For once, compliment, sincere compliment from one whose opinion was worth while, gave Mildred pain.She burst out with her news: ``Signor Moldini, I've lost my place in the company.My voice has gone back on me.''
Usually Moldini abounded in the consideration of fine natures that have suffered deeply from lack of consideration.
But he was so astounded that he could only stare stupidly at her, smoothing his long greasy hair with his thin brown hand.
``It's all my fault; I don't take care of myself,'' she went on.``I don't take care of my health.At least, I hope that's it.''
``Hope!'' he said, suddenly angry.
``Hope so, because if it isn't that, then I've no chance for a career,'' explained she.
He looked at her feet, pointed an uncannily long forefinger at them.``The crossings and sidewalks are slush--and you, a singer, without overshoes! Lunacy!
Lunacy!''
``I've never worn overshoes?'' said Mildred apologetically.
``Don't tell me! I wish not to hear.It makes me --like madness here.'' He struck his low sloping brow with his palm.``What vanity! That the feet may look well to the passing stranger, no overshoes!
Rheumatism, sore throat, colds, pneumonia.Is it not disgusting.If you were a man I should swear in all the languages I know--which are five, including Hungarian, and when one swears in Hungarian it is `going some,' as you say in America.Yes, it is going quite some.''
``I shall wear overshoes,'' said Mildred.
``And indigestion--you have that?''
``A little, I guess.''
``Much--much, I tell you!'' cried Moldini, shaking the long finger at her.``You Americans! You eat too fast and you eat too much.That is why you are always sick, and consulting the doctors who give the medicines that make worse, not better.Yes, you Americans are like children.You know nothing.Sing?
Americans cannot sing until they learn that a stomach isn't a waste-basket, to toss everything into.You have been to that throat specialist, Hicks?''
``Ah, yes,'' said Mildred brightening.``He said there was nothing organically wrong.''
``He is an ass, and a criminal.He ruins throats.
He likes to cut, and he likes to spray.He sprays those poisons that relieve colds and paralyze the throat and cords.Americans sing? It is to laugh! They have too many doctors; they take too many pills.Do you know what your national emblem should be? A dollar-sign--yes.But that for all nations.No, a pill--a pill, I tell you.You take pills?''
``Now and then,'' said Mildred, laughing.``I admit I have several kinds always on hand.''
``You see!'' cried he triumphantly.``No, it is not mere art that America needs, but more sense about eating--and to keep away from the doctors.People full of pills, they cannot make poems and pictures, and write operas and sing them.Throw away those pills, dear young lady, I implore you.''
``Signor Moldini, I've come to ask you to help me.''
Instantly the Italian cleared his face of its half-humorous, half-querulous expression.In its place came a grave and courteous eagerness to serve her that was a pleasure, even if it was not altogether sincere.And Mildred could not believe it sincere.Why should he care what became of her, or be willing to put himself out for her?
``You told me one day that you had at one time taught singing,'' continued she.
``Until I was starved out?'' replied he.``I told people the truth.If they could not sing I said so.If they sang badly I told them why, and it was always the upset stomach, the foolish food, and people will not take care about food.They will eat what they please, and they say eating is good for them, and that anyone who opposes them is a crank.So most of my pupils left, except those I taught for nothing--and they did not heed me, and came to nothing.''
``You showed me in ten minutes one day how to cure my worst fault.I've sung better, more naturally ever since.''
``You could sing like the birds.You do--almost.
You could be taught to sing as freely and sweetly and naturally as a flower gives perfume.That is YOURdivine gift, young lady song as pure and fresh as a bird's song raining down through the leaves from the tree-top.''
``I have no money.I've got to get it, and I shall get it,'' continued Mildred.``I want you to teach me --at any hour that you are free.And I want to know how much you will charge, so that I shall know how much to get.''
``Two dollars a lesson.Or, if you take six lessons a week, ten dollars.Those were my terms.I could not take less.''
``It is too little,'' said Mildred.``The poorest kinds of teachers get five dollars an hour--and teach nothing.''
``Two dollars, ten dollars a week,'' replied he.``It is the most I ever could get.I will not take more from you.''
``It is too little,'' said she.``But I'll not insist--for obvious reasons.Now, if you'll give me your home address, I'll go.When I get the money, I'll write to you.''
``But wait!'' cried he, as she rose to depart.``Why so hurried? Let us see.Take of the wrap.Step be-hind the screen and loosen your corset.Perhaps even you could take it off?''
``Not without undressing,'' said Mildred.``But Ican do that if it's necessary.'' She laughed queerly.
``From this time on I'll do ANYTHING that's necessary.''
