THE CONCERT
And so the short weeks went by and the fateful evening came. Frieda had
spent the whole afternoon with Frances. The gown, it appeared, had come
in plenty of time. My formal orders had, of course, been disobeyed, for
women, while they often bow gracefully to a mere man's edicts, always go
off and do as they jolly well please. In a sidestreet, not more than a
block and a half from the Avenue, our stout friend had unearthed a
purveyor of feminine adornment who, she explained to me, was a positive
worker of spells when it came to dressing a woman. Also, she was
moderate in her prices. The gown cost one hundred and sixty-five dollars
and the amount of change Frieda cascaded in my lap made me feel as if I
owned a bank. I expressed disbelief in the miraculous dressmaker and
made somber prophecies as to the outcome, all of which she treated with
contempt. At six o'clock they went off to her flat, where she had
prepared the light refection that would insure prompt digestion and easy
breathing. I was instructed to dine where I pleased.
At seven thirty-five came a knock at my door. It was Frieda.
"Dave," she said, "if you're having trouble with that white tie, we'll
fix it for you in a minute. Meanwhile, you're permitted to come in the
other room. She's got the dress on, I hooked it myself and did her
hair."
I followed her, eagerly. Both gaslights were flaming brightly. Eulalie
was circling around Frances, totally incapacitated by admiration. The
back was turned to me and the arms raised as she gave some mysterious
touch to the waves above her temples, but she turned at once and stood
before me, happily, with arms now held down and palms turned towards me,
in an attitude of graceful abandonment.
"Here's your gown, Dave," she said. "From head to foot you are
responsible, slippers and all."
I refuse to go to Frieda for a description of it. I care nothing about
displaying my ignorance and will say at once that I have not the
slightest idea of what the materials were. All I know is that she
looked like beauty and grace incarnate. The lily might be no better for
the gilding, but it displayed her charm to the full. The beautiful arms
were bare and the fair neck modestly displayed.
"Let me rub my eyes," I said, "it is another dream come to me."
"_Elle est belle comme un amour!_" clamored Eulalie.
She was indeed beautiful as a love, as the most splendid, honest,
faithful love ever born in a human heart.
And then she came to me and put up her hands and seized upon my
recalcitrant tie and gave it a twist and a turn, smiling at me the
while.
"You look ever so well, David," she told me. "You need take so little
trouble to make yourself look as young in body as you are in heart.
You'll be but forty-two next birthday and yet seem to delight in
pretending you're such an old fellow. Please stay young, Dave, for the
sake of all who love you."
Yes, there was a bit of moisture in her eyes as she spoke. She was so
near me that I was conscious of her fragrance; I felt that I was within
the aura of her sweetness, and my heart was thumping. But she turned
away again, after one more reassured glance at my tie. She began to draw
on a long pair of white gloves, as I went back to my room for a few
sprays of lily of the valley I had procured for her, which she pinned to
her waist. Then she sat down in a chair that looked poorly fitted to
bear so charming a burden.
"I needn't be there before nine, David," she told me, "and so there
isn't the slightest hurry. Frieda is going home to put on her best and
we'll stop for her in the cab."
So the painter of goddesses and nymphs waddled off, hurriedly, and
clattered down the stairs. Frances leaned over Baby Paul's crib, for the
longest time, after which she gave Eulalie ever so many instructions as
to her charge, while I contemplated her, my nerves all aquiver with
thoughts of the coming ordeal.
"You--you look ever so calm, Frances," I told her. "Does--doesn't the
idea of standing up there and singing to all those people make you
nervous?"
"Not a bit, Dave," she answered, gaily. "But if a little bit of stage
fright should come I shall look at you and pretend to myself that I'm
just singing for you, and then everything will be all right. It will
seem as if we were alone here, and the others won't matter. I feel like
singing this very minute and giving you a tiny concert of your own, but
it might waken Baby."
She was undeniably happy. With the poor, little, husky voice she had
felt a cripple, but the restored organ had changed her in everything but
beauty and kindness. She was confident now; the world was opening to her
again. She would be able to keep Baby Paul from all suffering such as
poverty might have brought, and it gave her an outlook upon the future,
wider and more secure.
"I do hope I shall succeed," she said again. "I never had dreamed that a
woman could accept all that I have taken from you, Dave. If this means
that I shall have gained my independence, I shall be happy indeed, but I
will always remember that the time I leaned upon you was made sweet and
hopeful by your consideration and friendship. Come, David, it is time to
go, I think. I feel that when I return, this evening, I may be able to
express a little of what I owe you, and, then, thank God on my bended
knees."
"I shall be so proud to watch the dawning of your success and
happiness," I told her, with a catch in my throat.
"Yes, success would be splendid, Dave, but the happiness has been coming
a long time. You brought me some of it in your pockets all last summer
and gave it to me every week. Oh! Dave! God bless you!"
She put out her hand to me and looked deeply in my eyes. Her heart was
very full, I know, but I felt that it was the gratitude a woman could
give to a beloved brother.
