MY PROVOKING HUSBAND.

Evening Star, Issue 13002, 22 December 1906, Page 14

MY PROVOKING HUSBAND.

THE STORY OF A SECOND WOOING. By Erotcst Poole, Author of * The Voice of the Street, “ Toshka!” I cried, when I could keep silent not one minute longer, “ if yon and I are to continue living together, I insist that you make my acquaintance 1” My tall musician husband leaped atartlcd from the piano, where for hours he had been absorbed in the song he was composing. Now he towered above me, one hand twirling his thick, black moustache, his handsome, dark, narrow face twitching and frowing, his deep-set brown e3’es staring down, twinkling with annoyance. I smiled np—as though I were not quaking inside. “ Please, Yoshka, stop making music about me, and—and know me!” Ho smiled indulgently and resumed his scat. “Child,” he said, “don’t bo absurd. Don’t I love you ? Aren’t iyou always in my music?” He struck rich, dreamy chords. “Aren’t we happy ? Why, what conld be happier? I come to New York; 1 write songs; I have quick success; I grow lonely for my wife; I beg her to come and make mo a home, and now—she is here!” More chords—very soft. “My beautiful little Hungarian wife, whom I have not seen in two years—my baby, whom I have never seen at all. All three together at last!” One loud, glad chord. “With all our life before us ! What a ” “Chance for a songl’T finished, langh-

mg. “ Come, comehe said, turning angrilv. “ Annan !X do love yon! Don t be foolish !” “ Yoshka! Your baby and I are tired of having you stare at us—and see nothing ; listen to us—and hear nothing; kiss ns —and feel nothing! I had hoped New York would wake yon up from your dreams. So we came. We have been here three days. But you have not even asked me what I’ve been doing in Hungary. I’ve had a glorious surprise for you; you have not found it out. Because already you have drifted into a song. A song about me? No—Yoshka—no! You know nothing about me. In your songs vou make a creature whose hair is light—like mine; nose and eyes and lips—like mine; but whose soul is a thing any woman would laugh at. Up you drift with her—and wo are left always alone. “So now we object. At once you are angry—for a moment. Then up again yon will drift into your song. But again we’ll object, and Yoshka Junior will sing his song, which is not art. And so you will grow more and more annoyed—as you did in Hungary twice before —until you can write no more music; and then you will leave me —as you did twice before ! Now. Yoshka, we give you warning. This time vou shall not leave us! To-night you shall have a tremendous surprise.! Remember then all I have said—and perhaps you will understand.” “ Exasperating little woman!” cried my husband, leaping np. “Yon have rained my work for to-day!”

He seized his hat. He rushed out. The door banged. And I dropped back into my chair and excitedly laughed. How well my plan was working! , I ran to the door. I called softly, and in came a stout young Hungarian woman, housekeeper of our tenement. She knew my plan. My belongings were nearly all packed, quickly we gathered in odds and ends, aisd then I seized the wee Yoshka from his peaceful nap on the bed. 'At once he gave forth an indignant roar. “ Angry,” I said, “ because waked from his dreams —like his father!” But as I walked him he crowed and chuckled. “Oh, baby,” I cried, “if yonr father, too, would come quickly out of his dreams like you, and really love ns! He shall, my precious, he shall !” I was swiftly tying his little red hood snd his cloak. The housekeeper had my small trunk and my bundle of shawls. “If he only knew onr secret—how hard wo worked learning to sing, how famous we grew in our own town, and how splendidly now we shall sing in New York ! But he shan’t know—not for a long, long time. For when he sees us again wo shall be no longer his everyday little wife and child—bnt great musicians like him ! And then ”

At the door I laughed and the baby boy squealed with glee. “ Baby,” I cried, with a hug, “ this time it is we who are running away from crar husband ******

So we two, by ourselves in New York, started delightedly out to make our fortunes.

