MISS VAN ROSSUM CALLS
For some time I have permitted these pages to lie fallow. I thought I
would not continue to jot down the events and the feelings that crowded
themselves upon me, since they could serve only to make more permanent
to mind and memory a period of my life in which there has been much
sweetness and comfort of mind mingled, however, with the sadness that
comes upon the man who knows he can never achieve his heart's desire. I
deemed it best to cease my unprofitable ruminations over things flavored
with some distress. Why keep on rehearsing them over and over again and
sitting down in the wee small hours to make confidants of heartless
sheets of paper?
Yet to-day I feel that, in after years, they may possibly prove of value
to me. Man is so fortunately constituted that he remembers happiness and
joy more vividly than pain. The day may come when I shall pick up these
sheets and smile a little over my sorrows, whose edges will be blunted,
and think, dreamily and with a mind at ease, over many hours scattered
here and there, which made up for the days of unprofitable longing.
Many surprising things have happened since I last wrote. In spite of
what Frances told me, David Cole seems to have changed. In my own
purview I can distinguish no alteration in my personality, but it
appears to be rather evident to some of my acquaintances.
Jamieson, some weeks ago, met me on Broadway. His wide and hearty palm
failed to smite me as usual on the back. He rushed across the street
with hand extended and greeted me as a long lost friend, instead of a
pleasant business acquaintance. His memory, the excellence of which I
have heard him boast of, appeared to have suffered a partial lapse.
"Why! Mr. Cole!" he exclaimed. "Ever so happy to see you! I always told
you I had every reason to believe that some day you would make a
killing. It is great! Have you seen the _Nation_, and the _Times_, and
the _Springfield Republican_ and the _Boston Observer_? Of course you
have! They're giving columns to the 'Land o' Love.' The biggest shop on
the Avenue keeps its show-windows filled with it. The first printing
melted like a snowflake on a hot stove. Five more of them already, and
another on the way. How are you getting on with the new manuscript?"
In his enthusiasm he appeared to remember nothing of his former rather
dark views as to the prospects of my book. He was now exuberant,
enthusiastic, and quite impressed by his infallibility. I informed him
that the new book was coming on fairly well and expressed my delight at
the popular demand for the novel so kindly spoken of by the critics. He
insisted on my taking lunch with him, deplored my inability to accept
his invitation and made me promise to dine with him very soon. He was
anxious that I should meet Mrs. Jamieson and the children, and carefully
saw to my safety as far as the Subway station.
Needless to say that this sudden stroke of good fortune, after first
leaving me somewhat dazed, has given me a great deal of happiness. It
was only a couple of days after I had been first informed of the way the
public was clamoring for the book that I invaded my neighbor's room,
stormily.
"Frances," I announced to her, "I have just been to see Professor
Richetti. I had an introduction to him from Jamieson, who knows
everybody. He received me very charmingly, quite in the manner of the
_grand seigneur_, and then just melted. His bow is a revelation, and his
smile a treat. It appears that he has heard of you. 'I know, I know,' he
exclaimed, as soon as I mentioned your name. 'La Signora Francesca
Dupont, oh, yes. More as one year ago I 'ear of la Signora. My friend
Fiorentino in Paris he wrote me she come right away to America. Him say
she has one voice _di primo cartello_, a very fine beautiful
_mezzo-soprano_, very much _maravigliosa_. I much wonder I do not 'ear
about the Signora. Her disappear, no one know nothing. Ah, her was sick
in de throat! And now all well again. No use the voice long time. _Per
favore_, Signor Cole, you bring me him lady _subito_, and I listen, I
'ear 'er sing, I take 'er and make a great _cantatrice_ of 'er again!'"
Frances looked at me. She rose from her chair and paced about the room,
once or twice. Then she leaned against the piano, that had been placed
in her room, and held her forehead in her hand.
"Listen, David," she said slowly. "Don't make me do this. Don't put such
temptation before me. I'm only a weak woman."
"Frances, but for the thinness of my locks I'd pull out my hair in
despair at your obstinacy," I cried. "I am telling you that they are
selling that book faster than they can print it and that money will soon
be flowing into my coffers. Jamieson has intimated that I could have a
large advance at once, if I wanted it. Moreover, Richetti is--he isn't
going to charge anything. He--he says that you can pay him long after
your tuition is ended."
She came to me, swiftly, and put her hands on my shoulders, her eyes
searching mine, which could not stand her gaze.
"My poor dear Dave. You--you are such a poor hand at deceiving. I--I
don't think you could fool even Baby Paul. There is too much candor and
honesty in you for that sort of thing."
