Part 25 (1/2)
Yet, who knows? It may be that, for many years yet, I may from time to time see Frances, even if her art should take her at times far from me.
She may teach Baby Paul to look upon me as some sort of uncle, who bears him great affection and even love. The boy may, in the future, come to me and tell me of his pleasures and his pains, and listen to the advice old fellows so freely and uselessly give. And I will talk to him of his mother, of the brave good woman who toiled for him, who shed the benison of her tenderness on him, and yet had some left that she could bestow on the obscure scribbler. Never will I tell him that the writer of stories loved her, for that is something that must remain locked up in my heart.
CHAPTER XVII
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 const.i.tuted 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 ma.n.u.script?”
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 gnas.h.i.+ngs 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.
”h.e.l.lo! 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 p.r.o.nounced 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----”