 Chapter 1 of The Mute Singer, a novel. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recording are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Kelly Taylor. The Mute Singer by Anna Korra-Mawet Ritchie. Chapter 1. Sylvie The height of a house in Paris is by no means indicative of the grandeur of the abode. In many a remote portion of the Rue Saint-Denis stands many a dwelling if placed beside the most sumptuous mansions of Grofner Square would tower above them, and yet is the residence of a host of humble tollers for daily bread who seem to mount nearer to the skies according to the degree of their poverty. One might almost imagine that the promise of easier access to heaven than is according to the rich gave them this upward tendency. In one of the lofty habitations for the lowly, a hundred and forty steps led to the apartment in the sixth story which Edvard de La Roche lodged with his wife and daughter. The bareness of the room betokened an absence of worldly possessions. The red tile floor had no covering, the windows no curtains, the bed no drapery. Indeed the ladder was merely a framed canvas that could be folded up at pleasure. A few yards of faded calico stretched across the further corner converted that portion into a small chamber. In one window feebly bloomed a pot of unhealthy-looking mignonette, the favorite flower of the French poor, and often to be found in their meanest abodes. The enumeration of the furniture will occupy little space. A consensus of a washstand, four rush-bottom chairs, a low stool, a warm-eaten chest, the receptacle of the family wardrobe, a tiny charcoal-cooking stove, and yonder, strangely unsuited to the place, a piano. An old battered affair, with keys as yellow as a tobacco-chewers' teeth, but still a veritable piano. Just above this venerable instrument an unpainted deal shelf held a number of broken-back books and some pieces of music, and a tin cup containing a few common flowers. Upon a corresponding shelf on the opposite side of the room were various kitchen utensils neatly arranged and a cupboard beneath enclosed a sparse supply of crockery and other household goods. It is June, and the twilight of a long summer day is approaching. Several sheets of music are scattered upon the floor. The piano is open. On the three-young girl, her head rests upon one arm, which is stretched over the instrument as though she had fallen forward from exhaustion. The other arm hangs listlessly by her side. She is asleep. The outline of her underdeveloped form is delicate, yet too angular for grace. The coarse gray stocking and rough shoe cannot wholly disguise the smallness and shapeliness of a foot and ankle somewhat liberally revealed by her position. Her complexion is sickly, almost shallow in its hue. Her features are too much sharpened by want and suffering to be deemed handsome, but the mingled blandness and firmness of the mouth, the thin, slightly curved nostrils, and the broad brow indicate force of character. The only impression of beauty is conveyed by the arch of the slendered eyebrows, the length and darkness of the lashes that lie upon her colorless cheeks, the silkiness and luxurance of the purple-black hair that, escaping from her comb, sweeps down her shoulders and falls like a rich veil over the yellow piano keys. Her garb is very humble, simply a dark blue calico dress relieved by a narrow linen-coloring cuffs and a white apron. Her appearance is so childlike, so immature, that one can hardly believe that she has entered her 18th year. Close to the dingy window, as though to catch the last lingering rays of light, sits a pale and mournful-looking woman. With a languid air she slowly draws the needle in and out of her work, as though even that effort were too great for her strength. Pain has left a faint contraction on her brow and the shadow of weary dejection that clouds her still-comely features tells that she has ceased to fight against the ills of life, or rather that she has been conquered by them, without ever battling at all. An imperative knock breaks the silence, before Madame de La Roche can give permission to enter the door opens, and a face as sharp and sombre-hued as though it had been cut out of parchment is thrust into the room, and after twinkling grey-eyed or rapid survey, is followed by a spare and diminutive form of an old man carrying a violin under his arm. Although the heavy eyebrows that meet above his prominent nose and the bristling mustache that conceals his closely folding lips retain their youthful blackness, his long beard and the fringe of hair that in ring his bald head are white as foam. Though small, sharp, restless eyes seem to glance everywhere in an instant, and to pierce what they look upon, the whole countenance is sufficiently sour to set on edge the teeth of a very impressionable associate. A striking illustration of that vinegar aspect, which Shakespeare describes as belonging to those who will not show their teeth in the way of a smile, though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. Eh, what's this? he exclaimed, marching up to the slumbering maiden. Lazy little owl. This is the way she practices. This is the way she makes use of her time, is it? She has practiced five hours without stirring, answered her mother in a queerless tone. She fell asleep a few moments ago from sheer fatigue, and I had not the heart to rouse her. You know, met her bourgeois, she practiced faithfully seven hours every day. Let her have a little rest. Rest indeed. Do you suppose that I ever rest? I can tell you she need not look forward to rest in our profession. How she sleeps, to be sure. He stood for a moment, contemplating the young girl, who slept on undisturbed by the noise. A close observer might have detected something like compassion under the musician's rude mask of severity. Don't disturb her, pleaded the mother. You are always so hard upon her. Those words extinguished the faintly kindling spark of pity and awakened the spirit of contradiction ever strong in metru bourgeois' rest. Don't disturb her. When it's the hour for her lesson, that's a pretty joke. Really you are quite facetious, Madame de La Roche. Do you suppose I have so many hours to spare that I can teach her for nothing and yet suit my time to hers? Eh, do you think that? He turned to Sylvie and shook her rudely, shouting in her ears. Wake up! Wake up, I say! You're not good-looking enough to be indulged with playing the sleeping beauty. Sylvie awoke with a start. Perhaps amazement caused her to open her eyes more widely than was natural, but they seemed