And so we went away, with a last kiss blown at Baby Paul and a thousand
good wishes from Eulalie. The taxi I had ordered was at the door and
drove first to Dr. Porter's, and then to Frieda's, who was waiting for
us, a very shapeless bundle done up in an ample and all-concealing
cloak. I was thankful that her head was bare, having dreaded some
abomination in the way of a hat.
"Oof!" she exclaimed. "My gown's horribly tight. Had to have the
janitress come up to hook it in the back and I hope nothing gives way.
We're an awfully swell lot this evening. First thing you know they'll be
talking about us in the papers, under the heading of Society News."
She maintained an endless chatter, in which I discovered much method. It
was evidently her purpose to keep Frances from getting nervous. Finally,
we reached the concert hall, in which people were still crowding.
Richetti's circle of acquaintances is a vast and distinguished one and
his concerts, few and far between, are events in the musical world.
Frances and Frieda stood on the sidewalk, while I was paying the driver.
"We are going in by another entrance, David," she told me. "You go and
find your seats and possess your souls in patience. You will hear some
excellent music. When I come on, don't make too much noise because it
might distract my attention."
I gave her my hand, which she pressed in a strong and nervous clasp that
lasted for a fraction of a second, and then the two disappeared among
the many people surging towards the doors.
For some minutes Porter and I stood at the back of the hall, as did
many others, in order not to interrupt a duet between basso and soprano,
most creditable to two young people, who retired with many bows and much
approval from the audience. The young lady was quite collected and
smiling, but the heavy-chested youth was blushing and evidently glad to
have passed through the ordeal. Women, I think, average greater courage
than men. In the interval before the next number we sought our places
and I had but slipped my hat in the grooves beneath my seat when my
nearest neighbor, a very charming young person, addressed me at once,
and I recognized in her the little lady who had called me an old fogy at
the Van Rossums.
"Why, how do you do, Mr. Lambley," she said, and turned to a short and
wide-shouldered youth who appeared to have taken the place of the
six-footer. "Freddy dear, I want to introduce Professor Lambley, who has
written a great essay on Dionysius the Areopagite."
The young man pushed an able hand towards me and grasped mine.
"How jolly!" he exclaimed. "Something to do with aviation, isn't it?
I'm expecting to take it up soon."
"How silly you are, Freddy," the young woman reproved him, "it's an
awfully scientific thing."
"Oh! Well, then, that lets me out," acknowledged Freddy,
conscientiously, "but I think a lot of the fellows who work out those
affairs. Knew a chap who was drowned at Montauk last summer, who was
keen on bees and bugs. Queer Johnnie!"
Our scientific and literary symposium ceased abruptly. The accompanist
came in and sat at the piano, being immediately followed by a young lady
I remembered seeing in Richetti's rooms. My little neighbor applauded,
frantically, as did most of the audience.
"Her father's worth two millions," she informed me, "and she thinks her
voice is the biggest ever. Her hair doesn't naturally wave that way and
she's got too much rouge on. Richetti didn't want her to go on yet, but
she made her father insist."
My own knowledge of the divine art of singing, as I have confessed a
thousand times, amounts to little or nothing, but I found something
pleasurable in listening to the plutocratic contralto. She was by no
means embarrassed and began the "Angelic Voice" from _Gioconda_ in a
most business-like fashion, finishing amid a salvo of applause.
"There! I've gone and split my glove," said the young lady beside me,
"but I just had to do it. I'm going to their house-party next week and
the place is perfectly gorgeous."
Next, as an encore, came "He shall feed His flocks" from the _Messiah_,
which received similar encomiums and the singer retired, smothered in
flowers and followed by uproarious approval.
"Funny she should have selected that," came the voice near me, "seeing
that her father made all his money in wool."
In rapid succession came several other singers, all of whom appeared to
impress the audience favorably. My heart was beginning to thump again in
my breast, for the moment was approaching and I suffered from a
vicarious stage-fright that could have been no greater had I myself been
sentenced to appear upon the stage. It may be that the hall was
overheated; at any rate I had to pass my handkerchief a number of times
over my forehead, and my high collar began to choke me. I was grasping
Porter's arm, convulsively, when, all of a sudden, before I could
realize that the moment had come, she stood before the footlights,
bowing before the moderate clapping of hands, and Richetti himself sat
at the piano.
"Great Scott!" said the wide-shouldered young man, "ain't she a
stunner!"
His companion replied something, but I did not listen. Richetti was
playing a few preliminary bars of the melody. I saw her eyes moving
confidently over the orchestra seats and thought she recognized us with
a nearly imperceptible accentuation of her smile. She was holding the
sheets of music before her, but in them I could not detect the slightest
trace of tremor. Then, her gaze was uplifted a little and the song
began, while all sense of fear left me and I breathed easily, leaning
forward eagerly while each note entered my soul. It was Mendelssohn's
"On Wings of Song." It seemed to me that the silence urbanely granted to
the other singers became more profound. The audience was surely holding
its breath. Not a stir of programmes sounded. Faces were no longer
expressing tolerant civility, for they had become intent and fervent.
