_At the first gate, the warder stripped her; he took the high tiara
from her head_....
I
Until the day of her death Easter never forgot that first night in New
York. It was the initial twist of her ship's wheel, and the commonplace
happenings which followed her entrance into the Maison Felicé were to
give force and direction to her entire life.
The journey from Washington had been stupid. An early November
afternoon sky heavy with threatening snow, her nerves tense with
expectation, made the girl feel that the big city once reached her
troubles would be over; but at Jersey City they began. After a few
blunders she reached the 23rd Street ferry and noted the snow falling
in the foggy river. Her baggage had been checked to the hotel and she
had nothing to do but climb into a hansom and direct the driver to
west 25th Street. She made a tentative bargain with the man. Easter
was prudent because she had little money. The hotel--it was in reality
two old-fashioned houses with high steps and brown stone façades, the
conventional residence of the early eighties--did not impress her;
besides, it was snowing so thickly that she could hardly distinguish
anything, and when she was admitted into the hall the light dazzled
her eyes. She felt lonely, timid, uncomfortable. A tall, portly lady
saluted her.
"You are Mlle. Esther Brandès? I am Madame Felice." Her room had been
engaged for a month ahead through the aid of a common friend. Her heart
beat faster when the Frenchwoman politely said:
"I am sorry, Mlle. Brandès. Your room is occupied for a few days.
We did not expect you till next week." The look of dismay on the
newcomer's face must have appealed, for Madame added:
"But I shall put you in another room, a splendid apartment on the
ground floor. You will like it. It will cost you only five dollars a
day, tout compris. Do you speak French?" Easter nodded. She was so
appalled at the price that she was speechless.
"But--but--" she stammered.
"Yes, I know," continued Madame in her native tongue and more
pleasantly, "yes, I know, but it is only for one week and if Mlle.
Brandès could see our waiting list!" That settled the matter. She
bowed her head and soon a maid had her handbag open in a small
bedroom adjoining a large well-furnished room, containing a grand
pianoforte. There were three windows at the side. "The piano, it is
the property of Monsieur Invern. He is away till next week," said the
too confidential gossip. Easter handed her a tip and she bowed herself
out. The chandelier gave plenty of light. There were bookcases. Much
music. On the walls hung photographs of composers. Evidently the
apartment of a musical person. She looked out of a window. An extension
with skylights, and a noise of clattering dishes coupled with certain
odours, not disagreeable to her nostrils, told her that the cuisine
of the establishment was beneath. What she saw was the roof of the
dining-room. Maison Felicé was one of those semi-hotels with table
d'hôtes so popular in New York two or three decades ago. The cookery
was French and notoriously good. Its fame spread to Virginia, where
a friend of her mother's had secured, after the funeral of the poor
woman, a letter of introduction to Madame Felicé. It was not easy to
get into the hotel as a permanent guest.
Easter should have accounted herself lucky. She didn't. She was too
miserably homesick for a home that no longer existed to bother about
the exclusiveness of an hotel. Her glance traversed the lighted roof of
the dining-room, and through the fast dropping snow it was arrested by
a gloomy wall. Again her heart sank.
"My God!" she cried. "What a dismal prospect!" Without parents and in
her wallet a hundred dollars she was alone in New York. The situation
was almost melodramatic. That snowstorm viewed in the aperture between
two buildings, and from the windows of a hired apartment, made an
ineradicable impression. For the first time in her life she felt
absolutely friendless.
Madame had told her the hour for dinner--7 till 8 p.m.; the luncheon
was till 2 o'clock; and breakfast eaten in the room. A foreign
atmosphere permeated the house. She turned away from the depressing
night, lighted all the gas-burners, pulled down the shades and
proceeded to make a modest toilette. Her trunk hadn't arrived, so
she must eat her first meal in street clothes. No gong had sounded.
Summoning courage she pressed a button. No answer, but from the sounds
of talking and general bustle she knew that dinner was served. Another
embarrassment. How to enter a dining-room full of strangers? Easter was
a well-bred young woman, but not accustomed to the world; above all,
to a Bohemian world. At the Maison Felicé, she had been informed, that
the guests were celebrated. Singers, painters, actors, musicians there
congregated. A perfect Bohemia where she would rub elbows, even speak
to the people she most admired--artistic folk. She crossed a parlour,
and found herself on a landing from which she could see a long table in
the middle of the room, with little tables ranged along the walls. A
numerous company was assembled, gabbling, eating, drinking, seemingly
happy. An old chap with a bald head and grizzled moustaches saluted
her rather markedly. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked prosperous and
authoritative.
