A MEETING OF EYES.
The newspapers had already given many details of Madame Vanira. For many
long years there had been nothing seen like her. They said her passion
and power, her dramatic instinct, her intensity were so great, that she
was like electric fire. One critic quoted of her what was so prettily
said of another great actress:
"She has a soul of fire in a body of gauze."
No one who saw her ever forgot her; even if they only saw her once, her
face lived clear, distinct, and vivid in their memory forever afterward.
No one knew which to admire most, her face or her voice. Her face was
the most wondrously beautiful ever seen on the stage, and her voice was
the most marvelous ever heard--it thrilled you, it made you tremble; its
grand pathos, its unutterable sadness, its marvelous sweetness; those
clear, passionate tones reached every heart, no matter how cold, how
hardened it might be--one felt that in listening to it that it was the
voice of a grand, passionate soul. It was full, too, of a kind of
electricity; when Madame Vanira sung she could sway the minds and hearts
of her hearers as the winter winds sway the strong boughs. She drew all
hearts to herself and opened them. When she sung, it was as though she
sung the secret of each heart to its owner.
They said that her soul was of fire and that the fire caught her
listeners; she had power, genius, dramatic force enough in her to
electrify a whole theater full of people, to lift them out of the
commonplace, to take them with her into the fairyland of romance and
genius, to make them forget everything and anything except herself.
Such a woman comes once in a century, not oftener. They called her a
siren, a Circe. She was a woman with a passionate soul full of poetry; a
genius with a soul full of power; a woman made to attract souls as the
magnet attracts the needle.
She made her _debut_ in the theater of San Carlo, in Naples, and the
people had gone wild over her; they serenaded her through the long
starlit night; they cried out her name with every epithet of praise that
could be lavished on her; they raved about her beautiful eyes, her
glorious face, her voice, her acting, her attitudes.
Then a royal request took her to Russia; a still warmer welcome met her
there; royal hands crowned her with diamonds, royal voices swelled her
triumph; there was no one like La Vanira. She was invited to court and
all honors were lavished on her.
From there she went to Vienna, where her success was as great; to Paris,
where it was greater, and now she was to make her _debut_ before the
most critical, calm, appreciative audience in Europe. The papers for
weeks had been full of her; they could describe her grand, queenly
beauty, her wonderful acting, her genius, which was alone in the world,
her jewels, her dresses, her attitudes; but there was nothing to say
about her life.
Even the society journals, usually so well informed, had nothing to say
about Madame Vanira. Whether she were single, or married, or a widow,
none of them knew; of what town, of what nation, even of what family,
none of them knew.
She seemed to be quite alone in the world, and against her even the
faintest rumor had never been heard; she was of irreproachable
propriety, nay, more, she was of angelic goodness--generous, truthful,
charitable and high-minded. There was not a whisper against her good
name--not one. She had a legion of admirers, none of whom could boast of
a favor; she answered no letters; she gave no interviews; she accepted
no invitations; she visited among some of the most exclusive circles,
where she was received as an equal; she had had offers of marriage that
would have made any other woman vain; she refused them all; she seemed
to live for her art, and nothing else. Such a description naturally
excited the curiosity of people, and the result was a house so crowded
that it was almost impossible to find room.
"We may think ourselves fortunate," said Lady Chandos. "I have never
seen the house so crowded, and, do not laugh, Lance, I do not see a
prettier toilet than my own."
Lady Chandos was always well pleased when her husband complimented her
on her dress; if he forgot it, she generally reminded him of it. She
looked very beautiful this evening; her dress was of white satin,
effectively trimmed with dead gold, and she wore diamonds with
rubies--no one there looked better than the queen of blondes.
"I am quite impatient to see La Vanira," she said to her husband. "I
wonder why she has chosen this opera, 'L'Etoile du Nord;' it is not the
usual thing for a _debutante_."
Then the words died on her lips and for some minutes she said no more.
The curtain was drawn up and Madame Vanira appeared. There was a dead
silence for some few minutes, then there was a storm of applause; her
beautiful face won it, her grand figure, her eyes, with their fire of
passion, seemed to demand it.