too large for her delicate face. Judging from the colour of her hair, eyebrows and lashes, what expected to see a pair of black eyes and could not but wonder at finding the irises of a clear and not very deep blue. Have I been sleeping? She asked, gathering up her hair in confusion. Oh mother, why did you not wake me? I deserve well to be scolded, metru bourgeois. Added she, looking up into his face with a smile that said, but do not give me my dessert. Do not scold me. That smile, while it displayed her white and regular teeth, showed that the mouth was too expansive for beauty, though somewhat redeemed by the flexibility of the lips. It was essentially a singer's mouth. Don't chatter, scarecrow. To your lesson, let me hear you sing the air we tried yesterday. Sylvie succeeded in frisining the abundant tresses which had several times baffled her as she attempted to gather them in her small hands. Metru Bourgeois laid his violin upon the table as tenderly as though it had been a living thing. Indeed, it is doubtful whether he would have dealt so gently with anything alive. Took his place at the piano and played a brief prelude. Sylvie sang, and Beethoven himself could not have asked for a voice better suited by its depth and richness to make a vocal his glorious strain. As you listened to her and looked at her, you could not conceive that from that poor, fragile, feeble little frame could issue such a volume of delicious sound. A contralto voice so powerful, so clearly sweet, so touchingly sympathetic, so rare in its combinations and quality. And her own melody seemed to transform her as it gushed from her lips, the rosy flush that leapt up into her face extinguished its shallow tint. The large mouth to the symmetrical shape, the great eyes filled with a dewy luster and grew dark through the dilation of their pupils, mingling all the softness of the blue with the brilliancy of black orbs. The angular figure assumed an attitude on conscious grace. The very spirit of music thrilled through and through her whole being and molded its external into a new shape. As she ceased, Metro Bujo gave a growl which might have struck upon a stranger's ear as a signal of displeasure, but Sylvie comprehended his rough approbation. He placed page after page of music before her and she sang on. Not a word was uttered between the pieces. The mother had allowed her work to drop upon her lap, but the expression of her countenance told that she did not dare make any comment or breathe a word of praise. During an interval in which Sylvie was trying to rearrange the music which had fallen on the floor while she slept, the buzz of whispering outside the door became audible in the silence. Metro Bujo turned sharply around on his stool. There they are again! I'll not allow it! I'll not have my pupils sing to an audience that don't pay! He made a rush to the door, but the movement had been heard without and the sound of scampering feet ensued. The music master only succeeded in capturing one of the group of listeners. It was Matayu, the hunchback son of Mayor Gamboche, who presided over a small booth for the sale of cakes and confections on the Champs-Élysées and who lodged on the same story as Sylvie and her parents. Ah! I've got you, little rascal! Have I? Have I not forbidden any listening at this door? Do you want to have your long ears chopped off? And the musician caved an emphatic pull which must have produced a foretaste of this threatened punishment for the crime of listening. Ah! Have pity! Have pity, Metro Bujo! I could not help it! Indeed I could not! I heard her voice as I was going up the stairs with a bundle of charcoal from my mother and I couldn't help stopping and listening. Besides, I have brought Mezo, Sylvie, her bouquet. Here it is! Metro Bujo snatched the flowers and threw them into the passage. Sylvie, with more courage than could have been anticipated from her timid mean, now came forward. She quietly took up the humble nose-gay, saying, Mitaio is so good he often brings me flowers. Indeed I should never receive any worth not for him. He knows I like them only too well. Sometimes I fear he robs his sister, Ninette, who sells flowers for of her wares. Pray don't be so hard on the poor boy, Metro Bujo! He loves music so much and has so few. She could not finish her sentence for the music master thrust her aside. How dare you in a fear, you little fright! What do you want with flowers? Do you think they'll make you any handsomer? Turning to Mitaio, he added, Get out now and let me catch you again. That's all! He rounded his synods with a kick that sent the terrified cripples staggering along the entry. Then closing the door savagely, he returned to the piano. Sylvie was roused by this cruelty to her unfortunate friend. She had evidently a high spirit. It's too bad, Metro Bujo, to treat Mitaio so. Was it not the same means you are reproving him for taking that you first heard my voice? Was it not in passing our door to go to your own room that you heard me sing? And did you not often stop just as he does? And one day, when I was singing in a rude style of my own, singing my own thoughts to my own tunes, did you not come in and snatch the sewing out of my hands and say I was made for singing, not sewing? And did you not propose to teach me and now you punish Mitaio for listening, a thing you did yourself? And you see no difference in my listening and that little rascally hunchback daring to listen? You're an idiot and I shall never make anything of you. What if I did hear you and what if I did teach you and what if I am wasting my time on you every day as I have done for three years? You are too great a fool for any good to come out of my instructions. You'll never get an opportunity to use your voice and earn your bread by it. You needn't expect that you will. Ah, no, side the mother. That's just what I always tell her. She'll never have an opportunity, it's a waste of time. And the hire of the piano, for which we have to stent ourselves so much, is money thrown away. I was always unlucky, always, and so is everyone that belongs to me. Mother, you know that I do not believe in luck. Immatribugeau cannot believe what he says. No, my master, you would not waste so many precious hours upon me if you believed your own words. You can tell me that, although I am as ugly as an owl, I have a great gift. I should not have known it if you had not told me, but this gift has been entrusted to me. Perhaps in compensation for my ugliness and poverty, who knows. God would not have consigned it to my knowing without granting me an opportunity