The good housekeeper had a boy waiting to carry our trunk, and away we went to her mother, who was housekeeper in a chu'y tenement near the East River. This mother was a very stout old woman, whose little blue eyes, grey eyebrows, brown wrinkles, and chuckles and smiles were all so kindly and happy that in a moment I liked her. At first she could not understand her daughter at all. But then how amazed :he slowly grew, with both her hands upraised, her eyes twinkling, her grey head sobbing with excitement. “So! . . . So!” She kept turning ;rnm her daughter to me, her smile grower!! wide and delighted. “So ! So ! Oh, the little lady is right—by all means—good—very good ! Oh, these wretched husbands! Yes! Aren’t they? My dear, I have lived eleven years in this fearful city of noise, I have seen dozens »f husbands desert their Hungarian wives. And why? Why, if you please? Just hecause of our old-fashioned clothes and cats and manners and ways These men oecorne idiots, they want things new—new—new! Traitors to their country! Oh, the rogues !” “ Remember,” I cried to the daughter, “you will never tell him where we are—never! And be sure to mail this letter to-morrow night.” “ Ho—ho!’ cried the mother, “ and what do you say in the letter? My child —I hope you lie to him !” “Yes,” I laughed, “like this.” And I read : “ I am just starting back to Hungarv. By the time you read this letter I shall already be gone.” The old woman gave an excited chuckle. “ Now, how many times did you say he had left you in Hungary?” “ Twice, he did—the dreamer ! Once he went wandering off with an opera troupe—jnst to listen; and once he escaped to New York—just before the baby was bom.” “ The idiot! Not to know what is good for him ! Oh, we will punish him well ! But, my child ” —she turned to me and grew suddenly solemn, and asked : “How on earth shall we do it?” " Listen.”

I began to sing. I held sleepy, tiny Toshka light, and I sang a very ancient sleep-song of my Hungarian mountain town. But this was such a little song, and the street outside—it roared so ! All at once I felt unnerved and lonely. I sang hard ! I grew almost frightened. But when I finished she took Yoshka and me both in her big, strong arms. “ No—my child—don’t—don’t feel so badly—we—we must not cry —we ” Suddenly I langhed. “ But—yon good old mother—you are crying yourself !” “ What ? Impossible! Why, so lam ! But yon see—you see, my child, I have not heard that song—for—eleven years." She wiped her eyes on her apron. “Well,” she cried, “what a beautiful baby we have here!” And then at once I loved her.

That afternoon she helped me fix up the little back upper room I had taken. And while we worked I sang to her all the old ballads and songs. “ Oh, you will have no trouble at nil !” she said comfortably. “Yon only need to sing, and all New York shall lie at your feet.” “But how shall X begin?” I asked, tingling with hope, for I was only twenty--»ae, and knew nothing of any big city. “ To begin,” she said, her face slowly becoming one knotted bunch of wrinkles, “ now—to begin. Well—my child—of course there are—even in this wretched of noise—some fine open houses.

Now—if you will go there to-night—now —perhaps—if you go and find—not the big entrance, * but—perhaps some door behind—you will go in by that way —and you—you will sing and they will of course bo delighted—and will perhaps lead you out on the great, sparkling stage——” “In this dress?” I asked. “Perhaps they would grow merry and hurry me into the street! Oh, what wise stage people we are!” . Wo both laughed till the tears rolled down our faces. And Yoshka Junior chuckled. “Never mind!” cried my manager stoutly. “Your voice is amazing! Yes, yes ! If wo are not wise now, wo shall learn. And one thing I know I can do; I can take care of this baby while are away. Oh, you fine little rogue!’ She was rocking Yosh in her lap: he was crowing and kicking. “ These New York people never .have babies like this. And, my dear, if you wish I shall buy for you when I buy i'or myself, and we shall cook in ray room, and so wo shall make the money go just as far as it can.” Anxiously we counted my money. Twenty-two dollars —it seemed suddenly verv small.

