Fanny's First Novel

by Frank Frankfort Moore

He smiled and held up his finger in imitation of the way she had rebuked him for talking too loud.

“H'sh; I am anxious to hear the Signora Gabrielli,” he said, and the express on that he made his face assume at that moment would have convinced anyone that he was giving all his attention to the singing—drinking in every note with the earnestness of an enthusiast. There was a certain boyish exaggeration in his expression that was very amusing to Fanny, though less observing persons would have been ready to accept it as evidence of the generous appreciation on the part of one great singer of the success of another.

So he remained until the cavatina had come to an end; and then he was loudest in his cry of “Brava!”

“It is a treat—a great—a sacred treat,” said he, turning to Fanny. “I do not think I ever heard that song before. Has it a name, I wonder?”

“If I mistake not it is from an opera in which a certain Roman tenore made a name for himself last year, in happy conjunction with Madame Gabrielli,” said Fanny.

“Is it possible? I had not heard of that circumstance,” said he, with a look of the most charming innocence in his large eyes. It was his hands that were most expressive, however, as he added:

“But it was last year, you say, mademoiselle? Ah, who is it that remembers an opera from one year to another? No one, except the impresario who has lost his good money, or somebody's else's money, over its production. Enough, the cantatrice has given us of her best, and is there now any reason why we should remain dumb? The great charm of the singing of these brilliant artistes of last year's operas is that when they have sung, they have sung—they leave one nothing to think about afterward. Is not that so, mademoiselle?”

“They leave one nothing to think about—except their singing,” said Fanny. “For myself, I am still thinking of 'Waft her, angels,' although nearly half an hour must have passed since I heard the last notes. And it seems to me that when half a century will have passed I shall still be thinking of it.”

He did not offer her the conventional acknowledgement of a bow. He only looked at her with those large eyes of his; they were capable of expressing in a single glance all the tenderness of feeling of a poem.

“I have not sung in vain,” he said in a low tone. “My old maestro gave me the advice one day when I was proving to him my success in reaching the high note which I had been striving for years to bring into my compass: 'That is all very well,' he said. 'You have aimed at touching that rare note, now your aim must be to touch the heart of everyone who hears you sing.' I sometimes think that he set for me too difficult a task.”