"I wish you the good-evening and a welcome, Mademoiselle," he said.
"You must be tired and hungry. I am Monsieur Felicé. Come with me. I
give you a table to yourself with only one other guest. But--a nice
young man, I assure you, quite an old friend of the house." His speech
was voluble, accompanied by many gestures. He was Provençal, his wife
Swiss. He stared at the girl. She was pretty, though not to his taste.
He preferred blondes. She sat herself at a table near the short flight
of steps that led from the foyer to the salle-à-manger. She was alone.
Soon her soup was served. It was like wine to her faded spirits.
Easter felt more cheerful. Decidedly a full stomach is an obstacle to
melancholy. She sipped a glass of red wine. Her humour began to mellow.
The soup was excellent, the fish promising--and then there stood before
her, slightly bowing, a small, slender young man who introduced himself:
"Papa Felicé tells me I am to have the honour of sitting at dinner with
you. My name is Stone, Alfred Stone, at your service." His manner was a
trifle formal. He looked about forty and was barely thirty. A young-old
man, worn, though not precisely dissipated looking. Easter didn't know
whether she liked or disliked him. She resented his presence because he
disturbed her dreams. But when he asked her name she became interested.
"Papa Felicé says you are a singer, Miss Brandès. Brandès! That must be
a Jewish name?"
"No, I am not Jewish. And my first name Esther! My father was born in
Virginia. So was I. He may have had Jewish blood in his veins. I don't
know. He said his father was a Dane--"
"Aha!" cried Stone. "Georg Brandes the Danish writer is a Jew, and
there is Marthe Brandès of Paris, you know, the beautiful actress--"
"I've never been to Paris," interrupted Easter. "Is she a great actress
this Marthe Brandès?"
"Not so great as alluring. Yes, she is great if compared with any
English or American actress." His dark eyes glowed. He almost became
animated. Easter listened with curiosity. A man who spoke with such
surety was somebody. Who was this Mr. Stone? She tried him with a touch
of flattery.
"You must have seen a lot of actresses to pass such a judgment." He
became quite languid.
"Miss Brandès, I am a critic of the theatre and music." She eagerly
responded:
"A critic of music. How nice." His depression increased.
"What's nice about it?" he asked in a sullen tone.
"Oh, to hear all the great singers and players."
"You mean, to be forced to hear a lot of mediocrities. Even the great
ones, Lilli Lehmann, Brandt, the De Reszkes, get on my nerves. You can
have too much of a good thing my dear young lady." She became still
more absorbed.
"Now, tell me. What are you after?" he demanded in kindly fashion.
"I mean to be a great dramatic soprano," she confidently asserted.
"Aha!" he vouchsafed. "Rather a modest programme."
"I mean to accomplish it," she retorted. He was visibly impressed.
"Of course, a great voice you must have to begin with; and then there
are such items as vocal technique and dramatic temperament, and
beauty--you are well supplied in that--" he gallantly bowed--"Thank
you," said the girl not in the least abashed; she knew she was
good-looking--"and how many other qualifications?" he interposed.
"I speak French. My mother was a Frenchwoman. I speak Italian,
without an accent, my teacher said--" "Without an Italian accent, he
meant?"--"No, with a Tuscan accent," the girl proudly replied; "and
I'm a trained musician, a solo pianist, and accompanist and read and
transpose at sight. I--" He wearily waved her words away.
"Yes, yes. I know all about you girls who play, sing, transpose and
compose. There's Yankee versatility, if you please. Universal genius.
And you couldn't compose a rôle any more than you could cook your
husband's dinner--if you were unlucky enough to have one." Easter
smiled and it was like sunrise. Something inexpressibly youthful came
into the world.
"At any rate I have a good dinner if I haven't the husband," she
challenged. He assented. "The cuisine here is famous. Not at Martin's,
or Delmonico's, or down on 14th Street at Moretti's is there better
flavoured food." They had not reached coffee. The sweets were
insignificant. Easter positively became buoyant. She must have had
Celtic in her, she went from the cellar to the clouds and the clouds to
the cellar with such facility. Her Avernus once achieved, the rebound
was sure to follow. Momentarily she forgot her poverty, loneliness,
strangeness, and Mr. Stone was like a friend in need. She played
confidential.