•"Well,” she said, “this is not so good as a million, but, with a voice like yours, it cannot be long till 'your name is great. You must soon find a place.” She kissed mo. “ Perhaps to-morrow you will, or at least I am sure you will find it the next dav.” ■*■* •*■*■ **

Bnt I did not. I took the whole list of Hungarian cafes, and I went from place to place; but none of these proprietors had ever heard of the fame I had won in Festival Week in my old mountain town. These men thought only of money. They wanted only men singers, ragtime songs, songs in English. And all glanced at my brown dress and hat—made by onr best town seamstress. They smiled at it!

So our money went away. And at last, as Yosh and I came near to the end, more than once I was almost ready to give in. That husband of mine seemed better and better. I even pictured him lonely and sad.

But in a cafe one night, at the piano I saw a man whose head was thrown back, whose black, curly hair was damp, and whose brown eyes were seeing radiant dreams! To look at him you would never have gussed that he had a wife or a child in the world ! I turned and ran. In a week after that our last penny was gone. And then this big, roaring, rushing city seemed a terrible place to sing in. " Never mind,” said the manager, ‘‘ don’t go back to your husband.” Go back to him!” I cried. “He would ask me who I was!” “My child,” she said solemnly, “the splendid day shall come when every man in the world shall piteously beg for a wife and at least one baby. Yes—oh, yes ! I tell you even men cannot for ever be blind to what is good for them ! Oh. we shall teach this blind man yet! Don’t you worry your pretty head about rent or food. I shall see to that. And I shall find you work, too—till you learn enough English to sing.” At half-past six the next morning we started. Day had hardly begun. In the dark, narrow, tenement streets I sawthousands and thousands of women and girls hurrying off to shops and to factories —armies! “This,” growled the manager, “is because most young American men are selfish. deaf, and blind —afraid if they take a wife they can no longer afford their vile cisars !” She took me to a friend of hers, a forewoman in a big cap factory. And here nil day I worked in a great, dark, whirring, shaking room. I looked around me, and soon I saw that here were two kinds of people—girls and mothers. The young girls did not look so poor. They were living at home, and many could spend the three dollars as they pleased : and besides —they might soon marry. But women with children, the widows, the immigrant wives deserted by husbands—these were the hopeless ones! And into their fate I could suddenly feel myself beint: dragged. This black, buzzing machine was slowly to make me crooked and ugly and old—a machine myself ! That night I stopped work faint and stiff and aching—but I walked homo very fast.

■■Well.” asked the anxious manager, “ hew did it go ?” “ Now,” I cried laughing, " I know the wav out of my trouble!” I would tell her no more. I said I was tired, and went up to bed. In an hour I came down and listened at her door. She was sound asleep. I went back to my room. I picked out my small silver watch, two rings, an old purple feather fan, and two white and rod shawls —nearly every small thing of value but Toshka. I went ont and pawned them all. It was still early on Saturday night : the small shops were open. I bought silks of red and blue, and thread, and wide gay ribbons, red paper flowers, powder, rouge ! Now I felt not an ache. Eagerly I worked in my room until nearly dawn. And when I finished —even Toshka was so deeply impressed when he woke that he quite forgot to cry. I took a long breath of relief —and fell on the bed. When you feel tired as that, how instantly you can sleep i The next morning was sparkling fresh, alive with the first breath of autumn. I rose—and again my bfcby stared. He frowned ! I laughed a&d called down the stairs : “Come np quickly! I have a tremendous surprise !” In she hurried. She took one glance—and np went her old hands. For I was dressed in a dazzling Hungarian holiday costume—blue and white and silver and red. “Child 1 Child!” she stammered. “What does it mean?” “ ft means,” I criod, “that the factory was a big, sore grave, and I wish to live I So hero I have made my last chance ! I must sing!” f threw a cloak round me and put orn a veil, and I went to a queer little music hall place called the Bnda-Pesth. It was still only noon, and the place was empty. 1 had been there before, but now the proprietor did not know me. I told hint I wanted to sing. Ho began to refuse. I hurried him down the dark, narrow hall. X sprang quickly np over the footlights—and sang ! I sang an old mountain war ballad—the one that had made my fame in oar Festival Week. And I felt like a war! And I made the hall ring ! And I finished and cried : “ Tou shall let me sing! Let me try for only to-night! Say ‘ yes !’ ” And he did.