of using it. That is my belief, my faith. All very fine, but faith is not a current coin that will buy bread. And you cannot always live on hope. It is the natural fool of youth. After a few years of waiting and watching and disappointment, you will cease to hope as I do, and as millions have done before, and will do again. Not until I cease to believe in the good God, answered Sylvie gravely, and that will never be. Stop your preaching and come back to your lesson. You will get your hopefulness from that reckless father of yours and much good his inexhaustible stock of hope has done him. Left him nothing but this little hole to lodge his hopes in. Ah, nothing has ever prospered with him, murmured Madame de Laroche. He don't deserve to prosper, snarl bourgeois. He is always pursuing phantoms instead of marching under the banner of steady industry, but I suppose we are to spend the rest of the evening in discussions. Sylvie's only reply was to resume replaced by the piano. Major Bourgeois, churlishly, took his seat, and the lesson continued. Sylvie's father belonged to an excellent family of Provence, a family who claimed to be the offshoot of nobility. Évard de Laroche was born and bred a gentleman, according to the European acceptance of the word, which means he was born and fitted for no occupation. A gentleman of the aristocratic do-nothing school. His father's income had been sufficiently large to enable him to live luxuriously with prudence, but the son chanced to be wholly deficient in that inestimable quality. When Évard became his father's heir, he found himself with ample means at his command. He proposed to his young wife that they should remove from Provence to Paris and see the world, Paris to a Frenchman being the only world worth recognizing. Hardly had they taken up their residence in the great capital when Monsieur de Laroche launched into numberless extravagances. He was one of those light-hearted sanguine men who never looked beyond the hour. He squandered his property in the most reckless manner. Now and then, as he felt his substance melting away, he embarked in some hazardous but goal-condo-promising speculation, which usually left him poorer than before. In a few years his means were exhausted. He then resorted to borrowing from any source that was accessible. He had no scruples of delicacy, for he always promised and intended to pay when he could, but scorned to contemplate the possibility that such a day might never come. He did not experience the faintest gratitude for these loans. They were a matter of business, he asserted. He never economized the money thus acquired, but often expended for an hour's indulgence a sum that would supply his family in food for a week. By the time Sylvie had entered her tenth year, her father was reduced to such poverty that one after another all the valuables he possessed down to his wife's jewelry and clothes had been sold for bread. He had wearied out the patience and drained the generosity of his former friends who shunned and finally cut the unscrupulous borrower. The prospect of actual starvation now compelled him to exert himself, but he found it difficult to secure employment and quite as hard to force himself to work when it was obtained. He had laterally fallen in with a notary who supplied him with a small amount of copying, drudgery for which he was scantily compensated. Madame de La Roche resorted to her needle, a woman's unfailing resource and earned a few francs a week. Sylvie aided her in this humble pursuit until the gift of her magnificent voice was discovered by Métre Bourjant. The music master was a morose and seemingly selfish old man, wretchedly poor, but too proud and ascetic to assume a winning suavity and resort to cajolries by which many a less skillful of his brethren gained pupils and won appreciation. His few scholars barely enabled him to support a bedridden mother and the aged domestic who attended upon her, but in spite of his hardness and coldness he adored his art. All the deep-lying tenderness of his impenetrable soul found vent in music. As stern as Luther he was easily melted by melody. While contemplating his ordinary appearance it was difficult to conceive the transforming softness produced upon him by harmonious sounds as it is to picture Luther playing on his beloved flute or a sweet-sounding guitar and exclaiming with enthusiasm, it is the art of the prophets. It is only other arts which, like theology, can calm the agitation of the soul and put the devil to flight. Most assuredly nothing else had the power to put to flight the demons of ill temper that perpetually haunted Meitron Boucher. After the venerable musician, by chance, heard Sylvie's wonderful Contralto voice, he paused to listen to it again and again until its underdeveloped capacity almost drove him wild. One day, losing all control over himself, he burst into the room, snatched away her work and exclaimed, I will teach you, never touch my needle again. Then, regarding her in undisguised disappointment, added, What a pity you are so ugly, but it shall not matter. That voice had caused him to picture to himself a face and form as nearly angelic as it could be found in mortal mould and his disappointment can only be estimated by those who feel equal idolatry for physical beauty. The homely Sylvie proved to be the most tractable and persevering of his students, but the loss of her needle, little as it earned, and the expense of hiring even that old dilapidated piano, which, however, Meitron Boucher himself kept in the most perfect tune, caused her parents to endure greater privations than ever. Her father, with his usual buoyancy, joyfully seized upon the new hope awakened by Meitron Boucher and indulged in the wildest visions of the future. But the mother's spirits were not revived by the cheering prospect. She shook her head when Sylvie and her father talked of prosperity and expressed her firm conviction that prosperity would never be a guest at their fireside. In Sylvie's disposition the two extremes that characterized the temperaments of her parents had been escaped. The tendencies she inherited from one counterbalance those imparted by the other. A jus milieu was the happy sequence. In place of the vaguely wild hopes of her father she possessed a cheerful confidence, and instead of being prone to her mother's ceaseless anticipations of evil, she experienced a placid preparation for disappointment, which was possible and therefore very endurable. Sylvie's feeble frame betrayed the ill effects of her constant confinement and the unflagging diligence