AT THE OPERA
It was with a certain nervousness that I mentioned Sullivan's name to
the gentleman at the receipt of tickets--a sort of transcendantly fine
version of Keith Prowse's clerk--but Sullivan had not exaggerated his
own importance. They did look after me. They looked after me with such
respectful diligence that I might have been excused for supposing that
they had mistaken me for the Shah of Persia in disguise. I was
introduced into Sullivan's box with every circumstance of pomp. The
box was empty. Naturally I had arrived there first. I sat down, and
watched the enormous house fill, but not until I had glanced into the
mirror that hung on the crimson partition of the box to make sure that
my appearance did no discredit to Sullivan and the great lady, his
wife.
At eight o'clock, when the conductor appeared at his desk to an
accompaniment of applauding taps from the musicians, the house was
nearly full. The four tiers sent forth a sparkle of diamonds, of silk,
and of white arms and shoulders which rivalled the glitter of the vast
crystal chandelier. The wide floor of serried stalls (those stalls of
which one pair at least had gone for six pound ten) added their more
sombre brilliance to the show, while far above, stretching away
indefinitely to the very furthest roof, was the gallery (where but for
Sullivan I should have been), a mass of black spotted with white
faces.
Excitement was in the air: the expectation of seeing once again
Rosetta Rosa, the girl with the golden throat, the mere girl who, two
years ago, had in one brief month captured London, and who now, after
a period of petulance, had decided to recapture London. On ordinary
nights, for the inhabitants of boxes, the Opera is a social
observance, an exhibition of jewels, something between an F.O.
reception and a conversazione with music in the distance. But to-night
the habitués confessed a genuine interest in the stage itself,
abandoning their rôle of players. Dozens of times since then have I
been to the Opera, and never have I witnessed the candid enthusiasm
of that night. If London can be naïve, it was naïve then.
The conductor raised his baton. The orchestra ceased its tuning. The
lights were lowered. Silence and stillness enwrapped the auditorium.
And the quivering violins sighed out the first chords of the
"Lohengrin" overture. For me, then, there existed nothing save the
voluptuous music, to which I abandoned myself as to the fascination of
a dream. But not for long. Just as the curtain rose, the door behind
me gave a click, and Sullivan entered in all his magnificence. I
jumped up. On his arm in the semi-darkness I discerned a tall,
olive-pale woman, with large handsome features of Jewish cast, and
large, liquid black eyes. She wore a dead-white gown, and over this a
gorgeous cloak of purple and mauve.
"Emmeline, this is Carl," Sullivan whispered.
She smiled faintly, giving me her finger-tips, and then she suddenly
took a step forward as if the better to examine my face. Her strange
eyes met mine. She gave a little indefinable unnecessary "Ah!" and
sank down into a chair, loosing my hand swiftly. I was going to say
that she loosed my hand as if it had been the tail of a snake that she
had picked up in mistake for something else. But that would leave the
impression that her gesture was melodramatic, which it was not. Only
there was in her demeanor a touch of the bizarre, ever so slight; yes,
so slight that I could not be sure that I had not imagined it.
"The wife's a bit overwrought," Sullivan murmured in my ear. "Nerves,
you know. Women are like that. Wait till you're married. Take no
notice. She'll be all right soon."
I nodded and sat down. In a moment the music had resumed its sway over
me.
I shall never forget my first sight of Rosetta Rosa as, robed with the
modesty which the character of Elsa demands, she appeared on the stage
to answer the accusation of Ortrud. For some moments she hesitated in
the background, and then timidly, yet with what grandeur of mien,
advanced towards the king. I knew then, as I know now, that hers was a
loveliness of that imperious, absolute, dazzling kind which banishes
from the hearts of men all moral conceptions, all considerations of
right and wrong, and leaves therein nothing but worship and desire.
Her acting, as she replied by gesture to the question of the king,
was perfect in its realization of the simplicity of Elsa. Nevertheless
I, at any rate, as I searched her features through the lorgnon that
Mrs. Sullivan had silently handed to me, could descry beneath the
actress the girl--the spoilt and splendid child of Good Fortune, who
in the very spring of youth had tasted the joy of sovereign power,
that unique and terrible dominion over mankind which belongs to beauty
alone.
