Dry Fish and Wet Part 10

"Unfortunately, he imagined he was a genius, and gradually, as things got worse and worse, the struggle for a bare existence made him bitter, till he hated the world, and looked upon himself as a martyr condemned to suffering.

"Then he took to staying out late of an evening, and wrote less and less. By the time we had been there a year, the poet's wife was washing lace to keep the home together. In the autumn of the second year, he went down with pneumonia, and a week after the 'Nordland sun' was a widow. I couldn't go home, for I'd cut myself adrift from them completely when I married. There was nothing for it but to struggle along as best I could by myself, unknown and friendless in the great city. But, thank Heaven, I've always had my health and a cheerful temper, and little Betty was such a darling."

"Yes, she's a wonderful girl."

"She and I have fought our way together, Mr. Holm, and a hard fight it has been at times, believe me.

"Well, we got along somehow in Paris, for a few years, doing needlework, or giving music lessons at fifty centimes an hour. It was a cheerless existence mostly, as you can imagine, and if it hadn't been for the child I should have broken down long before.

"Then at last I got the offer of a place as accompanist at a concert hall in Hamburg, with a salary of a hundred marks a month for three hours' work every evening and two rehearsals a week. This was splendid, and I was in the highest spirits when I left Paris.

Besides, it was a little nearer home, and I used to be desperately home-sick at times, though I knew it was hopeless to think of going back.

"Imagine my feelings, then, when I got to the place and found it was a common music hall; though very decent, really, for a place of that sort."

"It was a beautiful place--at least, I thought so, when I saw you there."

"Well, there I sat, night after night, accompanying all sorts of more or less third-rate artistes. It used to make me wild, I remember, when they sang false, or were awkward in their gestures; I used to look at them in a way they would remember. And really, I managed to make them respect me after a time, though I was only twenty-five myself.

"Then, besides my evenings there, I gradually worked up a little connection giving music and singing lessons outside, till I was making enough to live fairly comfortably.

"But one day the whole staff went on strike, and left at a moment's notice, and there we were. The manager--you remember him, I dare say, Sonnenthal; man with a black waxed moustache and a big diamond pin--he came running in to me and said I must sing myself; it would never do to close down altogether in the height of the season. He thought he would get at least a couple of other turns, and if I would help it would get us over the difficulty.

"I told him I couldn't think of it--said I had no talent for that sort of thing; but he insisted, and offered me fifty marks a night if I would.

"Fifty marks was a fabulous sum to me for one night, then, after living on a franc and a half a day in Paris, and it meant so much for Betty. I began to think it over.

"And really I felt sure myself that I could do better than these half-civilised cabaret singers, from Lord knows where, that I'd been playing to for so long. But the parson's daughter found it hard to come down to performing like that.

"Then Sonnenthal offered me sixty marks. He thought, of course, it was only a question of money. It was too good to refuse, and I agreed.

"He got out new posters, with big lettering:

'SIGNORA BIANCA The World-renowned Singer from Milan now Appearing.'

"I remember how furious I was when the dresser came in to make me up, and I flung her paints and powders across the room. Sonnenthal came round and wanted me to go on in short skirts, but I told him in so many words that I was going to do it my own way or not at all; and, knowing how he was situated, of course he had to give in.

"I think he was impressed by the way I stood up to him. A little Roumanian girl, a pale, dark-eyed creature, who was simply terrified of Sonnenthal, like all the rest of them, came in to me afterwards and threw her arms round my neck and thanked me for having given him a lesson at last.

"It was with very mixed feelings that I went on that night for my first performance. The audience, of course, was composed of all sorts, and the performers were often interrupted by shouting, not always of applause.

"The house was full--it was packed. Sonnenthal knew how to advertise a thing.

"I gave them 'A Mountain Maid' to start with, a touching little thing, and I put enough feeling into it to move a stone, but not a hand was raised to applaud. Then I tried 'Solveig's Song' from _Peer Gynt_--that too was received with chilling silence.