"Well," I answered, rather lamely, "I--I told him, of course, that I
would guarantee the payment of his honorarium, and he answered that he
must try your voice first, because, if it was not promising, he would
refuse to waste his time on it. He was very frank. Then he told me that
Jamieson's note stated that I was a _scrittore celebre_, a _romanziero
molto distinto_, and that whatever arrangements I wanted to make would
be perfectly satisfactory. He declared, with his hand on his heart, that
money was a great means to an end, but that the thing that really
mattered in this world was art, _Per Bacco_! and the _bel canto_ from
voices divine! And now, my dear child, you and I are trembling over the
edge of a most frightful quarrel, of a bitter fight, of weepings and
gnashings of teeth! You shall obey me, or I will take Baby Paul and feed
him to the hippopotamuses--no, they eat hay and carrots and things; but
I will throw him to the bears in the pit or squeeze him through the bars
of the lion's cage. Do you hear me?"
She took a step back and sank in the armchair, her hands covering her
face.
"Hello! What's the matter?" came from the open doorway.
It was Frieda, a fat and rosy _dea ex machina_, arriving to my rescue.
"Frances," I informed her, "is beginning to shed tears, because she is
going to Richetti's to have her voice made over again, renovated like my
gray suit. She wants to weep, because she will have to sing scales and
other horrid things, and be scolded when she is naughty and does not
open her mouth properly."
"Oh! I'm so glad!" chuckled Frieda, her double chin becoming more
pronounced owing to the grin upon her features. "Isn't it fine!"
"But--but it means that David wants me to be a drag on him," objected
Frances, rising quickly. "He is guaranteeing the fees, and--and I should
probably have to stop working at Madame Felicie's, and it means----"
"It means that he will have to advance a little money for your expenses
while you study," said Frieda judicially.
"Yes, of course, and after months and months of study we may find out
that my voice will never again be the same, and that all this has been
wasted, and that I shall never be able to pay it back. He has always
worked dreadfully hard and denied himself ever so many things in order
to be kind to others, and now----"
"And now he is making money hand over fist. I just went to see a friend
off on the steamer to Bermuda and every other passenger has a copy of
that blessed book in his hand. Now that Dave is being rewarded at last,
and is entitled to a bit of extravagance, to a little of the comfort
money can bring, you won't help him. You know that it will make him
perfectly miserable, if you don't accept. Oh, dear! I think I'm talking
a lot of nonsense. Do behave yourself, Frances, and let the poor fellow
have his own way, for once."
And so it was finally settled, after another tear or two and some
laughter, and Frieda joyously sat down to the piano and began to play
some horrible tango thing and Baby Paul awoke and protested, as any
sensible infant would. The next day, I took Frances over to Richetti's,
and he was ever so pleasant and courteous to her, and most sympathetic.
I left her with him, fearing that my presence might distract her
attention from more important matters, and went to a tailor to order a
suit of clothes. It gratified me considerably to feel that, for the time
being, there would be no sinful extravagance in eschewing the
ready-made. There is indeed a great comfort in the inkling that one is
beginning to get along in the world. After this I had my hair cut, and
returned, exuding bay rum, to Richetti's studio.
Frances was waiting for me. The _maestro_ was already engaged with
another pupil, and we went out to find seats on an open car.
"He says he thinks it will be all right," she told me, eagerly. "The
tone is there and the volume. All I need is exercise, much judicious
exercise. He is the first teacher I ever met who told me that my
breathing was all right. They always want you to follow some entirely
new method of their own. He will give me three lessons a week, in the
morning. That will be enough for the present. At first, I must only
practise an hour a day. And so I can go back to Madame Felicie, because
she will be very glad to have me every afternoon and three mornings a
week and so I can keep on making a little money and I won't have to
borrow so much from you. Isn't it splendid?"
"I wish you would give up the shop," I told her.
But she shook her head, obstinately, and, of course, she had to have her
own way. That evening we went to Camus, and I doubt whether the place
ever saw three happier people. Frieda beamed all over and gorged herself
on mussels _a la mariniere_. She had just finished a portrait that
pleased her greatly, and was about to take up a nymph and faun she had
long projected.
"I don't suppose I would do for the nymph?" asked Frances.
"You a nymph! I want some slender wisp of a child just changing into
womanhood, my dear. You are the completed article, the flower opened to
its full beauty. If I ever paint you, it will have to be as some goddess
that has descended to the earth to mother a child of man."
"And I presume that as a faun I should hardly be a success," I ventured.
"What an idea! Frances, think of our dear old Dave prancing on a pair of
goat's legs and playing pipes of Pan."
They laughed merrily over the farcical vision thus evoked, and, of
course, I joined in the merriment. We remained for some time, watching
the dancing that took place in a space cleared of tables. Not far from
us rose an old gentleman who might have been profitably employed in
reading Victor Hugo's "Art of being a Grandfather," who danced with a
pretty young girl who looked at him, mischievously. From the depth of my
virtue I somewhat frowned upon him, until he returned to the table where
a white-haired old lady and a young man were still sitting. The girl put
her hand on the old lady's arm, and I heard her say something to the
effect that Daddy was growing younger every day, so that I felt properly
contrite.
There may be much folly in all this dancing, in the spending of many
hours that might be employed in more useful pursuits, but, after all,
our hearts are in great part such as we make them. The wicked will
always find no lack of opportunity for the flaunting of evil ways, and
the good will never be any the worse for anything that cheers them, that
lightens drearier bits of life, that may bring smiles to lips trained to
the speaking of truth and kindness.
