NINA.
One morning Lionel was just about to go out (he had already been round
to the gymnasium and got his fencing over) when the house-porter came up
and said that a young lady wished to see him.
"What does she want?" he said, impatiently--for something had gone wrong
with the clasp of his cigarette-case, and he could not get it right.
"What's her name? Who is she?"
"She gave me her name, sir; but I did not quite catch it," said the
factotum of the house.
"Oh, well, send her up," said he; no doubt this was some trembling
_débutante_, accompanied by an ancient duenna and a roll of music. And
then he went to the window, to try to get the impenitent clasp to shut.
But perhaps he would not have been so wholly engrossed with that
trifling difficulty had he known who this was who had come softly up the
stair and was now standing, irresolute, smiling, wondering, at the open
door. She was a remarkably pretty, even handsome young lady, whose pale,
clear, olive complexion and coal-black hair bespoke her Southern birth;
while there was an eager and yet timid look in her lustrous, soft black
eyes, and something about the mobile, half-parted mouth that seemed to
say she hardly knew whether to cry or laugh over this meeting with an
old friend. A very charming picture she presented there; for, besides
her attractive personal appearance, she was very neatly, not to say
coquettishly, dressed, her costume, which had a distinctly foreign air,
being all of black, save for the smart little French-looking hat of deep
crimson straw and velvet.
At last she said,
"Leo!"
He turned instantly, and had nearly dropped the cigarette-case in his
amazement. And for a second he seemed paralyzed of speech--he was wholly
bewildered--perhaps overcome by some swift sense of responsibility at
finding Antonia Rossi in London, and alone.
"Che, Nina mia," he cried; "tu stai cca a Londra!--chesta mo, chi su
credeva!--e senza manca scriverme nu viers' e lettere--Nina!--mi pare nu
suonno!--"
She interrupted him; she came forward, smiling--and the parting of the
pretty lips showed a sunny gleam of teeth; she held up her two hands,
palm outwards, as if she would shut away from herself that old, familiar
Neapolitanese.
"No, no, no, Leo," she said, rapidly, "I speak English now--I study,
study, study, morning, day, night; and always I say, 'When I see Leo, he
have much surprise that I speak English'--always I say, 'Some day I go
to England, and when I see Leo'--"
The happy, eager smile suddenly died away from her face. She looked at
him. A strange kind of trouble--of doubt and wonderment and pain--came
into those soft, dark, expressive eyes.
"You--you not wish to see me, Leo?" she said, rather breathlessly--and
as if she could hardly believe this thing. "I come to London--and you
not glad to see me--"
Quick tears of wounded pride sprang to the long black lashes; but, with
a dignified, even haughty inclination of the head, she turned from him
and put her hand on the handle of the door. At the same instant he
caught her arm.
"Why, Nina, you're just the spoiled child you always were! Ah, your
English doesn't go so far as that; you don't know what a spoiled child
is?--_è la cianciosella_, you Neapolitan girl! Why, of course I'm glad
to see you--I am delighted to see you--but you frightened me, Nina--your
coming like this, alone--"
"I frighten you, Leo?" she said, and a quick laugh shone brightly
through her tears. "Ah, I see--it is that I have no chaperon? But I had
no time--I wished to see you, Leo--I said, 'Leo will understand, and
afterwards I get a chaperon all correctly.' Oh, yes, yes, I know--but
where is the time?--yesterday I go through the streets--it is Leo, Leo
everywhere in the windows--I see you in this costume, in the other
costume--and your name so large, so very large, in the--in the--"
"The theatre-bills? Well, sit down, Nina, and tell me how you come to be
in London."
She had by this time quite forgiven or forgotten his first dismay on
finding her there; and now she took a chair with much quiet
complaisance, and sat down, and put her black silk sunshade across her
knees.
"It is simple," she said, and from time to time she regarded him in a
very frank and pleased and even affectionate way, as if the old
comradeship of the time when they were both studying in Naples was not
to be interfered with by the natural timidity of a young and extremely
pretty woman coming as a stranger into a strange town. "You remember
Carmela, Leo? Carmela and her--her spouse--they have great
good-fortune--they get a grand prize in the lottery--then he says,
'Carmeluccia, we will go to Paris--we will go to Paris, Carmeluccia--and
why not Nina also?' Very kind, was it not?--but Andrea is always kind, so
also Carmela, to me. Then I am in Paris. I say, 'It is not far to
London; I go to London; I go to London and see Leo.' Perhaps I get an
engagement--oh, no, no, no, you shall not laugh!" she broke in--though
it was she herself who was laughing, and not he at all. "I am
improved--oh, yes, a little--a little improved--you remember old
Pandiani he always say my voice not bad, but that _agilità_ was for me
very difficult."
