SWAN SONG

Auckland Star, Volume LXVIII, Issue 3, 5 January 1937, Page 15

SWAN SONG

—By PENISTAN CHAPMAN.

HOW really remarkable it is, thought the prima donna, that, the people in this little place can sing; can get up on this platform on this pier jutting out into the sea, and can sing "La Donna e Mobile" and the ".Song of the Flea;" can be Otello and Boris Godounov. She thought again of La of Covent Garden, of Bayreuth, Munich, V ienna; she heard lierself singing, hear..) her voice swell up and up to the. doiny of the Opera Housa like a bird ie eased into the throat of the morning; she saw the crowds on their feet cheering, the Sgas of flowers advancing over the lootlights towards her. Now she was speaking, tears in her eyes imploring them to believe that she would for ever treasure this moment . . . this reception, this vociferous farewell. . . . Indeed she was speaking. She was saying: "And I have decided to give the gold medal in this class to the contralto. Such a pure voice. And her legato singing. . . But the rest was drowned 111 applause. Not for her. No. For the contralto who was now coming on to the stage; for the stout young woman who worked in a tobacconist's, who did silent throat exercises as she weighed your Golden Bar, who sang her voice away morning and evening, mounting on scales, causing her tears to flow with bits from "Stabat Mater," and "He Shall Feed His Flock." "If she works hard," the prima donna was saying, ''she should have quite a promising future. . . . Quite promising. . . . If she works." She did not think of her own years of drudgery; one does not remember those. And now the prima donna was back at her hotel. She walked along the lobby of the Neptune, which was quite deserted, feeling strange, feeling as if there ought to be friends there to welcome her, to say: "Ah, Miranda. Doesn't it make you think of Vienna!" (Or Munich or Bayreuth or Milan.) "How well you sang that night at Covent

Garden. The late King Edward was there. How he adored it. My dear. . . . How King Edward adored your Mimi. . . ." But there was nobody. Nobody. A bored cat peeped at lier from a mysterious lobby, then ran away. . She mounted the stairs, alone. But regally, as if, yes, as if the hall were 'thronged with admirers, opera hats in hand, their bouquets laid on the stairs at her feet. *'•••• It was a stuffy bedroom at the Neptune. It was a back bedroom, too; overlooked not the sea and the gay, crazy little promenade, but a big backyard in which char-a-bancs parked during the day. Somebody had put some flowers in her room. Lilies. In the water-jug. They stood impersonal as ice, and they smelled like ten thousand funerals. Ugh. How she hated that smell. Roses, now, she adored; and orchids at a guinea a piece. (Who could help but adore such flowers?) But lilies. . . . She went to the water-jug, lifted them out. But where could she put them without actually throwing them away? (She had never, never hurt an admirer's feelings.) Then she remembered, smiled, .padded away. She put them in the lavatory at the end of the corridor. When she had on her nightgown and a wrap she went to the window and opened it. At once a little breeze blew in; it had been fresh till it reached the back of the Neptune, but now it smelled of fieh-and-chip papers, and of stale beer. Well, she must be getting to bed, thought the prima donna. She must be ready to face to-morrow. But still she lingered by the window, listening to the sounds of footsteps, of people laughing, talking, calling to one another as . they thronged the .streets, passed to and fro between the gay, lighted promenade and the town; looking at the deserted charayard, the stars. It was on just such a night as this, soft and mild, that Herbert had proposed to her, in Venice. Oh, think of the soft plash of the Venetian waves, the movement of the gondola, the perfume of his flowers at her .side. Herbert bad written her a poem; had given it to her, on a piece of paper. (The only thing Herbert had ever given her. Six months later he coughed his remaining lung away up in the Swiss mountains. Their son died when 'he was horn.) She had the poem' on its piece 01 paper still. She took it out of a pocket on her bosom and read it, although she knew it by heart a million times. Herbert had been a true genius. But he had died young. Too youngs - Why had God taken away so lovely a poet in his youth ? Oh, life took so much understanding; there was so much in it to puzzle one. In her own case, for instance, why was she reduced to this plight? What had she done to deserve it? Yet she