Of all characters, perhaps that of the loving, impassionate Star of the
North suited her best. In it she found expression for love, her passion
and despair. She stood before what was perhaps the most critical
audience in the world, and she thrilled them with her power. It was no
more a woman; she seemed more like an inspired sibyl; her audience hung
on every note, on every word from those wonderful lips; while she
charmed all ears she charmed all eyes; the beauty of her magnificent
face, the beauty of her superb figure, the grandeur of her attitudes,
the inimitable grace of her actions were something new and wonderful.
From the first moment the curtain rose until it fell the whole audience
was breathless.
Lady Chandos laid down her jeweled opera-glass while she drew a breath
of relief, it was so wonderful to her, this woman all fire, and genius
and power.
"Lance," she said to her husband, "what a wonderful face it is. Have you
looked well at it?"
She glanced carelessly at her husband as she spoke, then started at the
change in him; his whole face had altered, the expression of careless
interest had died, the color and light had died, his dark eyes had a
strained, bewildered look; they were shadowed as though by some great
doubt or fear.
"Lance," said his wife, "are you not well? You look so strange--quite
unlike yourself."
He turned away lest she should see his face more plainly, and then she
continued:
"If you are not well, we will go home, dear; nothing will interest me
without you."
He made a great effort and spoke to her; but the very tone of his voice
was altered, all the sweetness and music had gone out of it.
"I am well," he said, "pray do not feel anxious over me; the house is
very full and very warm."
"What do you think of La Vanira?" continued Lady Chandos; "how very
different she is to any one else."
He laughed, and the sound was forced and unnatural.
"I think she is very wonderful," he replied.
"And beautiful?" asked Lady Marion, with a look of eager anxiety.
He was too wise and too wary to reply with anything like enthusiasm.
"Beautiful for those who like brunettes," he answered coldly, and his
wife's heart was at rest. If he had gone into raptures she would have
been disgusted.
"If she would but leave me in peace," thought Lord Chandos to himself.
He was bewildered and confused. Before him stood the great and gifted
singer whom kings and emperors had delighted to honor, the most
beautiful and brilliant of women; yet surely those dark, lustrous eyes
had looked in his own; surely he had kissed the quivering lips, over
which such rich strains of music rolled; surely he knew that beautiful
face. He had seen it under the starlight, under the shade of green trees
by the mill-stream; it must be the girl he had loved with such mad love,
and had married more than four years ago. Yet, how could it be? Of Leone
he had never heard one syllable.
Mr. Sewell had written to Lady Lanswell to tell her of her indignant
rejection of all help, of her disappearance, how she never even returned
to River View for anything belonging to her, and after some time the
countess had told her son. He went to River View and he found the house
closed and the servants gone; he made some inquiries about Leone, but
never heard anything about her. He deplored the fact--it added to his
misery over her. If he could have known that he left her well provided
for he would not have suffered half so much.
All these years he had never heard one word of her. He had thought of
her continually, more than any one would have imagined; he never knew
what it was to forget her for one minute. His heart was always sad, his
soul sorrowful, his mind ill at ease. The more he thought of it, the
more despicable his own conduct seemed. He hated the thought of it, he
loathed the very memory.
And here was the face he had seen by the mill-stream, the face which had
haunted him, the face he loved so well--here it was alight with power,
passion and genius. Could this brilliant, gifted singer be Leone, or was
he misled by a wonderful likeness? He could not understand it, he was
bewildered.
He had wondered a thousand times a day what had become of Leone; he
remembered her wonderful talent, how she read those grand old tragedies
of Shakespeare until she knew them by heart; but could it be possible
that Leone had become the finest singer and the grandest actress in the
world?
It was in the last grandly pathetic scene that their eyes met, and for
one half moment the gifted woman, on whose lightest breath that vast
crowd hung, swayed to and fro as though she would have fallen; the next
minute she was pouring out the richest streams of melody, and Lady
Chandos said:
"Is it my fancy, Lance, or was La Vanira looking at you?"
"I should say it was your fancy, Marion--La Vanira sees nothing lower
than the skies, I think."
And then the opera ended.