The Last Call: A Romance (Vol. 3 of 3)

CHAPTER XVIII

It was hard for Lavirotte, after his life of aspiration after musical distinction, his devotion to the art, his study of it, his year at Milan, to drop all this and take up a subject which, although it had, now and then, occurred to his mind as one likely to enthral him, had so little in consonance with that which he was about to lay down. It was hard for him, at one cast of the die, to turn his face away from all the bright, luxuriant pageantry that waits upon the gifted and cultivated human voice, and give his thoughts to bones, and the immediate clothing of bones; to disorders of the human frame, and the immediate occasion of these disorders; to the coarse familiarity of the dissecting-room, and the function of inquiry which must be attuned to callous sentiment. In the art of the singer, when the rudiments of his art are his, perception, sympathy, sentiment, exaltation of emotional ideas, are the basis upon which his success must rest. In the art of the doctor, rigid, frigid examination, and mathematical deductions must lead to the only results which he desires. Lavirotte was torn anew with the conflict which years ago had raged within him. His resolution of that morning, although it then seemed firm as the solid earth on which he stood, now waved and swayed as though it were no more than an instable ship upon an unstable sea. Eugene's letter had brought back to him vividly all his dreams of the past, and in that vision of Eugene's future he had done little more than reproduce the dreams in which he had himself indulged as to his own career. His heart, as far as love was concerned, lay in the tomb, and to judge by his present frame of mind, there was no likelihood the sight of woman would ever again move him as it had when Dora was the guiding star of his existence. Yet he knew that with time the acuteness of his present suffering would pass away. He felt at that moment it would be cruel that his woe should leave him. But his reason told him it would. He knew that as years went by these love troubles of man's early life grew less and less until they seemed insignificant, paltry, ludicrous. But in this, the very height of his affliction, the notion his sorrow might die was an additional cause of torture to him. He knew that in his present state of mind the future was sure to display a gloomy and forbidding aspect. He knew that people, in the presence of great personal grief, were usually indifferent to any considerations but those of their grief. He knew that when a man loses all his fortune, it is no great additional blow to that man to hear that a horse of his is killed. He was quite prepared that the whirligig of time would, to some extent, set him right in the main affairs of life. But now he was in no humour to discount his present situation. His woe seemed to soothe him. It was the only consolation he had. Still he could not banish from his mind the influence of that glorified vision. He could not get out of his mind the fact that some day, soon, the voice of Eugene O'Donnell would burst upon English ears and take them captive. To be a great tenor was one of the most glorious privileges given to man during his lifetime. The general, the statesman, the painter, had all during their lifetime periods of great triumph. There was no period when, like the statesman, he was out of power; when, like the general, his sword was sheathed in the days of peace; or when, like the painter, he was busy at his easel at the work which, when completed, would bring him applause. Every time a popular tenor sang, the public testified to the utmost their enjoyment and appreciation. The tenor was not bound to any land. He needed no majority, no army, no colour-box. He was the only man who could make a fortune with absolutely no stock-in-trade except what nature and art had given him. He was equally effective by the Tiber or the Neva, in Buda-Pesth or Chicago. Climates or tongues had no power of limiting him. English, Italian, French, German, it did not matter what his nationality, or what his language, he appealed to all hearts, to all peoples. In the face of this universality of tenors in power, what a limited hole-and-corner thing the art of medicine seemed. It was all locked up in crooked words, in dreary books. Its terminology was supplied by the inarticulated bones of dead languages. The greatest glory it afforded was an article in a learned magazine, a reference to one's labour by some distinguished fellow-worker. How had he ever come to think of this as a career? It was no livelier than living in a vault, spending one's life in a charnel-house. Bah! He would get away from this gloomy climate, and this still more gloomy idea of medicine. He would change his mind again. A man had a perfect right to change his mind. He would go south once more, to the land of colour and song, and devote himself anew to the glorious art he had long ago selected. He would be a singer-a tenor, a glorious tenor, an unrivalled tenor. He would be a head and shoulders taller than any of the pigmy tenors now on the boards. He would be town talk, world talk. He would be a second and a greater Mario. Everything was in his favour. He had a fine voice, fine manner, good stage presence, and he felt sure he could act. He would be greater than Eugene. He had more go and dash about him than Eugene, and there was not much to choose between their voices. Some people said Eugene's voice was more sympathetic and tender than his, and that he never could approach the Irishman in cantabile singing. But, after all, who cared much about cantabile singing? What people liked most was to hear the whole organ, the full chest; and in the higher register of the chest he could walk away from Eugene. He would not deny to himself that the quality of Eugene's voice was superior. It might be Eugene would never fail to melt his audience, but he, Lavirotte, could rouse them, and in martial music would make Eugene seem a tame and somewhat faded hero. What was this? Here was O'Donnell once more occupying all his thoughts, absorbing all his attention! It was only that morning he had fully considered his relation with the O'Donnells, and traced their hand in every misfortune which had befallen him of late. Taken in this regard, it seemed as though Eugene was going to dominate the future. One of his reasons for thinking of taking up mental pathology as a career, was in order that he might escape from the circle in which Eugene moved. If he had really adopted that gloomy art as a profession, and if, when he was finally committed to it and could not think of going back to singing, Eugene made a great reputation on the boards, how should he feel? There was no doubt whatever he should feel extraordinarily jealous. There is no doubt whatever he could not endure to see Eugene's triumphs. He could not go near the theatre, he could not read the reports in the newspaper, he could not hear with patience those praises of Eugene. It would have been a fatal mistake for him to take to medicine and give up his present profession. It would have embittered all his life and made him feel an undying enmity towards Eugene. Yes, it would be much better for him to go on and qualify himself for opera, and spend the remainder of his life in friendly rivalry with Eugene, rather than breed hatred of his friend by abandoning his beloved career. Where was he now! Ay, this was Covent Garden. This was to be the scene of his future triumphs. He and Eugene were to be the leading tenors. They were to sing alternately, and public favour was to be slightly on the side of him, Lavirotte. Just slightly in his favour. Enough to gratify him without hurting Eugene. He would not like to hurt Eugene. He would let no man hurt him. But he himself had little desire to play second fiddle. On the lyric stage he should be first, and Eugene second. He did not want more money than his friend. They should each have a hundred a night, say, and he a little more popularity, a little more fame. He would not stop in this dingy, murky climate any longer. He would start at once for Italy. He would be in Milan before the end of the week. He would embrace his old friend Eugene, take up his old studies, and fall once more into his old ways. Lavirotte hailed a cab and drove back to Porter Street. He had little or no preparations to make for his departure, and that evening he was on the way to Italy. He lost no time in calling on his friends. He found Eugene and Nellie at home. He shook hands cordially with both, and said: "Of course, Eugene, the minute I got back I came to see you and your wife." "And the boy?" said Mrs. O'Donnell with a smile, as the door opened and the child was carried into the room by its little Italian nurse. "And the boy," said Lavirotte, echoing her words, and touching the plump cheek of the child with the forefinger of his right hand.

