The suddenness of my proposition seemed rather to amuse him, as he laughed; and I was delighted to get a kind of half-promise from him that, provided I mentioned the matter to his wife, he would consent.
At this moment she appeared, asking me what I was talking about to her husband. One of us began to state what the object in view was, when she exclaimed—
"It's all nonsense; but I can well understand. Mapleson is an impresario, and wants to ruin you by making you sing."
She then asked me how I could possibly think of such a thing when the chintz and the crumbcloth of his dressing-room had not been fixed?
It was the custom of Mrs. Reeves to hang the walls with new chintz and place a fresh-mangled white damask cloth on the floor the nights her husband sang; and on this occasion the sacred hangings had gone to the wash.
I explained that I had provided other chintz, but to no effect. Reeves was hurried to his brougham and driven away, his wife remarking as she looked scornfully at me: "He's only a manager!"
It being now half-past six I was in a nice state of mind as to how I could possibly replace the great tenor in Faust. Signor Bettini, it was true, had on the concert tour sung portions of the garden scene and the duet of the prison scene in the recital of Faust which we had given throughout the provinces. Signor Volpini, moreover—only he was on his death bed—knew the introduction and the trio of the duel scene. Putting all this together I decided on my course of action.
First I called on Signor Bettini, requesting him to oblige me by going to the theatre.
I next presented myself at Volpini's hotel, when I was informed that I must step very quietly and say but few words. On entering I was told by the invalid in a faint whisper that it was very kind of me to call upon him; and he wished to know whether I had really come to spend the evening with him. I told him that I had been informed on entering that my visit must be a short one.
He asked me again and again what could possibly be done to save his life, as he had tried all the doctors, but in vain. I said I would give him my advice if he would only follow it. I then assured him that he had but one chance of recovery. He must first allow me to mix him a pint of Château Lafite and a couple of raw eggs, beaten up with powdered sugar, and come down with me to the theatre, where, after drinking it, if he was to die, he could die like a man before the footlights.