He remembered very well; but he also remembered that when he left
Naples, Signorina Rossi was laboring away with the most pertinacious
assiduity at cavatinas full of runs and scales and _fiorituri_
generally; and he was quite willing to believe that such diligence had
met with its due reward. But when the young lady modestly hinted that
she had left her music in the hall below, and would like Leo to hear
whether she had not acquired a good deal more of flexibility than her
voice used to possess, and when he had fetched the music and taken it to
the piano for her, he was not a little surprised to see her select
Ambroise Thomas's "Io son Titania." And he was still more astonished
when he found her singing this difficult piece of music with a
brilliancy, an ease, a _verve_ of execution that he had never dreamed of
her being able to reach.
"Brava! Brava! Bravissima!--Well, you _have_ improved, Nina!" he
exclaimed. "And it isn't only in freedom of production, it is in
quality, too, in _timbre_--my goodness, your voice has ever so much more
volume and power! Come, now, try some big, dramatic thing--"
She shook her head.
"No, no, Leo, I know what I do," she said. "I shall never have the grand
style--never--but you think I am improved? Yes. Well, now, I sing
something else."
He forgot all about her lack of a chaperon; they were fellow-students
again, as in the old days at Naples, when they worked hard (and also
played a little), when they comforted each other, and strove to bear
with equanimity the grumbling and querulousness of that
always-dissatisfied old Pandiani. Signorina Rossi now sang the Shadow
Song from "Dinorah;" then she sang the Jewel Song from "Faust;" she sang
"Caro nome" from "Rigoletto," or anything else that he could suggest;
and her runs and shakes and scale passages were delivered with a freedom
and precision that again and again called forth his applause.
"And you have never sung in public, Nina?" he asked.
"At one concert, yes, in Naples," the young lady made answer. "And at
two or three _matinées_" And then she turned to him, with a bright look.
"You know this, Leo?--I am offered--no--I was offered--an engagement to
sing in opera; oh, yes; it was the _impresario_ from Malta--he comes to
Naples--Pandiani makes us all sing to him--then will I go to Malta, to
the opera there? No!"
"Why not, Nina? Surely that was a good opening," he said.
She turned away from him again, and her fingers wandered lightly over
the keys of the piano.
"I always say to me, 'Some day I am in England; the English give much
money at concerts; perhaps that is better.'"
"So you've come over to England to get a series of concert-room
engagements; is that it, Nina?"
She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly.
"Perhaps. One must wait and see. It is not my ambition. No. The light
opera, that is--popular?--is it right?"
"Yes, yes."
"It is very popular in England," said the young Italian lady, with her
eyes coming back from the music-sheets to seek those of her friend."
Well, Leo, if I take a small part to begin, have I voice sufficient?
What do you think? No; be frank; say to yourself, 'I am Pandiani; here
is Antonia Rossi troubling me once more; it is useless; go away, Antonia
Rossi, and not trouble me!' Well, Maestro Pandiani, what you say?"
"So you want to go on the stage, Nina?" said he; and again the dread of
finding himself responsible for this solitary young stranger sent a
qualm to his heart. It was an embarrassing position altogether; but at
the same time the thought of shaking her off--of getting free from this
responsibility by telling a white lie or two and persuading her to go
back to Naples--that thought never even occurred to him. To shake off
his old comrade Nina? He certainly would have preferred, for many
reasons, that she should have taken to concert-room business; but if she
were relying on him for an introduction to the lyric stage, why, he was
bound to help her in every possible way. "You know you've got an
excellent voice," he continued. "And a very little stage training would
fit you for a small part in comedy-opera, if that is what you're
thinking of, as a beginning. But I don't know that you would like it,
Nina. You see, you would have to become under-study for the lady who has
the part at present; and they'd probably want you to sing in the chorus;
and you'd get a very small salary--at first, you know, until you were
qualified to take one of the more important parts--and then you might
get into a travelling company--"
"A small part?" said she, with much cheerfulness. "Oh, yes; why not? I
must learn."
"But I don't know that you would like it," he said, still ruefully. "You
see, Nina, you might have to dress in the same room with two or three of
the chorus-girls--"
"And then?" she said, with a little dramatic gesture, and an elevation
of her beautifully formed black eyebrows. "Leo, you never saw my
lodgings with the family Debernardi--you have only mount the stairs--"
"My goodness, Nina, I could guess what the inside of the rooms was like,
if they were anything like those interminable and horrid stairs!" he
exclaimed, with a laugh. "And you who were always so fond of pretty
things, and flowers, and always so particular when we went to a
restaurant--to live with the Debernardis!"
