Alfred Stone reflected: She is unusual. Never mind her beauty or her
voice; it's her personality that will win out. What curious eyes.
Hard as steel when she doesn't like the way things are going. Big
heart? Yes--for herself. A cold hard-boiled egg is that same heart.
Temperament! Well, I don't know. She may be as hot as a red-hot stove,
but she is cerebral all the same. Never will waste herself in the swamp
of sensual sentimentality. She will learn to use a man just as a man
uses a woman. Un, deux, trois--c'est fini! That's the only way. Like
trying on a new pair of gloves. Do they fit? No. Chuck 'em away. I
think Frida Ash is the right card for her, not Fursch. Easter is not
ready yet for the footlights.
He walked into the vestibule of the Maison Felicé and to his surprise
found her waiting for him.
"What! Punctuality in a future prima-donna," he jested. Easter
disliked him this afternoon. She was in an umbrageous humour. She had
slept soundly, the day was clear, the air crisp, the snow was not
ankle-deep. Why had she turned cold? She didn't know. Stone suddenly
bored her. Yet she had passed the morning thinking of him. Why his
sudden interest? Would he try to profit by her? Such things she had
read about in musical journals. Managers--who didn't advertise--were
denounced by unselfish editors. Perhaps he would make a commission
by taking her to the Cosmopolitaine. Nasty mean suspicions closed in
upon her. She couldn't shake them off. She sang some scales; she read
without interest a morning newspaper that she had found in the rusty
drawing-room. The French breakfast of chocolate and rolls didn't appeal
to her. She possessed a young, healthy appetite; and she missed the
cozy chatter of the American breakfast-table. Several times she peeped
through the glass door of her apartment, but saw no one. Various noises
told her that the household was cleaning. In despair she took a warm
bath and admired the rickety old tub, sheet-iron, not porcelain. She
admired her body's lithe length as she faced an oval mirror. I am
nice, she thought. Smooth, white, not hairy like so many girls I know.
Her breasts were sketchy, but her bosom was so massive that a rich
harvest was certain. Her pelvic curve was classic, her legs long and
not knock-kneed. The Lord be praised for that much! she said aloud.
It was her hair that most pleased her. Black with a suggestion of blue
it was like a helmet on her small head. Its tone was faintly echoed in
the arm-pits and on the tâche d'encre, as they say in the painter's
atelier. A robust girl and a desirable one, though the languorous,
voluptuous air was absent. Easter might be profoundly immoral, but
never a slimy odalisque. Her temperament was too tonic. Passion--yes,
to the edge of tatters. Foaming passion; but no man would ever call
her slave. This she resolved, as she squeezed her tiny breasts. Then
she bowed low to her image, kicked her right leg on high, turned her
comely back, peeped over her shoulder, mockingly stuck out her tongue
as she regarded with awe--almost--the width of her delicately modelled
buttocks. "Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "I hope I'm not going to get
a married woman's bottom like Amy Brown's." Then she slowly dressed,
after much pagan joy over her physical beauty.
She ate everything they brought her at the luncheon table. "Starved,
that's what I am. Nothing since last night." She was glad to be alone
at table. She wished to think over the situation. Her money wouldn't
last long. What then! Not for a moment did she consider the possibility
of a complaisant rich man. She knew her value in that direction;
always, or nearly always, having a man messing about you! No, she
preferred her liberty, the most precious liberty of sleeping solo, of
arising in the morning alone. She swallowed her demi-tasse and found
Stone at the door.
"Let's walk to Union Square," he said and she assented. They went
across to Broadway. He quietly studied his companion, who, in the
liveliest spirits, hummed, chattered, flirted with every good-looking
man she passed, and elbowed her companion into a state of irritation.
He was a stickler for the nuances of behaviour, especially in women.
He, the Bohemian, frequenter of race-courses, gambling hells, cafés,
cocottes and even worse, couldn't tolerate a slang phrase from the
mouth of a woman. He saw that Easter was crude, though not coarse. Her
education had been the normal unintelligent education of small towns.