I could not really feel my good luck till I was walking away in the street. Then it rose up from my heart like a glorious, thrilling song. I langhed and laughed, and I hummed that old song like a march, and hurried for home. And all at once the streets seemed alive, like mnsic bright and gay ! How happy was the old manager ! “ It makes me feel like twenty years ago,” she cried; “and now, my dear, we shall teach these idiot women of New York, when they come to-night; we shall show them real clothes !” She made me use ten dollars of her money. Together we went to the shops, and then we came in and worked—till by night we had everything right, from the red shoes to the cap with the clasps and the sparkling silvery veiL And all the time I was humming the war song. And that night, when I sang it, I made those Hungarians clap and laugh and shout and tramp their feet, and gleam in their eyes! And afterwards the proprietor asked me to sing every night for a month—and he offered twelve dollars a week. Oh, what a relief! Slowly I bought back the things I had pawned, and I paid back the money I owed the old woman. I began to bay things one by one for onr room, and to make it a cosy little sample of a home.

And now for that hnskand ! Of course, I must always keep ready—disguised; so every night the manager made me up at home, with powder and rouge—just a little—and a marvellous black, wavy mass of hair. We made funny mistakes at first, but soon we grew' skilful. And as Yoshka Junior watched his light-haired little mother

change into a strange dark and dashing soubrette, at first ne would howl his shocked displeasure, but slowly his taste grow perverted, until now when I changed he crowed and kicked forth his glee.. I began to bo uneasy for the future life of this little Yoshka.

the hall grew crowded—all the side tables, they even stood up behind. And the next month my wages were raised to fifteen dollars a week.

My manager always came with mo behind the scenes and put on the finishing touches. How curious she was, how shocked, how excited when I went out! And when I came back —there she stood squeezed behind the wing in the dark—ray big, grey cloak ready, her eyes gleaming. “No more!” she would whisper, wrapping mo tight as I shivered. “The brutes! No, no! They have had enough!” But as the applause rose in waves and the floor shook with the stamping, she would chuckle : “ The rogues ! Oh, the rogues ! My child—you really must sign again! So! . . . Just a touch to this ribbon. .‘ . . So! Now go !” * * * * * *

But one night my voice broke in the middle of a song. 'l came running back and fell into her arms.

“ He’s here!” I gasped. .She squeezed me tight. “ Oh, the wolf !” she whispered. “Quick —where? Let mo seo! No, no! I will not! Foolish child ! Stop trembling ! Don’t be excited ! Quick ! We must! They are clapping, they are waiting, they are wild ! Here —girl—stop ! Absurd ! Aren’t you ashamed ? Only a husband!”

I grew suddenly furious. I had planned for weeks just what I would do—and now to break down !

I went out—icy cold, but quiet. There he sat at a table'in the rear, staring up —- startled and dazed. But I trusted my fine disguise. I looked straight at him and smiled and sang that war ballad ! The hall was a blur of lights, gently moving in waves from side to side. I finished, and vaguely I heard the applause I sang again and again—other songs. I came out and bowed down at that moving blur. And then I saw ray husband come walking right up towards the stage. I had just mind enough loft to decide on one trick to get rid of him quickly. “Powder!” I whispered. “Quick! Powder —thick !” In a moment my face was a sight. The proprietor brought him in. How tall ray husband looked. I never felt so little. But I rose with a smile that fitted the powder. At the sight he started slightly back. One moment ho gazed at me, and I saw that his big, dark, face was drawn with lines of pain. Poor man—l had been mistaken. He really had suffered ! “ I must thank you,” he said at last, very coldly, “ for the way you sang my song.” His song! With a shiver I remembered ; I had sung one of his own songs —the one I had always loved best. So now I could not speak at all. I bowed and enlarged that smile. He frowned. “You sang it,” ho said, “as though you felt just as I felt—when I wrote it.” Again he stared in angry surprise at my free, and added : “ I don’t see how you did it!”