CHAPTER XIX

It was decided in less than a year from the death of Dora Harrington, that the Scala had done all it could for Lavirotte. Eugene O'Donnell was to tarry still a month or so, and Lavirotte decided not to leave Milan until his friend was ready to go. During these twelve months Lavirotte had been studiously quiet. He had given all his attention to his business, and if there ever had been any weakness on his part towards Luigia, the death of Dora and his visit to London seemed to have put an end to it. Daily he had seen the O'Donnells. Daily he had shaken the hands of Eugene and Nellie. Daily he had seen their boy, and danced him in his arms, or played with him, or sung to him. He had said privately to Eugene: "Once upon a time, when I was mad, I was in love with your wife. Now I think I am in love with your boy. You know I am the last living member of my race. I am still a young man, it is true, but I shall never marry. My heart is in the grave with Dora. Still I cannot help feeling that I should like to leave behind me someone with my name. It was never a great name, as you know; yet once upon a time a Lavirotte did something, and if the blood were continued, it might do something again. But all is over now, and my race is at an end. All is over, and there will be no more of mine." To such speeches as these, O'Donnell had replied jestingly, saying: "You will be a widower twice before you die. Mind, I shall be godfather to your eldest boy." Lavirotte would simply shake his head sadly, and say: "Ay, you shall be godfather, if ever there is need of one." Then he would shake his head again, and sigh, and change the subject of conversation, as though it were distasteful to him. So the time slipped away, until at last it was decided that Eugene should leave. Neither he nor Lavirotte had by this time much money left, and each felt the necessity of procuring immediate employment. When they reached London they took lodgings in Percy Street, Fitzroy Square. It was pleasant to be back once more within the sound of the familiar tongue. Italy, with its blue skies and melodious language, was a thing "to dream of, not to see." Not as in the weird poem, a thing of terror, but a thing of joy in memory, rather than of joy in experience. For, Frenchman though Lavirotte was by descent and birth, he was now more familiar with the northern idiom, and all his thoughts were framed in that tongue. Both to him and O'Donnell it was a relief to cease translating. When they were at Milan, no matter how familiar the idea which presented itself, it had to be shifted from the accustomed words into other words. Now each could listen at leisure, and drink in meanings without effort, and communicate ideas with, as it were, the primitive effort of the mere tongue. Here was luxurious ease compared to toilful effort. Here was a privilege greater than all the consciousness of having overcome an unaccustomed dialect. To think as freely as one who thinks in dreams, and utter one's thoughts as unsuspiciously as the rudest peasant who has never contemplated the possibility of error in his speech, was a new luxury, an unexpected, a seemingly undeserved boon, presented every morning at waking, and not withdrawn when the curtains of the night were closed. It was pleasant to get back once more to the familiar living, the familiar cooking, even the familiar dulness of the atmosphere. The evenings were already getting short, and more than one fog had visited London that season. But although Eugene and Lavirotte found themselves once more in London, fully equipped for the ocean in which each meant to launch himself, to neither did it seem there was any immediate chance of employment; and, in fact, all arrangements had been made for the remainder of that season. Each found it necessary to practise the strictest economy. Lavirotte had still something left, and only that Eugene's father was able to spare, out of the little which remained to him from the wreck of his fortune, something for his son, Eugene, his wife and child might have known what absolute hunger was. Eugene had two rooms, and Lavirotte one. They did not live in the same house, but they met daily, Lavirotte coming to Eugene's place, and spending an hour or so in the evening with his friend. "I shall not be able to hold out," said Lavirotte on one occasion, "more than a couple or three months, if something doesn't turn up." "I should not have been able to