She hadn't been taught to talk, walk or dress properly. Nevertheless,
she wasn't slouchy, and her bearing distinctive. She was Esther
Brandès, and six months hence she would be a full-fledged New York
woman. Of that he was assured. Perhaps sooner. And men? She liked
them, he saw that. Had she? Who could tell? She wasn't shy. She hadn't
thus far blushed. To be sure, the conversation hadn't strayed from the
conventional. Then he laughed. She turned to him.
"Let me laugh, too," she begged. "I was thinking," he explained,
"of an old maid aunt of mine who used to pray the Lord she wouldn't
die guessing." Easter stopped and unrestrainedly roared. He was
scandalized. "Hurry up," he expostulated. "We shall be late,
otherwise." But he was secretly elated at the quick-fire success of
his joke. A smart girl, that; she will go far--perhaps too far. They
went into the Conservatoire Cosmopolitaine. The door was opened by a
polite coloured man. He said Madame was busy just then. Wouldn't they
wait in the reception room? Stone called the old man "George" and gave
him a cigarette. The room was on the first floor facing the entrance
hall. At the stroke of four gabble was heard. Girls and young men
with fiddle cases and music-rolls tumbled down stairs, while fresh
classes were forming. A weary or bored instructor bustled among his
pupils. A gong struck. "Now, ladies, now gentlemen," called out George.
"Upstairs, please, for Monsieur Lapoul's class."
"It's run like a railway station here," said Stone. Then added in
French, "We shall see Madame Mayerbeer first, but don't say anything
about Fursch-Madi. I'd like to get you on the free-list, then, perhaps,
you might help out by accompanying." Easter tried to look grateful,
but couldn't. "What do they pay accompanists by the hour?" she naively
inquired.
"Pon my word," he answered, "you are a regular pawnbroker."
"Oh, it's all very well for you. You're a man. I must work for my
living." She was tart. He grimly smiled: "A critic who has to listen
to rotten singers isn't working, is he? Hello! here's Madame." A
pretty plump little woman, picturesquely garbed in brown-ribbed
velvet, wearing a man's collar and cravat artistically tied, tripped
into the room and in French bade them the time of day. Stone took her
apart and whispered in her little ear, which her loosely piled iron
gray hair did not conceal. But she was all eyes for the girl, who in
turn devoured this model Parisienne. And she is an American, what
chic! thought Easter. "A voice, you say, Alfred, and such good looks.
I should say so. Come up stairs, Miss Brandès. Nice stage name, eh,
Alfred! Of course, she will go into the Fursch class." "I don't know
about that," answered Stone, who seemed to be an oracle in the eyes of
Madame. "I should rather say Ash. The young lady has a lot to learn, a
long road to travel--" "Yes, but"--"But me no buts," he retorted. "With
Fursch-Madi she will only get a vocal top-dressing, whereas it's the
roots that need attending to. No, try Frida Ash."
"Bien, monsieur, mais vous êtes exigeant." Madame Mayerbeer turned to
the girl and fairly glowed with enthusiasm.
"I am a lover of beauty, Miss Brandès, in all its forms. You must
be with us. Our Conservatoire is truly international. We develop
native talent irrespective of race or religion. Talent is what we are
after, and I need hardly tell you that our teaching staff is the most
famous in the world. Such genius. But the combination of beauty and
talent--you, Mr. Stone tells me, possess a wonderful voice--All right,
George. Tell her I'll be upstairs soon. Attendez...." She rushed out to
the stairway. "Adèle, I'll be up in a minute. We have just discovered
a treasure. A marvellous voice, so Mr. Stone declares...." A grumbling
voice called down:
"Another of his discoveries--like the last I suppose." There was ironic
edge to her words. Stone never winced, Madame was only more amiable.
"I'm crazy to hear you sing." There was genuine fire in her lovely
eyes. Easter was quite willing. But M. Lapoul wouldn't be ready for a
half-hour.
"George, tell M. Lapoul to dismiss his class for the day," cried
Madame impetuously. "Say I wish to consult him about our new scheme
for a Théâtre d'application here in the Conservatoire." Ten minutes
later light footsteps were heard. A fantastic Frenchman rushed in,
kissed Madame's hand, bowed, till his spine cracked, before Easter and
stared her out of countenance. He was the typical Gallic tenor and
jeune-premier. Hair worn bang-fashion like a silly girl, a sparse,
peaked beard, moustaches upturned--the conquering rooster was evoked
by every movement of his graceful, insolent, interesting person. But
his eyes were superb, thought Easter, who was fascinated by their
size, lustre, and the heavy romantic lashes that fringed them. So this
is the celebrated Victor Lapoul, the singer who turned the heads of
Parisian women when he warbled so amorously at the Comique, she mused.
