The proprietor of “The Paradise” had said freely that she would “knock
them.” Broad, full-coloured, and with the clear, swimming eye of an
imaginative man, he was trusted when he spoke thus of his new “turns.”
There was the feeling that he had once more discovered a good thing.
And on the afternoon of the new star’s dress rehearsal it was noticed
that he came down to watch her, smoking his cigar calmly in the front
row of the stalls. When she had finished and withdrawn, the _chef
d’orchestre_, while folding up his score, felt something tickling his
ear.
“Bensoni, this is hot goods!”
Turning that dim, lined face of his, whose moustache was always coming
out of wax, Signor Bensoni answered: “A bit of all right, boss!”
“If they hug her real big to-night, send round to my room.”
“I will.”
Evening came, and under the gilt-starred dome the house was packed.
Rows and rows of serious seekers for amusement; and all the customary
crowd of those who “drop in”--old clients with hair and without hair,
in evening clothes, or straight from their offices or race-course;
bare-necked ladies sitting; ladies who never sat, but under large
hats stood looking into the distance, or moved with alacrity in no
particular direction, and halted swiftly with a gentle humming;
lounging and high-collared youths, furtively or boldly staring, and
unconsciously tightening their lips; distinguished goatee-bearded
foreigners wandering without rest. And always round the doorways the
huge attendants, in their long, closely buttoned coats.
The little Peruvian bears had danced. The Volpo troupe in
claret-coloured tights had gone once more without mishap through
their hairbreadth tumbles. The Mulligatawny quartet had contributed
their “unparalleled plate spray.” “Donks, the human ass,” had brayed.
Signor Bensoni had conducted to its close his “Pot-pourriture” which
afforded so many men an opportunity to stretch their legs. Arsenico
had swallowed many things with conspicuous impunity. “Great and Small
Scratch” had scratched. “Fraulein Tizi, the charming female vocalist,”
had suddenly removed his stays. There had been no minute dull; yet over
the whole performance had hung that advent of the new star, that sense
of waiting for a greater moment.
She came at last--in black and her own whiteness, “La Bellissima,”
straight from Brazil; tall, with raven-dark hair, and her beautiful
face as pale as ivory. Tranquilly smiling with eyes only, she seemed
to draw the gaze of all into those dark wells of dancing life; and,
holding out her arms, that seemed fairer and rounder than the arms of
women, she said: “Ladies and gentlemen, I will dance for you de latest
Gollywog Brazilian caterpillar crawl.”
Then, in lime-light streaming down on her from the centre of the
gallery, she moved back to the corner of the stage. Those who were
wandering stood still; every face craned forward. For, sidelong, with
a mouth widened till it nearly reached her ears, her legs straddling,
and her stomach writhing, she was moving incomparably across the stage.
Her face, twisted on her neck, at an alarming angle, was distorted to
a strange, inimitable hideousness. She reached the wings, and turned.
A voice cried out: “_Épatant!_” Her arms, those round white arms,
seemed yellow and skinny now, her obviously slender hips had achieved
miraculous importance; each movement of her whole frame was attuned
to a perfect harmony of ugliness. Twice she went thus marvellously
up and down, in the ever-deepening hush. Then the music stopped,
the lime-light ceased to flow, and she stood once more tranquil and
upright, beautiful, with her smiling eyes. A roar of enthusiasm broke,
salvo after salvo--clapping and “Bravos,” and comments flying from
mouth to mouth.
“Rippin’!” “Bizarre--I say--how bizarre!” “Of the most chic!”
“_Wunderschön!_” “Bully!”
Raising her arms again for silence, she said quite simply: “Good! I
will now, ladies and gentlemen, sing you the latest Patagonian Squaw
Squall. I sing you first, however, few bars of ‘Che farò’ old-fashion,
to show you my natural tones--so you will see.” And in a deep, sweet
voice began at once: “Che farò senz’ Euridice”; while through the
whole house ran a shuffle of preparation for the future. Then all was
suddenly still; for from her lips, remarkably enlarged, was issuing
a superb cacophony. Like the screeching of parrots, and miauling of
tiger-cats fighting in a forest, it forced attention from even the
least musical.
Before the first verse was ended, the uncontrollable applause had
drowned her; and she stood, not bowing, smiling with her lips now--her
pretty lips. Then raising a slender forefinger, she began the second
verse. Even more strangely harsh and dissonant, from lips more
monstrously disfigured, the great sound came. And, as though in tune
with that crescendo, the lime-light brightened till she seemed all
wrapped in flame. Before the storm of acclamation could burst from the
enraptured house, a voice coming from the gallery was heard suddenly to
cry:
“Woman! Blasphemous creature! You have profaned Beauty!”
