Читать книгу The Intriguers - William Le Queux - Страница 6

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Nello stood facing the big and fashionable audience. A celebrated accompanist was already seated at the piano. There was perfect silence in the vast assembly. In a few seconds the pianist would strike the opening chords, and Nello Corsini, the unknown violinist, must justify the faith that had been placed in him by Paul Degraux.

He felt sick and a little faint. As he looked dimly into that vast sea of expectant faces, he realised the ordeal to which he was exposed. In the little room in Dean Street, with Papa Péron and his worshipping sister for an audience, it was not difficult to feel at ease, to pour out his artistic soul. Even to Gay and Degraux, in the privacy of their apartments, he had given of his best.

But to-night he was before a vast audience, critical and fastidious. Had they not already sampled many executants, many equal to himself, not a few superior?

The salient episodes of his later life floated before him. His meeting with Papa Péron, his introduction to Gay, the placid evenings when he had played at the Parthenon for a small wage, his accident and the miserable days that had supervened, his desperate visit to the powerful Degraux, the marvellous success of that interview. And behind the recollection of all this, the memory of that dreadful time when he had played in the streets for a few wretched coppers to keep himself and his sister from want.

But to-night he was playing for fame and fortune, through the lucky chance of the great Bauquel’s absence. If he made good to-night, if he could secure the plaudits of this fashionable crowd, coppers would no longer be his portion, but sovereigns and Bank of England notes.

It was a brilliant assembly. In the Royal box sat the Queen of England, with the Prince and Princess of Wales. Peers and Peeresses were there by the dozen. Every other person was more or less distinguished. This was no audience gathered from the corners of mean streets.

As the pianist struck the opening chords, the mist cleared from the young man’s brain. Those upturned faces which met his fascinated gaze were no longer charged with cold hostility, but full of friendliness, of welcome to a new and untried artist. He drew his bow caressingly across the strings, and began.

The last plaintive notes died away—he had chosen to open with an exquisite romance of Greig’s. The applause was sincere, but it was not fervent. Degraux, standing anxiously in the wings, had to admit that it was not fervent. And then, suddenly, Bauquel’s noisy claque burst forth in a storm of hisses. They were paid by the popular favourite to howl down any likely rival.

The young man’s face went white as death. Was the chance going to be snatched from him? Would he leave the theatre a failure, to the disgust of the man who had befriended him and put faith in him?

The storm of hisses, hired disapprobation, died slowly down, countered, as it was, with a little decorous and well-mannered applause. The charming romance of Greig, though exquisitely played, had failed to really touch the audience. If the great Bauquel, with his well-established reputation, had rendered it, the house would have been in a furore.

Corsini’s next item was a piece by Chopin. Amid the din of the contending hisses and applause, the pianist beckoned to the young man and they exchanged whispers.

“Take my advice; leave the Chopin piece. They are not in the melancholy mood to-night: they want something brilliant, an undernote of pathos with a cascade of fireworks to relieve the sadness. Play that romance of yours, with the variations. Cut the theme as short as possible; use it as just an introduction. Get to work on the variations, those will fetch them.”

Nello set his teeth firmly; opposition, the suspicion of failure, had goaded him to fresh effort, to a fuller belief in his own powers. He remembered the good old Papa’s injunction: “If you do not outplay that charlatan, Bauquel, I will never forgive you.”

And he played as one inspired. The violin, a legacy from his father, sang and sobbed and thrilled as it had never done before. When he had finished the applause was hearty and vehement. The hisses of the Bauquel claque could no longer be heard. The unknown young violinist had made good and won the plaudits of one of the most critical audiences in Europe.

Degraux met him in the wings and shook him warmly by the hand. “A thousand thanks. I see now I was right in engaging you, in speculating on a chance. Now, come to my room. You told me something yesterday about certain things in Dean Street. Cheques are no good to you. You want ready money.”

Nello admitted that it was so. Together they hastened into the director’s private room. Degraux went to a small safe, unlocked it and drew forth a roll of notes.

“See here, my young friend, you have saved the position. For the moment, that rascal Bauquel is temporarily eclipsed. Here is your fee, double what I promised.”

Nello protested faintly. “But, Monsieur, this is too much. And remember, please, I was very nearly a failure. Bauquel’s claque was almost too much for me.”

Degraux laughed light-heartedly. “Very nearly, but not quite. You say your good old Papa Péron calls him a charlatan. The expression is perhaps a little strong. He is not that, but he is perhaps not the genius he thinks himself, or his friends think him.”

“I should be more than delighted to possess his reputation, Monsieur,” interrupted the young Italian.

Degraux laid his hand lightly on Nello’s shoulder.

“I see, Corsini, you have a head upon your shoulders. Will you permit me to give you a few words of sound advice?”

“A thousand if you are so disposed, Monsieur.”

“You have scored a triumph of sorts to-night, but don’t let it give you a swollen head.”

“It will not, Monsieur, I can assure you,” was the answer.

“That is well; preserve the business head as well as the artistic instinct. This profession is full of ups and downs. Look at Bauquel! In spite of his considerable earnings, he is always in debt, always in the hands of money-lenders. He earns easily, he spends more easily. In five years he will be ousted from his position by younger and more talented rivals, and he will be penniless. He will probably come to me to borrow a sovereign.”

“And you will let him have it, I am sure, Monsieur,” said Nello warmly. “You have a very kind heart.”