"Ah, Leo, you imagine not why?" she said, also laughing, and when she
laughed her milk-white teeth shone merrily. "Old Pietro Debernardi he
lives in England some years; he speaks English, perhaps not very well,
but he speaks; then he teach me as he knows; and when it is possible I
go on the _Risposta_ and sail over to Capri, and all the way, and all
the return, I listen, and listen, and listen to the English people; and
I remember, and I practise alone in my own room, and I say, 'Leo, he
must not ridicule me, when I go to England.'"
"Ridicule you!" said he, indignantly. "I wish I could speak Italian as
freely as you speak English, Nina!"
"Oh, you speak Italian very well," said she. "But why you speak still
the Neapolitan dialetto--dialect, is it right?--that you hear in the
shops and the streets? Ah, I remember you are so proud of it, and when I
try to teach you proper Italian, you laugh--you wish to speak like
Sabetta Debernardi, and Giacomo, and the others. That is the fault to
learn by ear, instead of the books correctly. And you have not forgotten
yet!"
"Well, Nina," he resumed, "I don't seem to have frightened you with the
possibility of your having to dress in the same room with two or three
chorus-girls whom you don't know; and in fact, if I happened to be
acquainted with the theatre, I dare say I could get the manager to make
sure you were to dress along with some nice girl, who would show you
how to make-up, and all that. But you would get a very small salary to
begin with, Nina; perhaps only thirty shillings a week--and an extra
pound a week when you had to take up your under-study duties--however,
that need not trouble you, because we are old comrades, Nina, and while
you are in England my purse is yours--"
She looked at him doubtfully.
"Ah, you don't understand," he said, gently. "It's only this, Nina: I
have plenty of money; if you are a good comrade and a good friend, you
will take from me what you want--always--at any moment--"
The pretty, pale-olive face flushed quickly, and for a brief second she
glanced at him with grateful eyes; but it was perhaps to cover her
embarrassment that she now rose from the piano, and pretended to be
tired of the music and of these professional schemes.
"It is enough of booziness," she said, lightly; "come, Leo, will you go
for a small walk?--have you time?"
"Oh, yes, I have time," said he, "but you must not say _booziness_,
Nina? it is _bizness_."
"_Beezness!_--_beezness!_" she said, smiling. "It is enough of
_beezness_. You go for a walk with me--yes? How beautiful the weather!"
she continued, in a suddenly altered tone, as she looked out at the
sunlit foliage of the Green Park; and then she murmured, almost to
herself, in those soft Italian vowel sounds:
"Ah, Leo mio, che sarei felice d'essere in campagna!"
It was a kind of sigh; perhaps that was the reason she had inadvertently
relapsed into her own tongue. And as they went down the stairs, and he
opened the door for her, the few words he addressed to her were also in
Italian.
"The country!" he said. "We will just step across the street, Nina, and
you will find yourself in what is quite as pretty as the country at this
time of year. You may fancy yourself sitting in the Villa Reale, if you
could only have a flash of blue sea underneath the branches of the
trees."
But when they had crossed over and got into the comparative quiet of the
Park, she resolutely returned to her English again; and now she was
telling him about the people in Naples whom he used to know, and of
their various fortunes and circumstances. Sometimes neither of them
spoke; for all this around them was very still and pleasant--the fresh
foliage of the trees and the long lush grass of the enclosures as yet
undimmed by the summer dust; the cool shadows thrown by the elms and
limes just moving as the wind stirred the wide branches; altogether a
world of soft, clear, sunny green, unbroken except by here and there a
small copper beech with its bronze leaves become translucent in the hot
light. It is true that the browsing sheep were abnormally black; and the
yellow-billed starlings had perhaps less sheen on their feathers than
they would have had in the country; nevertheless, for a park in the
midst of a great city this place was very quiet and beautiful and
sylvan; and indeed, when these two sat down on a couple of chairs under
a fragrant hawthorn, Nina's lustrous dark eyes became wistful and
absent, and she said,
"Yes, Leo, it is as you say in the house--it all appears a dream."
"What appears like a dream to you?" her companion asked.