Such a face as hers once seen is engraved eternally on the memory of
its generation. And yet when, in a mood of lyrical and rapt ecstasy,
she began her opening song, "In Lichter Waffen Scheine," her face was
upon the instant forgotten. She became a Voice--pure, miraculous,
all-compelling; and the listeners seemed to hold breath while the
matchless melody wove round them its persuasive spell.
* * * * *
The first act was over, and Rosetta Rosa stood at the footlights
bowing before the rolling and thunderous storms of applause, her hand
in the hand of Alresca, the Lohengrin. That I have not till this
moment mentioned Alresca, and that I mention him now merely as the
man who happened to hold Rosa's hand, shows with what absolute
sovereignty Rosa had dominated the scene. For as Rosa was among
sopranos, so was Alresca among tenors--the undisputed star. Without
other aid Alresca could fill the opera-house; did he not receive two
hundred and fifty pounds a night? To put him in the same cast as Rosa
was one of Cyril Smart's lavish freaks of expense.
As these two stood together Rosetta Rosa smiled at him; he gave her a
timid glance and looked away.
When the clapping had ceased and the curtain hid the passions of the
stage, I turned with a sigh of exhaustion and of pleasure to my
hostess, and I was rather surprised to find that she showed not a
trace of the nervous excitement which had marked her entrance into the
box. She sat there, an excellent imitation of a woman of fashion,
languid, unmoved, apparently a little bored, but finely conscious of
doing the right thing.
"It's a treat to see any one enjoy anything as you enjoy this music,"
she said to me. She spoke well, perhaps rather too carefully, and with
a hint of the cockney accent.
"It runs in the family, you know, Mrs. Smith," I replied, blushing for
the ingenuousness which had pleased her.
"Don't call me Mrs. Smith; call me Emmeline, as we are cousins. I
shouldn't at all like it if I mightn't call you Carl. Carl is such a
handsome name, and it suits you. Now, doesn't it, Sully?"
"Yes, darling," Sullivan answered nonchalantly. He was at the back of
the box, and clearly it was his benevolent desire to give me fair
opportunity of a tête-à-tête with his dark and languorous lady.
Unfortunately, I was quite unpractised in the art of maintaining a
tête-à-tête with dark and languorous ladies. Presently he rose.
"I must look up Smart," he said, and left us.
"Sullivan has been telling me about you. What a strange meeting! And
so you are a doctor! You don't know how young you look. Why, I am old
enough to be your mother!"
"Oh, no, you aren't," I said. At any rate, I knew enough to say that.
And she smiled.
"Personally," she went on, "I hate music--loathe it. But it's
Sullivan's trade, and, of course, one must come here."
She waved a jewelled arm towards the splendid animation of the
auditorium.
"But surely, Emmeline," I cried protestingly, "you didn't 'loathe'
that first act. I never heard anything like it. Rosa was simply--well,
I can't describe it."
She gazed at me, and a cloud of melancholy seemed to come into her
eyes. And after a pause she said, in the strangest tone, very quietly:
"You're in love with her already."
And her eyes continued to hold mine.
"Who could help it?" I laughed.
She leaned towards me, and her left hand hung over the edge of the
box.
"Women like Rosetta Rosa ought to be killed!" she said, with
astonishing ferocity. Her rich, heavy contralto vibrated through me.
She was excited again, that was evident. The nervous mood had
overtaken her. The long pendent lobes of her ears crimsoned, and her
opulent bosom heaved. I was startled. I was rather more than
startled--I was frightened. I said to myself, "What a peculiar
creature!"
"Why?" I questioned faintly.
"Because they are too young, too lovely, too dangerous," she responded
with fierce emphasis. "And as for Rosa in particular--as for Rosa in
particular--if you knew what I knew, what I've seen----"
"What have you seen?" I was bewildered. I began to wish that Sullivan
had not abandoned me to her.
"Perhaps I'm wrong," she laughed.
She laughed, and sat up straight again, and resumed her excellent
imitation of the woman of fashion, while I tried to behave as though I
had found nothing singular in her behavior.
"You know about our reception?" she asked vivaciously in another
moment, playing with her fan.
"I'm afraid I don't."