hold out so long," said Eugene, "only that my father was able to lend me a hand." "It's weary work, waiting," said Lavirotte. "But still, I do not despair." "Not only do I not despair," said Eugene, "but I mean to succeed. Neither of us is a fool, and there are worse men, at our business, making a living in London. Why should we starve?" These were gallant words, but facts were hard upon the two. Lavirotte was the first to meet with a piece of luck. It was not much. In some remote kind of way, through Cassidy's agency, he was asked to sing at a concert in Islington, and got a guinea for the night. When the expenses of gloves and a cab were taken out of this guinea, very little remained as remuneration to the singer. But still it was better to do something than nothing, and Lavirotte was a few shillings less poor by the transaction. Although he had not even yet abandoned hope of getting a hundred pounds a night, he no longer thought it likely he would reach such an El Dorado soon. He would have been very glad to take ten pounds a night; ay, to take ten pounds a week. He would have been glad to take a pound a night. Eugene had told him that he, Eugene, would be glad to sing for nothing if he could only get an "appearance." Each assured the other that he was worth half-a-dozen of those in the ruck of singers. Each told the other, with perfect candour, he estimated his friend's value at not a penny less than fifty pounds a week. And yet each would there and then have been glad to sign an agreement at five pounds a week. Mr. John Cassidy had no longer any great interest in either of the pair. There was no longer anything to be found out about them. Cassidy was not, in grain, unprincipled or immoral. He did not love mischief for mischief sake. He was simply a feeble, crawling thing. He could not help crawling. But he felt very much pleased at being able to befriend Lavirotte. He owed no grudge to either man. In fact, he felt a certain kind of gratitude to Lavirotte for having once supplied him with a matter in which he took a deep interest. He was still employed at the railway; and the concert, in which Lavirotte sang, was one got up with a view to supplying means of presenting a testimonial to a superannuated servant of the company. There was, of course, no chance of a similar engagement coming Lavirotte's way. Eugene was present that night, and heard his friend sing. In all likelihood there never yet was a tenor absolutely free from jealousy, and Eugene felt he would like to be in Lavirotte's shoes, and he was certain he could have done at least as well as his friend. Nay, if the truth must be told, he was certain he could do better. Lavirotte, on his side, was haunted by an uneasy feeling of the same kind. His success was undoubted; but he knew very well that it was acquired by what Eugene would call noise. He got as much applause as the heart of man could desire. He got two "encores." He was congratulated by the secretary and treasurer to the fund, and at the supper which followed the concert, he sang the "Bay of Biscay" with tremendous power and effect. Eugene was at that supper also, and in response to the chairman's invitation, an invitation suggested by Lavirotte, he sang. Eugene sang "My pretty Jane;" and then, partly because Eugene's tender rendering of the ballad came upon those present as a surprise, and partly because Lavirotte's public performance had prepared them, and partly because Lavirotte's singing was so ill-proportioned to the room in which the supper was given that it hurt, almost, they did not encore Lavirotte, and they did encore Eugene. And then Eugene, with great discretion and modesty, sang no new song, but repeated the last stanza of "My pretty Jane," and sang it gentler than he had at first, singing as though it were a thing of no matter, no effort, as though he could not keep the melody back, but must, in good-humoured ease, let it float from him as a man lets pleasant talk float from him when he is in a careless mood. Then, when Eugene was done there was no tumult of applause. There was just only a murmur, which showed that men's hearts, and not their admiration, were stirred. Two men who were not near him came and shook hands with him silently. No one had shaken hands with Lavirotte. That night, Eugene O'Donnell told his wife that his song at that supper had been more successful than Lavirotte's. That night, Lavirotte told his heart the same story.