After this little feast of ours, some more weeks went by, marked by the
parading in the streets of a few old men engaged in selling
pussy-willows, after which the shops displayed the first lilacs which
presently grew so abundant that they were peddled on every
street-corner, wherefore I knew that the Spring was fairly established
and swiftly turning into summer. Frances was going to Richetti's,
regularly, and practising every evening, with the assistance of my
piano. To me her scales and exercises sounded more entrancing than any
diva's rendering of masterpieces, I think. It was all in the voice, in
the wonderful clear notes which, like some wonderful bloom come out of a
homely bulb, had so quickly sprung from the poor little husky tones I
remembered so well. Even then there had been charm and sweetness in
them, but, now, her song added greater glory to Frances and seemed to be
taking her farther away from me, to make her more intangible.
I met Richetti in the street, the other day, and he grasped my arm,
enthusiastically.
"But a few more weeks of lessons," he told me, beamingly. "After that
the _cara signora_ Francesca will work by herself for a few months, when
I go to Newport. By September I return and we begin again. Ah! Signore
Cole, we give again to the world a great voice, a ripe full-throated
organ, with flexibility, with a timbre _magnifico_! She makes progress
so quick I cease not to marvel. By middle of winter I give my concert
of pupils. Yesterday, I make her sing Massenet's 'Elegie.' It make me
cry very nearly. She have a soul full of music, _per Bacco! Addio, caro
signore_! I see my friend Gazzoro-Celesti. A thousand pardons!"
He shook hands effusively and ran across Broadway, where he greeted the
great _basso buffo_ of the Metropolitan, and I was left to rejoice by
myself, as I went into a shop to buy a new typewriter ribbon.
And so a time came when the lessons were stopped for some weeks.
Richetti deplored the fact that Frances could not go to Newport, where
he would have kept on teaching her, but assured her that she was getting
on marvelously and that her practice would suffice to prevent her from
losing anything she had gained back.
With the beginning of the hot weather, Frances grew somewhat anxious
about Baby Paul, who was weaned and did not keep up his steady gain in
weight. She was looking rather tired, and I insisted on calling in Dr.
Porter, who advised an immediate change of air.
"What you need is a month or two in the country," he declared. "You have
been working very hard in that shop, and practising at night, and
looking after that young ogre. If you expect to keep your health, you
must take care of it. Without it, there can be no good singing, nor any
big, vigorous Baby Paul."
"It isn't possible," asserted Frances.
"It is, and shall be done," I contradicted severely. "When I took my
gray suit over to Madame Felicie to clean and press, she complained that
there was very little business now. I know that she can spare you for a
time. She will have to do so anyway, when you begin to sing in public. I
know just the place for you to go to."
"Good!" exclaimed Dr. Porter, "and you, Mr. Cole, had better do the same
thing. You ought to take a holiday. Get some of the cobwebs off your
mind and gather in a little country atmosphere to put into your next
book."
"All I need," I said, "is some pills. I shall get you to prescribe them
for me."
"I won't," he retorted rudely. "You must go to bed at a reasonable hour,
consume regular meals, and breathe clean air and take plenty of
exercise. So long, get a move on you and take my advice at once,
undiluted."
"It would be ever so nice, if you could go, David," said Frances, as
soon as our good little doctor had left. "I am sure you are tired also.
As for me, I know it is not so bad as he thinks. I can take Baby up on
the Palisades, and to Staten Island and back on the ferry, and perhaps
on the Coney Island boat, and----"
"Nothing of the sort," I interrupted. "Of course I don't care anything
about Baby Paul and yourself, but I have a great pecuniary interest in
your voice and I am going to have my money back, and you will have to
sing in order to earn it, and----"
"And you can keep on saying all the horrid things you want to," she put
in. "Now, David, be reasonable. You know that a stay in the country
would do you ever so much good."
"Very well," I answered. "Then I shall hire Eulalie to elope with Baby
Paul and I'll go along to watch his teething, and you can stay here and
inhale benzine at Madame's, and lose all your voice and grow thin and
ugly, and be well punished for disobedience and rebellion, and by the
time you've----"
We were interrupted by the sound of steps on the stairs. They were
somewhat heavy, but not the deliberate thumps of Frieda's climbing. It
was a swift and confident progress, in which I recognized none of the
inmates of our menagerie. A second later I turned. A fine young woman of
healthful color and dressed in excellent taste stood at the door.
"I--I beg your pardon," she said. "The colored woman told me to go right
up to the top floor. How--how do you do, Mr. Cole?"
It was Miss Sophia Van Rossum, big as life, with a face perhaps more
womanly and handsome than I had ever given her credit for possessing. In
our surroundings she appeared like a fine hot-house flower suddenly
transplanted to a poor little tenement yard. She was looking curiously
at Frances, who was standing at my side.