Rue Chabannais, No. 6.—In one of the most insignificant streets of splendid Paris, the narrow little Rue Chabannais, there stands a tall, dark-looking house known as No. 6. Ugly, rambling, old-fashioned buildings stand on each side, and have posted themselves opposite to it also, like old duennas mounting guard, squinting down incessantly with their dim eyes, their unwashed windows, upon the gray house with its broad doorway. The inhabitants of the little street, on the contrary, regard it with a certain pride mingled with a tender friendliness of feeling, and rejoice like children over each brilliant equipage that stays its rapid course before No. 6, as well as over every unpretending fiacre that there deposits its light burden.
At all hours of the day, graceful female figures glide over the threshold of the large dark house, and the modiste of the Rue Chabannais, who arranges her fluttering caps, ribbons, and veils so invitingly in the corner window, might make valuable studies for costume from the many and divers figures, great and small, who so heedlessly pass by her well-displayed treasures. One may see rich heavy silks, and simple black woollen robes, superb velvet mantillas and delicate light shawls, the careless and yet striking costume, the carefully-chosen and usually brilliant garb of slender German women, the elegant and coquettish French bonnet, and the great roof-like straw hat which shelters the fair brow of the English lady. One might be tempted to think some skilful gardener must have his abode here, and all the flowers were flocking to him for advice about their tender lives, from the glorious exotic of the greenhouse to the humblest field flower that needs only its drop of dew.
But men too, young and old, whose figures and faces remind us neither of flowers nor spring, enter mysterious No. 6 with rapid steps, and strangely do their countenances differ in expression as they come out again. Sometimes there is a bright smile and a beaming eye, but most of them have a deep and earnest look, and a brow furrowed with anxious thought—traces which vanish soon enough in the Place Louvois or the gay and brilliant Rue Richelieu.
"Perhaps a second Lenormand has fixed her residence in the large house, disclosing strange secrets to the curious, and uttering dark oracles!" Ah, no! such magicians are sought only under cover of twilight and the dark shadows of night—never in bright day.
Now, shall I solve the riddle of the gray house? Will you follow me up the broad stone stairway? Forward, then! Many a light foot has lingered anxiously on these steps, doubtful whether to go further; this iron railing has been touched by many a trembling hand, and these white walls have echoed many a sigh. At last we have mounted the third flight; let us take breath! Many a young heart has beat audibly before this closed door, believe me! for we are standing before the dwelling of
MANUEL GARCIA,
the greatest singing-master of our time.
One of the most charming of fairies (and I tell you for your comfort there are still many of them who, to escape the roar and tumult of our mad world, hide themselves far down in the flower-cups), at my earnest request, has lent me her fragrant veil for an hour or two; we wrap it around us and are invisible, and now we can boldly enter the rooms of the artist. Passing through a small antechamber, we carefully open a folding door on the right, and enter a simple apartment, partially darkened, and tastefully and comfortably furnished. Two beautiful busts arrest our attention; one bears the inscription "Eugenie Garcia," the other the immortal name "Marie Malibran." Two familiar portraits adorn the walls: the pleasant kindly face of the Swedish Nightingale, and the earnest countenance of Pauline Viardot.
Silvery sounds, full and powerful, reach our ear from the adjoining room; they attract us irresistibly; we follow them, gently open a side door and find ourselves in the very sanctum of the master, in the atelier of the artist. The long folds of the red silk curtains are partially drawn, so that a rosy light falls upon every object; a fine piano stands in the middle of the room; arm-chairs by the fireplace; a luxurious divan on one side covered with scattered music; the elegant marble table loaded with books, portfolios, music-books, papers of all kinds; music-stands in every direction, on one of which, beside the singer, we see an open volume of exercises. "L'école de Garcia, l'art du chant." A breath of poetry seems to pervade the apartment. Garcia sits at the piano, his scholar stands at some distance before him.