Читать книгу A Matter Of Millions - Anna Katharine Green - Страница 6

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“I shall not say much about my childhood,” the Signorina Valdi began. “It was like that of many other girls left to grow up in a great city, in the shabby gentility necessitated by small means. My father was a doctor and only half successful, and that in a quarter of the town where most of the patients never pay, and the few that do, pay so little that comfort is scarcely known in the house and luxury never. My mother was an invalid, and, there being no other children, I grew up in the comparatively empty house a creature of fancies and dreams. My voice was my great companion. I dared not sing in the parlors or where my mother could hear me too plainly, but would go away into the garret, where in undisturbed possession of so much empty space, I would sing and trill till I was utterly exhausted or my stock of songs gave out. Later, I took to acting, having seen one opera through the kindness of a school-teacher of mine who knew my passion and had accidentally overheard my voice one day. For even then I never sang before any one, and if by chance I caught any one listening, my throat choked up and I broke out into a cold perspiration. But this was inexperience, as I thought, and I went on cherishing my dreams and acting over and over imaginary scenes from operas which I knew only by name, creating songs and manufacturing situations which must have been sufficiently crude and ridiculous, but which gave my voice a chance and allowed enough of my fervor to expend itself to prevent me from falling ill or becoming desperately dissatisfied and unhappy.

“When I was fourteen, my mother died, and two years after this, my father. But I was not discouraged. I had my voice, and, child that I was, I imagined I had only to lift it in public to have fame and fortune lavished upon me. I was soon undeceived in this regard; for, in the first place, I could not raise my voice in public, and, in the second place, the very first musical adept I saw explained to me how much study and practice were necessary to achieve even the smallest success. Study I did not shrink from and practice was simply a delight. But I had no money, and training is expensive, and so is mere living. I found difficulty in existing till one happy day—was it happy?—I let my voice out in what I supposed to be an empty church, but which in reality contained a great teacher, who, hearing me, thereupon took me in charge and started me on a career which he said would end in wealth and adulation.

“Alas, for me, I believed him, and was no longer hungry or cold or meanly clothed. At least, I did not feel my hunger or the chill of the room in which I worked at sewing or copying, or anything which would furnish me with daily bread. And as for my clothes, they were so certainly destined to change into the silver and gold tissues befitting an opera queen, that I have sometimes laughed, in passing through the streets, to think how the men and women who jostled me so rudely would one day feel proud if I cast them a glance or bestowed upon them the haughtiest of smiles.

“My companion and the only confidante of my dreams was this old Portuguese crone whom you see with me now. I had made her acquaintance in the depths of my poverty, and being none too well off, had found no other friend who could supply her place in faithfulness and devotion. She is not prepossessing to look at, but she loves me; too well I fear, for she would not even let me die, though she knew my secret desperation.

“But this is hurrying on too fast. I studied then, long and faithfully, and practiced every hour, when I was not obliged to work for my subsistence. Hope sustained me, and the days flew by on wings. My eighteenth birthday passed, and the day was set for me to try my voice in concert. Had I carried out this intention, I might have been saved two more years of useless labor and vain hope. But unfortunately, at the last minute, a spirit of opposition seized me, and I refused to test my powers till I could do so with all the eclat of scenery and costume. I would appear as Margherita or not at all, and my foolishness was listened to, and my debut postponed.

“A new teacher now took me in charge. I was able to pay him something, but not much. Never mind; there was a future in store for me; I was but running up a debt which I could easily liquidate by one night of triumphant song. If he were willing to wait—and he seemed to be—I certainly could do this, for my voice and manner and style were improving daily, and ere long the doors of the theaters must open before me, and wealth and honor take the place of indigence and obscurity.

“Looking at me now and remembering my failure, can you imagine such folly? You must be young and poor and have a voice to do it. Why, this room has been peopled with visions, I have seen myself in the possession of every power, every happiness. When my fingers ached with writing, I have thought of the day in store for me, when just my signature would be worth gold. Till then I wanted no companionship, and felt myself untempted by pleasure or wealth. Till I could enjoy all, I wanted nothing. I preferred to take my happiness at a bound, and from these rooms of faded grandeur and sordid suggestions, step at once into the palatial apartments suited to the successful prima donna.

“You can imagine, then, the excitement of those days, when I was informed by my enthusiastic teacher, that the time had come for my appearance, and that after two short months of rehearsal, the stage of the ——should be ready for my debut. If time flew before, it halted now. Never, never would those two months pass! And yet they ought not to have gone so slowly, for I was very busy. The rehearsals themselves were enough to absorb me; and they did, but they never left me satisfied, and I longed to end them. Somehow I needed an audience, or so I thought. I could not warm up to empty benches; but my manager seemed satisfied, and fed me with flatteries, and expended great sums of money on my toilets and the stage accessories. He was sure of success, but not so sure as I was. I can say this now, since I have so egregiously failed. I neither doubted my voice nor my training nor my spirit. I left this room on that fatal night, calm. I took what I thought to be my last look of these miserable apartments, with the quiet farewell of one who feels her fortune assured. I left behind in it many memories, but I went forward to great hopes. When I heard the door close, I had the feeling of something shutting upon my past, and went downstairs and out to my carriage with a different step than that which had been accustomed to mark my departure.