For a single second there was utter silence, then a huge, angry “Hush!”
was hurled up at the speaker; and all eyes turned toward the stage.
There stood the beautiful creature, motionless, staring up into the
lime-light. And the voice from the gallery was heard again.
“The blind applaud you; it is natural. But you--unnatural! Go!” The
beautiful creature threw up her head, as though struck below the jaw,
and with hands flung out, rushed from the stage. Then, amidst the babel
of a thousand cries--“Chuck the brute out!” “Throw him over!” “Where’s
the manager?” “Encore, encore!”--the manager himself came out from the
wings. He stood gazing up into the stream of lime-light, and there was
instant silence.
“Hullo! up there! Have you got him?”
A voice, far and small, travelled back in answer: “It’s no one up here,
sir!”
“What? Limes! It was in front of you!” A second faint, small voice came
quavering down: “There’s been no one hollerin’ near me, sir.”
“Cut off your light!”
Down came the quavering voice: “I ’ave cut off, sir.”
“What?”
“I ’ave cut off--I’m disconnected.”
“Look at it!” And, pointing toward the brilliant ray still showering
down onto the stage, whence a faint smoke seemed rising, the manager
stepped back into the wings.
Then, throughout the house, arose a hustling and a scuffling, as of
a thousand furtively consulting; and through it, of it, continually
louder, the whisper--“Fire!”
And from every row some one stole out; the women in the large hats
clustered, and trooped toward the doors. In five minutes “The Paradise”
was empty, save of its officials. But of fire there was none.
Down in the orchestra, standing well away from the centre, so that he
could see the stream of lime-light, the manager said:
“Electrics!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cut off every light.”
“Right, sir.”
With a clicking sound the lights went out; and all was black--but for
that golden pathway still flowing down the darkness. For a moment the
manager blinked silently at the strange effulgence. Then his scared
voice rose: “Send for the Boss--look alive! Where’s Limes?”
Close to his elbow a dark little quick-eyed man, with his air of
professional stupidity, answered in doubt: “Here, sir.”
“It’s up to you, Limes!”
The little man, wiping his forehead, gazed at the stream of golden
light, powdering out to silver at its edges.
“I’ve took out me limes, and I’m disconnected, and this blanky ray goes
on. What am I to do? There’s nothing up there to cause it. Go an’ see
for yourself, sir!” Then, passing his hand across his mouth, he blurted
out: “It’s got to do with that there voice--I shouldn’t be surprised.
Unnat’ral-like; the voice o’----”
The manager interrupted sharply: “Don’t be a d--d ass, Limes!”
And, suddenly, all saw the proprietor passing from the prompt side
behind that faint mist where the ray fell.
“What’s the theatre dark like this for? Why is it empty? What’s
happened?”
The manager answered.
“We’re trying to find out, sir; a madman in the gallery, whom we
couldn’t locate, made a disturbance, called the new turn ‘A natural’;
and now there’s some hanky with this lime. It’s been taken out, and yet
it goes on like that!”
“What cleared the house?”
The manager pointed at the stage.
“It looked like smoke,” he said. “That light’s loose; we can’t get hold
of its end anywhere.”
From behind him Signor Bensoni suddenly pushed up his dim, scared face.
“Boss!” he stammered: “it’s the most bizarre--the most bizarre--thing I
ever struck--Limes thinks----”
“Yes?” The Boss turned and spoke very quickly: “What does he
think--yes?”
“He thinks--the voice wasn’t from the gallery--but higher; he
thinks--he thinks--it was the voice of--voice of----”
A sudden sparkle lit up the Boss’s eyes. “Yes?” he hissed out; “yes?”
“He thinks it was the voice of---- Hullo!”
The stream of light had vanished. All was darkness.
Some one called: “Up with your lights!”
As the lights leaped forth, all about the house, the Boss was seen to
rush to the centre of the stage, where the ray had been.
“Bizarre! By gum!... Hullo! Up there!”
No sound, no ray of light, answered that passionately eager shout.
The Boss spun round: “Electrics! You blazing ass! Ten to one but you’ve
cut my connection, turning up the lights like that. The voice of----!
Great snakes! What a turn! What a turn! I’d have given it a thou’ a
week!... _Hullo! up there! Hullo!_”
But there came no answer from under the gilt-starred dome.