with which she studied. She grew thinner and thinner and more and more pallid every day, and yet an incomprehensible strength revealed itself in the sweet sounds that awoke beneath her attenuated fingers and issued from her colorless lips the strength of inspiration. The child life had been grief. Sorrow had quickly ushered into her womanhood. Poverty and privation were familiar to her, and she felt them less keenly than her parents. The necessity of encountering the rude moods of her aesthetic master was a far greater trial. She shrank from unkindness. She yearned for the fostering voice of encouragement and approval. Métro Bougeau was niggardly of commendation, and her happiest efforts were only rewarded by a dubious growl. Far worse than this, he often attacked her mother and unsparingly ridiculed her father's follies. At such time, Sylvie's brave spirit was stirred to rebellion. She conquered her awe, took part in wordy warfare, and boldly stood between her tutor and her parents, diverting the two fearful of his ill will to resent his insolence. When Sylvie's lesson was concluded, Métro Bougeau, instead of taking his departure, turned to the table, opened the old case that contained his violin, gently took out the instrument, and without comment sat down and played. There could be no sure sign that he was pleased with his pupil. Sylvie crouched upon a low stool, resting her weary head upon her mother's knees. Her large eyes were fixed intently upon her master, and her whole soul flashed into her face. Now and then a low murmur of ecstasy broke from her parted lips, and her slight frame quivered as though with an electric shock. The mother's hand smoothed her daughter's silken hair, and the habitual look of sorrow began to fade out of Madame de La Roche's eyes, either by that flood of melody, or by the contemplation of Sylvie's silent rapture. The trio had not heard the opening of the door, and were unconscious that anyone had entered the apartment. Though close beside Métro Bougeau stood a tall and handsome man, voyagely jovial in appearance, his complexion was floored as that of a mountain maid, his fair hair clustered over a low but exceedingly white clear and very light blue. His rosy mouth seemed especially fashion for smiles. Though his dress was shabby in the extreme, there was a certain degree of stylishness about his deportment which communicated itself to his attire. Perhaps his fine figure, broad chest and rounded limbs, would have given an air of elegance to any apparel. Métro Bougeau chanced to look up, and with a scowl he instantly stopped playing and laid his violin in its case. Go on, Métro Bougeau, said Monsieur Delaroche with a lively tone, finish the strain, it really is ravishing. Thank you, I've played enough, too much, rather, for I'd like to choose my audience, and that was not aware of the honour of your presence. Well, well, it was your life, said Delaroche, good-humidly. We must not quarrel with one who has been such a friend to my little girl here. When will you obtain her a hearing? Just at this moment I'm hard pressed for funds, or our treasury is reduced to its last frunk. And that confounded notary has no copying for me today. There's nothing left that can be transferred to the pawnbroker. Sylvia's our only hope. When will you get her a hearing? That's the question. Métro, possibility never, answered Bougeau gruffly. I see no likelihood of an opportunity. Possibly she'll carry her voice and her dear voices quite as fine have gone there unrecognised and more will follow. Ah, sighed the mother. That's just my belief. I brought ill luck to Evorah by marrying him. When I might have done so better and married a Marquis, only my evil stars would not permit it. And now there's nothing but poverty and misery before us. Very convenient to lay your own bad taste Monsieur de La Roche's improvidence to the charge of the stars. What are the stars to do with you are making a bad choice in his quandering his fortune and rendering his family destitute. Bougeau snatched up his cap and with a dear violin under his arms shuffled out of the room without paying the least attention to Monsieur de La Roche's attempt at self-defense. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of The Mute Singer by Anna Cora Mawit Ritchie. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Kelly Taylor Chapter 2 A Toilet Dilemma After Maître Bougeau took his abrupt departure Sylvie made an effort to conquer her lastitude and prepare the frugal repast of her parents. It consisted only of soup, salad, and coarse bread. But the table was neatly spread and in the center she placed the tin cup with Matahou's humble bouquet. During the meal Madame de La Roche was silent, absorbed as usual in her own gloomy thoughts. Sylvie was too much exhausted to converse but her buoyant spirited father discoursed at length upon the various methods by which, if the fates only smiled, he might rapidly make a fortune and resume his former position in society. Year after year he clearly demonstrated how this desirable object of his will, which was suddenly expected to churn and sent him upward with a bound, never seemed to move and his airy castles invariably exploded and left him for a season prostrate and disheartened. His wife, who had lost all faith in his intangible schemes only sighed and shook her head as she slowly sipped her soup. But Sylvie's filial respect caused her to listen with that attention which great talkers look upon as the most gratifying response. The next day, Maître Bourjeau did not appear at his accustomed hour and Sylvie, whom he would not have found slumbering again looked for him with growing disquietude. Her mother had several times declared during dinner that she was inwardly troubled by strange and undefined misgiving, premonitions that evidently ended at Maître Bourjeau. Delaroche was unusually taciturn and Sylvie found it difficult to preserve her wanted cheerfulness. The meal was over. She had risen to clear the table when, without a knock of warning, being given, the door flew open and Maître Bourjeau burst into the room. Maître Bourjeau the amazed trio could scarcely believe that it was really her. He capered about with his violin under his arm, flung up his cap and caught it, sang a jovial refrain and made such mad demonstrations of hilarity that no wonder Madame Delaroche shrank away in terror. Her husband too looked as though he were meditating the best means of capturing the lunatic but Sylvie sprang towards him without stretched hands. He caught her in his arms, hugging her and the violin in