"Where have you been, Carl?"
"I've been in Edinburgh," I said, "for my final."
"Oh!" she said. "Well, it's been paragraphed in all the papers.
Sullivan is giving a reception in the Gold Rooms of the Grand Babylon
Hotel. Of course, it will be largely theatrical,--Sullivan has to mix
a good deal with that class, you know; it's his business,--but there
will be a lot of good people there. You'll come, won't you? It's to
celebrate the five hundredth performance of 'My Queen.' Rosetta Rosa
is coming."
"I shall be charmed. But I should have thought you wouldn't ask Rosa
after what you've just said."
"Not ask Rosa! My dear Carl, she simply won't go anywhere. I know for
a fact she declined Lady Casterby's invitation to meet a Serene
Highness. Sir Cyril got her for me. She'll be the star of the show."
The theatre darkened once more. There were the usual preliminaries,
and the orchestra burst into the prelude of the second act.
"Have you ever done any crystal-gazing?" Emmeline whispered.
And some one on the floor of the house hissed for silence.
I shook my head.
"You must try." Her voice indicated that she was becoming excited
again. "At my reception there will be a spiritualism room. I'm a
believer, you know."
I nodded politely, leaning over the front of the box to watch the
conductor.
Then she set herself to endure the music.
Immediately the second act was over, Sullivan returned, bringing with
him a short, slight, bald-headed man of about fifty. The two were
just finishing a conversation on some stage matter.
"Smart, let me introduce to you my cousin, Carl Foster. Carl, this is
Sir Cyril Smart."
My first feeling was one of surprise that a man so celebrated should
be so insignificant to the sight. Yet as he looked at me I could
somehow feel that here was an intelligence somewhat out of the common.
At first he said little, and that little was said chiefly to my
cousin's wife, but there was a quietude and firmness in his speech
which had their own effect.
Sir Cyril had small eyes, and small features generally, including
rather a narrow forehead. His nostrils, however, were well curved, and
his thin, straight lips and square chin showed the stiffest
determination. He looked fatigued, weary, and harassed; yet it did not
appear that he complained of his lot; rather accepted it with sardonic
humor. The cares of an opera season and of three other simultaneous
managements weighed on him ponderously, but he supported the burden
with stoicism.
"What is the matter with Alresca to-night?" Sullivan asked. "Suffering
the pangs of jealousy, I suppose."
"Alresca," Sir Cyril replied, "is the greatest tenor living, and
to-night he sings like a variety comedian. But it is not jealousy.
There is one thing about Alresca that makes me sometimes think he is
not an artist at all--he is incapable of being jealous. I have known
hundreds of singers, and he is the one solitary bird among them of
that plumage. No, it is not jealousy."
"Then what is it?"
"I wish I knew. He asked me to go and dine with him this afternoon.
You know he dines at four o'clock. Of course, I went. What do you
think he wanted me to do? He actually suggested that I should change
the bill to-night! That showed me that something really was the
matter, because he's the most modest and courteous man I have ever
known, and he has a horror of disappointing the public. I asked him if
he was hoarse. No. I asked him if he felt ill. No. But he was
extremely depressed.
"'I'm quite well,' he said, 'and yet--' Then he stopped. 'And yet
what?' It seemed as if I couldn't drag it out of him. Then all of a
sudden he told me. 'My dear Smart,' he said, 'there is a misfortune
coming to me. I feel it.' That's just what he said--'There's a
misfortune coming to me. I feel it.' He's superstitious. They all are.
Naturally, I set to work to soothe him. I did what I could. I talked
about his liver in the usual way. But it had less than the usual
effect. However, I persuaded him not to force me to change the bill."
Mrs. Sullivan struck into the conversation.
"He isn't in love with Rosa, is he?" she demanded brusquely.
"In love with Rosa? Of course he isn't, my pet!" said Sullivan.
The wife glared at her husband as if angry, and Sullivan made a comic
gesture of despair with his hands.
"Is he?" Mrs. Sullivan persisted, waiting for Smart's reply.
