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a singer's romance by willa cather the rain fell in torrents and the great streamof people which poured out of the metropolitan opera house stagnated about the doors andseemed effectually checked by the black line of bobbing umbrellas on the side walk. theentrance was fairly blockaded, and the people who were waiting for carriages formed a solidphalanx, which the more unfortunate opera goers, who had to depend on street cars nomatter what the condition of the weather, tried to break through in vain. there wasmuch shouting of numbers and hurrying of drivers, from whose oil cloth covered hats the watertrickled in tiny streams, quite as though the brims had been curved just to accommodateit. the wind made the management of the hundreds
of umbrellas difficult, and they rose andfell and swayed about like toy balloons tugging at their moorings. at the stage entrance therewas less congestion, but the confusion was not proportionally small, and frau selma schumannwas in no very amiable mood when she was at last told that her carriage awaited her. asshe stepped out of the door, the wind caught the black lace mantilla wound about her headand lifted it high in the air in such a ludicrous fashion that the substantial soprano cut afigure much like a malicious beardsly poster. in her frantic endeavor to replace her sportiveheadgear, she dropped the little velvet bag in which she carried her jewel case. a youngman stationed by the door darted forward and snatched it up from the side walk, uncoveredhis head and returned the bag to her with
a low bow. he was a tall man, slender andgraceful, and he looked as dark as a spaniard in the bright light that fell upon him fromthe doorway. his curling black hair would have been rather long even for a tenor, andhe wore a dark mustache. his face had that oval contour, slightly effeminate, which belongsto the latin races. he wore a long black ulster and held in his hand a wide-brimmed, blackfelt hat. in his buttonhole was a single red carnation. frau schumann took the bag witha radiant smile, quite forgetting her ill humor. "i thank, you sir," she said graciously.but the young man remained standing with bared head, never raising his eyes. "merci, monsieur,"she ventured again, rather timidly, but his only recognition was to bow even lower thanbefore, and madame hastened to her carriage
to hide her confusion from her maid, who followedclose behind. once in the carriage, madame permitted herself to smile and to sigh a littlein the darkness, and to wonder whether the disagreeable american prima donna, who manufacturedgossip about every member of the company, had seen the little episode of the jewel bag.she almost hoped she had. this signorino's reserve puzzled her morethan his persistence. this was the third time she had given him an opportunity to speak,to make himself known, and the third time her timid advance had been met by silenceand down-cast eyes. she was unable to comprehend it. she had been singing in new york now eightweeks, and since the first week this dark man, clad in black, had followed her likea shadow. when she and annette walked in the
park, they always encountered him on one ofthe benches. when she went shopping, he sauntered after them on the other side of the street.she continually encountered him in the corridors of her hotel; when she entered the theatrehe was always stationed near the stage door, and when she came out again, he was stillat his post. one evening, just to assure herself, she had gone to the opera house when she wasnot in the cast, and, as she had hoped, the dark signor was absent. he had grown so familiarto her that she knew the outline of his head and shoulders a square away, and in the densestcrowd her eyes instantly singled him out. she looked for him so constantly that sheknew she would miss him if he should not appear. yet he made no attempt whatever to addressher. once, when he was standing near her in
the hotel corridor, she made pointless andincoherent inquiries about directions from the bell boy, in the hope that the young manwould volunteer information, which he did not. on another occasion, when she found himsmoking a cigarette at the door of the holland as she went out into a drizzling rain, shehad feigned impossible difficulties in raising her umbrella. he did, indeed, raise it forher, and bowing passed quickly down the street. madame had begun to feel like a very boldand forward woman, and to blush guiltily under the surveillance of her maid. by every doorstep,at every corner, wherever she turned, whenever she looked out of a window, she encounteredalways the dark signorino, with his picturesque face and spanish eyes, his broad brimmed blackfelt hat set at an angle on his glistening
black curls, and the inevitable red carnationin his button hole. when they arrived at the hotel antoinettewent to the office to ask for madame's mail, and returned to madame's rooms with a letterwhich bore the familiar post mark of monte carlo. this threw madame into an honest germanrage, refreshing to witness, and she threw herself into a chair and wept audibly. theletter was from her husband, who spent most of his time and her money at the casino, andwho continually sent urgent letters for re-enforcement. "it is too much, 'toinette, too much," shesobbed. "he says he must have money to pay his doctor. why i have sent him money enoughto pay the doctor bills of the royal family. here am i singing three and four nights aweek,—no, i will not do it."
