disapprobation, died slowly down, countered, as it was, with a little decorous and well-mannered applause. The charming romance of Greig, though exquisitely played, had failed to really touch the audience. If the great Bauquel, with his well-established reputation, had rendered it, the house would have been in a furore.
Corsini’s next item was a piece by Chopin. Amid the din of the contending hisses and applause, the pianist beckoned to the young man and they exchanged whispers.
“Take my advice; leave the Chopin piece. They are not in the melancholy mood to-night: they want something brilliant, an undernote of pathos with a cascade of fireworks to relieve the sadness. Play that romance of yours, with the variations. Cut the theme as short as possible; use it as just an introduction. Get to work on the variations, those will fetch them.”
Nello set his teeth firmly; opposition, the suspicion of failure, had goaded him to fresh effort, to a fuller belief in his own powers. He remembered the good old Papa’s injunction: “If you do not outplay that charlatan, Bauquel, I will never forgive you.”
And he played as one inspired. The violin, a legacy from his father, sang and sobbed and thrilled as it had never done before. When he had finished the applause was hearty and vehement. The hisses of the Bauquel claque could no longer be heard. The unknown young violinist had made good and won the plaudits of one of the most critical audiences in Europe.
Degraux met him in the wings and shook him warmly by the hand. “A thousand thanks. I see now I was right in engaging you, in speculating on a chance. Now, come to my room. You told me something yesterday about certain things in Dean Street. Cheques are no good to you. You want ready money.”
Nello admitted that it was so. Together they hastened into the director’s private room. Degraux went to a small safe, unlocked it and drew forth a roll of notes.
“See here, my young friend, you have saved the position. For the moment, that rascal Bauquel is temporarily eclipsed. Here is your fee, double what I promised.”
Nello protested faintly. “But, Monsieur, this is too much. And remember, please, I was very nearly a failure. Bauquel’s claque was almost too much for me.”
Degraux laughed light-heartedly. “Very nearly, but not quite. You say your good old Papa Péron calls him a charlatan. The expression is perhaps a little strong. He is not that, but he is perhaps not the genius he thinks himself, or his friends think him.”
“I should be more than delighted to possess his reputation, Monsieur,” interrupted the young Italian.
Degraux laid his hand lightly on Nello’s shoulder.
“I see, Corsini, you have a head upon your shoulders. Will you permit me to give you a few words of sound advice?”
“A thousand if you are so disposed, Monsieur.”
“You have scored a triumph of sorts to-night, but don’t let it give you a swollen head.”
“It will not, Monsieur, I can assure you,” was the answer.
“That is well; preserve the business head as well as the artistic instinct. This profession is full of ups and downs. Look at Bauquel! In spite of his considerable earnings, he is always in debt, always in the hands of money-lenders. He earns easily, he spends more easily. In five years he will be ousted from his position by younger and more talented rivals, and he will be penniless. He will probably come to me to borrow a sovereign.”
“And you will let him have it, I am sure, Monsieur,” said Nello warmly. “You have a very kind heart.”
“Of course I shall let him have it. But, at the same time, I shall take advantage of the opportunity to say, ‘here it is, friend Bauquel. But why did you not save in the fat years, instead of spending your money on a miserable claque, in order to spoil my show? And you know, moreover, you were absolutely in the wrong.’”
Nello could not refrain from smiling. Paul Degraux was very human. He could not forgive Bauquel for his cavalier treatment.
“I am a frugal Italian, Monsieur. I shall never waste my money.”
Paul Degraux swelled out his broad chest. “You will get on, my young friend. Look at me! Twenty or twenty-five years ago I was playing in a small orchestra with Gay at a few shillings a week – I have no doubt Gay has told you of that little episode. I know he is a very garrulous person – a dear good chap, but garrulous. Well, Gay is there and I am here. Why?”
He thundered out the question, expanding still further his broad chest.
Nello temporised. The great director was evidently in a confidential mood. It was as well to fall in with his humour.
“Ah, why, Monsieur? I should like to know. I am sure I should learn a good deal.”
Degraux, in his present mood, was pleased to have a listener. The concert was going on splendidly with experienced stars. It no longer required his attention.
“Listen, my young friend! I devoted myself to the business side of art. I saw more money was to be made out of exploiting other people than being exploited by others. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” said the young Italian, who was fairly shrewd for his years. “In fact, I am sure I do.”
“Good! Gay followed the artistic side.” Degraux snapped his fingers contemptuously. “The result: poor Gay, at his age, conducting a small orchestra at the Parthenon – a good one, I admit; but what is the remuneration? I, Paul Degraux,” again he tapped his broad chest significantly, “am here in a great position. I have followed the business side of art; poor old Gay has followed the artistic side. Bah!”
“You advise me, Monsieur, to cultivate the business side?” queried the young man.
“Of course. I am giving you good advice; sound advice. You have made a little stir here, certain things may follow from it. But still, you have not the reputation of Bauquel, second-rater that he is. Bauquel will be on his knees to me next week, and of course I shall take him back. It may be, when you come to me again, I can only give you a second place in the programme. The way will be hard from the artistic point of view.”
Nello listened with deep attention. Degraux was a man of business to his finger-tips. Certainly he was giving him good advice.
“And what are they, these artists, except the very few who are in the front rank – creatures of an hour, of the public’s caprice? Joachim, Sarasate, those are names to conjure with; they are permanent. But the others come and go. I, one of the directors of the Italian Opera, remain while they disappear. The exploiters are permanent, the exploited are transitory.”
“What do you advise, Monsieur?” asked Nello timidly. This whirlwind of a man half fascinated, half repelled him.
Monsieur Degraux held out his hand with his frank, engaging smile.
“Be exploited as long as it suits your book. Then save money and exploit other people. I cannot stay any longer. I have given you a few hints. You must work them out for yourself.”
A new world was opening to Nello Corsini, the talented young violinist who, only a few weeks ago, had played in the street on the chance of the coppers flung by passers-by. But it was absurd! How could he ever be a Paul Degraux? And yet, Degraux had played twenty-five years ago in a small orchestra for a pittance. What was his income now? Something princely.
He