"To be in London, sitting with you, Leo, and hearing you speak," she
answered, in a low voice. "Often I think of it--often I think of
London--wondering what it is like--and I ask myself, 'Will Leo be the
same after his great renown? Are we friends as before?' and now I am
here, and London is not dark and terrible with smoke, but we sit in
gardens--oh, very beautiful!--and Leo is talking just as in the old
way--perhaps it is a dream?" she continued, looking up with a smile.
"Perhaps I wake soon?"
"Oh, no, it isn't a dream, Nina," said he, "only it might pass for one,
for you haven't told me how you managed to get here. It is all a mystery
to me. Where are you staying, for example?"
"My lodging?" she said. "I have an apartment in the Restaurant
Gianuzzi."
"Where is that?"
"Rupert Street," she answered, with a valiant effort at the proper
pronunciation.
"My goodness! what are you doing, Nina?" he said, almost angrily.
"Living by yourself in a foreign restaurant, in the neighborhood of
Leicester Square! You'll have to come out of that at once!"
"You must not scold me, Leo," she said, in rather a hurt way. "How am I
to know?"
"I am not scolding you," he said (indeed, he knew better than to do
that; if once the notion had got into her little head that he was really
upbraiding her, she would have been up and off in a moment,
proud-lipped, indignant-eyed, with a fierce wrong rankling in her heart;
and weeks it might take him to pet her into gentleness again, even if
she did not forthwith set out for the South, resolved to return to this
harsh, cold England no more). "I am not scolding you, Nina," he said,
quite gently. "Of course you didn't know. And of course you were
attracted by the Italian name--you thought you would feel at home--"
"They are very nice people, yes, yes!" she said--and still she was
inclined to hold her head erect, and her mouth was a little proud and
offended.
"Very likely indeed," he said, with great consideration, "but, you see,
Nina, a single young lady can't stay at a restaurant by herself, without
knowing some one, some one to go about with her--"
"Why," she said, vehemently, almost scornfully, "you think I not know
that! An Italian girl--and not know that! Last night, hour after hour, I
sit and think, 'Oh, there is Leo singing now--if I may go to the
theatre!--to sit and hear him--and think of the old days--and perhaps to
write home to the _maestro_, and tell him of the grand fame of his
scholar.' But no. I cannot go out. There is no time yet to see about
chaperon. When it comes eleven hour, I say, 'The theatre is ceased;' and
I go to bed. Then this morning I know no person; I say, 'Very well, I go
and see Leo; he will understand;' it is how I meet him in the Chiaja, and
he says, 'Good-morning, Nina; shall we go for a little walk out to
Pozzuoli'--it is just the same."
"Yes, I understand well enough, Nina," said he, good-naturedly, "and I
wasn't scolding you when I said you must get some better place to stay
at while you are in London. Well, now, I am going to tell you something.
I don't know much about what actors and actresses are in Italy, but here
in England they are exceedingly generous to any of their number who have
fallen into misfortune; and a case of the kind happened a little while
ago. An actor, who used to be well known, died quite suddenly and left
his widow entirely unprovided for; whereupon there was a subscription
got up for her, and a morning performance, too, in which nearly all the
leading actors and actresses managed to do something or other; and the
result is that they have been able to take the lease of a house in
Sloane Street, and furnish the rooms for her, and she is to earn her
living by keeping lodgers. Now, if you really want to remain in London,
Nina, don't you think that might be a comfortable home for you? She is a
very nice, ladylike little woman; and she's a great friend of mine, too;
she would do everything she could for you. There's a chaperon for you
ready-made!--for I'm afraid she has only one lodger to look after as
yet, though she has all the necessary servants, and the establishment is
quite complete. What do you say to that, Nina?"
Her face had brightened up wonderfully at this proposal.
"Yes, yes, yes, Leo!" she said, instantly. "Tell me how I go, and I go
at once, to ask her if she can give me apartments."
He glanced at his watch.
"The fact is," said he, slowly, "I was to have lunched with a very small
party to-day--at a duchess's house--at a duchess's house, think of that,
Nina!"
She jumped to her feet at once, and frankly held out her hand.
"Forgive me, Leo!--I retard you--I did not know."
"Don't be in such a hurry, Nina," he said, as he also rose. "I'm going
to break the appointment, that's all about it; Signorina Antonia Rossi
doesn't arrive in England every day. I'll tell you what we have got to
do: we will get into a hansom and drive to a telegraph-office, and I'll
get rid of that engagement; then we'll go on to the Restaurant Gianuzzi,
and you and I will have a little luncheon by ourselves, just to prepare
us for the fatigues of the day; then you will get your things ready, and
I will take you down to Mrs. Grey's in Sloane Street, and introduce you
to that most estimable little lady; and then, if Mrs. Grey happens to be
disengaged for the evening, she might be induced to come with you to the
New Theatre, and she could take you safe home after the performance. How
will that do, Nina?"
