"What's nice about it?" he asked in a sullen tone.
"Oh, to hear all the great singers and players."
"You mean, to be forced to hear a lot of mediocrities. Even the great ones, Lilli Lehmann, Brandt, the De Reszkes, get on my nerves. You can have too much of a good thing my dear young lady." She became still more absorbed.
"Now, tell me. What are you after?" he demanded in kindly fashion.
"I mean to be a great dramatic soprano," she confidently asserted.
"Aha!" he vouchsafed. "Rather a modest programme."
"I mean to accomplish it," she retorted. He was visibly impressed.
"Of course, a great voice you must have to begin with; and then there are such items as vocal technique and dramatic temperament, and beauty—you are well supplied in that—" he gallantly bowed—"Thank you," said the girl not in the least abashed; she knew she was good-looking—"and how many other qualifications?" he interposed.
"I speak French. My mother was a Frenchwoman. I speak Italian, without an accent, my teacher said—" "Without an Italian accent, he meant?"—"No, with a Tuscan accent," the girl proudly replied; "and I'm a trained musician, a solo pianist, and accompanist and read and transpose at sight. I—" He wearily waved her words away.
"Yes, yes. I know all about you girls who play, sing, transpose and compose. There's Yankee versatility, if you please. Universal genius. And you couldn't compose a rôle any more than you could cook your husband's dinner—if you were unlucky enough to have one." Easter smiled and it was like sunrise. Something inexpressibly youthful came into the world.
"At any rate I have a good dinner if I haven't the husband," she challenged. He assented. "The cuisine here is famous. Not at Martin's, or Delmonico's, or down on 14th Street at Moretti's is there better flavoured food." They had not reached coffee. The sweets were insignificant. Easter positively became buoyant. She must have had Celtic in her, she went from the cellar to the clouds and the clouds to the cellar with such facility. Her Avernus once achieved, the rebound was sure to follow. Momentarily she forgot her poverty, loneliness, strangeness, and Mr. Stone was like a friend in need. She played confidential.
"All my life I've been at music. I was born near Warrenton on a farm. Then we moved to Richmond. Papa was unfortunate. I appeared as a child prodigy, later I taught little girls some older than myself. I began singing, in the cradle, mother said. Poor dear mother. She was so wrapped up in my musical career." (He thought: "They all say the same things … already, career!") "She died last Spring. Father has been away for years"—Easter hesitated—"and here I am with lots of conceit and no money—to speak of—and yet I mean to succeed."
He admired her, this tall black-haired girl with the broad shoulders and steady eyes. Physical signs augured well. Her ears were small, shapely, her throat a tower of strength. Her bust was undeveloped, but the chest measurement unusual. He couldn't see her hips, but she sat boldly upright and there was decision in every movement, every attitude. Her eyes did not please his fastidious demands. They were not full-orbed, rather small, deep-set, and he couldn't make up his mind whether in colour they were dark-blue or dark-green; at times they seemed both; but they went well with the blue-black hair coiled about a wide low forehead. The nose was too large for canonic beauty; but it was boldly jutting, not altogether aquiline, a good rudder for a striking countenance, and one that might steer her little ship through stormy weather. The ensemble promised. But Stone had witnessed so many auspicious beginnings that the brilliant girl, whose speech was streaked with an agreeable southern accent, did not altogether convince him. Another! he commented, but inaudibly. He gravely inquired if she had any letters to musical people.
"Yes, to Madame Fursch-Madi, for one. Also a letter from our U. S. senator to the Director of the Metropolitan Opera House." She beamed. Stone looked at her. "Madame Fursch-Madi is a great dramatic soprano, but she hasn't much time for pupils, she is so busy with concert work. But you may have a chance if your voice is as good as you believe it to be. La Fursch has a class two afternoons in the week at the Conservatoire Cosmopolitaine, and as I know Madame Mayerbeer the director, I could give you a letter to her; better still, I could take you to her and introduce you, that is if you care to go." He is interested, without doubt, thought Easter. She was in a gleeful mood, but held herself down. The effervescent kitten tricks might not please this cynical critic. She gladly accepted his offer. They slowly moved from the half-deserted room. Two hours had quickly passed. She was surprised. Stone spoke:
"It's too soon after eating, yet I wish I could hear your voice. Then I might judge. Perhaps Fursch-Madi won't bother with an amateur. Her forte is not tone-production, but style. She is an operatic stylist. To hear her deliver Pleurez, mes yeux from the Cid, or Printemps from Samson et Dalila is something to remember. The true Gallic tradition, broad and dramatic, with justesse in expression. Ah! Only Lilli is her superior." Out of breath, he paused. He was seldom so expansive, he loathed enthusiasm. His motto in life was Horatian. To this he superadded Richelieu's injunction "point de zèle." And now he was spilling over like a green provincial. Evil communications, he sighed.
Easter clapped her hands. As she felt herself to be the pivot of the universe, visible and invisible, she spoke only of her own sensations: "Teachers say that my voice is placed to perfection. I don't think there will be much trouble about Madame Fursch. However, Mr. Stone, if it is allowed in this hotel, I occupy a parlour and there is a pianoforte." It was soon settled. Madame Felicé was gracious. So was Monsieur. They were both poker-players and were only too glad to get to the table in their private apartment.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Stone, "you have Invern's place, haven't you?" They were in the girl's apartment.
"Who is Invern?" she mildly inquired.
"Ulick Invern, a writer, incidentally a critic. He has lived here ever since he came from Paris. No, he isn't a Frenchman. Paris born, of New York stock, but a confirmed Parisian. So am I, poor devil, that I am. But he is rich, at least well-to-do, and I must make my salt writing for the newspapers. Go ahead. Sing some scales mezzo-voce, at first, it won't be such an effort at that." Easter sang. Two octaves she glided through.
"Phew!" cried her listener. "Big, fruity, lots of colour, velvety. But who placed your voice did you say?"
The girl stubbornly answered: "Mrs. Dodd, and she said—"
"Rot! No matter what she said. You have a rare voice. It's a pity it wasn't taken in hand sooner. But you sing by the grace of God. Naturally. And that's something. No, Fursch won't bother with you. Madame Ash is your woman. She will get that refractory break in your register safely back on the rails. Take my word for it, Miss—Miss—" he hesitated. "Esther Brandès—my friends nickname me Easter, and I answer to that," she confessed. "Well, Miss Easter, I'm not so sure that your self-confidence—egotism is sometimes a form of genius you know—isn't justified. You have voice, presence, intelligence, ambition. Good Lord! a lot of singers with half your gifts have become famous. It all depends on you—and chance. Don't mock that word—chance. Luck is two-thirds the battle. I'd rather be lucky than rich." He ruefully thought of the last horse race at which the bookmakers had picked his ribs bare. "What time shall I call for you tomorrow?"
"Nine o'clock," she quickly responded, all flame.
"Good heavens girl. That's the middle of the night. Let us say, after luncheon. I'll be here at 3 o'clock. I can't get in for luncheon as I don't rise till midday. Then—ho! for the Conservatoire Cosmopolitaine, where they teach you to sing in every language—but your own. Madame Mayerbeer is Gallic or nothing." He made a formal bow and took his leave. Easter stood at the pianoforte dreaming. Was it, after all, coming, the realization of her mother's solitary ambition? But once between the sheets Easter didn't dream. The day and its wonderful events had exhausted her. She was awakened in broad daylight by the maid who asked her if she would have coffee or chocolate.
II
Alfred Stone reflected: She is unusual. Never mind her beauty or her voice; it's her personality that will win out. What curious eyes. Hard as steel when she