"When I came off after the first two, I could see the others smiling maliciously: there's plenty of jealousy in that line of business. But it set my blood boiling, and I felt that irresistible impulse to go in and do something desperate, as I always do when anything gets in my way.

"I rushed on again, and gave the word to the orchestra for 'The Hungarian Gipsy,' a thing all trills and yodelling and such-like trick work--a show piece.

"I put all I knew into it this time, and yodelled away till the audience left their beer-gla.s.ses untouched on the tables--and that's saying a good deal with a crowd like that.

"When I finished, the hall rang with a thunder of applause--everyone shouting and cheering. I had to come before the curtain again and again. But I wouldn't give them an encore that time. I thought it best to have something in reserve, and not make myself cheap like the others.

"As I came off the last time, I couldn't help saying half aloud what I thought of my respected audience--_clowns_!

"But I'd found out how to handle them now, and I gave them the stuff they wanted, and plenty of it. I knew the sort of thing well enough.

For years they'd sat listening to the same type of short-skirted, rouged and powdered womenfolk, with the same more or less risky songs, the same antiquated kick-ups and the same cheap favour in their eyes. I took care myself always to appear as a lady, chose first-rate songs, and, as my salary increased--for I drew Sonnenthal gradually up the scale as I wished--I was able to dress in a style that astonished them.

"Do you remember when I sang 'The Carnival of Venice'?"

"Do I not! Saints alive, but you were a wonder to see. Every evening, all the month I was there, I came just to sit and look at you."

"Listen, you mean?"

"Well, perhaps that's what I ought to say. Anyhow, I know I strewed flowers enough at your feet that winter, though they cost me a mark apiece."

"Yes, you were kind, I know. But do you remember the dress I wore for that carnival thing? The bodice all white roses, and red and yellow for the skirt--it was a success--a sensation! 'Flowers in spring'

ah!"

She rose to her feet, and took a step forward, singing as she moved.

"When I came to that part, they all wanted to join in, but I had only to hold out my hand, so, and all was quiet in a moment, you remember?"

"Yes, indeed, you had a wonderful power over the sterner s.e.x; I felt it myself, I know. I swear I've never been more completely head over ears before or since."

"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Holm," she protested, with a hearty laugh, "we're past that sort of thing now, both of us. But you were good to me then, and I shall never forget it. I had enough and to spare in the way of offers and attentions, not to speak of making people furious because I always refused their invitation to champagne suppers behind the scenes."

"That was just what gave you the position and influence you had, I think."

"Yes, I think it was. I know that all the time I was there, yours was the only invitation I ever accepted, because you were a fellow-countryman, and so kind and considerate as well.

"I remember as if it were yesterday that dinner at the 'Pforte.'

There was a pheasant, with big tail-feathers large as life, do you remember? And when we got to the coffee, you wanted to hear the story of my life----"

"And you were silent as an Egyptian mummy."

"My parents were still living then, Mr. Holm, and I wished at least to spare them the sorrow of learning that their daughter was performing on the music-hall stage. Well, but I must go on.

"Fortunately, you were the only fellow-countryman I ever came in contact with while I was there; and, of course, I kept my nationality a secret as far as possible.

"When the summer came, I was so sick and tired of the life and the half-civilised surroundings, that I threw it up, and went to Copenhagen. I had saved enough by that time to keep me more or less comfortable for a while at least. But there was one little adventure I must tell about, before I left."

"This is getting quite exciting," said Holm, changing his seat and placing himself directly opposite her. "Go on. I'm curious to know."

"Well, I was as near as could be to becoming a Countess."

"Were you, though! How did it happen?"

"It's not altogether exceptional, you know, in the profession. But my little affair there is soon told. One of my most devoted admirers was a tall middle-aged man, well built, handsome, with dark hair and a big moustache. He looked like a military man. He was always most elegantly dressed, in a black frock-coat, with the red ribbon of some Order in his b.u.t.tonhole.