The Metropolitan-Civic Opera House was packed that night with one of
the largest crowds in its history. I was convinced upon our arrival
that the throng was there, not to hear Verdi's opera "Otello," but
to see Mr. Zzyx. The evening newspapers had heralded our coming, and
we encountered a large crowd outside the opera house, and were met
by a barrage of cameramen's flashlights as we entered. Once inside,
the crush about us was so great, we had considerable difficulty in
reaching Mrs. Van Dyk's box, in the parterre. Although grand opera now
was democratized, the "diamond horseshoe" still remained. Opera, I'm
afraid, will always remain the pet hobby of the fashionably rich, just
as racing will ever be regarded as the sport of kings.
Two uniformed city policemen stood on guard, in the corridor, outside
the box. Mrs. Van Dyk, regal in black velvet and sparkling with jewels,
occupied the corner nearest the stage. Mr. Zzyx sat in the other
corner, with Henry sitting between. Behind them, Bishop Buckingham was
sandwiched between Lady Gwynne and Jane, while I hovered, standing, in
the rear, too nervous to sit down. Niki was at my elbow.
We had missed the first act. Five minutes after we had settled
ourselves in the box, the curtain rose on the second act. Fashionable
women, like Mrs. Van Dyk, seem to make it a point to be late at the
opera. I doubt if our hostess had ever heard the first act of any opera
in the entire Metropolitan-Civic repertoire, during her long ownership
and occupancy of the box.
During that five minutes, every eye in the house appeared to be turned
on Mr. Zzyx, who, fortunately, was now in a state of lassitude, which
always overtook him after a heavy dinner. Apparently undisturbed by
the sensation he was causing, he devoted himself, first, to a curious
scrutiny of the packed masses in the balconies, then he looked down
at the arena below, and, finally, rested his gaze on the two rows of
boxes, filled with superbly gowned and bejeweled women.
I was curious to see what effect grand opera music would have upon
him. What little music he had heard at the castle had come from our
radio, and in this he had displayed only a mild interest. His attitude
toward such music as he had heard rather dispelled the theory that had
been advanced, that if direct radio communication was ever established
between the earth and Mars, the interchange of ideas would necessarily
have to be through the medium of music, on account of the lack of a
common language.
Here, at last, was a chance to try music at its best on an inhabitant
of Mars. I wondered what the reaction would be. Mr. Zzyx watched the
musicians curiously as they trickled into the pit, and the noise of the
tuning up seemed to interest him immensely. Finally, when the house
went dark, he appeared quite excited. Then the baton of the conductor
rose, and the first crash of the orchestra came like a thunder-clap.
Mr. Zzyx leapt to his feet, and started to climb over the edge of the
box. For a frenzied moment, I thought he was going to dive head first
into the midst of the spectators below. But Henry quickly grabbed him
by his swallow-tails, and pulled him back into his chair. The incident
did not attract the general attention it might have done if the
auditorium had not been darkened.
While Henry patted Mr. Zzyx on the shoulder to quiet him, Mrs. Van Dyk
leaned over, and said: "I don't wonder at him trying to jump out of the
box. To many, grand opera is a perfect hullabaloo, and devastating.
That's why so many people go out between acts for a cocktail."
Presently Mr. Zzyx fell to listening, with his mouth open. At first,
I thought he was wholly lost in the delight of the orchestral
movement--drums and horns were silent now--and the beautiful singing
on the stage. Then, like a flash, it occurred to me that it was the
dark-skinned Otello who was claiming his attention, not the music or
singing.
I watched him, studied him attentively, as the opera swept on to its
violent climax--the smothering to death of Desdemona--by the enraged
Otello. After the final curtain, while the audience was recalling and
applauding the singers, I noticed he looked a little wild about the
eyes; a sort of inward brooding.
Was it possible that he had grasped the significance of the story, as
it had been unfolded before him on the stage? Could the climax of the
opera put ideas into his head beyond his purely natural instincts? The
force of ideas even stronger than his own inherent brute force, which
might quicken him to the fury of some deed of incredible violence?
But I had no time for surmises. Yet, as we passed out of the opera
house, in an atmosphere of acclaim and some disorder, almost
mechanically, I jotted down the details in my memory of what I had
observed in him. From the look in his eyes, I felt some terrific
instinct had been aroused. It gave me a strange and eerie feeling, but
I made no mention of it to Henry.
Within ten days I was glad to have paid attention to such details.
Little did I suspect then that a black, threatening cloud was gathering
over our heads, or that more mystery, intrigue--even death--was closing
in about us.