RICHETTI IS PLEASED
Goodness only knows how many pages I blackened with the experiences of
this short summer, but I have thrown them away, in small pieces. They
were too introspective; mere impressions of one week after another, when
I would take the train and join Frances again, under self-suggested and
hypocritical pleas. My wisdom was needed to see to it that Baby Paul
grew and thrived. His teething necessitated my worrying Dr. Porter half
to death as to the possibilities of such portentous happenings. It was
also indispensable that I should accurately ascertain the mother's
condition of health and listen to Eulalie's observations. In other
words, I pretended that I was a very important person.
But in the heart of me, I knew myself to be like some drug-fiend, only
permitted to indulge his destructive habit once a week. The work I
turned out of nights, I am afraid, was worth little and will have to be
subjected to plentiful alterations. In the day I wandered over the
superheated city and occasionally took a boat for a lonely excursion
over the Bay, for the sake of fresh air and unneeded rest. But from the
Monday morning to Saturday afternoon the fever was always on me to
hasten back, to drift with Frances over the little lake, to stroll with
her in the woodland roads or among the fields, to steep myself in the
atmosphere she radiated, of sweetest womanhood, of tenderness she
displayed only to Baby Paul, but some of which was reflected on me. The
mere speaking voice of her, telling me of rumbling bull-frogs, of a
terrible little garter-snake beheld on the main road, of a tiny calf
which, she feared, was destined to go the way of all veal, was melody
and charm and delight. Gordon once told me that a man and a woman cannot
be true friends long. There is no middle ground, he explained, it must
be either more or less. But I would meet her on the road on the days of
my arrival. She would walk all but the last quarter mile, that ran along
a sun-beaten lane surfaced with red-hot dust, and wait for me beside a
little watering trough usually tenanted by a beady-eyed froglet, which
she counted among her friends. From afar she would wave her hand, her
face joyous and welcoming, and would insist on knowing at once the
contents of the packages I was always laden with. On our way to the farm
she would faithfully recount the incidents of the past week, and finally
we would sit down on the little porch and thirty-six hours of
heavenliness would begin. And always, she was a friend, nothing but the
dear friend which Gordon deemed an impossibility, and I firmly
endeavored to follow her lead. Yes, there were evenings of starlight,
afternoons among the oaks and chestnuts of the hillsides where we sat on
ground heavily carpeted with last year's leaves and moss of silvery
green, early mornings by the side of the lake under the caress of the
rising breeze, and ever I managed to padlock my heart, to control the
shakiness of my voice, to laugh out gaily as if the world's beauty could
not possibly leave room in a man's soul for hopeless longing.
And then back to the city again! Frances had often urged me to stay a
little longer; it would do me so much good. She sometimes thought I
looked tired, but I refused with the obstinacy of the weak. She argued
that I was utterly master of my time and, one day, with a trace of
woman's injustice, said that thirty-six hours of her company was all
that I could stand. I remember feeling a terrific wave of heat coming to
my brow. Never was I nearer to an indignant protest to be followed by
the blurting of the whole truth, of nothing but the truth, to the effect
that I loved her madly, wildly, and could have crushed her in my arms
till she cried for mercy. But I laughed, stupidly, with my finger-nails
digging into the palms of my hands and called her attention to a
reticulated pickerel poised beneath some lily-pads, motionless,
watchful, gavial-snouted and yet graceful, ready to convert itself into
a flashing death for other fishes. I pointed to gossamer-winged
dragon-flies, which used to frighten her, till I declared them to be
friendly devourers of mosquitoes, and both of us remained breathless
when a golden oriole perched on some hazel bushes near at hand, for a
moment's display of its gaudiness. She told me of the wood-thrush we had
seen on our arrival, and how she had found the nest with the dainty blue
eggs, and how one day these had been converted into great big little
mouths ever clamoring for a distracted mother who could never find food
enough.
"But they grew up all right and took lessons in flying and, by this
time, are far away, and the little nest is abandoned," she informed me.
"I hope they will all come back another year."
And thus a moment of terrible danger passed. The peril was perhaps
averted by the saving grace of that pickerel. I trembled to think over
what might have happened. She would have looked at me, astonished and
alarmed, with those big, beautiful eyes shining, and she would have
sorrowfully shaken her head, and--I could never have returned again--and
I would have been compelled to leave Mrs. Milliken's, and the whole
beautiful, useless dream would have been ended because Gordon is right,
as far as I am concerned. Yet I can remain a friend to Frances! Please
God, I may remain one all my life and never reveal myself to her! But my
friendship will never be a perfectly genuine one since, underlying it,
there will always be the quivering of a passion held in gyves and
suffering, as suffers some gold and ruby-winged butterfly pinned to a
card and denied the mercy of a drop of chloroform.
