieurs, let's tune up."
The amateurs who formed the quartette tried to bring their instruments
in tune with one another. Meanwhile, the guests took their places to
listen; sat down when they could find chairs. The ladies were already
yawning; the bare announcement of a quartette gave them the vapors; to
distract their thoughts, they chatted with the men who stood behind
their chairs. They whispered and laughed and made fun of everybody,
especially of the performers; the moment when music is being performed
is always selected by the listeners to make the most noise.
At last the intrepid amateurs were in tune and took their places at
their desks. The old 'cello player had put his little shade of green
paper round his candle, so that the light should not hurt his eyes; the
tenor violinist had put on his spectacles; the second violin put an
ounce of rosin on his bow; and the first violin adjusted his cravat so
that his instrument should not rumple his collar.
All these preliminaries being completed,--during which Vauvert tried to
bring the assemblage to order by many a prolonged _hush_!--the first
violin raised his bow and stamped on the floor, glancing from one to
another of his colleagues.
"Are we ready?" he said at last, with a determined air.
"Oh! I've been ready two hours!" retorted Monsieur Pattier, with an
angry shrug.
"One moment, messieurs," said the second violin; "my first string is
loose; it's a new string; I must tighten it."
The tenor seized the opportunity to play over a passage that seemed
rather difficult, and the 'cellist consoled himself with a pinch of
snuff.
"Now I'm ready," said the second violin.
"That's very fortunate.--Attention, messieurs, if you please; we will
play the _allegro_ rather slowly, and the _adagio_ somewhat quickly;
that produces a better effect."
"As you please; it's your place to beat time."
The signal was given; the first violin started, and the others straggled
after, as usual. Although I paid little attention to the quartette, it
seemed to me to be even worse than ordinarily.
"The villains have sworn to flay us alive!" said one of my neighbors.
"That isn't right! that isn't right!" cried the first violin, stopping
short.
"I don't see why it didn't go well enough," observed the tenor.
"No, no! there was something that was all wrong."
"Where was it?"
"Where? I can't say exactly."
"Well, _I_ didn't miss a note," said the second violin.
"Nor I."
"Nor I."
"Come, messieurs, let us begin again."
"All right, but see that you beat time properly."
"I should say that I beat time loud enough."
"To be sure you do," said Madame Vauvert; "and the person who lives
underneath said she would complain to the landlord."
They began to play again; but it went no better, although the first
violin writhed and gesticulated like one possessed; the company began to
laugh, and the performers stopped.
"It certainly doesn't go right," said Monsieur Longuet, the first violin
and conductor. "There must be mistakes somewhere; let me see the 'cello
score. What does this mean? you're playing in _B_ flat and we in _D_!
Parbleu! I'm not surprised."
"I'm playing just what you told me to," rejoined old Pattier, scarlet
with anger; "the first quartette in the first portfolio."
"True; how the devil does it happen? Let's look at the title. What do I
see? Mozart's quartette! and we are playing one of Pleyel's! Ha! ha!
that's a good one!"
Everybody laughed at the episode; Monsieur Pattier alone was furious
over the mistake, for which Vauvert was responsible, and which resulted
in preventing the performance of the quartette. He rushed up to the
master of the house, who had just seated himself in a corner of the
salon beside a young brunette on whom he was bestowing meaning glances.
"How's this, Monsieur Vauvert? You tell me that you have brought the
score that was missing, and you give me the bass of a Mozart quartette
when we are to play one of Pleyel's!"
"I thought I heard you mention Mozart."
"You thought! a man doesn't make such mistakes as that!"
"Well! I'll go and change it."
"No, no, it's no use; almost eleven o'clock; a pretty time to go out
after music! I shan't forget this trick."
Père Pattier went away, muttering savagely; nobody paid any attention to
him. Madame Vauvert scolded her husband for his blunder, and the company
congratulated themselves on their escape from the quartette; while the
tenor, who was determined not to be squelched, persisted in trying the
brilliant passages of his part. Neighbor Raymond had just arrived, with
his favorite piece under his arm. I noticed several new faces, and I was
looking about for Madame Bertin and her daughters, who seldom came to
Monsieur Vauvert's, whose decidedly mixed society was ill suited to
well-bred young ladies, when I heard the confused murmur that announces
the arrival of a new personage.
