Gallipolis journal. [volume] (Gallipolis, Ohio) 1837-1919, 1876-10-26
ONLY A SONG.

family and a small income, hired the
upper floor of a large building in
Paris, and to reduce his rent, under.
let room to young Monsieur Fer.
nande, the musical composer, oi
whose compositions no one yet had
heard anything.
1t was a little narrow room with
one very high window, but it had
this advantage: out Of this window
one could, at the risk of breaking
ones neck, catch glimpse of the
beautiful prima donna, Mile. La
c., as she famed herself on the
balcony of the first floor. For this
sensible reason had Monsieur Fer
nande hired the apartment.
He was dreadfully in love with her,
though they had never spoken to
each other, and he fondly and falsely
believed that she knew that he had
thrown her boquets and had given
him special thanks for them as she
held them against her pretty chin,
and bowed her pretty head for them,
and smiled with the beaming smile
of an actress down upon the audi
ence.
If ever he made his name and for
tune. then she should know, but not
until then. So he loved on in 81
lence, and worked at his compost
tions and offered them to publishers
and had them "declined with
thanks"
Now and then. of course, he sold
song, but the songs did not become
popular, and he must have starved
to death, but that he now and then
played on the piano for some dancing
party. At the best he lived on bread,
coffee, and little soup.
In his room he had an old piano, a
desk, chair, a merschaum, and lit
tic charcoal furnace. When he had
five francs in his pocket and it was
not rent day he felt rich.
Mile. La c. had every IL xu i
GUS lounge and coach to be bought
for money. She lavished gold On
her friends, herself, on her pet poo
die, on the beggars who held out
their crooked hands, and showed
their distorted faces at the door ofthe
house, as she tripped from it to the
carriage.
They said she had been peasant
girl, whose sweet voice as she stood
singing at the door of little hut,
had caught the ear of wealthy mu-
sic-worshiper, who had her taught in
consequence. They tell such stories
of so many prima donnas. No one
would have guessed from her man
ner now that she ever knew the value
of sou. Yet with all this extrava-
gance she was growing rich, and
could make a little fortune in
night.
Young, beautiful. adored, who
could be happier? And yet, though
she could sing so divinely, she could
not have composed one of those lit
tie songs which were written in the
garret over her head to save her
bright young life. Each one was a
gem, and probably young Fernando
knew it, for genius ought to know
its own work.
Still, rattling marches, waltzes
that were the same thing over again,
and bits from well-known operas
twisted into gallops, sold; while his
little songs lay neglected on the coun-
ter, and others never reached the
counter at all, being scorned from the
first by publishers with no music in
their souls, however much there may
have been in their shops.
If, indeed, some well-known singer
would have sung one of them
Mademoiselle La c., for instance
then there might have been a
change. The thought crept into
poor Fernande's heart by degrees; at
last it strengthened into resolve;
but it must be the best of all that he
should lay before his idol, the very
best-nothing less would do.
So he wrote in his attic room, the
poor composer, and below, the happy
song-bird trilled her song, and
! laughed and chatted, and was care
lessly generous, and never even knew
of his existence, who, evening after
evening, watched her, listened to her,
envied the men who had right to
sit beside her, hold her fan, perhaps
who knew-her hand also; the
pen one Of whom might one day be