Over the second course, he told a false story of my childhood, one I had not heard: that I was the illegitimate daughter of a former nun, fathered on her by a man of the cloth, the powers of my voice the Lord’s way of being merciful to a girl otherwise innocent of sin—this I attributed to some fantasy of the tenor’s. Because of this unfortunate childhood, it had been his duty, he said, on discovering my voice, to train me, and it had been his pleasure to introduce me to the great Pauline Viardot-García, who had graciously taken me on—and then provided the vindication of bringing me with her to study at the Conservatoire once she had assumed the directorship there after the war.
Alexandre Dumas, fils, had added, for the tenor’s new friend mostly, that he’d known me to move both assassins and those who commanded them, and had watched surprised as his friends wept in the dark boxes of the theater around him like children. They talk through the other singers, but when she sings, the theater is otherwise silent, he said. I like to imagine she could stop an execution.
This was met with both general laughter and agreement.
By the time the wine was nearly gone, there came a friendly argument about recent reviews hailing me as the greatest voice of my era, saying that I was a sign the north of Europe had been civilized at last and that the light of that civilization was alive in my voice, moving now through it to the rest of the continent. The world could only be next.
On the balcony at the palace afterward, as the men smoked, the tenor kept his new friend company with a few glasses of cognac.
You want to know more? he asked Aristafeo as I came into view.
I do, he said.
He told of the men who had seized my carriage the night of my debut and carried it through the streets, whipped by my driver to let go and whose hands still bore the scars.
Others were more impertinent, he added, and so she lives at a carefully guarded secret address as a result, known only to her closest intimates.
The tenor traced for him what he knew of my days: I did not speak between morning and my arrival at the theater, my servants were instructed to attend to my needs by leaving me notes and returning for my written answer. The same acts were performed at the same times of each day as if to a metronome, meals prompt and unvaried, the foods to fit the needs of a performer who could not gain weight or afford the slightest cough. I gave my costume mistresses the tiny weights used in the nets of Brittany fishermen to help give my costumes their slow, wheeling movements as I walked the stage, and my preference was for only the best jewelry for presents when it was not couture.
Is it true her maids have found diamonds in her garbage? Aristafeo had asked.
A bluff. She told them to search for them there afterward, the tenor said. She is pure theater.
What gift do you suppose she’d prefer? Aristafeo asked.
I couldn’t say, the tenor said. Nothing I do seems to please her.
They laughed. The other gentlemen joined them, taking in the view of the guests arriving; each outdoing the other to tell the new friend, this protégé of Verdi’s, something more interesting or sad or scandalous about each person. As the breeze moved the smoke of the cigars along and the view of the crowd was commanding, the group stayed content.
From there, he saw me announced. He watched as the writer made his plea to me and became worried as I left with him for the garden. He waited for me to appear again, even saw me emerge briefly before turning back. He waited for the writer also. When he saw neither of us, he even suspected us of beginning an affair, but he had come this far, and so, having worked up his nerve, he waited.
And then I did reappear.
That is her, indicated the tenor.
His eyes searched the gardens and the crowds of celebrants wandering through. The trees were strung with paper lanterns and lamps burned brightly along the edges, candles lit throughout the garden, but he did not see me until the aisle of raised swords told him I was returning from the palace.
But she was here earlier, Aristafeo observed. Had she left?
Yes, the tenor said, and grinned, slapping his arm. Though in quite a different gown altogether. It would appear she’s had some sport. He then addressed the reputation of the dukes at my side.
That dress is the better one, Simonet said, having rejoined them.
Aristafeo held himself in place, gripping the rail as I was announced a second time and entered to applause, the crowd shouting my name. La Générale! La Générale! The men and women standing on their seats to see in the uproar had the men on the balcony joined by their dinner companions, all anxious to see me as well. They screamed with laughter as the one woman’s dress caught fire and she was rushed to a fountain.
When I began the Jewel Song aria, the voice in the night came with a green flash through the dark, the ring he knew well finally on my hand as I waved my hands to the song’s gestures in the gaslight below.
Always, the tenor said to him, as he took out his handkerchief. Always she is giving the performance of her life.
The tenor then joked to the assembled gentlemen that I had done him the favor of agreeing to become his wife. Some of the group demanded the truth; the rest, who knew better of our history, laughed, and he refused to say more, only grinning.
Here then was the real source of the published rumor that I was to marry him, this joke.