"I never thought of that," said Sir Cyril simply. "No; I should say
not, decidedly not.... He may be, after all. I don't know. But if
he were, that oughtn't to depress him. Even Rosa ought to be flattered
by the admiration of a man like Alresca. Besides, so far as I know,
they've seen very little of each other. They're too expensive to sing
together often. There's only myself and Conried of New York who would
dream of putting them in the same bill. I should say they hadn't sung
together more than two or three times since the death of Lord
Clarenceux; so, even if he has been making love to her, she's scarcely
had time to refuse him--eh?"
"If he has been making love to Rosa," said Mrs. Sullivan slowly,
"whether she has refused him or not, it's a misfortune for him, that's
all."
"Oh, you women! you women!" Sullivan smiled. "How fond you are of each
other."
Mrs. Sullivan disdained to reply to her spouse.
"And, let me tell you," she added, "he has been making love to her."
The talk momentarily ceased, and in order to demonstrate that I was
not tongue-tied in the company of these celebrities, I ventured to
inquire what Lord Clarenceux, whose riches and eccentricities had
reached even the Scottish newspapers, had to do with the matter.
"Lord Clarenceux was secretly engaged to Rosa in Vienna," Sir Cyril
replied. "That was about two and a half years ago. He died shortly
afterwards. It was a terrible shock for her. Indeed, I have always
thought that the shock had something to do with her notorious quarrel
with us. She isn't naturally quarrelsome, so far as I can judge,
though really I have seen very little of her."
"By the way, what was the real history of that quarrel?" said
Sullivan. "I only know the beginning of it, and I expect Carl doesn't
know even that, do you, Carl?"
"No," I murmured modestly. "But perhaps it's a State secret."
"Not in the least," Sir Cyril said, turning to me. "I first heard Rosa
in Genoa--the opera-house there is more of a barn even than this, and
a worse stage than this used to be, if that's possible. She was
nineteen. Of course, I knew instantly that I had met with the chance
of my life. In my time I have discovered eleven stars, but this was a
sun. I engaged her at once, and she appeared here in the following
July. She sang twelve times, and--well, you know the sensation there
was. I had offered her twenty pounds a night in Genoa, and she seemed
mighty enchanted.
"After her season here I offered her two hundred pounds a night for
the following year; but Lord Clarenceux had met her then, and she
merely said she would think it over. She wouldn't sign a contract. I
was annoyed. My motto is, 'Never be annoyed,' but I was. Next to
herself, she owed everything to me. She went to Vienna to fulfil an
engagement, and Lord Clarenceux after her. I followed. I saw her, and
I laid myself out to arrange terms of peace.
"I have had difficulties with prime donne before, scores of times.
Yes; I have had experience." He laughed sardonically. "I thought I
knew what to do. Generally a prima donna has either a pet dog or a pet
parrot--sopranos go in for dogs, contraltos seem to prefer parrots. I
have made a study of these agreeable animals, and I have found that
through them their mistresses can be approached when all other avenues
are closed. I can talk doggily to poodles in five languages, and in
the art of administering sugar to the bird I am, I venture to think,
unrivalled. But Rosa had no pets. And after a week's negotiation, I
was compelled to own myself beaten. It was a disadvantage to me that
she wouldn't lose her temper. She was too polite; she really was
grateful for what I had done for her. She gave me no chance to work on
her feelings. But beyond all this there was something strange about
Rosa, something I have never been able to fathom. She isn't a child
like most of 'em. She's as strong-headed as I am myself, every bit!"
He paused, as if inwardly working at the problem.
"Well, and how did you make it up?" Sullivan asked briskly.
(As for me, I felt as if I had come suddenly into the centre of the
great world.)
"Oh, nothing happened for a time. She sang in Paris and America, and
took her proper place as the first soprano in the world. I did without
her, and managed very well. Then early this spring she sent her agent
to see me, and offered to sing ten times for three thousand pounds.
They can't keep away from London, you know. New York and Chicago are
all very well for money, but if they don't sing in London people ask
'em why. I wanted to jump at the offer, but I pretended not to be
eager. Up till then she had confined herself to French operas; so I
said that London wouldn't stand an exclusively French repertoire from
any one, and would she sing in 'Lohengrin.' She would. I suggested
that she should open with 'Lohengrin,' and she agreed. The price was
stiffish, but I didn't quarrel with that. I never drive bargains. She
is twenty-two now, or twenty-three; in a few more years she will want
five hundred pounds a night, and I shall have to pay it."