the same embrace. He kissed her forehead and cheeks almost frantically and in a voice half laughter, half tears shouted, What is the matter, the matter? Child, it has come! It has come at last, at last! What has come, dear Maître Bourjeau? In answer, he folded her anew to his breast, the violin still sharing the caress and pressed against her slight frame rather more roughly than was agreeable. Your trust was not in vain. The good God has rewarded your faith in his own good time. What then has happened? The chance for you to be heard has arrived. The opportunity for meep to present a pupil before competent judges has come. Judges who know what music means, none of your new fangle pretenders, but true judges. Sylvie could not utter a single word. Her hands were clasped, her eyes upraised with an expression of fervent gratitude. The next moment she burst into tears and hit her face upon the old man's shoulder. Maître Bourjeau, my dear friend, it's just what I expected, exclaimed Delaroche with an odd kind of dignity and repressing all surprise. His demeanor contained the impression that he was only receiving his desserts and could not be elated by an event which he had the right to anticipate. Let me assure you, my dear sir, that this was what I always looked for and now all will be as it should be. We shall be obliged to hire decent apartments at once and get a few comforts around us and I don't doubt that Christmas will find me driving that noble pair of greys which I have so long desired to possess. I have a strong partiality for greys. I shall not consent to buy horses of any other color. But I don't doubt that we shall easily find a pair to suit. Maître Bourjeau's unwanted tenderness vanished. You don't doubt, do you? Then let me tell you, sir, I do doubt. The card houses you are such an adept in building shall tumble down as fast as they went up and the greys will run away with your reason before you ever hold the reins. That's your luck, you know, so your wife says and she has secret information from the abode of the blue devils. Saying this, he pushed Sylvie rudely away from them. Why are you playing the fool for? Why are you crying about making yourself look uglier than ever? It's a great misfortune and a duty to part with. The musician turned again to Dila Roche and asked tauntingly, What if I have obtained a hearing for her? Who says she'll succeed? Ah, who indeed? responded Madame Dila Roche woefully. It's not to be expected. Certainly not, Madame. You're quite right. Your unlucky stars will occupy themselves in taking care to prevent success. No, ironically. Therefore it's not a matter for such very great rejoicing, though I this very evening obtained permission for her to sing a partable concert to be given at the residence of Count Castellane. Is it possible? exclaimed Sylvie. My dear master, how did you accomplish anything so wonderful? It was no doing of mine. It accomplished itself. It was chance that it turned up. A chance. No, it was stuff. I've heard all that before. You don't believe in chance, but chance it was and a chance of which I've had the wit to take advantage. The princess Clementine has promised to honour the Count by her presence, accompanied by several members of the royal family. The princess had signified her desire to hear Le Blanche, the great Basso, which you and I have often sung together. Mademoiselle Belchasse, who was to sing the female part, has taken ill. A couple of hours ago I encountered Monsieur Le Grand who was in charge of the concert. He usually gives me the cold shoulder having nothing to gain from such a poor devil as I. But today he was in great distress. He had not succeeded in finding a contralto voice reliable to supply Mademoiselle's place. And it seemed probable that the duet would have to be omitted. The princess had only consented to be present to hear Le Blanche in this piece. To withdraw it would be highly prejudicial to the success of the concert. Le Grand consented to ask my advice. I told him that one of my pupils possessed a magnificent contralto voice and sang the similimide grugli. And you'll prove my words else I'll wash my hands of you. Le Grand knew he could trust me. He may sneer at my worn-out coat. He may despise my poverty but not my musical knowledge. So the matter's all settled. Settled. Do you hear that? Settled. Maître Bourgeois seemed inclined to resume his joyful capering. When the voice of Sylvie's father once more revived his habitual churlishness. Settled. Settled he repeated rapturously. Then it's all right just as I thought we are quite safe. I say you're not safe. Almost shrieked Bourgeois more savagely than ever. Who knows that she won't be frightened out of her wits before all those grand people and lose her voice. And there's little enough time for preparation. I have a mind to make you set up and practice the duet. When will the concert take place, as Sylvie? When? The day after tomorrow, to be sure. Only two days for preparation. Two days, cried Madame Delaroche doorfully. Oh, it's impossible. How shall we get her ready? How shall we make a dress for her to wear? And how shall we ever buy her a dress to say nothing of shoes and stockings and gloves if don't talk to me of dresses, woman? replied Bourgeois. What has a dress to do with her voice? These women are such torments. It's always to some stupid trivialities they attach importance. It doesn't matter what she wears. Let her be closed decently. That's enough. That's just the trouble. How are we to manage to clothe her decently? Besides the dress she has on, she only has one other. Her best. And that's a shabby Muslim Delain faded and dawned three years old. You know nothing about these affairs, Monsieur Bourgeois. But I, her mother, say you could not take her among ladies and gentlemen a Muslim Delain dress three years old and very much worse for wear. No, I fear not my master, Sylvie responded. Here's a tempest and a teapot. Here's an insurmountable barrier to what I have been working to accomplish these three years and all raised by a woman's gown. Instead of rejoicing at this unexpected good fortune, instead of being out of your senses with delight at the honor of singing with love launch and before some of the royal family you make a mountain of difficulties out of a dress. The style of her costume, I suppose, won't alter the quality of her voice. No, of course it won't, said Delaroche. But you know the gentle sex are prone to dwell a little too much upon the outside show. They must be pardoned, my dear sir, for this very natural weakness. Sylvie will do your credit and