I looked toward the door of the salon. A very stylishly dressed lady was
being escorted into the room by Vauvert, on whose arm she leaned, and
whose soiled linen, snuffy nose, and awkward manner were in striking
contrast to the grace, the refinement, and the elegant manners of the
lady, for whom he tried to find a seat in his salon, where vacant chairs
were as scarce as at Tivoli. I spied one by the fireplace, upon which a
huge cat lay asleep; I threw the cat to the floor, and presented the
chair to the newcomer, who thanked me as she accepted it. Thereupon I
examined her more closely, and recognized the lady whom I had seen at
the theatre two nights before, and whose carriage I had made a vain
attempt to follow. I was fully convinced that it was she when I saw in
the doorway the man who accompanied her on that occasion.
Decidedly that Saturday evening was destined to mark an epoch in my
life; for chance had thrown in my way all the persons who had then
attracted my attention. I was Nicette's friend, I hoped to be Caroline's
lover, and as for this other lady, whose name I did not know as yet, I
was ready to bet that we should become better acquainted.
Neighbor Raymond, who lost no time when he hoped to win applause, had
already approached the piano and was looking about for someone to
accompany him. But Monsieur Gripaille, seeing that no one asked him to
sing, or paid any attention to him, ran and seized the guitar, seated
himself in the centre of the salon, and prepared to begin. Singing is
always the most popular part of a concert, especially a concert of
amateurs, where those who play upon any instrument are rarely good
enough players or good enough musicians to give pleasure to their
audience. A quartette entertains none but those who take part in it; a
sonata on the piano makes people yawn; airs with variations for the harp
are always twice too long, and pieces for the guitar always fall flat
after other instruments. Only for singing, therefore, does the audience
at such affairs care to cease its conversation; a pleasant voice never
wearies the attention or the ears.
But Monsieur Gripaille had not a pleasant voice--far from it; it was a
continual medley of falsetto, shrill notes, and transitions of an
octave, the whole accompanied by the thrumming of his thumb on the bass
chord of the guitar, while he shook his head from side to side to add to
his personal charms. However, the airs he sang were sometimes tuneful,
the words amusing, and his performance diverted the company for a
moment. But as he always sang the same things, we knew them by heart;
and when he once had the guitar in his hands, it was impossible to make
him put it down; after the ballad came a rondeau, after the rondeau a
comic song, after the comic song another ballad, and so on. I was not
bored, because I was talking with the new arrival, who seemed vastly
astonished at all that she saw, and very glad to find me there; for she
recognized me, and I saw that my presence was not disagreeable to her.
But soon I heard neighbor Raymond and the man with spectacles
objurgating Gripaille because he did not stop singing.
"It's horrible! it's murderous! it's enough to put you to sleep!" said
Raymond; "he'll never stop!"
"Oh! when he once has his guitar, we are lost! there's nothing to do but
let him sing."
"And he doesn't want anyone to make a sound, either; not even to speak.
See! he's glancing angrily in this direction now, because we're
talking."
"I don't care if he is; it's altogether too much; tunes that he's sung
to us twenty times!"
"He says that he wrote them."
"He lies; I've seen them printed under another name."
"Great God! I believe he's beginning another one. That fellow ought to
be forbidden to enter a salon."
"Faith, yes! let's call Vauvert, and tell him to make him shut up."
"He wouldn't dare."
"I'll tell you; we must have some young lady escorted to the piano;
perhaps that will compel Gripaille to give up his place."
The two men ran after Vauvert, who was in the utmost perplexity, for he
did not know how to request his friend Gripaille to cease to entertain
the company. At last, a tall, stout young woman consented to sing; young
Martin arrived to play the accompaniments, and they were escorted to the
piano. Gripaille pretended not to see what was going on, and played the
prelude to his sixth comic song; but the noise in the dressing room,
where a party of young men had assembled who could not find room in the
salon, forced the guitarist to abandon the contest; he rose very
ill-humoredly, despite the faint forced applause, and for lack of
something better to do sat down in front of the little old woman, who
had been partly in a trance and partly in heaven throughout his singing.