I had received another letter from Gordon, telegraphic in brevity, and
sent it to Miss Van Rossum. He was well, having a most wonderful and
heartrending experience. He had met some stunning fellows. The taking of
awful chances was a daily occurrence, with the little ambulances darting
among the wounded, sometimes under shell-fire. He asked me to drop into
his studio, from time to time. He had discharged the Jap, but still kept
the place. It was looked after by an elderly woman he had installed
there, who was supposed to sweep and dust and let some air and light
into the studio. I was to see that she kept at it and guarded his
accumulated rubbish.
So, of course, I went there, and the ancient party looked at me
suspiciously, till I identified myself. Then she gave me the freedom of
the place and I hunted high and low, till, finally, I discovered the
"Mother and Child" hidden in a large closet and brought it out. I placed
it on the easel and glared at it till it grew dark.
The wonder of that picture! Great Heavens! I remembered how I had once
accused Gordon of having been imaginative in his rendering of the
model's beauty. At that time my vision must have been coarse and
untrained. His genius had at once seized upon her glory, whereas I had
dully and slowly spelled it out. But now my eyes were open! It was
Frances herself, it was truth, it was the greatness of motherhood
revealed, it was the charm and sweetness of the woman who exalts and
uplifts, it was art _grandiose_ held beautifully in bond by the eternal
verity. I saw that some bright gobbets of flashing paint, that had
surprised me at first, were amazing touches of genius. He had played
with colors as a Paderewski plays with notes, to the ultimate rendering
of a noble and profound reality, of poetry made tangible and clear, of
ringing harmony expressing true heartbeats. And now my friend Pygmalion
had been spurned by his statue come to life and was picking up shattered
heroes, that he might forget.
I can honestly say that the ancient dame, who saw to what Gordon was
pleased to call his rubbish, was faithfully watched. I would come in at
odd times, when the spirit moved me, and sit for hours before the
picture. It gave me inspiration when the fount of my ideas had utterly
dried up, and I would return home, able to write a few good pages. What
if it was but one more way of indulging the drugging of my soul! Like
other fiends I was held fast. Porter has told me that the victims of
morphia no longer take pleasure in their vice. The following of it, to
them, means but the relief of suffering, and there is no joy in it. In
this respect I stood far above the level of the poor beings fallen thus
low, for the painted Frances was a perennial delight, as her own living
beauty was utter happiness for some hours. The reaction only took place
when I was alone in my room, and, even there, I often indulged in dreams
and visions as full of charm as they were unreal.
Then, one fine day, came a letter from Signor Richetti, stating that he
would return upon a certain date and resume his teaching. I took it to
Frances, who read it, happily.
"I am so glad, Dave," she told me. "This has been the most lovely summer
one could imagine, and Baby Paul is wonderfully well. I hope the New
York milk will agree with him. I am so splendidly strong and well that I
think I shall again make rapid progress. I am afraid I must have lost a
great deal during this long idle time. Dave! Dave! I'm going to work so
hard! I know I shall be able to sing again, and--and I shall owe it all
to you!"
So we had, again, thirty-six hours, sadly lessened by the two nights of
sleep, and we conscientiously said good-by to the cows and calves, and
to such chickens as we had not devoured, and to the lake and the woods
and the twittering swallows and the sparrows on the dusty road. Eulalie
had grown stout and burned to an Indian hue. She kissed Mrs. Gobbins on
both cheeks and shed a tear or two. I stopped the carriage, that
conveyed us to the station, in front of the blacksmith's shop. We had
become friends, and he wished us a pleasant journey and a happy return
next year. Near the station, in the narrow road, we had to turn aside,
nearly into the ditch, to allow the passing of a large automobile. In
its driver I recognized Mr. O'Flaherty, who owned the garage and
occupied half of the second floor. He waved a hand at me and grinned,
winking, leaving me to reflect on the thoroughly excusable nature of
certain murders. His big car was full of sporty-looking youths and
flashily dressed women. I am happy to say that Frances never looked his
way.