All at once I laughed, wheeling around with my face in my hands. He turned abruptly and went out. And I lay in my manager’s arms. “How rude I was to him!” I whispered. Sho looked at me suspiciously. “ Very good,” she growled. “No wife can be too rude to such a husband. But —he is such a fine-looking wretch ! How long can you keep—being—rude?” “Oh, ever so long! Wasn’t ho angry? Ho wrote that song long ago to me—so he hated to have such a vulgar person sing it ! What—what an idiot he is! Unde to him? Yes, indeed!”

But I am ashamed to think how happy I was that night. Poor little Yoshka Junior—l hugged him till he howled ! The very next night my husband came again, and with him was a tall, thin, solemn man, who leaned forward when I sang. This man was an agent for one of the big uptown vaudeville theatres, and that night he asked me to come there for two weeks to sing! At this the concert hall man was angry, but at last they arranged it between them—my husband making the peace. The agent offered me fortv dollars a week !

“Will you go?” asked my husband. I felt someone pinching me from behind.

“ I must talk with my—my manager,” I said, disguising my voice. They looked round at the old lady, and suddenly laughed. Back wo went together. “No!” she whispered angrily. “No! Very bad! To let the wolf help yon!” At the idea that Yoshka was a wolf I could not help laughing, and this made her furious. “Go!” she growled. “You deceitful child ! One smile from a man, and a woman is a fool !”

But I argued. I described the glory and fame we would get in such a big theatre, until little by little she gave in. Wo accepted the offer. *»■*•***

Of course I kept her with mo. We bad grown too fond of each other to part; and, besides, the old lady was now completely fascinated by the footlight world. “My dear,” she cried, “if this brute would only leave you alone, we shall enjoy a fine life by ourselves !” And at first this was just what I thought myself. My Hungarian songs made a splendid hit at once, and I was engaged for a month. We moved uptown into rooms large and sunny. I bought delightful dresses and wrappers and Noah’s arks and rag dolls, and rattles for Yoshka Junior and me; We made stunning Hungarian costumes, one to match each of my songs. Eagerly by night and day the old manager studied the art of costume, powder, and hair. Wo loved the applause ! We tingled and we laughed ! We were dazzled ! But then little Yosh got ill. Three nights I fought for his baby life, to keep him alive through the cold, heavy hours of dawn. And when at last he was out of danger, and lay white and weak and solemn-eyed, then I knew I still needed my husband.

My husband came to the theatre often to hear me, and while I sang I watched his face. He was losing his good looks ; his color was bad ; his face had a nervous twitching; his' eyes looked tired. And vet the provoking creature never came near me 1 I sang now in broken English, so that my voice, too, was disguised. 1 sang that love song of his every time he came, and I could make him listen, unwillingly—fascinated, provoked, and worried.

One night at seven I sat in my room ; the manager was making mo up for the evening. I still had this done at home, ■from the old fear of meeting him in the street. We had almost finishe.d Yoshka Junior, now nearly well, lay asleep in the corner.

The bell rang; she went to the door. And a moment later I heard a voice. And I rose very slowly, and did not breathe at all.

“ Oh, by no means !” I heard her cry. “ My fine sir, it is impossible—useless—absurd !”

“ Not impossible, not useless, not absurd. I must see her.” It was his voice—very low. Already he was in the little outside room. In wild haste I hid his photograph and the other familiar things- One franctio look in the mirror, a few last touches —and he entered. And just then I remembered the baby ! My tall husband stopped when he saw me. His face was more intense and tired fhan ever. A moment ho stared down at me, then he laughed awkwardlv, and so did I.

