The Price She Paid [116]
forgot his manners, turned his back squarely upon her, thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets, and stared out through the window. He presently wheeled round. She would not have thought his eyes could be so keen. Said he: ``You were studying for grand opera?''
``Yes.''
``Why do you drop it and take up this?''
``No money,'' replied she. ``I've got to make my living at once.''
``Well, let's see. Come with me, please.''
They went out by a door into the hall, went back to the rear of the building, in at an iron door, down a flight of steep iron skeleton steps dimly lighted. Mildred had often been behind the scenes in her amateur theatrical days; but even if she had not, she would have known where she was. Crossley called, ``Moldini! Moldini!''
The name was caught up by other voices and repeated again and again, more and more remotely. A moment, and a small dark man with a superabundance of greasy dark hair appeared. ``Miss Gower,'' said Crossley, ``this is Signor Moldini. He will play your accompaniments.'' Then to the little Italian, ``Piano on the stage?''
``Yes, sir.''
To Mildred with a smile, ``Will you try?''
She bent her head. She had no voice--not for song, not for speech, not even for a monosyllable.
Crossley took Moldini aside where Mildred could not hear. ``Mollie,'' said he, ``this girl crept up on me, and I've got to give her a trial. As you see, she's a lady, and you know what they are.''
``Punk,'' said Moldini.
Crossley nodded. ``She seems a nice sort, so I want to let her down easy. I'll sit back in the house, in the dark. Run her through that `Batti Batti' thing she's got with her. If she's plainly on the fritz, I'll light a cigarette. If I don't light up, try the other song she has. If I still don't light up make her go through that `Ah, were you here, love,' from the piece. But if I light up, it means that I'm going to light out, and that you're to get rid of her--tell her we'll let her know if she'll leave her address. You understand?''
``Perfectly.''
Far from being thrilled and inspired, her surroundings made her sick at heart--the chill, the dampness, the bare walls, the dim, dreary lights, the coarsely- painted flats-- At last she was on the threshold of her chosen profession. What a profession for such a person as she had always been! She stood beside Moldini, seated at the piano. She gazed at the darkness, somewhere in whose depths Crossley was hidden. After several false starts she sang the ``Batti Batti'' through, sang it atrociously--not like a poor professional, but like a pretentious amateur, a reversion to a manner of singing she had once had, but had long since got rid of. She paused at the end, appalled by the silence, by the awfulness of her own performance.
From the darkness a slight click. If she had known! --for, it was Crossley's match-safe.
The sound, slight yet so clear, startled her, roused her. She called out: ``Mr. Crossley, won't you please be patient enough to let me try that again?''
A brief hesitation, then: ``Certainly.''
Once more she began. But this time there was no hesitation. From first to last she did it as Jennings had coached her, did it with all the beauty and energy of her really lovely voice. As she ended, Moldini said in a quiet but intense undertone: ``Bravo! Bravo! Fresh as a bird on a bright spring morning.'' And from the darkness came: ``Ah--that's better, Miss Gower. That was professional work. Now for the other.''
Thus encouraged and with her voice well warmed, she could not but make a success of the song that was nearer to what would be expected of her in musical comedy. Crossley called out: ``Now, the sight singing, Moldini. I don't expect you to do this well, Miss Gower. I simply wish to get an idea of how you'd do a piece we have in rehearsal.''
``You'll have no trouble with this,'' said Moldini, as he opened the comedy song upon the rack with a contemptuous whirl. ``It's the easy showy stuff that suits the tired business man and his laced-in wife.
``Yes.''
``Why do you drop it and take up this?''
``No money,'' replied she. ``I've got to make my living at once.''
``Well, let's see. Come with me, please.''
They went out by a door into the hall, went back to the rear of the building, in at an iron door, down a flight of steep iron skeleton steps dimly lighted. Mildred had often been behind the scenes in her amateur theatrical days; but even if she had not, she would have known where she was. Crossley called, ``Moldini! Moldini!''
The name was caught up by other voices and repeated again and again, more and more remotely. A moment, and a small dark man with a superabundance of greasy dark hair appeared. ``Miss Gower,'' said Crossley, ``this is Signor Moldini. He will play your accompaniments.'' Then to the little Italian, ``Piano on the stage?''
``Yes, sir.''
To Mildred with a smile, ``Will you try?''
She bent her head. She had no voice--not for song, not for speech, not even for a monosyllable.
Crossley took Moldini aside where Mildred could not hear. ``Mollie,'' said he, ``this girl crept up on me, and I've got to give her a trial. As you see, she's a lady, and you know what they are.''
``Punk,'' said Moldini.
Crossley nodded. ``She seems a nice sort, so I want to let her down easy. I'll sit back in the house, in the dark. Run her through that `Batti Batti' thing she's got with her. If she's plainly on the fritz, I'll light a cigarette. If I don't light up, try the other song she has. If I still don't light up make her go through that `Ah, were you here, love,' from the piece. But if I light up, it means that I'm going to light out, and that you're to get rid of her--tell her we'll let her know if she'll leave her address. You understand?''
``Perfectly.''
Far from being thrilled and inspired, her surroundings made her sick at heart--the chill, the dampness, the bare walls, the dim, dreary lights, the coarsely- painted flats-- At last she was on the threshold of her chosen profession. What a profession for such a person as she had always been! She stood beside Moldini, seated at the piano. She gazed at the darkness, somewhere in whose depths Crossley was hidden. After several false starts she sang the ``Batti Batti'' through, sang it atrociously--not like a poor professional, but like a pretentious amateur, a reversion to a manner of singing she had once had, but had long since got rid of. She paused at the end, appalled by the silence, by the awfulness of her own performance.
From the darkness a slight click. If she had known! --for, it was Crossley's match-safe.
The sound, slight yet so clear, startled her, roused her. She called out: ``Mr. Crossley, won't you please be patient enough to let me try that again?''
A brief hesitation, then: ``Certainly.''
Once more she began. But this time there was no hesitation. From first to last she did it as Jennings had coached her, did it with all the beauty and energy of her really lovely voice. As she ended, Moldini said in a quiet but intense undertone: ``Bravo! Bravo! Fresh as a bird on a bright spring morning.'' And from the darkness came: ``Ah--that's better, Miss Gower. That was professional work. Now for the other.''
Thus encouraged and with her voice well warmed, she could not but make a success of the song that was nearer to what would be expected of her in musical comedy. Crossley called out: ``Now, the sight singing, Moldini. I don't expect you to do this well, Miss Gower. I simply wish to get an idea of how you'd do a piece we have in rehearsal.''
``You'll have no trouble with this,'' said Moldini, as he opened the comedy song upon the rack with a contemptuous whirl. ``It's the easy showy stuff that suits the tired business man and his laced-in wife.