herself credit for the game our fortunes no matter what dress she has on. People won't look at her old Mousseline Delaine, nor her sallow little face when they hear her voice. A new dress is quite out of the question. We have not a zoo left to buy one. We cannot get it on credit and there's nobody we can borrow from so that settles the question of the dress. Sylvie will make a hit and she will soon have dresses in abundance. We will robe her like a queen and I rather think her mother's wardrobe and mine will require considerable replenishing. I should not like to say how long I've worn this coat. As the father complacently uttered these words, Bougeot walked up to him almost threateningly. Sir, I will not say what I consider you. You know less even than your wife and daughter. You talk unmitigated nonsense. Your daughter will not be introduced to the public by me unless she is properly attired and since you cannot provide her with a dress and shoes and stockings and glove and a sash and a handsome anchorchief broke in the mother and shoes and stockings and glove and a sash and a handsome anchorchief scornfully echoed Metro Bougeot. Your daughter will not be introduced to the public by me unless she is properly attired and since all these absurdities are needful to a woman's toilet down tumbles your card house as I said it would for she will not sing at Count Constelain's concert. Just our luck cried the mother. The most glorious opportunity in the world offers and we lose it for want of a few loo-do-alls to buy a dress. Who says you will lose it? Metro Bougeot. Why she cannot go without a dress return the mother with a faint flash of spirit and we cannot purchase one where are we to pick up the 60 or 70 franc which it would cost to procure a suitable toilet. I do not think we could even get the dress made in time if we were lying here at the moment and we could not pay for anyone to make it and Madame de La Roche folded her hands with a resigned give-up sort of expression and drew a deep sigh. Since the dress seems to be an insuperable obstacle and an absolute necessity perhaps you could help us suggested de La Roche to the music teacher nothing daunted easy to dash his hopes. I? No sir, no I have not the means not that I would throw the money away in buying girls' dresses if I had I expended my last Louis all the other day in paying my poor mother's confounded doctor. I have not a franc left no not a suit. Sylvie who had been standing musing now laid her hand gently my dear master what is to be done we must make an effort this opportunity must not be lost a plain kind of dress of some sort must be procured and must be made and in time I do not see the way but I do see that it must be done and that we do not have a moment to lose she monopolizes the sense of this family as well as the talent that circulated the master you are right Sylvie it must be done but how it is to be done I cannot divine any more than you yourself the articles they say you need cannot be purchased without gold any more than your dress can be made without hands if I had the money you should have it but I tell you I have not got it and I cannot borrow it so my good intentions will not help you but May trouble you began the father in spite of a blind project sir I dare say you'll fabricate her dress out of your fine words and make it up by the aid of the same airy materials she's not likely to have the honor of seeing with Le Blanche if you do not so I leave you to make the experiment in spite of an attaining ejaculation from Sylvie he bolted out of the room Sylvie and her parents or rather Sylvie and her father sat down to discuss possibilities and after he had raised her hopes many times and tantalized her by all sorts of plans which her mother systematically tore to pieces proving the fragility of each scheme Sylvie withdrew to her own little chamber if we may so call the nook partitioned off by the old curtain there she knelt out in prey that if it were well that way might be shown to her by which this apparent good so unexpectedly presented could be rendered available and though no method suggested itself to her mind she rose up comforted by the certain conviction that the desired means would be revealed if it were best and if not revealed it would be because the step which promised so largely would if taken prove a false one end of chapter 2 chapter 3 of The Mute Singer by Anna Cora Mawit Ritchie this LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by Kelly Taylor chapter 3 Maitre Rougeaux's violin Sylvie slept but little that night but as the grey light of morning stole into her humble chamber as she rose she went quietly about her usual duties arranged the apartment prepared the breakfast and carefully made the coffee upon which her parents chiefly depended for a refreshment she moved about with a mean as composed as if this first great venture in life had not been missed though she had little doubt that it must be foregone on opening the door to receive her daily supply of milk through the entry with his beloved violin under his arm Sylvie started to see him at this early hour for he habitually was a late riser and often owned his fondness for the pleasant morning nap that sweet semi-conscious slumber which is too light to be haunted by troubled dreams too deep to be disturbed by waking anxieties Sylvie remarked that the musician's face was far paler than usual and positively cadaverous he was too much absorbed to perceive her until she saluted him then his features worked convulsively and with an agitated air he muttered go in go in I don't want to see you but my master began Sylvie beseechingly and advancing towards him don't come near me little lull you look hideous this morning don't speak to me I say I'll not hear a word if I tell you I should catch a glimpse of that silly mother and weak father of yours or if I even heard their voices I could not answer for my own resolution so get in your room will you shut the door and don't molest me for once Sylvie seemed inclined to disobey but he waved her off and rushed down the stairs how strangely he looks what can ale him she murmured he never goes out at this hour there was no lessons to give so early in the morning yet he has his violin perhaps he could not sleep after the dreadful disappointment of last night and has gone to wander about until the hour for his first lesson arrives ah no one gives him credit for possessing the kind heart that lies hidden under his rough exterior he would not speak to me because he has not the courage to allude to that severe trial I should have