"You always were kind to me, Leo," she said--though the gratitude
plainly shining in the gentle, dark eyes rendered the words quite
unnecessary.
And indeed she was delighted, with a sort of childish delight, to sit in
this swift hansom, bowling along the smooth thoroughfare; and she
chatted and chattered in her gay, rapid, disconnected fashion; and she
had nothing but contempt for the shabby Neapolitan fiacre and the
jolting streets that Leo of course remembered; and when at last she
found herself and her companion of old days seated at a small, clean,
bright window-table in the Restaurant Gianuzzi--they being the only
occupants of the long saloon--she fairly clapped her little hands
together in her gladness. And then how pretty she looked! She had
removed her bonnet; and the light from the window, falling on the
magnificent masses of her jet-black hair gave it almost a blue sheen in
places; while here and there--about the wax-like ear, for example, a
tiny ringlet had got astray, and its soft darkness against the olive
complexion seemed to heighten the clear, pure pallor of the oval cheek.
And now all doubts as to how Leo might receive her had fled from her
mind; they were on the old, familiar terms again; and she followed with
an eager and joyous interest all that he had to say to her. Then how
easily could she accentuate her sympathetic listening with this
expressive face! The mobile, somewhat large, beautifully formed mouth,
the piquant little nose with its sensitive nostrils, the eloquent dark
eyes could just say anything she pleased; though, to be sure, however
varying her mood might be, in accordance with what she heard and what
was demanded of her, her normal expression was one of an almost childish
and happy content. She poured her glass of Chianti into a tumbler, and
filled that up with water, and sipped it as a canary sips. She made
little pellets of bread with her dainty white fingers--but that was in
forgetfulness--that was in her eagerness of listening. And at last she
said,
"What is it, Leo?--you wish to frighten me with your trials?--no! for
now you laugh at all these--these mortifications. Then a man is
proud--he is sensitive--he is not patient as a woman--oh, you think you
frighten me?--no, no!"
The fact is, he began to see more and more clearly that she was resolved
upon trying her fortune on the lyric stage; and he thought it his duty
to let her know very distinctly what she would have to encounter. He did
not exactly try to dissuade her; but he gave her a general idea of what
she might expect, and that in not too roseate colors. His chief
difficulty, however, was this: he was possessed by a vague feeling that
there might be some awkwardness in having Antonia Rossi engaged at the
same theatre with himself; and yet, looking round all the light operas
then being performed, he had honestly to confess that the only part Nina
could aspire to take, with her present imperfect pronunciation of
English, was that of the young French officer played at the New Theatre
by Mlle. Girond. Nor did it lessen his embarrassment to find, as soon as
he mentioned this possibility, that to join the New Theatre was
precisely what Signorina Rossi desired.
"I don't think there would be much difficulty about it, Nina," he was
forced to admit--carefully concealing his reluctance the while.
"Lehmann, that is our manager, is talking about getting up a second
travelling company, for the opera is so popular everywhere; and there is
to be a series of rehearsals of under-studies beginning next Monday, and
you could see all the coaching going on. Then you could sit in front at
night, and watch Mlle. Girond's 'business:' how would you like that,
Nina?--whether what she does is clever or stupid, you would have to copy
it? the public would expect that--"
"Why not?" Nina said, with a pleasant smile. "Why not? I learn. She
knows more; why I not learn?"
"It's a shame to throw away a fine voice like yours on a small part in
comic opera," he said--still with vague dreams before him of a
concert-room career for her.
"But I must begin," said she, with much practical common-sense, "and
while I am in the small part, I learn to act, I learn the stage-affair,
I learn better English, to the end of having a place more important.
Why, Leo, you are too careful of me! At Naples I work hard, I am a slave
to old Pandiani--I suffer everything--can I not work hard here in
London? You think I am an infant? Certainly I am not--no, no--I am
old--old--"
"But light-hearted still, Nina," he said, for she was clearly bent on
laughing away his fears. Then he looked at her, with a little
hesitation. "There's another thing, Nina? about the costume."
"Yes?" she asked, innocently.
"I don't know--whether you would quite like--but I'll show you Mlle.
Girond's dress anyway--then you can judge for yourself," said he. He
called the waiter. He scribbled on a piece of paper, "Photograph of
Mlle. Girond as Capitaine Crépin in 'The Squire's Daughter.'" "Send
round to some stationer's shop, will you, and get me that?"