Something like the awed respect of a great churchly crowd filled the
hall and was maintained till the very last note, after which came a very
storm of applause, delirious, impulsive, unrestrained for the longest
time, while she bowed again and again, and Richetti stood up beside her
for his share of the triumph.
And after this she gave us "Chantez, Riez" of Gounod, and the gorgeous
swing of it was uplifting, and the wonderful tone lent it greatness and
the lilt of it a true significance of the joy of living. As a further
encore she sang Rossini's "Stabat Mater." Her voice broke into the
passion of grief of the mother bereft, in the grandeur of the hope
eternal, and the people were hushed, breathless, conquered.
At last she was allowed to leave the stage, with Richetti's hand held in
her own. The man was beaming, delighted.
"Come with me," I cried to Porter. "We are to be allowed back of the
stage. She's expecting us. Did you see Richetti's look of pride? You're
far more responsible for this result than he, bless your heart! Come
along."
And so we made our way to a large room at the back of the hall. It was
much crowded with women in gorgeous dresses and men among whom I
recognized Bartolo Cenci of the Metropolitan and Colonel Duff, the great
impresario of con-certs and lecture tours, and the shrewd features of
FitzMaurice the musical critic of the _Banner_, small, hawk-eyed and of
bustling manner.
In a corner, with Frieda at her side, stood Frances, with a little court
surrounding her. Richetti, a few paces away, was talking volubly with
men, who were probably of the Press. We went to the new diva, who did
not await our coming, but stepped towards us, with both hands extended.
"I'll tell you later all that I feel, Dave," she half whispered to me.
"Oh! Dr. Porter, dear friend, I am so glad that you have been able to
see the results of your work. Come with me!"
She took him by the arm and led him to Richetti.
"Professor, I want to present Dr. Porter. I could not sing a note, and
he worked marvels upon me; gave me a new throat, I think, and a better
one than ever."
Upon this, the _maestro_ nearly fell on Porter's neck and wept, calling
him a savior and a performer of miracles, after which he insisted on
introducing him to a number of the eager gatherers of information and to
Bartolo Cenci, who wrote down his address on his cuff. Our good little
Porter was nearly overwhelmed.
Finally a number of us were haled off to Richetti's rooms where a great
table was set with flasks of _Chianti_ and a huge Milanese _risotto_,
and it was nearly two o'clock before we packed ourselves in a taxi,
feeling as if such a superfluous thing as sleep could be put off till
the Greek Kalends.
Frieda refused to be dropped off at her flat. Porter was also compelled
to come to the top of the little brownstone house. We did our best to be
quiet in going up, and I hope we awoke no honest sleepers. They crowded
into my room, Frances leaving us to see that Baby Paul was thriving. She
returned on tiptoe.
"Eulalie is snoring on the sofa," she announced, "and Baby is sleeping
like an angel."
So we remained there for an hour, at least, and Frieda told us how
Colonel Duff had rushed up to ask about Frances's plans for the rest of
the winter, and Cenci had inquired, most pointedly, whether she already
had an engagement for next season and what operas she had studied, to
which she had replied that her arrangements were in Richetti's hands,
whereupon they had assaulted the _maestro_ and nearly torn him limb from
limb in their eagerness to engage her.
"The proudest man in the world, some day," said Frieda, "will be Baby
Paul. He will be going about boasting that Madame Francesca is his
mother, and people will love him for her sake."
Then Frances clasped as much of Frieda's form as she could possibly hold
in her arms, and kissed her, telling her that she was saying a lot of
nonsense, and finally our stout friend went away under Porter's
guidance, who had promised to see her home, and Frances and I were left
alone on the landing.
Here, a little yellow gas-jet was flickering, very small and poor, and
the balustrade upon which I leaned gave a crackling groan. We heard the
closing of the front door and turned to one another. Again her hand was
put forth and I took it and raised it to my lips. When I lifted my head
I dimly saw a tear shining upon her cheek.
"Dear friend," she said, "I owe it all to you."
With this she clasped my shoulders in both hands and, for an instant,
her lips touched the side of my face.
A second later she had closed her door behind her, and I feverishly
changed my coat. Then, I put on my heavy ulster and made my way to the
old square, where I sat down in the frosty air. That touch upon my cheek
had left my temples throbbing, my heart on fire. The whole world seemed
confused, the shining stars were dancing overhead, the noises of the
sleeping city buzzed in my head, maddeningly.
Finally, I began to feel the cold, and the earth grew stiller and more
peaceful. An instant later a great milk-dray rattled across the square,
going up Fifth Avenue, the usual alarm warning me of bedtime. So I went
home, collected again and tranquil. She had given me a tiny fragment of
herself, a reward perhaps too great for the little I had been able to do
for her. Peace had returned to me and I fell asleep.