“What’s the matter with that?” he shouted suddenly, grimacing. He kicked at an old bicycle leaning against an empty crate. The bicycle fell over on its side and Seymour ran at it and stamped on its rear wheel, stamped again and again until the wire spokes were broken and twisted and tangled like a mass of jackstraws. One of them snagged the right leg of his trousers. He bent down with an oath and freed himself. He stood for a moment looking round, swinging his head, distraught with panic. Then he sank down in a corner, burying his face in his hands with a hoarse cry.
At about the same time Randall was standing in the corridor outside Renata Tosi’s apartment, knocking on her door. She had told him to come half an hour later than yesterday, laughing that the ten o’clocks had proved too early for her. So Randall gave her fifteen minutes’ grace and a little before eleven he arrived at her hotel. His knock went unanswered. He waited for a moment and knocked again and was not answered. He began to feel annoyed. It might be just like her to have forgotten all about the appointment and gone out. He stood hesitating. It was his habit to arrive at St. Timothy’s before noon every day, practise on the organ for an hour, and then go out for something light to eat. After lunch he usually conferred and worked for a time with Dr. Fitzhugh, and most afternoons he had choir rehearsals from three to five. Even though this coaching of Renata Tosi would be finished in a few days, he felt distracted at having his morning routine upset. He decided to go away and forget this nonsense. He had had misgivings from the first, she was as frivolous as the other opera-singers of his experience although he had to admit she was more charming about it. But he had had enough. He turned away and then, to satisfy himself that he had done all he could be expected to do before quitting, he knocked hard for a last time on the door.
“Avanti!” came the cry from inside the room, but in a tone so muffled, yet startled, that he knew she had been sound asleep. Drat the woman, he thought; now what am I supposed to do? I wish I had gone away a minute ago. He had no idea of walking in on her as she must be now. But she called impatiently, “Avanti!—cameriere—come in, is my caffè?”
“No,” said Randall through the door. “It is not your coffee.”
“Oh! Dio! Is you! Allora, come in, come in.”
What should he do? Stand there arguing through a closed door in a hotel corridor? He turned the handle and the door opened, to his discomfiture, for he had supposed it would be locked.
“Buon giorno!” cried Tosi from behind her screen. “You ‘scuse me, please, I am so sorry. Must be quell’asino, how you say, waiter, I order last night he wake me with the caffè. He forget. Is nothing, I order now. We must have the caffè.”
“Thank you,” said Randall stiffly, from across the room, “I’ve had mine. Since you are not up yet, Madame Tosi, I think it might be as well if I just went along. I really don’t feel able to—”
“What you say? For what is this talk? Come here!”
“I—”
“You don’t hear? You have the frighten? How is possible talk through a mobile? Come here.”
“I did not come here to talk,” said Randall, exasperated. “Nor to drink coffee either. I came to give you a lesson that you are not ready for, and I cannot wait until you are. The whole idea was a mistake, I think we should drop it. I would rather go now. I have my own work to do today.”
“Sei un bel tipo tu! Is so important every minute? You didn’t never sleep after you amuse’ yourself very late?”
Perhaps she would believe him if she saw that he was really annoyed. He made his way across the room, cluttered like yesterday with the debris of the costume she had flung off last night, and walked round the corner of the screen. She was sitting up in bed, laughing, and the courage to rebuke her ebbed away from him as he took in her delighted smile, the freshness of her face innocent of cosmetics and framed in bright brown curls tumbling round her shoulders and hanging down her back. She was wrapped in a cape or some such garment made of lace ruffles and it was as useless to be cross with her as with a talking doll. The woman had literally no notion of convention or manners or responsibility on any terms in common with him. His brother persisted, without ever having seen her, in calling her a toy, and Randall’s mind ceded suddenly as he stood there that Seymour was right. I do wish, he thought, that she wasn’t a good artist. That’s the only obstacle to dismissing her and forgetting her altogether. I still mean to.