When the messenger returned with the photograph, Lionel, rather timidly,
put it before her; but, indeed, there was nothing in the costume of
Mlle. Girond to startle any one--the uniform of the boy-officer was so
obviously a compromise. Nina glanced at it thoughtfully.
"Well, Leo," she said, looking up, "you see no harm?"
"Harm?" said he, boldly taking up his cue, "of course not! It isn't like
any uniform that ever was known; I suppose it's Mlle. Girond's own
invention; but, at all events, there's nothing to prevent any modest
girl wearing it. Why, I know more than one fashionable lady who would
think nothing of appearing as Rosalind--and Rosalind's is a real boy's
dress, or ought to be--and then they haven't the excuse that an actor or
actress has, that it is a necessity of one's profession. However,
there's nothing to be said about that costume, anyway; I really had
forgotten that Mlle. Girond had got her pretty little blue coat made
with so long a skirt. Besides, Nina, with a voice like yours, you will
soon be beyond having to take parts like that."
Indeed, she was so evidently anxious to obtain an engagement in the same
theatre that he himself was engaged in that his vague reluctance
ultimately vanished; and he began considering when he could bring her
before Mr. Lehmann, the manager, and Mr. Carey, the musical conductor,
so that they should hear her sing. As to their verdict, as to what the
manager would do, he had no doubt whatever. She had a valuable voice,
and her ignorance of stage requirements would speedily disappear. At the
very time that Lehmann was trying to get new under-studies with a view
to the formation of a second travelling company, why, here was a perfect
treasure discovered for him. And Lionel made certain that, as soon as
Antonia Rossi had had time to study Mlle. Girond's "business," and
perhaps one or two chances of actually playing the part, she would be
drafted into one or other of the travelling companies, and sent away
through the provinces; so that any awkwardness arising from her being in
the same theatre with himself, and he her only friend in England, to
whom she would naturally appeal in any emergency, would thus be
obviated.
"Nina," said he, as they were driving in a hansom to Sloane Street (all
her belongings being on the top of the cab), "Lehmann, our manager, is
to be at the theatre this afternoon, about some scenery, I fancy, and
there's a chance of our catching him if we went down some little time
before the performance. Would you come along and sing one or two things?
you might have the arrangement made at once."
"Will you go with me, Leo?"
"Oh, yes," he said, "I mean Mrs. Grey will take you, you know; for I
will try to get places for her and you in front afterwards; but I will
go with you as well. You won't be afraid?"
She laughed.
"Afraid?--no, no--what I can do I can do--there is no Pandiani to scold
me if they not satisfied--that is my own _beezness_--is it right?--oh, I
say to you, Leo, if you hear Pandiani when I refuse to go to Malta--you
think you know the Neapolitan deealet--dialect?--no, it is not good for
you to know all the wicked words of Naples--and he is old and
evil-tempered--it is no matter. But in this theatre there is no Pandiani
and his curses--"
"No, no, not curses, Nina," he said. "I see old Debernardi has taught
you some strange English. Of course the _maestro_ did not use curses to
his favorite pupil--oh, yes, you were, Nina, a great favorite, though he
was always grumbling and growling. However, remember this, Nina, you
must sing your best this evening, and impress them; and I shouldn't
wonder if Lehmann gave you exceptional terms."
"More _beezness_?" she said, with a smile that showed a gleam of her
pretty teeth; the sound of the word had tickled her ear, somehow; more
than once, as the cab rolled away down Kensingtonwards, he could hear
her repeat to herself--"_beezness!_ _beezness!_"
This young Italian lady seemed to produce a most favorable impression on
the little, pale-faced widow, who appeared to be very grateful to Lionel
Moore for having thought of her. The ground-floor sitting-room and
bedroom, she explained, were occupied by her sole lodger; the young lady
could have the choice of any of the apartments above. The young lady, as
it turned out, was startled beyond measure at the price she was asked to
pay (which, in truth, was quite moderate, for the rooms were good
rooms, in a good situation, and neatly furnished), and it was only on
Lionel's insisting on it that she consented to take the apartments on
the second floor.