“Of course I shall let him have it. But, at the same time, I shall take advantage of the opportunity to say, ‘here it is, friend Bauquel. But why did you not save in the fat years, instead of spending your money on a miserable claque, in order to spoil my show? And you know, moreover, you were absolutely in the wrong.’”

Nello could not refrain from smiling. Paul Degraux was very human. He could not forgive Bauquel for his cavalier treatment.

“I am a frugal Italian, Monsieur. I shall never waste my money.”

Paul Degraux swelled out his broad chest. “You will get on, my young friend. Look at me! Twenty or twenty-five years ago I was playing in a small orchestra with Gay at a few shillings a week—I have no doubt Gay has told you of that little episode. I know he is a very garrulous person—a dear good chap, but garrulous. Well, Gay is there and I am here. Why?”

He thundered out the question, expanding still further his broad chest.

Nello temporised. The great director was evidently in a confidential mood. It was as well to fall in with his humour.

“Ah, why, Monsieur? I should like to know. I am sure I should learn a good deal.”

Degraux, in his present mood, was pleased to have a listener. The concert was going on splendidly with experienced stars. It no longer required his attention.

“Listen, my young friend! I devoted myself to the business side of art. I saw more money was to be made out of exploiting other people than being exploited by others. Do you understand?”

“I think I do,” said the young Italian, who was fairly shrewd for his years. “In fact, I am sure I do.”

“Good! Gay followed the artistic side.” Degraux snapped his fingers contemptuously. “The result: poor Gay, at his age, conducting a small orchestra at the Parthenon—a good one, I admit; but what is the remuneration? I, Paul Degraux,” again he tapped his broad chest significantly, “am here in a great position. I have followed the business side of art; poor old Gay has followed the artistic side. Bah!”

“You advise me, Monsieur, to cultivate the business side?” queried the young man.

“Of course. I am giving you good advice; sound advice. You have made a little stir here, certain things may follow from it. But still, you have not the reputation of Bauquel, second-rater that he is. Bauquel will be on his knees to me next week, and of course I shall take him back. It may be, when you come to me again, I can only give you a second place in the programme. The way will be hard from the artistic point of view.”

Nello listened with deep attention. Degraux was a man of business to his finger-tips. Certainly he was giving him good advice.

“And what are they, these artists, except the very few who are in the front rank—creatures of an hour, of the public’s caprice? Joachim, Sarasate, those are names to conjure with; they are permanent. But the others come and go. I, one of the directors of the Italian Opera, remain while they disappear. The exploiters are permanent, the exploited are transitory.”

“What do you advise, Monsieur?” asked Nello timidly. This whirlwind of a man half fascinated, half repelled him.

Monsieur Degraux held out his hand with his frank, engaging smile.

“Be exploited as long as it suits your book. Then save money and exploit other people. I cannot stay any longer. I have given you a few hints. You must work them out for yourself.”

A new world was opening to Nello Corsini, the talented young violinist who, only a few weeks ago, had played in the street on the chance of the coppers flung by passers-by. But it was absurd! How could he ever be a Paul Degraux? And yet, Degraux had played twenty-five years ago in a small orchestra for a pittance. What was his income now? Something princely.

He longed to hasten back to Dean Street with that precious sheaf of notes. How the dear old Papa’s eyes would lighten up at the news of his success, when he told him the tale of how Bauquel’s claque had been silenced. And the dear little Anita too! Tears of joy would run down her cheeks.

Degraux, or Bauquel, after such a night of triumph, would have taken a cab. But such an idea was alien to Nello’s frugal temperament. It was only a few moments’ walk. He took his violin case in his hand and stepped along bravely.

As he emerged from the theatre a footman in handsome livery laid his hand upon his arm.

“Pardon me, Signor Corsini. The Princess Zouroff wishes to speak to you. Will you follow me, please? I will lead you to her carriage.”

He followed the tall footman. The Princess, a grey-haired woman of tall and commanding presence, leaned through the carriage window.

“Ah, Signor Corsini, I have been enchanted with your playing to-night. I am giving a reception at the Russian Embassy, in Chesham Place, to-morrow evening. I shall be so pleased if you will come and play for us—at your own fee, of course.”

Nello shot a swift glance into the carriage. On the back seat, facing the horses, were the grey-haired woman and a beautiful young girl. On the front seat was a dark, handsome man of about thirty-five.

He recognised them at once, the man and the young girl. They were the two who had driven down the street to the Royalty Theatre on that dark winter night when he had been playing in the streets.

“Enchanted, Madame. I will present myself to you to-morrow evening. Will you forgive me if I render you only very brief thanks at the moment? I have a very dear friend, I fear at the point of death, to whom I must hasten.”

The grey-haired Princess inclined her head graciously. “Pray do not wait a moment. I am sorry such trouble is awaiting you on the night of so great a success.”

Nello raised his hat and was moving away, when the charming girl leaned forward and spoke impetuously.

“One second, Signor; we might be of assistance to you. Will you please give me the name of your friend, and his address?” She had recognised him the moment he appeared on the platform as the wandering musician she had passed on her way to the Royalty Theatre.

She turned eagerly to the Princess, her mother. “We might send our own doctor, Sir Charles Fowler, he is so very clever. Perhaps this gentleman’s friend has not had the best medical advice.”