They say he hasn't much voice left. It's all in his personality. The
tenor circled her as a cat does a mouse. He wore a preposterously low
collar, his hairy chest was partly visible. Ugh! Easter didn't like
hairy men. She shocked her mother when a growing girl by declaring
she would never marry, because she wouldn't be able to endure the
sight of her husband's hairy legs when he got out of bed in the
morning. Her mother shrugged despairing shoulders. I've hatched out a
queer bird, this Yankee child of mine, said the Frenchwoman. But she
re-doubled her watch on the girl's goings and comings. No such feeble
excuse as spending the night with a school-girl friend imposed upon
this experienced woman. Strange to relate that Easter was as strictly
chaperoned as if living on the continent. She, American born, was
brought up like a French provincial miss.
In the space of Victor Lapoul's room Easter sang. She had boasted to
the amused Stone that her operatic repertoire began with Pinafore and
ended with Isolde. Sweet Little Buttercup and Isolde! It was too much
for his gravity. He said so and she was annoyed. A characteristic. The
slightest contradiction and she became belligerent. She accompanied
herself in "Good Night" by Dvorak. Madame was all smiles. A diplomatic
girl, this, to first sing a composition by the reigning Director of
the institution. Lapoul, his arms melodramatically folded, struck an
attitude at the end of the instrument. He was apparently more absorbed
in the face of the singer than by her singing. He made no comment
when she finished. Stone cynically regarded the tenor. "Cabotin" he
whispered to the patronne, who never budged. She was accustomed to his
carping tongue. Easter had expected tumultuous acclaim. The silence
chilled her a trifle, but she didn't lose courage. Oh! well, I'll try
them with something classic, and began Isolde's Liebestod. Lapoul threw
up his arms: "Suffering Jesu," he cried, "not that, not that accursed
requiem of a tomcat howled over by a tabby."
"You see, he doesn't care much for Wagner," interposed Madame.
"Care much is good," laughed Stone. Lapoul left the room. "Sing
something French. I'll bring him back," whispered Madame. "It is still
1870 for him." She dashed out. Stone looked at Easter, she looked at
Stone. "Sing anything French," he finally commanded, but he could
hardly keep his face straight. "M. Escargot will run in." "Why do you
call him Escargot? His name is not Snail." Easter was all smiles as she
began that classic of barber-shop and bar-room, "Les Rameaux." Lapoul
tip-toed in, followed by Madame. The music suited the full-bodied tones
of her voice, and, as Easter knew the composition she got through with
some sense of triumph. "Rotten," was all that Stone ejaculated. The
tenor applauded. A very magnificent, extraordinary, beautiful, lovely,
wonderful soprano. Ah! one year in his class. Mademoiselle would be a
marvellous artiste. Ravishing. Overwhelming. The Metropolitan Opera
House would gladly throw open its doors to such genius. All the while
he uttered this hyperbolical praise he persistently fastened his
bold staring eyes upon the girl. Stone noted that he made swallowing
movements as if he were about to taste a bonne-bouche. His offer left
the company cold. His scheme didn't suit the plans of either Madame
Mayer beer or Alfred Stone. "Fursch-Madi," said Madame. "She goes to
Ash or no one," muttered Stone. Why the girl is amateurish. She has no
steady production, she phrases like a fool. Madame Frida will soon fix
all that. They moved out. Lapoul called to Easter. "A moment, charming
demoiselle." She returned to the room and his arms clasped her and hot
moist kisses were deposited on her cheek. She didn't stir. "But you are
adorable. Pardon, a thousand pardons," he begged. She didn't answer.
Stone outside the door winked at Madame, who indulgently smiled. A
Frenchman could do no harm in her eyes. "Cochon," exclaimed Stone.
Easter re-appeared as cool as a dew-pearled June rose, but she wasn't
blushing. "Great God! how glacial are these American misses," moaned
Lapoul, when alone. But he didn't mean what he said.