“ Forgive mo walking in—and staring,” he blurted out. “ But—but you’re a musician—you’ll understand.” His face again grew aggrieved. “ Last night I heard your voice —singing that song of mine—and still all to-day—it won’t leave mo! It’s a strange feeling. The song vou sing has every little bit of technique, every slightest shade of feeling—exactly as 1 felt it. You sing as though your—very soul —had been inside of mine !” I laughed. “ Well,” I asked in my broken English,

disguising my voice, “do you mind my soul being—in that position?” I saw him shiver. “Yes,” he said, “to be frank—l do!” “Oh, do you? Why?” “ Well,” he said, embarrassed, “ I—l—when I heard you first—in the music hall — 1 ” ■ “You thought me —very vulgar!” “ i did !” “Won’t you sit down!” “ No! . . . No, thank yon. Since then I’ve heard you dozens of times —it worries me; I can’t make you out. I understand nothing about you—nothing ?” “ You never did ... I mean,” I said hastily, now malting my voice very false, “I mean, that you never did understand any woman. Isn’t that true? Did you ever have a wife?” “I did. I mean—l have.” .“What? . . . Oh! You have a wife.” I looked extremely downhearted. “Well,” I said at last, “do you understand her?” “No. She left me.” “ She was probably tired of waiting.” “ Waiting for what?” “ For .you to know her!” Ho stared at me. “ That’s just what she told me,” he said at last. “Won’t you sit down?”

He sat down slowly—dazed. His face was really very wretched and full of real pain. Poor Yoshka —he must have gone through a great deal! “Now,” I said pityingly, “let me help you—about this wife.”

He gave a short startled laugh. “ Oh, I didn’t come to you—about her!” ho. said.

“No,” 1 said earnestly, “but you see now that I’m not so bail as you thought me. This wife of yours—why, even she might have liked me.” He looked up quickly—surprised. “ I believe she would !”

“Well, then, why not let me help you ? That is—if you still think you love her.” “Love her!” ho cried, with an angry look. “Think I love her!” His voice dropped. “ I never knew —till now —how much I need her. . . . But I can’t find her! I went out one day; I came back; she was gone. The stupid housekeeper knew nothing; I tried every moans; I wrote, advertised, went to the boats, police stations, everywhere! For five weeks I could not write a bar of music!”

“ How terrible,” I cried. “ She spoiled vour music—for five whole weeks ! Oh!” “That’s not it.” His voice was very low. “ Music is—nothing. I think only of her. I got a letter, from her—she said she had gone back home. I wrote to Hungary. She had not come! And she has never come ! Don’t you see ? Can’t you feel?” He smiled contemptuously. “ You think only of music. How narrow is your life! But you are young. Some day you will open your ears and your eyes! Music? No! Where is my wife? How can she live? And my child!” “Oh!” I cried, jumping between him and Yosh Junior. It was a moment before I was able to speak. “ Oh, yon brute !” I cried. “ How can you ever write music again 7 How can you live at all—when your child may be starving ?” “Stop!” Ho sat down—white and shaken. “You need not—tell me that.” How harsh and low ho spoke, in almost a whisper! But suddenly ho rose. “I don't know why I came here. Yon—have said a good deal. You have —spoken the tenth. I did not know my wife; I don’t know her now. I only know that I—need her. I’ve done everything—everything—to find her! . . . Perhaps not! . . . Every week I think of a new plan to try!” He turned quickly, smiling. “ I won’t bother you,” he said. “ Goodbye !” And the very next moment I would have been in his arms !

But just then Yosh Junior cried. His father jumped up, looked around in amazement, and went slowly to the cradle. And then, trembling, sure that all was discovered, and glad that it was, 1 stole up behind him. That mart looked into the cradle, saw his own child, turned round, and said ;

“ Poor youngster—now, my baby never cried.”

“Oh, didn’t he? How do yon know? What do you know of your baby ? Would you ever know him if you saw him ? Would you ” My voice broke, I sank into a' chair. “Go,” I whispered. “ Never come here again !” But when he was gone, the old manager bent over and took me in her arms.

“My child,” she said, “I really—l am surprised at him. I—l think this man is really in love.” “But,” I whispered, “not to know his own child !”

“ Oh, but, my dear, ho is only a man !” “Heis a genius !” I cried. “ Each day he changes. To-day ho thinks he loves. But wait till you see him the next time!”