"And how did she meet you?"
"With just the same cold politeness. And I understand her less than
ever."
"She isn't English, I suppose?" I put in.
"English!" Sir Cyril ejaculated. "No one ever heard of a great English
soprano. Unless you count Australia as England, and Australia wouldn't
like that. No. That is another of her mysteries. No one knows where
she emerged from. She speaks English and French with absolute
perfection. Her Italian accent is beautiful. She talks German freely,
but badly. I have heard that she speaks perfect Flemish,--which is
curious,--but I do not know."
"Well," said Sullivan, nodding his head, "give me the theatrical as
opposed to the operatic star. The theatrical star's bad enough, and
mysterious enough, and awkward enough. But, thank goodness, she isn't
polite--at least, those at the Diana aren't. You can speak your mind
to 'em. And that reminds me, Smart, about that costume of Effie's in
the first act of 'My Queen.' Of course you'll insist--"
"Don't talk your horrid shop now, Sullivan," his wife said; and
Sullivan didn't.
The prelude to the third act was played, and the curtain went up on
the bridal chamber of Elsa and Lohengrin. Sir Cyril Smart rose as if
to go, but lingered, eying the stage as a general might eye a
battle-field from a neighboring hill. The music of the two processions
was heard approaching from the distance. Then, to the too familiar
strains of the wedding march, the ladies began to enter on the right,
and the gentlemen on the left. Elsa appeared amid her ladies, but
there was no Lohengrin in the other crowd. The double chorus
proceeded, and then a certain excitement was visible on the stage, and
the conductor made signs with his left hand.
"Smart, what's wrong? Where's Alresca?" It was Sullivan who spoke.
"He'll sail in all right," Sir Cyril said calmly. "Don't worry."
The renowned impresario had advanced nearer to the front of our box,
and was standing immediately behind my chair. My heart was beating
violently with apprehension under my shirt-front. Where was Alresca?
It was surely impossible that he should fail to appear! But he ought
to have been on the stage, and he was not on the stage. I stole a
glance at Sir Cyril's face. It was Napoleonic in its impassivity.
And I said to myself:
"He is used to this kind of thing. Naturally slips must happen
sometimes."
Still, I could not control my excitement.
Emmeline's hand was convulsively clutching at the velvet-covered
balustrade of the box.
"It'll be all right," I repeated to myself.
But when the moment came for the king to bless the bridal pair, and
there was no Lohengrin to bless, even the impassive Sir Cyril seemed
likely to be disturbed, and you could hear murmurs of apprehension
from all parts of the house. The conductor, however, went doggedly on,
evidently hoping for the best.
At last the end of the procession was leaving the stage, and Elsa was
sitting on the bed alone. Still no Lohengrin. The violins arrived at
the muted chord of B flat, which is Lohengrin's cue. They hung on it
for a second, and then the conductor dropped his baton. A bell rang.
The curtain descended. The lights were turned up, and there was a
swift loosing of tongues in the house. People were pointing to Sir
Cyril in our box. As for him, he seemed to be the only unmoved person
in the audience.
"That's never occurred before in my time," he said. "Alresca was not
mistaken. Something has happened. I must go."
But he did not go. And I perceived that, though the calm of his
demeanor was unimpaired, this unprecedented calamity had completely
robbed him of his power of initiative. He could not move. He was
nonplussed.
The door of the box opened, and an official with a blazing diamond in
his shirt-front entered hurriedly.
"What is it, Nolan?"
"There's been an accident to Monsieur Alresca, Sir Cyril, and they
want a doctor."
It was the chance of a lifetime! I ought to have sprung up and proudly
announced, "I'm a doctor." But did I? No! I was so timid, I was so
unaccustomed to being a doctor, that I dared not for the life of me
utter a word. It was as if I was almost ashamed of being a doctor. I
wonder if my state of mind will be understood.
"Carl's a doctor," said Sullivan.
How I blushed!
"Are you?" said Sir Cyril, suddenly emerging from his condition of
suspended activity. "I never guessed it. Come along with us, will
you?"
"With pleasure," I answered as briskly as I could.