The evening Caledonian. [volume] (St. Johnsbury, Vt.) 1918-1920, 1918-10-09
MOTHER"
n Gripping Story of an Italian
Restaurant

II Whipping Stoiy VI oil AlahaiA
Restaurant
Mother" stood on the little gar
landed platform of Ravelli's restaur
ant, singing Tosti's "Goodby." She
held her broad shoulders back and
her ample chest high, and poured
out the strident tones of a strong,
ovelworked soprano, with here and
there note of thrilling sweetness
that reminded old habitues of the
days when she had dreamed Of a I
grand opera career.
"Mother" knew her own voice as
well as any of the diners at the |
crowded tables around her. She had
no illusions. Life had been tough,
but she could still sing in French,
German, and Italian, afternoons and
evenings, and half the night, to the
accompaniment Of WORKOUT piano
and incessant knives and forks.
She was big woman, with some
thing maternal in her aspect that
had won her the name by which she
was known to the clientele of Ravel-
lis. Nearly everything about her,
from her red-brown hair to the dia-
monds on her yellow satin gown, was
imitation. Only her voice, such as it
was, and her heart, such is it was,
were genuine. And they were big
too
The restaurant was very lively on
Co io1+ fol-
rushed to and fro under the pendant
artificial foliage where red and yell
low lights cleaned The guests, of
almost every nationality and social
station, ate the excellent spaghetti
and drank the vim ordinaire and APP
plauded the music with equal cnthu-
| siasm.
Wrapped in a drifting halo of Gig
ar-smoke and waving her expressive
arms, Mother" walled out her last
od-by-good-by"
There was the usual burst of APP
probation. just as she stepped off
the platform, one or two people no
ticed a small blue-clad figure diving
through the crowd in her direction
and one man near by saw her snatch
a bit of yellow paper from the boys
hand. There was an instant's pause
while the violinist who was going to
play the Barcarolle from the "Tales
of Hoffman" got into tune with the
piano. Then there was an Interrupt
ton
1t was Mother" Her face showed
white in places where the lack OF
rouge exposed it..
"Play the Marseillaise, quicl!" she
said.
The accompanies stared open
n1outhed at her, butt something in hel
manner compelled him, and he be
gan. To the great chords of tht
prelude, Mother" walked to tn,
front of the platform and raised he
arms high.
, "Allons, enfants de la patrie!" sh'
! burst out in her biggest voice.
; People stared. One or two drop
n ped their forks. Even the waiter
;. stopped to regard Mother" She ha
@ never sung like that before
"Tremblez, tyrans! ct vous, pei
s fifides-" It was her grand oper
|, voice, the voice of her youth. l
= that moment they all saw and hear
s what she might have been. An
- first they paid the tribute of con
! plcte silence, and then, as one MAJ
v they rose to their feet.
3 Two Frenchmen in one corne
a could contain themselves no lon&
is er, and joined the chorus. Thre
Il Germans glared at them and prepa
J. ed to quit the scene. The manage
6 looked worried and moved towa1
% the singer. "Mother's" voice w;
di overwhelming.
w "Liberte, hberte, cherie-"
The place was in an uproar. A
the ight-haired people were lea,
ing or getting ready to fight, and Il
French and Italians were shoutir
m at the top of their lungs. Above tt
tumult the lines of the great sor
rose triumphant.
re eau armes, citoyens!"
5e Suddenly, on the very highest not
J. Mothers" voice broke, her hes
It dropped slowly forward, and she sar
in huddled heap beside the piano.
rt. Then the man who had seen Il
telegram took it gently from h,
70 clenched hand and spread it out fla
The accompanies leaned over hir
N while the violinist raised Mother:
rs poor tawdry form in his arms.
% Cable received. Jean killed in ga
3 liant action at Verdun.
n