Renata Tosi had been sitting with her deep-set brown eyes fixed on his face. He stood looking into hers chiefly because he did not want to seem to notice anything else about her. So he saw a series of expressions follow one another across her lively features; she frowned, she knit her brows, she raised them disapprovingly, she tucked in her chin and pursed her mouth, and suddenly Randall saw that she was mimicking. and wickedly reflecting the sequence of thoughts which had crossed his mind. Then her lips began to twitch and Randall heard himself ridiculously confounded as they both burst out laughing. She laughed as she had laughed in the parish house, peal upon peal of childish, unbridled mirth, and Randall laughed as he had never done in his life. He could scarcely get his breath. Each time he tried she pointed a finger at him and made a face and went off into gales and shrieks of merriment, carrying him along with her. Finally she paused and drew a long breath and wiped her eyes on a handful of ruffles. Randall was choking into his handkerchief. He had laughed until his muscles ached.
“Ecco!” she said. “Is not only you who can teach!” She flapped her hand at him and said, “Go, wait one moment till I am ready. Drink your caffè.” The waiter had come and gone.
“I’ll wait,” he said, still trying to catch his breath, but shaking his head. “You must be a handful for anybody who—who—” he broke off.
“Ma che! I am nice, molto amabile. Go! Drink the caffè.”
“You may as well know,” he blurted, “that I don’t want any because I don’t like your Italian coffee.”
“No? Come mai? You don’t like? You like your orribile caffè americano?” She shuddered. “Like the wash water. Va bene, you ring for it.”
“Never mind, thanks, really.” He looked at his watch. He would not be able to get to St. Timothy’s at all before lunch time. “You really will be quick, won’t you,” he said with a smile. “I do have work to do right after lunch.”
“How you are serious! For what you live—niente altro? Good, I let you go prestissimo.”
And to his surprise, she did. He would not have believed that with all her nonsense yesterday she had mastered the music of the part, however short, and a few of the words in a language that meant nothing to her. Today she wandered round the room, sketchily dressed but at least covered over with clothes, and he could think of no improvement on her suggestion that he pronounce the German words for her while he played the notes of her music. She followed accurately, shaping each syllable exactly as he said it, and repeating each phrase several times before she went on to the next. When they paused he asked her, “Don’t you care if you never find out what it means?”
“No! Basta I know is a lot of sciocchezze—how you say—” she made a senseless babbling noise. “Così. You tell me this storia tedesca, I laugh out loud on the stage.”
“You won’t be out on the stage. You are supposed to be up in a tree.”
“Well, you think I take sul serio such a foolishness? A talking bird? We are reasonable, we Italians!”
“Of course,” said Randall drily. “You don’t believe in miracles or anything like that in your religion.”
“But that is real! Is true! Not like this nonsense from German barbarians.”
How surprising, he thought, to stumble on a streak of bigotry in a woman who seemed never to have taken anything seriously, and who teased him when he did. He might have challenged her from his background of German culture, but why trouble? Her stubborn words bore the impress of centuries of prejudice. He had a curious moment of awareness of those centuries, as she stood there with her feet planted slightly apart, her arms akimbo
, and her eyes flashing defiant insistence about something she could never have thought out for herself. He laughed and said, “Anyway, you’re a quick study and I hate to admit it, since you’re so lazy and careless.”
She shrugged. “You come again tomorrow?”
“Why, I scarcely think you need it.”
“Oh yes, twice more.”
“Why twice?”
“What about my cues?”
He could have kicked himself. He had just tossed off—smartly, he thought—a cool reproach for her laziness, and here she was reminding him that while she knew her own passages of the music, she must still learn the cues for her tricky offstage entrances. He was tempted to tell her to keep the score and figure them out for herself. Then he knew it was useless, she would only say something to nettle him. Actually he was beginning to enjoy being nettled, but he did not know it.
“Very well,” he said, uncomfortably meek and compliant. “I suppose you will be asleep and unpresentable no matter what time I come.”
“Absolutely,” she agreed cheerfully. “I will be tired, tonight I have to sing Musetta.” She set her features in demure and virtuous lines.
“I don’t believe it’s singing makes you want to sleep all morning,” he said. She laughed.