CHAPTER XX

Although the immediate result of Lavirotte's first engagement in London was so modest, still he had gained a start, and that, in his profession, was a great deal. O'Donnell was not impatient. His position was grave, even serious. But still he did not give way. Like Lavirotte, he had now abandoned all extravagant pretensions, and would have been very glad to take the most modest salary. Neither he nor Lavirotte would even yet accept any subsidiary part. Either would have gladly gone to the provinces for six guineas a week, but neither would take second part. Lavirotte was offered the leadership of the tenors in a chorus. This he flatly refused, and with heat. He came to Eugene and told him what he had been offered, and Eugene agreed with him in thinking there was more affront than flattery in the offer. "Let them," cried Eugene, indignantly, "keep their five guineas a week. I'd rather see you, Dominique, back at the old work again than degrade yourself by accepting such a position." From time to time Eugene received small sums from Glengowra. Lavirotte had no such resources, and one day he came in to Eugene and said: "I am paying eight shillings a week for my room, and there's St. Prisca's Tower idle all this time. I am not, you know, as rich as Rothschild, and what is the good of throwing away money! I'm going to live in the tower again." "For heaven's sake, don't do anything of the kind!" said Eugene. "Why not?" asked Lavirotte. "Because the place is haunted," said O'Donnell, with a shudder. "You are not such a fool," said Lavirotte, "as to believe anything so superstitious." "I don't mean what I say literally, but poor Mr. Crawford lost his life there. You were very near losing your life there, and upon the sad occasion of your last visit to London you put up there. To say the least of it, that tower must have a very gloomy aspect in your mind." "Gloom or no gloom," said Lavirotte bitterly, "eight shillings a week are eight shillings a week. Besides," he added, changing his tone and adopting a lighter manner, "I know they don't care for my caterwauling in the house I'm living in now, and St. Prisca's Tower is a splendid place for practising in. You might shout your voice away there, and not a soul would hear you. Eugene, you must come and practise with me there. I haven't got a piano, that's true, and the way up is a very rough-and-ready one. But anyway you'll know you're welcome, and we can puzzle along with a fork." He took the fork out of his waistcoat pocket, struck it, sang the note, and then took the octave above. "True, isn't it, Eugene?" he cried, laughingly. "As the tone of the steel itself," cried Eugene. "Let us try the garden bit in unison. Here's 'Faust.'" "Damn 'Faust'!" said Lavirotte. "Come on, I'll set you going:

"The bright stars fade, the morn is breaking,The dew-drops pearl each bud and leaf,When I of thee my leave am taking,With bliss too brief."

"No," said Eugene. "Not that. I remember-" "And do you think I forget?"