Weeks passed. He never came back. I began to hear of his work. He had begun writing again. One song had been used in a Casino light opera; another had made a splendid Broadway hit and had gone all over the country. But almost every night, when I watched his face in the audience, it seemed wretched as before, and his music was sad enough for the most sentimental audience. His songs had enormous sales. Now he came often behind the scenes and had long talks with the owner of the theatre. What was it about ? I could learn nothing. My curiosity rose to the highest pitch. One mght I came late, just in time for my song. I walked quickly down the stage to the footlights. And there in the dark, right before me, was the handsome face of my husband. That man was leading the orchestra !

I started ! I recovered, and somehow I struggled through the song. All the time I kept my eyes staring high over his ; but although I evaded bis look, I could feel it, and I felt sure he must now discover me through my disguise. No woman in such a position could ever help knowing her husband.

But when at last I glanced down between verses he was staring at me, but seeing nothing—only listening. As an encore I sang bis latest song, and the more I sang the more sure was I that at last the man had changed. , For the song’s whole feeling was that of an injured husband. He glared into mv eyes and made me sing with deeper and deeper anger—against myself ! I shivered. At the end of the evening I went down to congratulate him on the way the song had taken. “ Thank yon.” ho said, and he added grudgingly : “Most of its success I owe to you.” “Oh, do yon?” I smiled. “In what way ?” “ Whv, in the way you sang, of course !” “ Oh ! Only in that way ? But—you do seem to be reviving—since I saw you last. You seem almost—-angry with someone. ” Ho looked extremely annoyed. “ I—did not tel! you all,” ho said shortly. “ She—could not understand—• a musician’s moods. She was hasty, narrow, inconsiderate, selfish . Oh, drop the subject! I don't see why yon spoke of it!” He turned and was gone. The old manager stood close behind me. “Well,” she said at last, “I should say he did change !” “Oh, be quiet!” I snapped. “Come—let’s go home. Perhaps I was hasty. No doubt I was !” Now I grew anxious. I could feel him rising, passing me in the race, soon he would bo ont of my reach! I threw all my soul into the work. I found a good music teacher, I went to a dramatic school, I worked hard on my English. I sang only his songs, and so drew him closer. He made me come often to the theatre for special morning rehearsals. He drilled mo hard. Not a word now of his wife or of anything but music. * * * * ■ * ♦ Swiftly X grew famous. The “ idiot women of New York ” did not flock in, but Hungarians did, and Roumanians, and Italians—two hundred strong—every night. They had grown sick of the American songs, and so as I sang our old ballads of bottles and clashing swords, of

i castles and moonlight escapes, of lovers and dancing feet, and the Hash in eyes of women—more and more they applauded; Now I felt another change. His angry mood was dying away, and his wife was becoming a sweet beautiful memory, far back in the past. In the new songs the feeling was dreamy, tender, and far-away. The public was delighted. But I was not i It is very dangerous for a wife to be a memory. Would this man never learn to love anything real? In vain I strove to sing each new song in a way to show him how sentimental it was. He was too strong; he made me sing it with just his feeling; he made me pity this poor, lost, suffering wife. And how I hated it—singing love songs to myself. Whatever was to become of me? Harder I worked to keep up—on my voice, my acting, every detail of my dress. His songs, though ip English, were all of Hungarian life; and for each new song I made a new costume —peasant, mountaineer, countess gipsy. My picture was on every song cover, our names were together, we came swiftly closer. But still that frightful, sweet memory grew deeper. As I sang I looked straight into his eyes. By this time I knew the idiot would never recognise mo! Night after night I fought with eyes and voice to drive that far-away feeling from his songs, that memory from his big, dark, sad, provoking eyes. At last one night I saw just a glimmer. His eyes seemed a little disturbed, he suspected himself —his feeling toward her and toward me. He looked quickly down. Only a glimmer. In the encore he stared straight back into ray eyes—coldly, with a smile. But the next night it came again. And now suddenly my suspense deepened. He was writing a new song. And what would the feeling bo? The time came for our special rehearsal, lie gave me the song. I read —I sickened, for the words were more sad than any before. But the words were not his, they were what he wanted to be. And when he sat down and played, at once in his music I could feel—a struggle to be faithful !