but she ended by sitting down at her deskand writing out a check, with which she enclosed very pointed advice, and directed it to thesuave old gentleman at monte carlo. then she permitted 'toinette to shake outher hair, and became lost in the contemplation of her own image in the mirror. she had toadmit that she had grown a trifle stout, that there were many fine lines about her mouthand eyes, and little wrinkles on her forehead that had defied the arts of massage. her blondehair had lost its luster and was somewhat deadened by the heat of the curling iron.she had to hold her chin very high indeed in order not to have two, and there were littlepuffy places under her eyes that told of her love for pastry and champagne. above her ownface in the glass she saw the reflection of
her maid's. pretty, slender 'toinette, withher satin-smooth skin and rosy cheeks and little pink ears, her arched brows and longblack lashes and her coil of shining black hair. 'toinette's youth and freshness irritatedher to-night: she could not help wondering—but then this man was probably a man of intelligence,quite proof against the charm of mere prettinessl. he was probably, she reflected, an artistlike herself, a man who revered her art, and art, certainly, does not come at sixteen.secretly, she wondered what 'toinette thought of this dark signorino whom she must havenoticed by this time. she had great respect for 'toinette's opinion. 'toinette was byno means an ordinary ladies' maid, and madame had grown to regard her as a companion andconfidant. she was the child of a french opera
singer who had been one of madame's earliestprofessional friends and who had come to an evil end and died in a hospital, leaving heryoung daughter wholly without protection. as the girl had no vocal possibilities, madameschumann had generously rescued her from the awful fate of the chorus by taking her intoher service. "you have been contented here, 'toinette?you like america, you will be a little sorry to leave?" asked madame as she said good-night. "oh, yes, madame, i should be sorry," returned'toinette. "and so shall i," said madame softly, smilingto herself. 'toinette lingered a moment at the door; "madamewill have nothing to eat, no refreshment of
any kind?" "no, nothing tonight, 'toinette." "not even the very smallest glass of champagne?" "no, no, nothing," said madame impatiently. 'toinette turned out the light and left herin bed, where she lay awake for a long time, indulging in luxurious dreams. in the morning she awoke long before it wastime for 'toinette to bring her coffee, and lay still, with her eyes closed, while theearly rumble of the city was audible through the open window.
selma schumann was a singer without a romance.no one felt the incongruity of this more than she did, yet she had lived to the age of two-and-fortywithout ever having known an affaire de coeur. after her debut in grand opera she had marriedher former singing teacher, who at once decided that he had already done quite enough forhis wife and the world in the placing and training of that wonderful voice, and livedin cheerful idleness, gambling her earnings with the utmost complacency, and when herreproaches grew too cutting, he would respectfully remind her that he had enlarged her upperregister four tones, and in so doing had fulfilled the whole duty of man. madame had always beenindustrious and an indefatigable student. she could sing a large repertoire at the shortestnotice, and her good nature made her invaluable
to managers. she lacked certainly, that poignantindividuality which alone secures great eminence in the world of art, and no one ever wentto the opera solely because her name was on the bill. she was known as a thoroughly "competent"artist, and as all singers know, that means a thankless life of underpaid drudgery. herfather had been a professor of etymology in a german university and she had inheritedsomething of his taste for grubbing and had been measurably happy in her work. she practicedincessantly and skimped herself and saved money and dutifully supported her husband,and surely such virtue should bring its own reward. yet when she saw other women in thecompany appear in a new tiara of diamonds, or saw them snatch notes from the hands ofmessenger boys, or take a carriage full of
flowers back to the hotel with them, she hadfelt ill used, and had wondered what that other side of life was like. in short, fromthe wastes of this hum-drum existence which seems so gay to the uninitiated, she had wishedfor a romance. under all her laborious habits and thrift and economy there was left enoughof the unsatisfied spirit of youth for that. since the shadow of the dark signorino hadfallen across her path, the routine of her life hitherto as fixed as that of the planetsor of a german house wife, had become less rigid and more variable. she had decided thatshe owed it to her health to walk frequently in the park, and to sleep later in the morning.she had spent entire afternoons in dreamful idleness, whereas she should have been strugglingwith the new roles she was to sing in london.
she had begun to pay the most scrupulous attentionto her toilettes, which she had begun to neglect in the merciless routine of her work. shewas visited by many massageurs, for she discovered that her figure and skin had been allowedto take care of themselves and had done it ill. she thought with bitter regret that alittle less economy and a little more care might have prevented a wrinkle. one greatsacrifice she made. she stopped drinking champagne. the sole one of the luxuries of life she hadpermitted herself was that of the table. she had all her countrywomen's love for good living,and she had indulged herself freely. she had known for a long time that champagne and sweetswere bad for her complexion, and that they made her stout, but she had told herself thatit was little enough pleasure she had at best.
but since the appearance of the dark signorino,all this had been changed, and it was by no means an easy sacrifice. madame waited a long time for her coffee,but 'toinette did not appear. then she rose and went into her reception room, but no onewas there. in the little music room next door she heard a low murmur of voices. she partedthe curtains a little, and saw 'toinette with both her hands clasped in the hands of thedark signorino. "but madame," 'toinette was saying, "she isso lonely, i cannot find the heart to tell her that i must leave her." "ah," murmured the signorino, and his voicewas as caressing as madame had imagined it
in her dreams, "she has been like a motherto you, the madame, she will be glad of your happiness." when selma schumann reached her own room againshe threw herself on her bed and wept furiously. then she dried her eyes and railed at fortunein deep german polysyllables, and gesturing like an enraged valkyr. then she ordered her breakfast—and a quartof champagne. end of a singer's romance by willa cather