told him that I could bear it patiently hopefully other chances may come as unexpectedly as this one came who knows and perhaps I should only fail if I sang at concert with so little preparation that must be the reason why I am prevented from making the attempt thus this trustful calm spirited young maiden consoled herself as she returned soon over Sylvie and her parents had partaken of the mill almost in silence her mother looked positively ill from the absence of all rest during the night and her father who states of high excitement were usually followed by his fits of dejection was now painfully depressed in these moods he seldom talked but Sylvie knew how much at that moment he was wholly out of employment as the door closed behind him Sylvie turned caressingly to her melancholy mother stole the needle she was mechanically threading out of her hands and entreated her to lie down and try to sleep Madame de la Roche who really felt unable to sit up made but feeble opposition to her daughter's wish in a few moments she fell in fear of rousing her but took up the piece of sewing she had coaxed out of her weak hands and sat down by the open window the casement stood the small pot of mignonette one of Matayu's small offerings the summer air passing over the flowers carried their delicate aroma into the room and Sylvie smiled involuntarily as she inhaled the perfume that odorous breath was a pleasant and hopeful messenger who grew in obscurity were gazed upon only by the eyes of poverty yet they absorbed the bright sunshine and drank in the rain and blossomed and gave out the sweet odor with which they were endowed their gift of fragrance was not wasted for it often gladdened her and her sad mother who had so little gladness in their lives would Sylvie's own gift prove to answer her with their sweetness no this sentence for us and that voice of melody for you and both for some use a bang at the door which flew back as if it were kicked open broke the mother's slumber she sprang up with a faint cry no piano going oh quiet have you fallen asleep again lazy bones exclaimed Matra Bujo noisily entering Sylvie rose and was about to explain how do you expect at this rate to be ready with a similar mean tomorrow night eh tomorrow night cried Sylvie joyfully yes tomorrow night parrot are you not to sing in a duet with La Blanche at Count Castellane's tomorrow night am I truly truly you are being true I've done with you forever but the dress I hold it in the palm of my hand and the shoes and stockings and glove and sash and handkerchief chimed in Madame de la Roche as she sat up on the side of the bed all in the same small compass see and he caught Sylvie's hand and closed her slight fingers with gold coins three Louis door and a half oh my master my master how shall I ever thank you how have you done this what's it to you it's done that's enough it will buy what you need to make you presentable won't it little fright it won't make you handsome but it will let people hear a voice that is worth all the beauty in the world it's enough is it not she understands these feminine matters and according to her calculations there is a dress and all the other silly paraphernalia in those four bits of gold oh that's more than enough a deal more I'm sure replied Sylvie whose tiny hand had never before held such a treasure but how is the dress to be purchased and cut out and made up in time it is quite impossible and who is to make it a dress in any modern fashion and Sylvie knows nothing of dressmaking here's a dress and knows dressmaker we're just as far off from good fortune as ever groaned Madame de la Roche and you will always keep far off with your eternal croaking angry answered maître buto you are so determined to make difficulties and see nothing but the dark side you deserve nothing else yes you know you are fond of it and you would not seek after difficulty so pretentiously maître buto you must not speak in that manner to my dear mother answered Sylvie seriously I am sure mother that I have found a way of getting a dress made it came to my head as I was pondering over the possibilities that good memzelle ussoul who lives in the story below us is a mantua maker I heard her say that she had very little work just now I am confident that she can make my dress by tomorrow night with your help and mine yours yours indeed and what is to become of your practicing cry buto let me see how you dare to thread a needle even and I'll burn the dress in an instant let us buy it first just to enable you to do that replied Sylvie in a merry tone only grant me time to speak to memzelle ussoul and to make the needful purchases for my mother is so much indisposed this morning that she cannot go out and then I will faithfully practice for the rest of the day when you come this evening I will tell you about progress I have made Sylvie threw her shabby mantel over her shoulders as she spoke tied on her old straw bonnet and was hastening out of the room but stopped suddenly and went up to maître bourgeois oh but how selfish and thoughtless I am I do not pause to tell you how grateful you have rendered me I do not ask you what sacrifice you have made to obtain this money that was your errand out so early this morning tell me my master how you borrowed those 70 frog chatterbox get away will you what business is it of yours what have you to do with my private affairs let me hear no more impertinent questions Sylvie saw that her master was in earnest he nervously pulled at his moustache and his mouth twitched as though he were affected then I will only ask if you will be here at the usual time this evening I intend to come two hours earlier so be ready but your pupils I shall give no lessons today maître bourgeois cleared his throat with some violence where his voice was husky then he took from his old horn box a large and consolatory pinch of snuff no lessons why do you intend to stand here chattering all day do you intend to forget all about that dress without which a girl can't make any music anymore than a harp without strings I am going adieu mama Sylvie rang gaily down the stairs and the music master retired to his chamber as mamzelle ursoul had passed her prime and was still unmarried we are compelled to designate her as an old maid she was a brisk, bright, soft-hearted creature who took almost as much interest in the young as though they brought back her youth yet filled as great sympathy with the aged as though she had always been old indeed she seemed ever ready to enter into the joys or sorrows the hopes or schemes of others partly because any