My Neighbor Raymond Part 21

"You're the most shameless liar I know. I'll bet that you bought a theatre check to-night, and that you've been to see the end of some play."

"You know perfectly well that I haven't got any money, uncle."

"Oh! you always have money to go to the theatre and to stuff yourself.

Come, monsieur, fill the gla.s.ses and pa.s.s them round to the ladies."

"That's it!" muttered the little nephew, turning angrily on his heel; "as soon as I get home, I have to be uncle's servant, they'd better get a negro. And then, the first thing in the morning, aunt sends me to get her milk and her fuel, and lights for her cat."

"You seem to be arguing the matter!" said Madame Vauvert, pinching Friquet's arm; "there! that's to teach you to grumble."

"Ow! how mean to pinch me like that, aunt! I shall be black and blue for a week."

"So much the better!"

"Mon Dieu! how ugly she is!" muttered Friquet; and I saw him, for consolation, take a slice of cake out of his pocket and swallow it in three mouthfuls.

But the shrill sounds had ceased; the tall young lady was no longer singing. The little chubby-faced man took her place; he was determined to sing his air from _Jean de Paris_, and we had to resign ourselves.

While he struggled to hold out his notes, coughing at every ritornelle to make us believe that he had a cold, I saw the other singers look at each other, make signs, yawn, and compress their lips. In truth, amateurs are more unkind than professionals, and they who are in great need of indulgence for themselves are always ready to tear others to tatters. They think to conceal their own mediocrity by calling attention to their neighbor's lack of talent; self-esteem, which blinds us to our own defects, impels us to seek out with avidity the faults of others, as if we were the gainers thereby! What folly! Because Monsieur So-and-So sings false, does that give you a fine voice? because he plays the violin badly, are you the better performer on the piano? because another is ugly, awkward, and ridiculous, are you any handsomer, more graceful, and more agreeable? Of course not; but it is always pleasant to see people at whom one can poke fun, and whom we believe to be less abundantly endowed by Nature than we. Remember that Roquelaure joyously threw himself on the neck of a man who seemed to him even uglier than himself. But, monsieur, what a difference! Roquelaure sacrificed his self-esteem; but you, had you been in his place, would have made sport of the man he embraced, and, turning to look in a mirror, would have deemed yourself handsome, I vow.

The _Princesse de Navarre_ being duly executed, the little man made the circuit of the salon, trying to pick up a word of praise, even from those whom he had so recently declared to be ignorant of music; for praise is always pleasant. Everybody told him that he had sung very well; that was inevitable; we were well bred, which means that we had ceased to be frank. I alone ventured to observe that he seemed to have a cold; he turned as red as a turkey c.o.c.k, and his nose vanished completely.

"That is so," he said at last; "I have a very bad cold; it embarra.s.sed me a great deal."

"Why did you sing, then?"

"Oh! people urged me so hard!"

And I had seen him dispute with Raymond for the opportunity! What strange creatures men are! But, hush! my neighbor was going to sing; that deserved attention. But, no; two other men antic.i.p.ated him; they sang an Italian duet, I believe; but it was difficult to understand the veritable hotchpotch they made at the piano: one shook his head to mark time, as a bear dances behind the bars of his cage; the other, who was evidently very short-sighted, kept his nose glued to the music. The young man who acted as accompanist tried in vain to make them sing together: it was impossible.

"You're behind," said one.

"That's because I skipped a line."

"Well, go on!"

"You go too fast; you hurry me. I never saw the music before, and to sing Italian at sight is devilish hard."

I was sure that he had been studying his part for a fortnight. Despite their efforts, they were obliged to leave the duet half sung.

"We will sing it the next time," said Monsieur Chamonin; "we shall be surer of ourselves then, for the piece needs to be carefully studied.

Rossini is very chromatic."

"That's so," said Vauvert, stuffing his nose with snuff, a part of which remained on his shirt front; "it's a pity you didn't finish it, for I thought it was very pretty."

"We'll go and hear it once more at the Bouffons."

"They had better stay there," said Gripaille, in an undertone, delighted by their misadventure.

"For my part, I don't care for Italian," said Madame Vauvert. "I never can hear anything but _tchi and tcha_; and it doesn't amuse me in the least."

"Oh! what blasphemy, madame! not like Rossini!"

"Who's Rossini, uncle?" inquired the youthful clerk, who had stolen into the salon. "Seems to me I've seen that name, in _Don Quixote_."

"The idiot, to mistake _Rosinante for Rossini_! Go and wash the gla.s.ses, b.o.o.by, and don't mix in the conversation again."

At last my neighbor was at the piano, and had opened his mouth to an enormous width to inform us that he had "long wandered o'er the world."

But at that moment we heard the notes of a 'cello, and Vauvert appeared with a music stand, which he placed in the centre of the salon.

"What on earth are you doing there?" shouted Raymond; "don't you see that I am singing?"

"Madame Witcheritche is going to play her solo on the 'cello."

"In a few minutes; I am singing now, I tell you. Madame Witcheritche can play afterward."

"No, she wants to play now, because it's getting late."

And paying no heed to the mutterings of Raymond, who, in his wrath, overturned the candlestick on the piano, Vauvert arranged the music stand, then went to usher in the German virtuoso, whom I had not previously noticed. She was a very handsome woman, very fair and somewhat insipid, like most German women, but well built and graceful; she held the 'cello between her legs with astonishing ease, and seemed not at all abashed. She played easily and with excellent taste; and I saw by the long faces of the members of the quartette that they had not expected to encounter in one of the other s.e.x a musical talent in presence of which they could no longer hope to shine.

I heard a voice at my ear incessantly repeating:

"Gut, gut, sehr gut; tudge lidely, holt te pow firm; lidely on te shtrings!"

I turned and saw a hideous face looking first at the performer, then at the company, making grimaces for tokens of approval, and rolling about a pair of eyes that reminded me of Brunet's in the _Desespoir de Jocrisse_. The owner of that extraordinary countenance was a tall man in a threadbare green coat, of vulgar aspect, and with pretentious airs which made him even more ridiculous.

"Who is that individual?" I asked one of my neighbors.

"That's the husband of the lady playing the 'cello."

"What! such a disgusting face approach that charming head! What an outrage! It reminds me of a Satyr beside a Hebe."

"Still, the lady seems to be fond of her husband."

"It's easy to see that she's a foreigner. What does this husband of hers do?"

"Nothing; he's a baron."

"A baron! I should never have suspected it; he looks more like a cobbler. But in Germany everybody's a baron, just as in Russia all the soldiers have decorations; it doesn't mean anything."

Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche, who, as he rolled his eyes about, had doubtless observed that I was looking at him, came to me as soon as his wife had finished, and began to converse with a smiling face. I have observed that the Germans smile a great deal when they are talking. I regretted that it was not courteous to laugh in a person's face, for Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche was very amusing to look at, especially when he wished to make himself agreeable. I wondered what he wanted of me.

"I'll pet tat monsir is ein egsberd on te 'cello. Monsir is ein much gut blayer himself, hein?"

"I, monsieur? you are mistaken; I do not play at all."

"Oh! you vish not to admit it; I can tivine all at once te innermost toughts of bersons py tare faces."

"The deuce! you are very fortunate, Monsieur le Baron de Witcheritche!"