"I beg you not miscomprehend," Nina said, somewhat earnestly, to the
little landlady (for was she not a friend of Leo's?). "The price is,
perhaps, not too large--it is to me that it is large--"
"Oh, that's all right, Nina," Lionel broke in; "that's all settled. You
see, Mrs. Grey, Miss Rossi has come over here to get an engagement in
comedy opera, or perhaps to sing at concerts; and if a manager calls to
see her on business, why, of course, she must be in decent rooms. You
can't go and live in a slum. Mrs. Grey knows what managers are, Nina;
you must take up a good position and hold your own; and--and, in fact,
Nina, when you are in London you can't afford to go and climb those
frightful Neapolitan stairs and hide yourself in a garret. So it's
settled; and I'm going out directly to hire a piano for you."
"For how much expense, Leo?" she said, anxiously.
"Oh, we'll see about that by and by," said he.
He then explained to Mrs. Grey that Miss Nina was that very evening
going along to the New Theatre to be heard by the manager and the
conductor; that thereafter she wished to see the performance of "The
Squire's Daughter," in which she hoped ere long to take a part herself;
and that, if Mrs. Grey could find it convenient to accompany the young
lady, it would be a very great obligation to him, Mr. Moore. Mrs. Grey
replied to this that her solitary lodger had gone down to Richmond for
two or three days; she herself had no engagement of any kind for that
evening; and when, she asked, did any one ever hear of an old actress
refusing an invitation to go to the theatre?
"So that's all settled, too," said this young man, who seemed to be
carrying everything his own way.
Then he went out and hired a piano--necessarily a small upright--which
was to be taken down to Sloane Street that same evening; next he sought
out a telegraph-office, and sent a message to Mr. Lehmann and to Mr.
Carey; finally he called at a florist's, and bought a whole heap of
flowers for the better decoration of Signorina Rossi's new apartments.
In this last affair he was really outrageously extravagant, even for one
who was habitually careless about his expenditure; but he said to
himself,
"Well, I throw away lots of money in compliments to people who are quite
indifferent to me; and why shouldn't I allow myself a little latitude
when it is my old comrade Nina who has come over to England?"
When at length he got back to the house he found it would soon be time
for them to be thinking of getting down to the theatre; so he said,
"Now, look here, Mrs. Grey, when Miss Nina has done with her singing and
her talk with the manager, you must take her to some restaurant and get
some dinner for both of you, for you can't go on without anything until
eleven. You will just have time before the performance begins. I'm sorry
I can't take you; but, you see, as soon as I hear what the manager says,
I must be off to dress for my part. Then, at the end of the performance,
I can't ask you to wait for me; you will have to bring her home, either
in a cab or by the Underground, for Nina is very economical. I hope you
won't think I am treating you ill in leaving you to yourselves--"
"Why, Leo, you have given up the whole day to me!" Nina exclaimed.
"You gave up many an afternoon to me, Nina," he rejoined, "when I
sprained my ankle down at that confounded Castello Dell' Ovo."
The ordeal that the _débutante_ had now to undergo was, of course, made
remarkably easy for her through the intervention of this good friend of
hers. When they got down to the theatre they went at once on to the
stage, where Nina found herself in the midst of an old-fashioned English
village, with a gayly bedecked Maypole just behind her, while in front
of her was the great, gaunt, empty, musty-smelling building, filled with
a dim twilight, though, also, there were here and there one or two
orange-points of gas. Lionel sent a messenger to the manager's office,
and also told him to ask if Mr. Carey had come; then he opened Nina's
roll of music for her, and began to discuss with her which piece she
should choose. Fortunately Mr. Lehmann had not yet left--here he was--a
stout, clean-shaven, sharp-eyed sort of person, in a frock-coat and a
remarkably shiny hat; he glanced at the young lady in what she
considered a very rude and unwarrantable manner, but the fact was he was
merely, from a business point of view, trying to guess what her figure
was like. Lionel explained all the circumstances of the case to him,
and gave it as his own confident opinion that, as soon as they had heard
Mlle. Rossi sing, there would be little doubt of her being engaged. At
the same moment Mr. Carey appeared--a tall, blond, extremely handsome
person of the fashion-plate sort; and, at a word from the manager, two
or three scene-shifters went and wheeled on to the stage a small upright
piano.
Nina did not seem at all disconcerted by their business-like air and
want of little formal politenesses. Quite calmly she took out "Caro nome
" from her music and handed it to the conductor, who was at the piano.
He glanced at the sheet, appeared a little surprised, but struck the
opening chords for her. Then Nina sang; and though for a second or two
the sound of her own voice in this huge, empty building seemed
strange--seemed wrong almost and unnatural--she had speedily recovered
confidence, and was determined she would bring no discredit upon her
friend Leo. Very well indeed she sang, and Lionel was delighted; while,
of course, Mr. Carey was professionally interested in hearing for the
first time a voice so fresh and pure and so perfectly trained; but when
she had finished the manager merely said,
"Thank you, that will do; I needn't trouble you further." Then, after a
word or two, partly aside, with Mr. Carey, he turned to Lionel and
abruptly asked what salary she wanted--just as if Lionel had brought him
some automaton and made it work.