Then we went on board the train and the beautiful country began to slip
by us, and a certain element of sadness came at the idea of leaving it,
though it was comforting to think that now I should see Frances every
day. But I should sit on the meagerly upholstered chairs instead of
occupying the veranda's rocker or the moss-strewn boulders on the hills.
The freedom of the country would be gone, and its inspiration and
delight.
"Look!" said Frances to me, suddenly. "There's a woman on the third
seat, on the other side of the aisle, who's reading 'Land o' Love.'"
"After all these months," I commented.
"People ought to read it forever, Dave," she assured me, "and I think
they will. I'm so proud of you!"
"Well, my publishers tell me the book is flowing out as fast as ever.
Jamieson says it will sell a hundred and fifty thousand," I told her.
"You see that I am now in Easy Street and can afford all the
extravagances I care to indulge in."
"Then, David, you ought to buy yourself a new fall suit," said Frances,
"and you need more neckties. I shall get some for you."
All women want to buy men's neckties for them. I was not afraid,
feeling sure that Frances would show unquestionable taste. How she would
care for a man she loved!
A taxi rattled us up to Mrs. Milliken's door, and the room opposite mine
was resplendent in new paper, and the carpet much renovated, and the
piano had been rubbed over with something that gave the ancient mahogany
a fine polish. Frances left Baby Paul with Eulalie and came into my den.
"It's so good to be back, Dave," she asserted. "This room is all
saturated with the atmosphere of you and even the typewriter looks like
an old friend. And here's your dirty old calabash and just the same
disorder on your desk and the week's washing on the bed. I'm glad
Eulalie's sister has been attending to it. Oh! It's fine to be home
again!"
So she went back to her room, and I lit the calabash. I had been afraid
that, after the country, this top floor would look very dismal and be
depressing to her. But she was looking positively joyful. A minute later
Frieda invaded the premises, for I had warned her of our arrival. She
shrieked with admiration at the sight of the baby and commented at
length on the color of Frances's cheeks. Eulalie joined in the cackling,
and happiness reigned. We celebrated the evening at Camus.
After this the leaves soon began to drop in the big square, and I
ordered the new suit and invested in a few bonds, like a bloated
millionaire, and put them in a little safe at the bank, which could only
be penetrated after running the gauntlet of a half a dozen uniformed and
suspicious guardians, before whom I felt like an equivocal character.
Frances returned to Richetti and came back the first time with a glowing
account of all that he had said. It appeared that she had hardly lost
anything and had gained in depth of breathing and power of expression.
The technique--ah! _Per Bacco!_ She was a natural born singer! She had
little need to learn! The voice was in her like those things in
Pandora's box and only demanded to fly out. Her singing was the _bel
canto_. Three months more of practice was all that was needed. After the
first of the year she would sing in the great concert of his pupils. It
would be an event! People would discover her again. The cornucopia of
Abundance would open, wide-lipped, and success would flow from it!
"And I shall owe it all to you and Frieda, Dave," she said. "But I can't
really believe that it will come true. Still, I don't know. Sit down and
listen to this."
She opened the piano and sang, and at first my heart sank within me
because she was so great compared to my insignificance. Then it became
exalted because of the magnificence of her singing, which thrilled me.
They were not great locust-cries of _bravura_, nor amazing gymnastics
with difficult scales, that made me quiver. Just a sweet old melody
heard a thousand times, thrummed by every piano, but now coming with
such perfection of tone and such a quality of exquisiteness that I felt
a thousand times more uplifted than when I had stood before Gordon's
wonderful portrait of her.
When she finished, she turned a little on the revolving stool and looked
at me, her head a little inclined to one side, her lips smiling at me,
for she could not but know how splendidly she had sung.
"Well, Dave," she asked, "are you pleased?"
"My dear Frances," I answered, "a king of Bavaria had operas performed
for himself alone, and, likewise, I have had a treat that might have
enraptured thousands. I am a monarch basking in luxury. No, after all I
am the same old Dave who has found a treasure by the wayside and is
gloating over it. That's what I'm doing. If I knew anything about music,
I might, perhaps, tell you what it is that I find to admire in your
singing, but I can only say I am impressed by something that leaves me
wondering and gives me a keen delight I cannot put in words."
"I'm so glad, Dave!" she exclaimed. "I shall always sing to you as much
as you like. I am thankful to be able to give you pleasure."
Pleasure, forsooth! She can give me everything a man longs for in the
world! Sweetness, beauty, melody are all in her power of bestowal! But I
should be thankful for her affection and grateful for my privileges as a
trusted friend. May I never by any folly forfeit them!
