VOICE THAT FAILED

Hokitika Guardian, 18 January 1930, Page 3

VOICE THAT FAILED

PR IMA DONNA OF OTHER DAYS. NORTH CHINA, .November 15. As I go about the world I witness many dramas in real life. Some are merely sordid others are the lightest of comedy; many plumb the depths of. tragedy. The one of which I write lmd for its setting'a shabby little Russian restaurant in one of the towns of North China, where refugees from the Red revolution struggle precariously for existence; . It was a poor room entered directly from the street. Linoleum covered the uneven floor; cheap lace curtains hid the dusty windows, and rows of tables v witfc uncertain legs, and patched, none toll clean drapery, were ranged precisely on both sides of the narrow central space reserved for dancing. Across the upper side was the usual bar- with a background of gaudy bottles whore a girl in a black blouse buttoned high at the neck watched with sombre eyes the distribution of drinks by a shock-headed Slav waiter.

RENDEZVOUS OF GHOSTS. There are many such Russian restaurants between Harbin and the China ports. They are the clubs of decayed gentility, the rendezvous of ghosts; cemeteries filled with the living dead. Here come at night the flotsam and jetsam cast up on the east coast of Asiajby the tidal wave of Belshevism. The spectre that haunts them most o is not poverty but old age. The days of the Revolution were long ago. Men ' then in their prime are now grey and faded ;? : the; wqtnep ;hfiVe \lost ths’ courage dip youth and privation has prematurely lined their faces. The. popular actress of 1917 realises i that She is no longer beautiful ,the exba,nlfer looking forward from his attic room to a rebuilt fortune has almost forgotten how to count; the officer who/ has dreamed of a counter-revolution which would give him back his unifdrm knows in his heart that if it came tomorrow it would find him beyond recall Time is their worst, enemy and he has. conquered. ? , • The occasion of which I write was a gala night. A prima donna, whose name.,before .the • war was as wellknown 'in St. Petersburg and Moscow as. that of Melba in London, was to give <%, concert. She had been a soprano of the first rank. The Revolution had sent her adrift, always eastward, \.and after many privations she had become one bf the homeless thousands in Muna-

UNDAUNTED. Yet; her spirit remained undaunted. She was convinced that if isW could, but Amass sufficient money to enable her to go to Europe she could regain her lost prestige. All she wanted was a chance. So her friends rallied round her, tickets were sold, and now, when beyond the age of fifty, she was to make a second debut. The audience arrived as on all first nights., arrayed in its best. The daughter of a former Ambassador to a European court wore a new dress which; she had made for the occason . by sitting up at night when she had finished teaching French. Her husband was mf&ble to accompany her as he had /to play the violin in the local Chinese /fyinema. The threadbare old general / very erect in his starched collar brought a bouquet for the star of the! evening. They were chatting quite brightly under the flaring kerosene lamps when the prima donna entered. She swept through them with a regal sir. She had been beautiful of that there was no doubt; But How the face Was gaunt and drawn, and the rouge on her sunken cheeks failed lamentably to bring back the lost years. When the “Borsch” had come and gone and the “poulet a la KiefF” in its casing of rich batter was but a pleasant memory, the manager nodded. The accompanist (herself once a pianist of note) entered with her music," and the prima donna went slowly to her place, as she might have crossed the stage of the Imperial Opera House at a command performance. \ Her fist number was an aria from L/one of the Italian operas. I am not a j musician and I cannot describe the I quality of her voice in technical language, except to say that it was powerful, true, and pure in the middle register, and at first under perfect control.

The applause, which had in it a note of relief, shook the flimsy walls. The prima donna sighed, as a runner might sigh who has reached the goal. The youth in her eyes flashed for one brief moment across her face.

MASK OF GRAND OPERA

She sang again. The number was a difficult thing Ih’at leads the singer into high and dangerous altitudes. She •reached them the first time without faltering and returned with ease. But •it was evident that something disturbed her. Twice she put out one hand involuntarily in the direction of her accompanist. The latter, although a skilled concertist, was attempting a new role. One realised that the prima donna was seeking for the support she required from a great orchestra.

On she went with an air of desperate resolution, but now distinctly nervous, her features still set in the mask of grand opera. Again she soared—higher—higher—higher—

Her voice broke. There was silence for a second that seemed eternity broken by an exclamation of sympathy from one of her friends. She began again and groped through half a bar; stopped dead; smiled very pitifully and, with a gesture too eloquent for words vanished through the door.

As I came away, I caught a glimpse of the prima donna through the open door of the manager’s little office. She was sitting at a table, her head bowed upon her elapsed hands, and she was sobbing . The manager, a silent old man, was bending over her and gently patting her on the shoulder.