“Would you like to hear my Musetta?” she asked. “Is no bad.”
He was astonished. Could he really have lacked the initiative to think of going to the opera to hear her?
“Why, yes,” he said, as if involuntarily.
“Va bene. You go to the stage door, you will find the biglietto. I arrange it for you.”
“Thank you very much.”
He must go now, he was in a hurry to get away, not only because the whole morning had gone, but because he felt strangely embarrassed. He never knew when this clumsy sensation would upset the teetering balance of badinage which was so awkward and so new to him. Not until he had left her and was on his way downtown did he realize his gaucherie. He should have asked her to supper after the opera, or at least said he would come backstage to pay his respects. Now he could not do anything without its appearing an afterthought, and by the time he had fumed over this most of the afternoon, he had about decided not to go to Bohême. But in the end he went only because, he told himself, Seymour was not free that evening. On his way to the opera house he resolved his dilemma by stepping into a florist’s and sending roses to be delivered to Renata Tosi in her dressing-room. He could not bring himself to the decision to call there after the performance, though she did sing beautifully and he could have told her so with sincerity. But he did not know who or what he might find backstage; he had nothing to go by except uneasy memories of Vienna.
On the fourth and presumably the last morning that he arrived to work with Renata Tosi, Randall’s knock was answered, not by her cheerful “Avanti!” but by the decorous opening of the door, which swung wide to reveal her standing, soberly dressed, with her hand on the doorknob.
“Good morning,” she said demurely.
“Good morning.” Randall walked into the room with the increased confidence derived from his previous visits. Yesterday had been quite pleasant and Renata gracious and pleased with his roses and his compliments on her singing. There had been more ease and less mischief. He laid his hat on a stand and took a step towards the piano. Then he stopped. Seated in an armchair with an air of aggressive proprietorship was a heavy, florid man with a spectacular black moustache waxed into needle-tipped curls. He was tightly fitted into striped trousers, a black jacket, and pointed patent leather buttoned boots with fawn-colored cloth tops. Randall looked stupidly at Renata Tosi, whose subdued manner was belied by a taunting twinkle in her eye.
“I present you Signor Ugo Baldini,” she said.
“How do you do,” said Randall, more nonplussed than he should have been.
“Piacere,” grunted Baldini. But he glowered. Randall looked again at Renata, who laughed.
“My friend,” she explained, with nervous and conspicuously artificial gaiety. “He is so interest’, he come listen how you teach me that German bird. Non è vero, Ugo?”
Baldini’s rude up-and-down scrutiny of Randall suggested total disinterest in German birds. Renata Tosi hesitated; then she said eagerly to Randall, “You have hear’ Baldini al teatro, no? You have admire’ his Ramfis, Ferrando, Leporello?” Randall tried to nod and smile the indicated compliments, though he had never heard the man sing a note and had already told Renata how rarely he went to the opera. She chattered on, reeling off “Sparafucile, Colline, Mefistofele, Angelotti,” like an excited barker crying his wares, until Baldini growled, “Basta! Taci!” and Randall did not know what to say. He murmured, “Yes, yes, of course,” and groping for a quick device to end this encounter he said, “You won’t need more than a minute today. I’m sure you’ve got the cues perfectly now. In fact,” he added, “perhaps you don’t even need to run through it again.”
“But I must!” she cried. “How I have work’ to learn that porco tedesco!” She cast her eyes and clasped her hands heavenward. Randall could have snickered but for the lowering presence of Baldini. Renata snatched the score from Randall’s hand and ran with it to the piano, ruffling the pages to find the place. “Ecco!” she cried. “Andiamo al lavoro.”
Randall sat down, nervously hitching the piano stool forwards and backwards. He heartily wished Renata Tosi at the end of the earth and Baldini sizzling in hell. The only reason for her fluster must be that every word of Seymour’s cynical taunts was true. Since Randall had never had a thought, still less ever said a word, which could have provoked Baldini’s behavior, he could only imagine as a commonplace the ugly jealousy which had probably caused a scene before his arrival this morning, and perhaps had followed a night the thought of which turned his face brick red. How he would like to be out of here! But Renata Tosi was standing at his elbow like a docile student with her eyes fixed on the music—which she had never done before—and there was nothing to do but proceed.