And so the winter came again, and the amenities of the holidays and some
joyous little dinners with Frieda. I went one day to call on Richetti,
and the _maestro_ threw himself upon me and clasped me in his arms.
"_Amico carissimo!_ It is a delight to see you! Everywhere I hear of you
as an author _pregiatissimo_, but you go not out into the world where
thousands are dying to know you! About _la signora_! What shall I say!
It was a day to be marked with a white stone when you brought her to me.
We are giving back to the world a pearl of great price. She has the
voice, _amico mio_, and she has the natural method! But more than all
else her voice is _simpatica_, it throbs and thrills, it enlists love
and affection and the desire to listen forever. At her feet the world
will kneel some day. She will be mentioned in the same breath as our
greatest _prime donne_. In three weeks I give my concert. Every one will
be there. I have given hints to many, made much mystery. She will come
out in all her beauty, dressed in a very fine gown, the last on the
programme, so that she will be a revelation. People will go away and
clamor at her greatness. I am Richetti! I know what I speak of!"
In his enthusiasm he slapped me severely on the back, and I hurried
home.
"Frances!" I exclaimed, breathlessly. "Richetti is getting crazy about
you. He bubbles over with enthusiasm. Moreover, Jamieson says he is a
wise old guy. The _maestro_ says you must have a very fine gown to wear
at the concert. Where is the gown?"
She cast her eyes down at the floor.
"I--I suppose I will manage to----"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," I told her, severely. "It is a
most important matter which we have inexcusably neglected. Come out with
me at once and we will buy one."
"Oh, no, Dave, I was thinking that I have a very nice white lace gown I
brought from Paris when I first came over, which could----"
"You have no business to think such things. Who is that coming up the
stairs? Hello, always on hand when you are most needed, Frieda. I want
you to go at once with Frances to the most expensive shop on Fifth
Avenue and buy her a concert gown. Here are a hundred dollars."
"That would buy two sleeves and maybe a few flounces," said Frieda,
quietly.
"Here's a hundred more which you can leave on deposit. I will see to the
balance. Not a word, Frances. Remember that it must be a very fine gown.
Richetti says so, I didn't suggest it to him. He knows what's needed.
You can pay me back when you are making thousands. Don't argue, but go
at once!"
"You're a nasty tempered old bully," Frieda informed me, her eyes
twinkling behind her spectacles.
"Good!" I exclaimed. "You're always saying that I don't assert myself
enough. Thank goodness, I'm getting cured of that."
So, presently, they went away and I was left alone. Some letters were on
my desk. One of them was from Gordon and I seized it eagerly. It read as
follows:
"_Dear old boy_:
"As you suggested in your last letters I've had enquiries made
at the war department. Paul Dupont of the 30th dragoons, a
violinist by profession and a reservist called from New York,
aged 31, was killed at the battle of the Marne. I thought I'd
find out about his old people, if I could. Just heard they
abandoned their place before it was destroyed and are living
with a daughter near Suresnes. I sent them a bit of money,
telling them it came from their daughter-in-law. Thought it
might please Madame Dupont, but don't tell her. Am still
driving one of those gasolene wheelbarrows. We're seeing some
hard times. I sometimes feel awfully sorry at what happened. S.
was a fine girl, and I a fool. Glad to hear that 'Land o' Love'
is making a killing.
"Ever your old pal,
"GORDON."
I was glad enough, in a melancholy way, to receive this piece of news.
Frances, while never doubting that her husband was dead, has never had
any positive assurance of the fact. I'll not mention it just now, for it
wouldn't do to awaken her memories before the concert. Time has
reconciled her a little to her loss, I think, and it would be a shame to
disturb her.
Well, there can be no doubt about it. She is entirely free. It is not
possible that such beauty and sweetness as hers shall nevermore know
love. This concert surely means the beginning of a separation which must
come sooner or later. Madame Francesca, as she will be called, can no
longer keep on living in this frittering brownstone relic of better
days. Her singing will probably take her away from us. There may be
concerts and even operatic engagements, who knows? And I shall be left
here with the old calabash and my rickety typewriter. Ye Gods! What an
outlook! I wonder whether it would not be wise for me to go to Fiji or
Yokohama or the Aleutian Islands? I shall get the horrors here all
alone. I'm too clumsy for them ever to take me as an ambulance driver in
France, but, perhaps, they would let me serve as an orderly in the
hospitals. I'll have to think of it!