I sang that song, I made the music weak and the sad words ludicrous. Ho was angry. We tried again. This time I suddenly changed, and exaggerated the sentimental tone. It was frightful. He dropped it for a week. He would not even speak to me ; and while 1 sang he no longer looked into my eyes. But I know this Yoshka through and through, and I was delighted. As encores I sang the old Hungarian songs where love was not a memory, but a living passion. Soon he tried again to bring in that dismal new song. Again I made it a failure. And now all his other songs—in which 1 was a far-away dream—one by one became failures. Often we got hardly any applause. At those rehearsals of ours we had many quarrels. At last, one morning, he rose from the piano and looked at me hard.

“ Toll me,” he said intensely, “ what purpose you have in ruining every song I write ?”

“Because,” I said quickly, “in these songs you are not at your best; you don’t express what you really feel!” “Since when,” he asked, “have you become my manager?” “As an artist,” I said, “my success is bound with yours. Why should you not write your best and let me sing my best? Why waste our time with sentimental dream women that both of us know to be false? Write a new song—and please, please, please make it tell what you feel!” Well—he did write a new song, and he dedicated it to his wife; but the moment 1 read it I knew it was really to me ! I sang it. And when I finished ho was silent. “Wo need no rehearsals,” he said. «•»**** Now this provoking genius did a strange thing. For two weeks he gave not a thought to his music. He tried only to find that wife of his. He even cabled to all her old friends and relations in different towns of Him; ary. It was her last chance! And again, little by little, as I sang his songs each night, I held his eyes with inine, I forced my old self out, ray new self in. The end was swiftly coming. When all at once came something else. I had been careless—blind ! Deceitful man—all unknown to me he had been writing a light opera. It was accepted ! And he told me one day at rehearsal. In a month he was going to Hungary for the summer, to finish the opera there. In a flash I saw my chance—the climax, the test of all my efforts ! Would he take me into the opera woi'k ?

; In desperation one night I asked him to come to see me.

All through the day I made ready at home, with the manager excited as I. We created a dazzling .Hungarian gipsy costume of dull, soft gold, bright hues, and whites.

My husband came. When die saw my dress he started slightly, but I laughed and went to the piano. “Quick!” I cried. “Play! I want you to hear—my idea of a love song!”

I sang the song he himself had sung to me back in the mountains—the very first he had written, when I was no dream ! I finished—and faced him.

“ Will you leave mo now?” I asked, my voice shaking in spite of me. “Or shall I go on—into your—your opera?” His face was rigid. “ I do want you—in this—opera. But — the heroine is—my wife. How can you take her part ? In yon I feel—some secret, something mocking—false !” “ Let me sing !” I whispered.

He played. And as I listened trembling —suddenly I knew he was mine—all mine ! For never had he played as now ! Without waiting for words, I sang. My voice mingled with his music. On and on and on—my soul closer and closer to his! Together at last—for the first time ! “ AVhat are you?” he cried, stopping sharply and wheeling round- “ That is all I want to know ! What are you ? I care for nothing else!” I wrenched my hands from his. The next instant I had turned the light out. Pitch darkness ! He rose, startled. I was in the other room. The manager was swiftly, excitedly dressing mo in the clothes of his immigrant wife. That marvellous hair was removed. We finished. I slipped back into the dark. “Now play!” I cried. At my voice 1 felt him start, because now for the first time in months I had spoken in our native tongue, in my old natural voico. I put my hands on his shoulders; I forced him to the piano, and the next moment I was singing. I hardly know what I sang ! His chords stopped. I was in his arms ! I heard the old manager chuckle. The room was suddenly lighted. “My—my—my wife!” he whispered. “ The opera ! Will you take me ?” And the answer took a long time. All at once, in the other room, little Yoshka Junior awoke—and howled. His father started up ! “Don’t,” I murmured, “you know—your baby—never cried !”