These were fashionable women--most delicate, sensitive ladies--at whom he swore.They wept, stayed on, advertised him as a ``wonderful serious teacher who won't stand any nonsense and doesn't care a hang whether you stay or go--and he can teach absolutely anybody to sing!'' He knew how to be gentle without seeming to be so; he knew how to flatter without uttering a single word that did not seem to be reluctant praise or savage criticism; he knew how to make a lady with a little voice work enough to make a showing that would spur her to keep on and on with him; he knew how to encourage a rich woman with no more song than a peacock until she would come to him three times a week for many years--and how he did make her pay for what he suffered in listening to the hideous squawkings and yelpings she inflicted upon him!
Did Jennings think himself a fraud? No more than the next human being who lives by fraud.Is there any trade or profession whose practitioners, in the bottom of their hearts, do not think they are living excusably and perhaps creditably? The Jennings theory was that he was a great teacher; that there were only a very few serious and worth-while seekers of the singing art;that in order to live and to teach these few, he had to receive the others; that, anyhow, singing was a fine art for anyone to have and taking singing lessons made the worst voice a little less bad--or, at the least, singing was splendid for the health.One of his favorite dicta was, ``Every child should be taught singing--for its health, if for nothing else.'' And perhaps he was right! At any rate, he made his forty to fifty thousand a year--and on days when he had a succession of the noisy, tuneless squawkers, he felt that he more than earned every cent of it.
Mildred did not penetrate far into the secret of the money-making branch of the Jennings method.It was crude enough, too.But are not all the frauds that fool the human race crude? Human beings both cannot and will not look beneath surfaces.All Mildred learned was that Jennings did not give up paying pupils.
She had not confidence enough in this discovery to put it to the test.She did not dare disobey him or shirk--even when she was most disposed to do so.But gradually she ceased from that intense application she had at first brought to her work.She kept up the forms.
She learned her lessons.She did all that was asked.
She seemed to be toiling as in the beginning.In reality, she became by the middle of spring a mere lesson-taker.
Her interest in clothes and in going about revived.She saw in the newspapers that General Siddall had taken a party of friends on a yachting trip around the world, so she felt that she was no longer being searched for, at least not vigorously.She became acquainted with smart, rich West Side women, taking lessons at Jennings's.She amused herself going about with them and with the ``musical'' men they attracted--amateur and semi-professional singers and players upon instruments.
She drew Mrs.Brindley into their society.They had little parties at the flat in Fifty-ninth Street--the most delightful little parties imaginable--dinners and suppers, music, clever conversations, flirtations of a harmless but fascinating kind.If anyone had accused Mildred of neglecting her work, of forgetting her career, she would have grown indignant, and if Mrs.Brindley had overheard, she would have been indignant for her.
Mildred worked as much as ever.She was making excellent progress.She was doing all that could be done.
It takes time to develop a voice, to make an opera-singer.
Forcing is dangerous, when it is not downright useless.
In May--toward the end of the month--Stanley Baird returned.Mildred, who happened to be in unusually good voice that day, sang for him at the Jennings studio, and he was enchanted.As the last note died away he cried out to Jennings:
``She's a wonder, isn't she?''
Jennings nodded.``She's got a voice,'' said he.
``She ought to go on next year.''
``Not quite that,'' said Jennings.``We want to get that upper register right first.And it's a young voice--she's very young for her age.We must be careful not to strain it.''
``Why, what's a voice for if not to sing with?'' said Stanley.
``A fine voice is a very delicate instrument,'' replied the teacher.He added coldly, ``You must let me judge as to what shall be done.''
``Certainly, certainly,'' said Stanley in haste.
``She's had several colds this winter and spring,''
pursued Jennings.``Those things are dangerous until the voice has its full growth.She should have two months' complete rest.''
Jennings was going away for a two months' vacation.
He was giving this advice to all his pupils.
``You're right,'' said Baird.``Did you hear, Mildred?''
``But I hate to stop work,'' objected Mildred.``Iwant to be doing something.I'm very impatient of this long wait.''
And honest she was in this protest.She had no idea of the state of her own mind.She fancied she was still as eager as ever for the career, as intensely interested as ever in her work.She did not dream of the real meaning of her content with her voice as it was, of her lack of uneasiness over the appalling fact that such voice as she had was unreliable, came and went for no apparent reason.
``Absolute rest for two months,'' declared Jennings grimly.``Not a note until I return in August.''
Mildred gave a resigned sigh.
There is much inveighing against hypocrisy, a vice unsightly rather than desperately wicked.And in the excitement about it its dangerous, even deadly near kinsman, self-deception, escapes unassailed.Seven cardinal sins; but what of the eighth?--the parent of all the others, the one beside which the children seem almost white?