"All my life I've been at music. I was born near Warrenton on a farm.
Then we moved to Richmond. Papa was unfortunate. I appeared as a child
prodigy, later I taught little girls some older than myself. I began
singing, in the cradle, mother said. Poor dear mother. She was so
wrapped up in my musical career." (He thought: "They all say the same
things ... already, career!") "She died last Spring. Father has been
away for years"--Easter hesitated--"and here I am with lots of conceit
and no money--to speak of--and yet I mean to succeed."
He admired her, this tall black-haired girl with the broad shoulders
and steady eyes. Physical signs augured well. Her ears were small,
shapely, her throat a tower of strength. Her bust was undeveloped,
but the chest measurement unusual. He couldn't see her hips, but she
sat boldly upright and there was decision in every movement, every
attitude. Her eyes did not please his fastidious demands. They were
not full-orbed, rather small, deep-set, and he couldn't make up his
mind whether in colour they were dark-blue or dark-green; at times they
seemed both; but they went well with the blue-black hair coiled about
a wide low forehead. The nose was too large for canonic beauty; but
it was boldly jutting, not altogether aquiline, a good rudder for a
striking countenance, and one that might steer her little ship through
stormy weather. The ensemble promised. But Stone had witnessed so
many auspicious beginnings that the brilliant girl, whose speech was
streaked with an agreeable southern accent, did not altogether convince
him. Another! he commented, but inaudibly. He gravely inquired if she
had any letters to musical people.
"Yes, to Madame Fursch-Madi, for one. Also a letter from our U. S.
senator to the Director of the Metropolitan Opera House." She beamed.
Stone looked at her. "Madame Fursch-Madi is a great dramatic soprano,
but she hasn't much time for pupils, she is so busy with concert work.
But you may have a chance if your voice is as good as you believe
it to be. La Fursch has a class two afternoons in the week at the
Conservatoire Cosmopolitaine, and as I know Madame Mayerbeer the
director, I could give you a letter to her; better still, I could
take you to her and introduce you, that is if you care to go." He is
interested, without doubt, thought Easter. She was in a gleeful mood,
but held herself down. The effervescent kitten tricks might not please
this cynical critic. She gladly accepted his offer. They slowly moved
from the half-deserted room. Two hours had quickly passed. She was
surprised. Stone spoke:
"It's too soon after eating, yet I wish I could hear your voice. Then
I might judge. Perhaps Fursch-Madi won't bother with an amateur. Her
forte is not tone-production, but style. She is an operatic stylist.
To hear her deliver Pleurez, mes yeux from the Cid, or Printemps from
Samson et Dalila is something to remember. The true Gallic tradition,
broad and dramatic, with justesse in expression. Ah! Only Lilli is
her superior." Out of breath, he paused. He was seldom so expansive,
he loathed enthusiasm. His motto in life was Horatian. To this he
superadded Richelieu's injunction "point de zèle." And now he was
spilling over like a green provincial. Evil communications, he sighed.
Easter clapped her hands. As she felt herself to be the pivot of the
universe, visible and invisible, she spoke only of her own sensations:
"Teachers say that my voice is placed to perfection. I don't think
there will be much trouble about Madame Fursch. However, Mr. Stone,
if it is allowed in this hotel, I occupy a parlour and there is a
pianoforte." It was soon settled. Madame Felicé was gracious. So was
Monsieur. They were both poker-players and were only too glad to get to
the table in their private apartment.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Stone, "you have Invern's place, haven't you?" They
were in the girl's apartment.
"Who is Invern?" she mildly inquired.
"Ulick Invern, a writer, incidentally a critic. He has lived here ever
since he came from Paris. No, he isn't a Frenchman. Paris born, of New
York stock, but a confirmed Parisian. So am I, poor devil, that I am.
But he is rich, at least well-to-do, and I must make my salt writing
for the newspapers. Go ahead. Sing some scales mezzo-voce, at first, it
won't be such an effort at that." Easter sang. Two octaves she glided
through.
"Phew!" cried her listener. "Big, fruity, lots of colour, velvety. But
who placed your voice did you say?"