This was said in such a tone of superiority, that Miss Collingwood was a little dashed; but she replied,
“Oh, we cannot expect Lablache and Persiani; but still, this is an excellent company.”
“I’m told they are very tolerable,” replied Mrs. Fielding, in the same languid, supercilious manner. “But music, I think, should know no mediocrity. Now, in Paris, you have every thing in such perfection! There was nothing I enjoyed so much while I was abroad, as the opera. Persiani is an exquisite creature! And Lablache—what a voice! And Tamburini!” And Mrs. Fielding rolled up her eyes in an ecstasy, quite breathless and overcome by her recollections. “I don’t think,” she continued “I could bear hearing the same music sung by second-rate, or probably third or fourth-rate artistes, which I presume these people are. They are from Havana, I believe?”
“Yes,” answered Miss Collingwood, now quite ashamed of the enthusiasm with which she had first spoken of them, and almost thankful she had not mentioned the “season tickets,” she had been before on the point of announcing with such pride and delight. “We had a very full house,” she continued, however, too full of the subject to desist from it altogether, though not daring to dwell upon the music any longer. “Everybody, you know, was there; and I am told every seat in the house is engaged for to-morrow.”
“Is it possible!” exclaimed Mrs. Fielding. “How these people do succeed here! Poor wretches, that can scarce get an engagement at one of the third or fourth-rate theatres abroad, have nothing to do but to come to this country to make their fortunes.”
“But Mr. Livingston told me that he had heard Signora D. in Paris, at the Grand Italian Opera,” replied Miss Collingwood, plucking up a little courage.
“He never heard her in the world, at the Grand Italian Opera,” replied Mrs. Fielding, as decidedly as if she had kept the run of all the operas and prima donnas from the beginning. “She sang some ten or fifteen years ago, at the French opera, the Opera Comique, which is quite a different affair; but that, as I say, was ten or fifteen years ago—and fifteen years is the life of an opera singer. She is quite passée now, and could not, at the present time, get an engagement at even one of the minor theatres in Paris.”
“She has a beautiful voice,” persisted Miss Collingwood, “and sings with exquisite taste and execution.”
“Oh,” replied Mrs. Fielding, raising her shoulders with what was meant for a French shrug, “she is the debris of a good singer, I admit. Her style must be correct ever to have sung even at the Opera Comique. All of course we can expect in this country, are those whose best days are gone abroad.”
“Did you see much of the Falconers, when you were abroad, Mrs. Fielding?” resumed Miss Collingwood, glad to turn the conversation from music, which she was all but told she had no opportunity or possibility of understanding.