[1] Copyright, 1926, by Eleanor Mercein Kelly.
One met the lady, as it were, by installments: first the dog Bijou,
emerging from the _ascenseur_ like a jack from its box, wheezing;
next the harassed little lady-secretary--or was she a duenna?--in
leashed pursuit; next the maid Annette, very French and voluble,
personally conducting the footsteps of greatness; last, but by no
means nor in any respect least, La Bella Gina herself, leaning upon
the arm of her devoted but practically invisible little cavalier, the
Marchese. It was always an effective entrance; a gay wave of the
hand for the gentleman at the desk, a coquettish smile for the
staring lobby at large, and for us, who had come so far to be the
guests of her Italy, a charming, courteous inclination of hospitality.
Then the Signor Direttore would hurry out of his office with a daily
bouquet provided by the management; the concierge, so haughty with
others, would abase himself backward before her; and the cortège
would pass out into the street, there to be greeted by a small cheer
from whatever public happened to be gathered about; flower-sellers,
beggars, cameo-vendors, quarreling groups of _vetturini_, and the
like. The latter would leap each to the box of his carriage, lifting
a hopeful whip; but Madame Gina, wagging a forefinger sidewise in
sign of friendly negation, as at a too insistent gallery, would turn
her teetering footsteps in the direction of the Pincio, leaning
partly upon the willing Marchese, and partly, _à la_ Tosca, upon a
cane.
The secretary and Bijou would fall into line behind; or possibly,
according to the whim of Bijou, they would lead the procession, at
the run; and only Annette was left, gazing after them commiseratingly
and shaking a well-coiffed head.
"Has it not of pathos?" she murmured to me on one occasion, observing
that I too watched this daily little parade with interest.
"Pathos?" I repeated. I supposed her reference was to the diva's
lameness, which had appeared to my skeptical American eye rather
histrionic than pathetic; due perhaps more to the tightness of the
lady's high-heeled satin boots than to any more serious infirmity.
The maid sighed. "Eh, that it should be La Gina, La Bella Gina
herself, thus marching on two feet like anybody, like you or
me!--trotting along the _pavé_ with no more _réclame_ than the _sale
bête Bijou_" (evidently Annette shared my lack of enthusiasm for the
poodle of the profession). "She who in a manner of speaking has not
set heel to ground since the day of her début at San Carlo; whose
carriage princes have been proud to draw, yes, and millionaires!--I
who speak have seen it thus. But now, upon those exquisite feet
which sculptors beg to model, she makes along rough streets the
promenade, like any _Anglaise_. Daily, as you see!---- It is the
imbecile doctors who have done this thing."
"In order to overcome her little lameness, perhaps?" I suggested.
Annette snapped her fingers. "The lameness, what of that? A
habitude, a gesture! At her age, Madame finds the cane _un peu
distingué_. No, it is for the--how shall I say?" Expressive hands
fluttered about her person, indicatively. "The conformation, hein?
the embonpoint. When last season an ankle sprained itself, as you
remember" (it did not occur to Annette that anyone, even tourists
from the Antipodes, could be ignorant of this event), "Madame was for
some time confined to the sitting and reclining postures. So, the
catastrophe commenced. Diet made nothing. My God, what misfortune!
The smallest _gâteau_, the merest _soupçon_ of whip-cream on the
morning chocolate, and spang! off pops another hook from the
brassière. Madame increased, literally, before the eye. How it was
tragic!"
"But," I said consolingly, "she carries her weight extremely well,
and she is no fatter than many other opera singers."
"That is true. And it is not as if she were a coloratura, what? To
the deeper voice must be allowed the wider latitudes. However, it is
not with the appearance one concerns oneself; assuredly, with such
beauty, appearance need not be considered--other than to add a dash
of rouge here, a drop of belladonna there. It is the voice,
voyez-vous, the voice itself! What if La Gina were to become short
of breath in the upper register? Picture to yourself if she were
compelled to wheeze, like the _sale bête Bijou_?"