"Come," she said to Gripaille, as he approached, "come, let me embrace
you! You have enchanted me--exalted me to the skies--that is the word!
Come, I entreat you!"
The wretched guitarist was compelled to submit; he embraced the old lady
with a good grace; admirers are rare, and one has to pay dear for them.
My neighbor spied me and came to me with outstretched hand; but he
halted in front of my fair unknown, to whom he made a sweeping bow. The
devil of a fellow seemed to know everybody. I listened to their
conversation.
"Whom do I see? Madame de Marsan! by what chance? Really, this is a
happiness I did not expect! To what are we indebted for this pleasant
surprise?"
"Monsieur de Marsan meets Monsieur Vauvert sometimes at the department,
and Monsieur Vauvert has been urging him for a long time to come to his
concerts; so to-day we decided to come;--but I confess," she said,
turning to me, "that I did not expect all that I see."
"We will try, madame, to give you so much pleasure that you will not
regret your evening."
Thereupon my neighbor ran to the piano, doubtless to preëmpt the place
next to the tall young lady. But the little chubby-faced man had
anticipated him, and I foresaw that we could not escape the _Princesse
de Navarre_.
While the young woman was singing her air from _Montano et Stéphanie_,
being forced to give up my chair to a damsel who was looking about in
vain for a seat, I went for a breath of air to the dressing room, where
a number of young men had taken refuge, driven from the salon by the
shrill cries of the singer. At that moment the doorbell rang; Vauvert
opened the door, and little Friquet appeared. I expected a scene between
the uncle and the nephew, and I waited to hear.
"Where have you been, you rascal?" demanded Vauvert, trying to assume an
imposing air.
"Why, uncle, I have been--I have been at the office."
"At your office, until eleven o'clock at night!"
"Yes, uncle."
"You don't expect to make us believe that, I hope?"
"Why not, uncle?"
"Because I know that you leave it every night at nine o'clock."
"The head clerk gave me some errands to do, uncle; that is what made me
so late."
"Errands! I know how you do errands! I've been hearing about you, young
scoundrel that you are!"
"In the first place, uncle, I am not a scoundrel."
"Your head clerk told me that the day before yesterday morning, while
they were waiting for a very urgent paper that they'd sent you to have
signed, he found you sitting coolly under Pont des Arts, fishing."
"Me, uncle, me! My word, what a lie!"
"He has the face to deny it, when I have proofs of the fact!"
"Proofs? what proofs?"
"Look, Monsieur Friquet, here's a package of hooks that I found in your
coat pocket. Well! what do you say to that?"
"That doesn't prove anything, uncle; I didn't buy those hooks for
myself."
"For whom did you buy them, then?"
"For my brother, who means to go fishing in the Canal de l'Ourcq on
Sunday."
"You're the most shameless liar I know. I'll bet that you bought a
theatre check to-night, and that you've been to see the end of some
play."
"You know perfectly well that I haven't got any money, uncle."
"Oh! you always have money to go to the theatre and to stuff yourself.
Come, monsieur, fill the glasses and pass them round to the ladies."
"That's it!" muttered the little nephew, turning angrily on his heel;
"as soon as I get home, I have to be uncle's servant, they'd better get
a negro. And then, the first thing in the morning, aunt sends me to get
her milk and her fuel, and lights for her cat."
"You seem to be arguing the matter!" said Madame Vauvert, pinching
Friquet's arm; "there! that's to teach you to grumble."
"Ow! how mean to pinch me like that, aunt! I shall be black and blue for
a week."
"So much the better!"
"Mon Dieu! how ugly she is!" muttered Friquet; and I saw him, for
consolation, take a slice of cake out of his pocket and swallow it in
three mouthfuls.
But the shrill sounds had ceased; the tall young lady was no longer
singing. The little chubby-faced man took her place; he was determined
to sing his air from _Jean de Paris_, and we had to resign ourselves.
