The Louisiana populist. [volume] (Natchitoches, Natchitoches Parish, La.) 1894-1898, 1896-05-22
THE UGLY
PRIMA-DONNA

a
the news that a rare and wonderful
singer, Gin fact, one Of the divinest
voices ever heard upon the stage" as
O New York daily had said, was go
Ing to visit them for one night on her
way to San Francisco.
You should have seen the stampede
10 the music store for reserved seat
tickets-for any tickets-for permission
to stand inside the hall. In one day
every inch of room in the shabby build
ing was bought up and that a week
before the time. All Silver Greek was
either STEPPED In triumphant satisfac-
ton or plunged in covetous longings.
The day arrived. So did the prima-
donna and her attendants.
The crowd Of sight-seers who were
waiting at the railwoy station saw
nothing for their pains, except three
gentlemanly looking foreigners who led
an impenetrably vailed lady into a cab.
Mademoiselle Cepbise de Fascati was
driven to the best hotel in the town.
No sooner were the doors of the
"Music Hail. opened than q dense
multitude took their seats, and there
after ensued for one full hour such
crammings Of ruffies and squeezing
past knees, and pushing Of elbows,
az had never been seen in that hall
before.
And at last the three gentlemen en-
nd thAp.caIuau n
orchestra; the subdued scrapings Of
violins, and roulading Of silver flutes,
held the garcon part Of the audience
spell-bound in breathless anticipation,
and everybody prepared to be aston
ished.
So they were.
The prima donna glided in from a
side door, her long amber satin robe
trailing over the carpeted platform,
her white satin petticoat adorned with
lice and embroidery, her gold hair
flowing In ringlets, and sprinkled loose
ly with white camellias, her snowy
throat enriched by gold, her dainty
white feet decked with gilt butterflies,
her small, upright figure so lissome. SO
graceful, rising out Of a gold-and white
Moorish scarf, which was knotted
loosely at one side.
A vision Of perfect grace and Paris
ian taste was she; but the face which
confronted the audience was the
ugliest in the room.
A short Of shock ran through the
hearts Of the throng. They had ex-
pected beauty to match the famous
voice. Why not? The papers had
called her young, attractive, the idol
of every city.
Here was a veritable Gorgon.
There was a palpable silence as she
swept to the front Of the platform,
where a bank of flowers did duty in
stead Of foot-lights. The applause
which had risen up like a whirlwind
at the first glimpse Of the gold,and-
white figure, was now hushed and
dumbsmitten.
Mademoiselle Cephise turned with
unmoved face to her orchestra, and
straightway a low sobbing broke from
violin and silver flute, like the softest
whispers Of the Aeolian harp, and the
voice rose up, not glad and joyous as
the tones of those who have found
life holiday, but sadly, proudly, pure
~, In its lonely beauty, like the voice
Of an angel who, wandering through
eordid scenes IL search Of the ALL
Good, sings q song not Of earth, but
one taught by Heavens ministers.
oh, voice Of majesty, Of piercing,
thrilling. pulsing, peerless sweetness!
How it tranced each vulgar soul in the
old hall that night, and dragged them
from their sordid selves to peep with
awe-struck eyes through the golden
bars to heaven! How it taught cold
hearts their first lesson of love. q
charity, Of alteration to Him who rules
above all! How 1t waited the angel
faces of the dead to weeping friends,
and sent the innocent baby cheek back
to nestle on the mothers yearning
bosom.
Beloved voice, guerdon surely Of a
noble soul!
The song or one should say the
divine pasalm-was ended, when u
creak at one Of the doors broke the
intense stiffness which establishment
and emotion had bounded the audience
with, and an old woman, dripping from
the cold rain without, edged herself
into the crowded building. She was
ragged, and bowed together with rheu-
matism; few sparse white locks fell
from her old black bonnet over her
poor, thin cheeks; her faded shawl
scarcely hid her bony arms from tlu
gaze Of the throng, and her skirt was
Of cotton, worn to rags, but mended
somehow to hang together. She had
q basket on her arm filled with
matches, spools Of cotton, tape, and
needles; but the matches were spoiled
by the rain, and her whole stock
damaged.
"Come, come, Mother Pelletier," said
the doorkeeper, taking her rather
roughly by the arm, you must go out
Of this; it isn't place for the likes Of
your
"Ah, mon Dieuw muttered the old
woman, looking eagerly about with
her keen, black eyes, 81 heard a voice
"A sweet voice. Where Ia it?"
Down stepped a lady from a re-
served seat close by-a lady with gor-
geous silks, and ermines, and opera
cloak, all au fait, but her eyes were
fun Of tears and her cheeks pale.
"Shc shall stay, Mr.. Harold" said
the lady; "the music will warm her
poor old soul. A compatriot Of your