The Price She Paid [127]
the Italian cleared his face of its half- humorous, half-querulous expression. In its place came a grave and courteous eagerness to serve her that was a pleasure, even if it was not altogether sincere. And Mildred could not believe it sincere. Why should he care what became of her, or be willing to put himself out for her?
``You told me one day that you had at one time taught singing,'' continued she.
``Until I was starved out?'' replied he. ``I told people the truth. If they could not sing I said so. If they sang badly I told them why, and it was always the upset stomach, the foolish food, and people will not take care about food. They will eat what they please, and they say eating is good for them, and that anyone who opposes them is a crank. So most of my pupils left, except those I taught for nothing--and they did not heed me, and came to nothing.''
``You showed me in ten minutes one day how to cure my worst fault. I've sung better, more naturally ever since.''
``You could sing like the birds. You do--almost. You could be taught to sing as freely and sweetly and naturally as a flower gives perfume. That is YOUR divine gift, young lady song as pure and fresh as a bird's song raining down through the leaves from the tree-top.''
``I have no money. I've got to get it, and I shall get it,'' continued Mildred. ``I want you to teach me --at any hour that you are free. And I want to know how much you will charge, so that I shall know how much to get.''
``Two dollars a lesson. Or, if you take six lessons a week, ten dollars. Those were my terms. I could not take less.''
``It is too little,'' said Mildred. ``The poorest kinds of teachers get five dollars an hour--and teach nothing.''
``Two dollars, ten dollars a week,'' replied he. ``It is the most I ever could get. I will not take more from you.''
``It is too little,'' said she. ``But I'll not insist-- for obvious reasons. Now, if you'll give me your home address, I'll go. When I get the money, I'll write to you.''
``But wait!'' cried he, as she rose to depart. ``Why so hurried? Let us see. Take of the wrap. Step be- hind the screen and loosen your corset. Perhaps even you could take it off?''
``Not without undressing,'' said Mildred. ``But I can do that if it's necessary.'' She laughed queerly. ``From this time on I'll do ANYTHING that's necessary.''
``No,--never mind. The dress of woman--of your kind of women. It is not serious.'' He laughed grimly. ``As for the other kind, their dress is the only serious thing about them. It is a mistake to think that women who dress badly are serious. My experience has been that they are the most foolish of all. Fashionable dress--it is part of a woman's tools. It shows that she is good at her business. The women who try to dress like men, they are good neither at men's business nor at women's.''
This, while Mildred was behind the screen, loosening her corset--though, in fact, she wore it so loose at all times that she inconvenienced herself simply to show her willingness to do as she was told. When she came out, Moldini put her through a rigid physical examination --made her breathe while he held one hand on her stomach, the other on her back, listened at her heart, opened wide her throat and peered down, thrust his long strong fingers deep into the muscles of her arms, her throat, her chest, until she had difficulty in not crying out with pain.
``The foundation is there,'' was his verdict. ``You have a good body, good muscles, but flabby--a lady's muscles, not an opera singer's. And you are stiff-- not so stiff as when you first came here, but stiff for a professional. Ah, we must go at this scientifically, thoroughly.''
``You will teach me to breathe--and how to produce my voice naturally?''
``I will teach you nothing,'' replied he. ``I will tell you what to do, and you will teach yourself. You must get strong--strong in the supple way--and then you will sing as God intended. The way to sing, dear young lady, is to sing. Not to breathe artificially,
``You told me one day that you had at one time taught singing,'' continued she.
``Until I was starved out?'' replied he. ``I told people the truth. If they could not sing I said so. If they sang badly I told them why, and it was always the upset stomach, the foolish food, and people will not take care about food. They will eat what they please, and they say eating is good for them, and that anyone who opposes them is a crank. So most of my pupils left, except those I taught for nothing--and they did not heed me, and came to nothing.''
``You showed me in ten minutes one day how to cure my worst fault. I've sung better, more naturally ever since.''
``You could sing like the birds. You do--almost. You could be taught to sing as freely and sweetly and naturally as a flower gives perfume. That is YOUR divine gift, young lady song as pure and fresh as a bird's song raining down through the leaves from the tree-top.''
``I have no money. I've got to get it, and I shall get it,'' continued Mildred. ``I want you to teach me --at any hour that you are free. And I want to know how much you will charge, so that I shall know how much to get.''
``Two dollars a lesson. Or, if you take six lessons a week, ten dollars. Those were my terms. I could not take less.''
``It is too little,'' said Mildred. ``The poorest kinds of teachers get five dollars an hour--and teach nothing.''
``Two dollars, ten dollars a week,'' replied he. ``It is the most I ever could get. I will not take more from you.''
``It is too little,'' said she. ``But I'll not insist-- for obvious reasons. Now, if you'll give me your home address, I'll go. When I get the money, I'll write to you.''
``But wait!'' cried he, as she rose to depart. ``Why so hurried? Let us see. Take of the wrap. Step be- hind the screen and loosen your corset. Perhaps even you could take it off?''
``Not without undressing,'' said Mildred. ``But I can do that if it's necessary.'' She laughed queerly. ``From this time on I'll do ANYTHING that's necessary.''
``No,--never mind. The dress of woman--of your kind of women. It is not serious.'' He laughed grimly. ``As for the other kind, their dress is the only serious thing about them. It is a mistake to think that women who dress badly are serious. My experience has been that they are the most foolish of all. Fashionable dress--it is part of a woman's tools. It shows that she is good at her business. The women who try to dress like men, they are good neither at men's business nor at women's.''
This, while Mildred was behind the screen, loosening her corset--though, in fact, she wore it so loose at all times that she inconvenienced herself simply to show her willingness to do as she was told. When she came out, Moldini put her through a rigid physical examination --made her breathe while he held one hand on her stomach, the other on her back, listened at her heart, opened wide her throat and peered down, thrust his long strong fingers deep into the muscles of her arms, her throat, her chest, until she had difficulty in not crying out with pain.
``The foundation is there,'' was his verdict. ``You have a good body, good muscles, but flabby--a lady's muscles, not an opera singer's. And you are stiff-- not so stiff as when you first came here, but stiff for a professional. Ah, we must go at this scientifically, thoroughly.''
``You will teach me to breathe--and how to produce my voice naturally?''
``I will teach you nothing,'' replied he. ``I will tell you what to do, and you will teach yourself. You must get strong--strong in the supple way--and then you will sing as God intended. The way to sing, dear young lady, is to sing. Not to breathe artificially,