While he struggled to hold out his notes, coughing at every ritornelle
to make us believe that he had a cold, I saw the other singers look at
each other, make signs, yawn, and compress their lips. In truth,
amateurs are more unkind than professionals, and they who are in great
need of indulgence for themselves are always ready to tear others to
tatters. They think to conceal their own mediocrity by calling attention
to their neighbor's lack of talent; self-esteem, which blinds us to our
own defects, impels us to seek out with avidity the faults of others, as
if we were the gainers thereby! What folly! Because Monsieur So-and-So
sings false, does that give you a fine voice? because he plays the
violin badly, are you the better performer on the piano? because another
is ugly, awkward, and ridiculous, are you any handsomer, more graceful,
and more agreeable? Of course not; but it is always pleasant to see
people at whom one can poke fun, and whom we believe to be less
abundantly endowed by Nature than we. Remember that Roquelaure joyously
threw himself on the neck of a man who seemed to him even uglier than
himself. But, monsieur, what a difference! Roquelaure sacrificed his
self-esteem; but you, had you been in his place, would have made sport
of the man he embraced, and, turning to look in a mirror, would have
deemed yourself handsome, I vow.
The _Princesse de Navarre_ being duly executed, the little man made the
circuit of the salon, trying to pick up a word of praise, even from
those whom he had so recently declared to be ignorant of music; for
praise is always pleasant. Everybody told him that he had sung very
well; that was inevitable; we were well bred, which means that we had
ceased to be frank. I alone ventured to observe that he seemed to have a
cold; he turned as red as a turkey cock, and his nose vanished
completely.
"That is so," he said at last; "I have a very bad cold; it embarrassed
me a great deal."
"Why did you sing, then?"
"Oh! people urged me so hard!"
And I had seen him dispute with Raymond for the opportunity! What
strange creatures men are! But, hush! my neighbor was going to sing;
that deserved attention. But, no; two other men anticipated him; they
sang an Italian duet, I believe; but it was difficult to understand the
veritable hotchpotch they made at the piano: one shook his head to mark
time, as a bear dances behind the bars of his cage; the other, who was
evidently very short-sighted, kept his nose glued to the music. The
young man who acted as accompanist tried in vain to make them sing
together: it was impossible.
"You're behind," said one.
"That's because I skipped a line."
"Well, go on!"
"You go too fast; you hurry me. I never saw the music before, and to
sing Italian at sight is devilish hard."
I was sure that he had been studying his part for a fortnight. Despite
their efforts, they were obliged to leave the duet half sung.
"We will sing it the next time," said Monsieur Chamonin; "we shall be
surer of ourselves then, for the piece needs to be carefully studied.
Rossini is very chromatic."
"That's so," said Vauvert, stuffing his nose with snuff, a part of which
remained on his shirt front; "it's a pity you didn't finish it, for I
thought it was very pretty."
"We'll go and hear it once more at the Bouffons."
"They had better stay there," said Gripaille, in an undertone, delighted
by their misadventure.
"For my part, I don't care for Italian," said Madame Vauvert. "I never
can hear anything but _tchi and tcha_; and it doesn't amuse me in the
least."
"Oh! what blasphemy, madame! not like Rossini!"
"Who's Rossini, uncle?" inquired the youthful clerk, who had stolen into
the salon. "Seems to me I've seen that name, in _Don Quixote_."
"The idiot, to mistake _Rosinante for Rossini_! Go and wash the glasses,
booby, and don't mix in the conversation again."
At last my neighbor was at the piano, and had opened his mouth to an
enormous width to inform us that he had "long wandered o'er the world."
But at that moment we heard the notes of a 'cello, and Vauvert appeared
with a music stand, which he placed in the centre of the salon.
"What on earth are you doing there?" shouted Raymond; "don't you see
that I am singing?"
"Madame Witcheritche is going to play her solo on the 'cello."
"In a few minutes; I am singing now, I tell you. Madame Witcheritche can
play afterward."
"No, she wants to play now, because it's getting late."
And paying no heed to the mutterings of Raymond, who, in his wrath,
overturned the candlestick on the piano, Vauvert arranged the music
stand, then went to usher in the German virtuoso, whom I had not
previously noticed. She was a very handsome woman, very fair and
somewhat insipid, like most German women, but well built and graceful;
she held the 'cello between her legs with astonishing ease, and seemed
not at all abashed. She played easily and with excellent taste; and I
saw by the long faces of the members of the quartette that they had not
expected to encounter in one of the other sex a musical talent in
presence of which they could no longer hope to shine.