intercourse with the world interrupted the monotony of her existence and partly because she was naturally unselfish Sylvie was her chief favorite though she saw her but seldom she had long been acquainted with the object of the musical education the young girl was receiving from maître bourgeois and Sylvie's present communication filled her with delight she engaged to commence the dress with all speed and in a few moments was ready to sally forth to make good the needful purchases ursoul did not lack the good taste which it is characteristic of her country women she selected for Sylvie's attire a simple white muslin if the means at command had permitted it would have been a very fine instead of a rather coarse muslin but no richer material would have been preferred Sylvie listened in astonishment while the shrewd spinster quarrelled about the price and beat the shopkeeper down soo by soo at last the bargain was completed and the dress secured for forty francs what an enormous amount it seemed to Sylvie the same process of cheapening had to be gone through over the stockings which were bought for two francs and then it was vigorously repeated when the sash, gloves and the handkerchief were chosen six francs were paid for the sash two and a half for the gloves and eight for the handkerchief five francs more were expended in what the mantua makers styled sundries leaving but six francs and a half a shoemaker had next to be visited and Sylvie's slender foot when it was encased in a neatly fitted satin slipper looked as though it were an inheritance from Cinderella all Ursul's arguments and entreaties could not obtain the pretty slippers for less than six francs which left just half a franc out of the seventy maître bourgeois had supplied Sylvie was astonished she had no conception that what seemed to be a little fortune could melt away so rapidly and apparently without being the result of any extravagance only half a franc over and how was she to pay for the making of the dress but when she expressed her concern at this deficiency of means Ursul answered laughingly I don't eat my kind I would not take payment from one so poor or poorer than myself you will owe me nothing Madame de la Roche revived a little as Sylvie displayed her purchases and when soon after Ursul entered the room armed with a thimble and scissors and other mantua making implements the poor Invalent was stirred by a pleasant excitement which had been unknown to her for years very quickly the white muslin was cut and fitted and the two elder women were seated in a corner chattering like magpies and Sylvie was at the piano drowning their dissonant voices in a torrent of melody such was the disposition of the group when maître bourgeois entered he gave a contemptuous glance at the feminine finery scattered about and answered Sylvie so gruffly as she remarked upon his arrival that Ursul was speedily awed into silence by and by she discovered that she had lost the measure of Sylvie's girdle but it was some time before she could summon the courage to approach her and make a frightened attempt to pass the trade around her slender waist what are you doing here demanded maître bourgeois sternly do you suppose that I am going to have my lesson interrupted by any of this foolery Ursul retreated rapidly and sheltered herself by the side of Madame de la Roche Sylvie gave the maître-maker a comical glance without hazarding a remark and a mirrorly went on with her lesson it was closed by her tutor saying no more tonight it will tire your voice and we must have it fresh for tomorrow he had spoken in so kind a tone that Sylvie thought he would surely reward her by playing on his violin as usual she rose and took her place on the little stool beside her mother's feet her seat of rest but maître bourgeois had his cap in his hand and was departing will you not play for me tonight why where's your violin I never saw you without it before Sylvie had only then noticed the absence of his inseparable companion what business is it of yours replied bourgeois have I not the right to do what I please with my own his manner and the agitation apparent in his voice betrayed him Sylvie sprang to his side almost falling over the white Muslim which entangled itself in her feet oh my master the dress your violin I know maître bourgeois made a movement to repulse her the dress was correct but fairly broke down and hid his confusion in repeated pinches of snuff if you had not parted with your violin I should not have that dress to wear tomorrow but your violin that you were so fond of you have not sold it surely you would not do that no no Sylvie I could not have done that for anyone hardly for my own mother I could not think I could not have done what I have done yet there were no other way I took the violin to a pawnbroker's close by it was like parting with an only child to give it up I loved it better I think that I could love a child I could not bear anyone to touch it I charged the man not to handle it Sylvie interrupted him with more feeling than strict politeness will they pay me tomorrow if I succeed they you no indeed there was not a word said about payment you are only singing on trial besides it is a charity concert and the musicians volunteer their services then they will not give me anything and I shall not be able to get back your violin you will certainly not if you were wonderfully successful the court may only possibly present you with some little token of regard that's often done but it will be nothing that can put red into your mouth or redeem my violin so don't build castles with your father's style of masonry go to bed early rest and let me see you fresh in the morning looking your best your least ugly I mean I shall be here soon after breakfast remember no curving your chest in with sewing I'll not have you take a stitch upon that nonsensical dress he pointed disdainfully at the white muslin as he left the room his exit opened the floodgates of Ursul's talk and how she ran on Sylvie could not listen she was thinking of the old man's violin shortly after the music maker retired Monsieur de La Roche entered looking very low spirited but when he beheld the brets of white muslin scattered about Ursul's needle flying and his rather lagging company while Sylvie prepared supper his spirits went up like a skyrocket he discovered forthwith that he had all day experienced a pre-sentiment that he would find the whole affair settled and that he was equally certain that before the year expired he would drive that noble pair of greys in the waudreau in the waudreau End of Chapter 3