For the past hour he had sat staring at things which the room did not
contain--a great, glowing house; an orchestra demoniacally led by a
conductor whom he strangely resembled; a stage on which, gracile in the
violet and silver of doublet and hose, the last of the Caras bowed to
the vivas.
Then abruptly the curtain had fallen, the lights had gone out, the
vision faded, banished by the quick click of her key.
But not entirely. More or less the dream was always with him. When
to-day is colourless, where can one live except in the future? To-day is
packed with commonplaces which, could we see them correctly, are
probably false for in the future only beautiful things are true. It is
stupid not to live among them, particularly if you have the ability, and
what artist lacks it? In the future, there is fame for the painter,
there is posterity for the poet and much good may it do them. But for
the musician, particularly for the song-bird, there is the vertigo of
instant applause. In days like these, days that witness the fall of
empires, the future holds for the donna, for the prima donna, for the
prima donna assoluta, the grandest of earthly careers.
That career, Angelo Cara foresaw for his daughter, foresaw it at least
in the hypnogogic visions which the artist always has within beck and
call. In the falsifying commonplaces of broad daylight he was not so
sure. Her upper register had in it a parterre of flowers, but elsewhere
it lacked volume, lacked line, lacked colour, and occasionally he
wondered whether her voice would not prove to be a voix de salon and not
the royal organ that fills a house. Yet in the strawberry of her throat,
the orifice was wide, the larynx properly abnormal. In addition the
Tamburini was prophetically comforting.
But did the woman know her trade? He did not believe it. He believed
though that she had no morals, never had had any, even as a child. It
was the same way with Rachel and the fact left him cold. He was
artistically indifferent to what the putana did or omitted, to what
anybody omitted or did. But anybody by no means included his daughter.
At the thought of anything amiss with her, presto! his sad eyes flamed.
Very needlessly too. Cassy was as indifferent to other people's
conceptions of decorum as he was himself. The matter did not touch her.
Clear-eyed, clean-minded, she was straight as a string.
"How did it go?" he asked.
Cassy laughed. She had had a glass of champagne. She had too, what is
far headier, the wine of youth.
"Well, I didn't see any showmen tumbling over each other. Mr. Lennox was
there. He asked after you, and introduced a man who had us out to
supper. It was very good. I did so wish for you, poor dear."
"What man? What is his name?"
"Paliser, I think. Something of the kind. Ma Tamby told me."
"Not old M. P.?"
"Perhaps, I don't know. He has hair like a looking-glass. He did not
seem old; he seemed very impudent. Ma Tamby says he's rich as all
outdoors."
"That's the son then. Don't have anything to do with him. They're a bad
lot."
"As if I cared! Ma Tamby said he could get me an engagement."
"Ha! In vaudeville with acrobats and funny men and little suppers to
follow."
"Why not big ones?"
"Big what?"
"Big goose!" replied Cassy, who removed her gloves, took off her hat,
ran a pin through it, put it down.
Her father stared. Behind the girl stood a blonde brute whom the supper
had evoked. He wore a scowl and a bloody apron. In his hand was a bill.
Behind him was the baker, the candlestickmaker. Behind these was the
agent, punctual and pertinacious, who had come for the rent. Though but
visions, they were real. Moreover, though they evaporated at once,
solidly they would return. He had been staring at her, and through her,
at them. In staring his eyes filled. Immediately they leaked.
Cassy bit her lip. The tumbril and the guillotine would not have made
her weep. Dry-eyed she would have gone from one to the other. Besides,
what on earth was he wowing about? But immediately it occurred to her
that he might be experiencing one of the attacks to which he was
subject. She leaned over him. "You poor dear, is it your heart?"
He brushed his eyes. Dimly they lighted. With artistic mobility his face
creased in a smile. "No, farther down."