Part 42 (1/2)
The maid (the old German Jewess and Svengali's relative), distracted by the news of her master's death, had gone to the theatre. Gecko was in the hands of the police. Things had got to a terrible pa.s.s. But our three friends did their best, and were up most of the night.
So much for la Svengali's debut in London.
The present scribe was not present on that memorable occasion, and has written this inadequate and most incomplete description partly from hearsay and private information, partly from the reports in the contemporary newspapers.
Should any surviving eye-witness of that lamentable fiasco read these pages, and see any gross inaccuracy in this bald account of it, the P.
S. will feel deeply obliged to the same for any corrections or additions, and these will be duly acted upon and gratefully acknowledged in all subsequent editions; which will be numerous, no doubt, on account of the great interest still felt in ”la Svengali,” even by those who never saw or heard her (and they are many), and also because the present scribe is better qualified (by his opportunities) for the compiling of this brief biographical sketch than any person now living, with the exception, of course, of ”Taffy” and ”the Laird,” to whose kindness, even more than to his own personal recollections, he owes whatever it may contain of serious historical value.
Next morning they all three went to Fitzroy Square. Little Billee had slept at Taffy's rooms in Jermyn Street.
Trilby seemed quite pathetically glad to see them again. She was dressed simply and plainly--in black; her trunks had been sent from the hotel.
The hospital nurse was with her; the doctor had just left. He had said that she was suffering from some great nervous shock--a pretty safe diagnosis!
Her wits had apparently not come back, and she seemed in no way to realize her position.
”Ah! what it is to see you again, all three! It makes one feel glad to be alive! I've thought of many things, but never of this--never! Three nice clean Englishmen, all speaking English--and _such_ dear old friends! Ah! j'aime tant ca--c'est le ciel! I wonder I've got a word of English left!”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'THREE NICE CLEAN ENGLISHMEN'”]
Her voice was so soft and sweet and low that these ingenuous remarks sounded like a beautiful song. And she ”made the soft eyes” at them all three, one after another, in her old way; and the soft eyes quickly filled with tears.
She seemed ill and weak and worn out, and insisted on keeping the Laird's hand in hers.
”What's the matter with Svengali? He must be dead!”
They all three looked at each other, perplexed.
”Ah! he's dead! I can see it in your faces. He'd got heart-disease. I'm sorry! oh, very sorry indeed! He was always very kind, poor Svengali!”
”Yes. He's dead,” said Taffy.
”And Gecko--dear little Gecko--is he dead too? I saw him last night--he warmed my hands and feet: where were we?”
”No. Gecko's not dead. But he's had to be locked up for a little while.
He struck Svengali, you know. You saw it all.”
”I? No! I never saw it. But I _dreamt_ something like it! Gecko with a knife, and people holding him, and Svengali bleeding on the ground. That was just before Svengali's illness. He'd cut himself in the neck, you know--with a rusty nail, he told me. I wonder how!... But it was wrong of Gecko to strike him. They were such friends. Why did he?”
”Well--it was because Svengali struck you with his conductor's wand when you were rehearsing. Struck you on the fingers and made you cry! don't you remember?”
”Struck _me_! _rehearsing?_--made me _cry_! what _are_ you talking about, dear Taffy? Svengali never _struck_ me! he was kindness itself!
always! and what should _I_ rehea.r.s.e?”
”Well, the songs you were to sing at the theatre in the evening.”
”Sing at the theatre! _I_ never sang at any theatre--except last night, if that big place was a theatre! and they didn't seem to like it! I'll take precious good care never to sing in a theatre again! How they howled! and there was Svengali in the box opposite, laughing at me. Why was I taken there? and why did that funny little Frenchman in the white waistcoat ask me to sing? I know very well I can't sing well enough to sing in a place like that! What a fool I was! It all seems like a bad dream! What was it all about? _Was_ it a dream, I wonder!”
”Well--but don't you remember singing at Paris, in the Salle des Bas.h.i.+bazoucks--and at Vienna--St. Petersburg--lots of places?”