CHAPTER XXI

This was the first note of discord which had been struck between the two since the memorable night of the encounter near the cove. It was struck deliberately by Lavirotte; O'Donnell could not guess why. "I will not sing," said Eugene. "What is the matter with you, Dominique? You seem to be in rather a brimstone humour to-day." "Ah," said Lavirotte, shaking his head grimly, "the treacle period has passed." "Nonsense," said Eugene, "a young man like you! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. A young man like you ought to be ashamed to give way to such gloomy fancies. Look at me. I have not got even one chance yet, and I have a wife and child depending on me." "Ay," said Lavirotte, "a wife and a child! And I have no wife, no child. I have earned a guinea, it is true, and you have earned nothing, since we came to London. It doesn't make much difference whether I ever earn another sovereign or not. What have I to live for? What do a hundred days mean to me? In a hundred days, even if I go and live at the tower, I shall be penniless." "And I," said O'Donnell, "long before a hundred days, shall be a pauper with my wife and child looking to me in vain for food. What would you do, Dominique, if you found yourself without money, and a wife and child asking you for bread?" "Cut my throat." "What? And leave them to starve?" "Well, cut their throats, and hang for them." "Men who talk about cutting their throats never do it." "I own I don't think it's worth doing in my case. When a man has no other way of making a stir in the world, he may get his name prominently before the public by committing a great crime against his neighbour, or a folly against himself. Eugene, I candidly own to you I am no hero. I am, in fact, a bit of a coward, as you may know; for, once upon a time, I did an unpardonably cowardly thing by you." "Hush, man!" cried Eugene, "have we not agreed to banish that subject for ever?" "To banish it from our talk, ay. To banish it from our minds, never." "I swear to you I never think of it, and it is ungenerous of you to assume I ever think of it. Let us get away from these subjects, which are even more gloomy than St. Prisca's Tower. Life is too short, and the destroying influences of time too great, for such criminal amusements as you are giving way to, Dominique. As sure as you go back to that hideous tower you will fall into a melancholy. My dear old friend, I can't afford to have you ill-" "My dear old friend, you must afford to have me die." "Upon my word, Dominique, you are intolerable. I will have no more of your nonsense. When a man is in such infamous humour as you are now, there is nothing so good for him as the sight of youth and beauty." Eugene arose, opened the door, and called, "Nellie, bring the boy. Here is Dominique in the blues." In a minute in came the young mother, carrying the boy in her arms. "Dominique in the blues!" she cried, laughing and shaking her rich hair about her shoulders. "Do you hear that?" she said to her child. "Uncle Dominique in a bad temper, Mark. What do you think of that?" she said, as she handed the blue-eyed, curly-haired, sturdy child to the Frenchman. "It is a bad example for a godfather to give his godson. What! In the blues, Dominique! Must I go back and tidy my hair? Eugene, how could you be so inconsiderate? You forget that when a mother is engaged in minding a great big child like Mark, she can't be as tidy as she would wish to be." The boy went freely to Lavirotte, and put his arms round him and clung to him, and called him "Dom," and told him his mother was very naughty since she would not give him sweeties. "Eugene," said Lavirotte, suddenly, "I once knew a man who had a child about the age of this boy in my arms, and he was playing with the child in a perfectly friendly way, as I am now playing with your boy, and owing, mind you, to mere awkwardness, he let the child's back-just here, the small of his back-somewhat rudely touch the edge of a table, and the child lost the use of his lower limbs, and in time, a hunch appeared upon his back. Amiable as you are, Eugene, I wonder what you would say to me if, by accident, I hurt your boy so?" "Dominique," cried the mother, hastily snatching her child from his arms, "what do you mean? There is something queer about you. Your eyes are too quiet for your words." Lavirotte laughed. "My eyes are too quiet for my words," he said "There is a good deal in that, and my mind may be too quiet for my eyes or-the other way." Again he laughed. "I cannot make you out to-day," said Eugene. "Nor can I," said Mrs. O'Donnell. "Mark, what is the matter with godfather?" The child had but one thought. His godfather was ill. He stretched out his hands to go to him. Lavirotte shook his head sadly, and said: "You are safer where you are." Within a week Lavirotte once more took up his residence in St. Prisca's Tower. For some days Eugene thought that the change had been absolutely beneficial to his friend. Lavirotte's spirits seemed more equable; he made no further allusion to the gloomy subjects which had, for some time previous, haunted him. He told Eugene that he had no notion how much more comfortable it was to practise alone, and in the tower, than in the old Percy Street lodgings. "In the first place," he said, "there is one of the lofts with nothing on it, and you can hear much better in an empty room all that is undesirable. I do four to six hours a day. Come and visit me in my new diggings. You must come. Of course, it's out of the way. No one but carters and fish-salesmen ever trouble Porter Street. But all so much the better. You might shout loud enough to stop a clock, and not a soul would hear. Come, you will come; you must come." "I can't, go very well," said Eugene. "Nellie is out, and has left me in charge of the boy." "Let us take Mark with us," said Lavirotte. "We can get an omnibus at the end of the street. It will amuse the child. Mark, wouldn't you like to come in an omnibus?" "Yes," cried the boy. "There you are, Eugene. Just leave a line or word with the landlady, and let us take the boy with us. He will be no trouble, and it is sure to amuse him. An hour's practice with me will do you no harm, and you have never yet been in my tower." Eugene was persuaded, and went. The inside of St. Prisca's was in exactly the same condition as when Lavirotte had last lived there. In order to get from the ground floor to the second loft it was still necessary to ascend by means of the slater's ladder. "I know the place better than you," said Lavirotte. "I'll carry the child and lead the way." When he was about to step from the ladder to the floor of the second loft, he said, with a strange laugh: "It's upwards of thirty feet from this to the top of the vault below. An awkward fall that would be. It would be worse for Mark than even striking his back against the edge of a table. Eh, Eugene?" "In heaven's name, Dominique, what's the matter with you? This place must have an unwholesome influence on you." "Doubtless it has," laughed Lavirotte, "but we're up safe at last, Mark." "Yes, Uncle Dom," said the child. And that was his first experience of St. Prisca's Tower.