“This feeling followed me to the theater, and increased, rather than diminished, with the putting on of the dainty robes which another’s enthusiasm had procured for me. Nor did the sounds of the orchestra make me quail, nor the voice of the call-boy; nothing moved me till, having crossed the stage, I caught a glimpse—or did I feel the presence—of the vast crowd that awaited in eager expectancy for my first notes. Then, indeed, a dagger entered my heart, and terror, such as the victim of the amphitheater alone can know, caught me in its clutches, paralyzing throat and limbs till I could have welcomed any death that would have annihilated my consciousness. I was before the footlights; I was in the spot where I had pictured myself for years, and I could not sing a note; I could not even fly; I must stop and face the wonder, the pity, the disgust, that must be on every countenance, till Fate should come to my aid and break the spell that bound me.

“It came in the shape of a few stray efforts at applause, doubtless meant for my encouragement. The sound—it was the first I had heard—seemed to loosen the icy fetters that held my limbs enchained, and I sank, suffering frightfully, upon the floor of the stage I was never more to mock by my presence. The curtain was rung down and I was carried away, whither, I hardly knew, and to what I could even then dimly guess, for my heart was broken, and my only earthly hope was at an end.”

“But,” eagerly interposed the artist, “you may be mistaken about this. Stage fright is common. Our greatest actors are subject to it. It is rather thought by them the token of genius, and a promise of future success. Surely, your manager—”

“Do not speak of him, or of my masters. I shudder at the thought of their anger and cruel disappointment. I have never been able to face them, nor never can till I become able to reimburse them for all their useless expense. As for making another attempt, that is impossible. I had rather die! At the mere thought of confronting again that cruel sea of faces, the blood stops flowing in my veins and the world turns black before me. I was not made for a prima donna, or rather, something is lacking in me necessary for success upon the stage. Yet that success is all I have lived for, and without it, what am I?”

“What are you?” The voice of the artist trembled, his eyes spoke the admiration he could not suppress. “A young, beautiful and pure girl. Is that not enough? Most persons would think it wealth.”

“It will not get me bread,” she murmured. “It will not pay my debts, those horrible debts, that weigh upon me like lead. It was this thought that made my return to these walls so bitter. It was this thought which, day by day, forced me into a deeper despair, till at last I only longed for death, as a release from my perplexity and pain. It was a wicked longing, but it was the only one I knew, so last night I sent Annetta for a deadly poison (she had often told me she could get me one) and believing that the powder which she brought me was what she said it was, I took it, and lay down on my own little bed to die. The result is what you know. She deceived me, and gave me a preparation which merely simulates death. Was it wise in her? Time alone can tell,”

“Signorina!” It seemed the natural word for him to use, though every feature of her face and every grace of her person proclaimed her to be an American girl, pure and simple. “I cannot doubt but that the Portuguese did well. I cannot doubt but that the future holds for you all that even your ardent spirit can desire. But—” He paused, affected by her look. From a sad and despairing creature, she had flashed, as it were, into one all cheerfulness and hope. The change was marvelous. He hardly knew the beaming face, the glowing eye. Had his heart betrayed itself in his words? Did she see and respond to the passion which every moment of this sweet but dangerous intercourse was deepening within him? He dared not search her eyes to see. He was content to feel her joy and warm himself at the fire of her growing hope.

“You do not go on,” she breathed. “You think we have talked long enough for to-night. Well, you are right. You have heard enough of misery and I have gained enough of strength to make parting between us easy, just now. So, good-bye, sir, till—”

She looked up and smiled. Ah, how sweet that smile was; how innocent and confiding, He drew back from before it slowly, but firmly; he had fears of his own judgment, of his own strength; he would say good-night and come again when reason should be more under his own control and he could weigh the treasure he coveted before he took it for his own.

But two paces from the door, a fresh thought struck him. The mystery of her awakening had been revealed, but not that which surrounded the picture he had been paid to draw. Till he understood the purpose for which a copy of her face and form had been requested from his pencil, he could not go. The story she had told of her lonely struggle and disastrous failure only made his desire greater. Since there was nothing in her history to account for this mysterious circumstance, how could it be accounted for? Were there facts in her life which she had omitted to relate? He must learn or pass a sleepless night. Coming back, he confronted her again.