She sang the two short passages beautifully, with fluency and perfect grace. Against his will Randall was forced to admire her artistry which was sound enough to lift her above her trepidation and insure her singing admirably. He was surprised at the finish and seeming facility of her German pronunciation. He remembered her ridicule of it while learning it phonetically and refusing to be bothered with its meaning. “Un ammasso di sciocchezze!” she had said; “a lot of rot.” Now she sang with intensity, telling an absent Siegfried of Brünnhilde sleeping on her rock, and of the miraculous powers of the treasures in Fafner’s cave. Tosi had not the remotest idea what she was saying. But she did convey to Randall that for once she must try to seem serious. It occurred to him that she might be afraid of Baldini, and some of his pique disappeared in a sense of concern for her. Then he had a sharp impression of Seymour’s comment, could he be here to make one. This woman knows what she is doing. She is about as innocent and as much in need of help as a clever cat. Randall finished the music with a feeling of cool relief that the ordeal was ending. He said, “Very nice indeed,” as Renata turned from the piano towards Baldini, arching her pretty eyebrows as if to ask for his approval. Baldini shrugged and made some comment in Italian.
“He is surprise’,” she said to Randall, a little too glibly. “He would not think so possible learn a Wagner like that.” She moved restlessly towards a table and picked up an Italian macaroon from a dish and began to nibble it. “He would understand better if he hear from in first. But he was away, was engage’ for week in Chicago.”
So there it was. She was trying to explain her situation now that it had proclaimed itself. She was sillier than he had thought her, and that was silly enough. He saw that Baldini did not know a word of English, for his expression did not change by a flicker until she said ‘Chicago’, at which point his eyes dilated and Randall felt once more a turn of anxiety for Renata Tosi. Now she had done it—she should never have mentioned the man’s absence or explained his presence.
&
nbsp; Randall rose and gathered up his hat, and the score from the piano. Renata shook her head as he closed the volume and said, “Oh, please, you leave with me la musica until I finish the rehearsals?”
What was she up to? He remembered every word of her mischievous refusals to look at the score or learn a line of it except by ear. He could hardly tease her about that now. He said, “Why certainly,” and put the music back on the rack.
“Tante grazie,” she said. “The first rehearsal is Monday, at the eleven o’clocks.” She flicked an eyelid with a touch of her natural flippancy but he believed he understood a plea in the earnest, quickly-effaced expression which came into her eyes. He acted as if he had neither heard nor perceived anything. He went over to Baldini who did not move from his chair, and held out his hand, which the man took indifferently. Then Randall shook hands with Renata Tosi, in a manner as American as he knew how, and without another word he opened the door and went away. By the time he was out on Broadway in the sunshine he was entirely decided that he was well out of this potential embroilment, and grateful that he had learned enough since Vienna not to have let himself be made a fool of. He could not see what further use Renata Tosi could have for him, and surely he had none for her. Why had she kept his score and, in effect, asked him to come to her rehearsals? These appeared to be devices through which to see him again, but what on earth for? She was a flibbertigibbet, the mistress of a jealous Italian boor, and he would be well advised by his own judgment, as well as by Seymour should he consult him, to have nothing more to do with her.
But Randall was more naïve than he judged himself. He might have been a little less puzzled by Renata Tosi and her manoeuvres if he could impersonally have seen himself walking down Broadway towards a street-car stop. People sincerely without vanity do not see in their utilitarian shaving or dressing mirrors the personalities which they present to others. Randall had no idea that the young man with the graceful bearing, the broad shoulders, the well-bred head with its wide blue eyes and good bones and its dark blond curls could be of challenging interest to any woman who took a titillative view of life. He believed himself to have ruled all such women and their accomplices out of his orbit when he left Vienna. He had every intention now of ruling out Renata Tosi too. His reason for seeing her had terminated and his reasons for not seeing her were explicit. He walked on, comfortably secure in his decision, and rather smugly pleased with himself.
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