"I think you ought to give her a very good salary," the young man said,
in an undertone; "she has studied under Pandiani at Naples. And if I
were you I wouldn't ask her to sing in the chorus at all; I would rather
keep a voice like that fresh and unworked until she is fit to take a
part."
"Singing in the chorus won't hurt her," said he, briefly, "for a while,
at least, and she'll become familiar with the stage."
But here Lionel drew the manager still further aside; and then ensued a
conversation which neither Nina nor Mr. Carey could in the least
overhear. At the end of it Mr. Lehmann nodded acquiescence, and said,
"Very well, then;" and straightway he departed, for he was a busy man,
and had little time to waste on the smaller courtesies of
life--especially in the case of _débutantes_.
Lionel returned to the young lady whose fate had just been decided.
"That's all right, Nina," he said. "You are engaged as under-study to
Mlle. Girond, and you'll have three pounds a week as soon as you have
studied her business and are ready to take the part when you're wanted.
I will find you a full score, and you may get up some of the other
music, when you've nothing better to do. The rehearsals of the
under-studies begin on Monday--but I'll see you before then and let you
know all about it. You won't mind my running away?--I'm on in the first
scene. There is Mrs. Grey waiting for you--you must go and get something
to eat--and when you come back, call at the stage-door, and you'll find
an envelope waiting for you, with two places in it--the dress circle, if
it can be managed, for I want you to be some distance away from the
orchestra. Good-bye, Nina!"
She held his hand for a moment.
"Leo, I thank you," she said, regarding him with her dark eyes; and then
he smiled and waved another farewell to her as he disappeared; and she
was left to make her way with her patient chaperon out of this great,
hollow, portentous building, that was now resounding with mysterious
clankings and calls.
And it was from a couple of seats in the back of the dress-circle that
Mrs. Grey and her young charge heard the comedy-opera of "The Squire's
Daughter;" and Lionel knew they were there; and no doubt he sang his
best--for, if Nina had been showing off what she could do in the
morning, why should he not show off now, amid all these added glories of
picturesque costumes and surroundings? Nina was in an extraordinary
state of excitement, which she was unable altogether to conceal. Mrs.
Grey could hear the little, muttered exclamations in Italian; she could
see how intently that expressive face followed the progress of the
piece, reflecting its every movement, as it were; she caught a glimpse
of tears on the long, dark lashes when Lionel was singing, with
impassioned fervor, his love-lorn serenade; and then the next moment she
was astonished by the vehemence of the girl's delight when the vast
house thundered forth its applause--indeed, Nina herself was clapping
her hands furiously, to join in the universal roar of a recall--she was
laughing with joy--she appeared to have gone mad. Then, at the end of
the second act, she said, quickly,
"Mrs. Grey, can I send to him a note?--is there letter-paper?"
"Well, my dear, if we go into the refreshment-room and have a cup of
tea, perhaps one of the young ladies could give us a sheet of
writing-paper."
And thus it was that Lionel, when he was leaving the theatre that night,
found a neatly folded little note awaiting him. He was in a considerable
hurry; for he had to go home and dress and get off to a crush in
Grosvenor Square, where he hoped to find Lady Adela Cunyngham, her
sisters, and Miss Georgie Lestrange (there was some talk of an immediate
presentation of the little pastoral comedy), so that he had only time to
glance over Nina's nervously pencilled scrawl. Thus it ran:
"Leo, it is magnificent, it is splendid, you are a true artist;
to-morrow I write to Pandiani, he will be overjoyed as I am. But
Miss Burgoyne--_no, no, no_--she is not artist at all--she is
negligent of her part, of the others in the scene--she puts up her
fan and talks to you from behind it--why you allow that?--it is
insult to the public! She _believes_ not her part and makes all the
rest false. What a shame to you, Leo; but your splendid voice, your
fine timbre, carries everything! Bravo, my Leo! It is a great
trionf, brilliant, beautiful, and Nina is proud of her friend.
Good-night from
"NINA."
As Lionel was spinning along Piccadilly in his swift hansom, it occurred
to him that if Nina were going to join the "Squire's Daughter" company,
it might be just as well for her not to have any preconceived antipathy
against Miss Burgoyne. For Miss Burgoyne was an important person at the
New Theatre.