THE FIRST PERFORMANCE.
The opera-house was full from floor to dome. A cheerful multitude
crowded the body of the house with smiling faces, and filled it with gay
colors, till it shone out gorgeously, like a thickly-planted
flower-garden. The boxes filled, more slowly; but, after half an hour of
soft, silken rustle and answering smiles, they, too, were crowded with
distinguished men and beautiful women of the British aristocracy, and
the whole arena was lighted up with the splendor of their garments and
the flaming brightness of their jewels. Then came a movement, and a low
murmur of discontent, which the grandest efforts of the orchestra could
not silence. The hour had arrived, but the curtain was still down. Was
there to be a disappointment, after all?
In the midst of this growing confusion a party entered one of the most
prominent boxes that drew the general attention in that part of the
house. A lady in crimson velvet, with some gossamer lace about her arms
and bosom, and a cobweb of the same rich material floating from the
thick braids of her coal-black hair, came into the box, followed by a
gentleman so like her that people exclaimed at once:
"It is her brother!"
These two persons were accompanied by a bright young girl, in white
muslin, with a blue ribbon drawn through her hair like a snood, and a
string of large pearls on her neck. The girl was beautiful as a Hebe,
and bright as a star--so bright and so beautiful that a whole battery of
glasses was turned on the box the moment she entered it. Then a murmur
ran from lip to lip.
"It is Lady Hope, that person who was once a governess, and the young
lady must be Hope's daughter by his first marriage--the future Lady
Carset, if the old countess ever dies, which she never will, if it is
only to spite that woman yonder, whom she hates. Beautiful!"
"You are speaking of Lady Hope? Yes, very; but strange! Night and
morning are not farther apart than those two. Yet I am told they are
devoted to each other."
"Not unlikely. See how the woman smiles when the Hebe speaks to her!
Wonderful fascination in that face. Just the person to carry away a man
like Hope."
Here the conversation was broken off by an impatient outburst of the
audience.
In obedience to it the curtain rolled up, and the first act of
"Traviata" commenced.
The tumult stopped instantly, and every face was turned with expectation
on the stage, ready to greet "the lost one" with a generous welcome.
She came in hurriedly, with her head erect, her hand clenching that
cloud of lace to her bosom, and her eyes bright as stars. A stag hunted
to desperation would have turned at bay with a look like that; and the
poor animal might have recoiled as she did, when that wild burst of
admiration stormed over her. For the outcry of the most vicious hounds
that ever ran could not have been more appalling to a victim than that
generous welcome was to her.
She did not bow or smile, but retreated slowly back, step by step, until
a voice from behind the scene startled her. Then she bent her tall
figure a little forward, her head drooped to her bosom, and her hands
were clenched passionately under the laces.
Again those who were nearest heard the voice, but did not understand it
as that poor girl did. In her panic the little acting that belonged to
the scene was utterly overlooked; but this proud indifference was
something new, and charmed the audience, which took her wounded pride
for superb disdain of a pampered beauty, and accepted it as a graceful
innovation; while she stood trembling from head to foot, conscious only
of a burning desire to break away from it all and hide herself forever.
She did once move swiftly toward the wing, but there stood Olympia, and
the first glimpse of that frowning face drove her back, panting for
breath.
The audience, seeing her panic, encouraged her with applause less stormy
and more sustaining.
She felt this kindness. The multitude were less her enemy than the
woman who stood in the shadows, hounding her on. Among all that sea of
faces she saw one--that of a young girl, leaning over the crimson
cushions of a box near the stage, so eager, so earnest, so bright with
generous sympathy, that youth answered back to youth; a smile broke over
her own face, and with it came her voice, fresh, pure, soaring like a
bird suddenly let loose on the air.
The audience listened in breathless sympathy, which encouraged her.
There was no doubt now; fear could not long hold such genius in thrall;
her movements became free, her features brightened. She flung the lace
back from her head, and gave herself up to the joyous riot of that
drinking song.
In the midst of this scene, when every one present, on and off the
stage, was lavishing homage upon her, she lifted her eyes to the young
girl who leaned forward, poising herself in the box, like a bird
preparing for flight, and clapped her little hand with the glee of a
delighted child.
Once more their smiles met. Then a deathly faintness came over the
debutante, and without a word or motion she sank upon the stage, like a
statue of snow which the sun had touched.
In the next box, leaning forward like that young girl--but oh! with what
a different expression--she had seen the Italian teacher, her lover.
The drinking-song was hushed in its most exultant swell--the revellers
drew around the fainting girl and carried her from the stage, helpless
as an infant, white as the lace that clouded her.
The audience watched them bear her away in silence; then it broke into
murmurs of regret and sympathy.
"The effort had been too much for her. Of course, such genius was
accompanied with corresponding sensitiveness, but she would speedily
recover. It was only a little interruption."
They were mistaken. The debutante did not return that night; but in her
place came Olympia, with a little tragedy in her face, and a touching
speech, which excited admiration for herself and unbounded sympathy for
her protege; after which, she entered into the character of Violette,
with a grace of action and a power of voice that carried the management
through what had threatened to be a serious dilemma.
The truth is, this woman, Olympia, was a remarkably clever person, and
knew how to manage her subjects a great deal better than some monarchs
of England have done. But she was in a raging passion that night, and
the excitement lent her force, which she exhausted in the part, while
her child lay moaning on the dressing-room sofa.
In the midst of the first confusion, that young girl in the box had
started up, and laid her hand on Hepworth Closs's arm.
"Go back to where they have taken her. You know the way. Tell my maid,
Margaret, to come to me at once. No, no; take me with you. I may be of
use. Poor girl! poor girl! They have almost killed her."
"But it is impossible," said Closs, looking toward Lady Hope, who was
leaning against the side of the box, with her face turned away. "She
would not permit it."
"She does not object. We need not be seen. No one will recognize us.
Come! come!"
She took Hepworth's arm, and almost forced him from the box.
"Which way? Come! come! I will go."
Hepworth had been too often behind the scenes not to know how to gain
admittance there on this occasion. He knew how resolute that young
creature was, when a generous or daring idea possessed her, and, after
waiting a moment for Lady Hope to speak, led Lady Clara away.
Clara was bewildered and almost terrified by the black darkness of the
passage, which was lighted only by fitful gleams from the stage; but
excitement kept up her courage, and she entered Olympia's dressing-room
with the air of a person born to the tragic purple.