(SHORT STORY.)

must decide whether to die from starvation in a room, or from heat or cold or exhaustion in the open. And her work tqp. How she had worked. God alone knew. And already her name was fading like one of those guinea orchids she had worn so long ago; the younger generation had never heard of her. the old were uncomfortable in recalling her, 'being dated. . . . she had cherished, had lived for the idea] of immortality. To be one with Caruso and Melba; immortal as music; as changeless in her fame as the ancient masters. . . . She was extremely surprised to find she was crying. Why, she did not know. Perhaps. ... It had been a trying day. Uiese musical festivals were exacting; people expected so much. Eyed her queer clothes; giggled. Were disappointed. Thank God she still had her poem, Herbert was always with her. Her youth had gone; her name was fading; immortality was a dream. But still she had Herbert, and she could sing. • • • • Yes, she could sing. She sang her heart out sometimes, her voice radiant, clear as a bell, nearly seventy though she.was. For her own delight she could sing, for she never sang in public now, and never would sing again, she would •I'e on a park bench first; for her own delight she could still be Mimi, Tosca, Violetta, Elsa. her soul flowing out of her throat on wings, mounting up and up, in ecstasy, to the very stars. Like this. . . . She was singing out of the window. What, she did not know. Perhaps "Caro Nome," or the "Jewel Song" or "One Fine D,ay." Something that was so much part of herself that she needed no effort to remember it; something that she could stand and sing, not as she had sometimes sung before, for the ■weaves of flowers advancing over the footlights, or for the crowd on their feet cheering, but for the rapture of the liberation of herself; the sheer ecstasy o< experiencing the beauty of the part of her that was the song. She must have sung for a very long time, because when she'had finished she was drenched with perspiration and

quite exhausted. • She lay crumpled on the bedroom floor, beside the window, a wild roaring in her ears. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs; then voices and a knocking at her door. She pulled herself together as quickly as she could, dabbed her face with water that smelled of lily stems, straightened her nightgown, drew about her her wrap. Trembling, she opened the door. On the landing was a strange man. And a hotel servant was trying to get him away. But he would not be got away. He had a cap with him. An ordinary cloth cap full of money. Full to tlie brim with coins that shone, so many silver. And he was bent on giving it to her. He insisted. He shoved the servant aside. Touched his hat. Held out the cap. » * # • The prima donna didn't know what to do. It was all so unreal. Like a mad, fantastic dream. Then she heard behind her that roarshe had heard when she had fallen beside the window. And turning, she saw that the cliara-yard and tlfe streets around it were all packed with'" people. Packed. The street lamps shone on their upturned faces, and the stars seemed to be flooding the night with light, showing the hundreds there were. And all those people were clapping, cheering, calling out, wanting to see her, wanting her to sing some more. "For me?" she said, looking at the brimming cap. The man nodded, touched his hat again. The crowd roared. Sire drew herself to her full height, half turned away. Never let it be said that she had sung to a mob, from ±he window of a seaside public house, "that she had taken money for it in a cloth cap. She who had retired at the~height of her fame to preserve her name for immortality. 1 She who had once. . . . But Munich and Bayreuth and Milan were dim. And in that ckp was not only food but her rent. And outside the biggest audience of her life *were still cheering, deliriously. The maid had found the lilies in the lavatory. She was furious. Thought some trick had been played. Insisted on presenting them to the prima donna. ... She took the lilies and the money from the cap. She went to the window, bowed to the cheering crowd. (An endless sea of people. Had all the thirty thousands of the town turned out?) Then she closed the bedroom window definitely and drew, the blind. She knew, her own value still. She got into bed but did not sleep for a long time, for the crowd were noisy in dispersing, calling for her constantly. She slept at last, serenely, with the locket and the poem clasped tightly between her hands.