"DEATH ENDS EVERYTHING."
Madame Vanira became one of the greatest features of the day. Her beauty
and her singing made her the wonder of the world. Royalty delighted to
honor her. One evening after she had entranced a whole audience, keeping
them hanging, as it were, on every silvery note that came from her
lovely lips--people were almost wild over her--they had called her until
they were tired. Popular enthusiasm had never been so aroused. And then
the greatest honor ever paid to any singer was paid to her. Royal lips
praised her and the highest personage in the land presented her with a
diamond bracelet, worthy of the donor and the recipient. Her triumph was
at its height; that night the opera in which she played was the "Crown
Diamonds." Her singing had been perfection, her acting magnificent; she
bad electrified the audience as no other _artiste_ living could have
done; her passion, her power, her genius had carried them with her. When
she quitted the stage it was as though they woke from a long trance of
delight.
That evening crowned her "Queen of Song." No one who saw her ever forgot
her. The next morning the papers raved about her; they prophesied a new
era for music and for the stage; it was, perhaps, the most triumphant
night of her great career. She had the gift which makes an actress or a
singer; she could impress her individuality on people; she made a mark
on the hearts and minds of those who saw her that was never effaced; her
gestures, her face, her figure, her magnificent attitudes stood out
vivid and clear, while they lived distinct from any others.
"Where royalty smiles, other people laugh," says the old proverb. No
sooner was it known that the warmest praise kindly and royal lips could
give had been given to Madame Vanira than she became at once the darling
of the world of fashion.
Invitations poured in upon her, the most princely mansions in London
were thrown open to her; the _creme de la creme_ of the _elite_ sought
her eagerly; there was nothing like her; her beauty and her genius
inthralled every one. The time came when she was the most popular and
the most eagerly sought after woman in London, yet she cared little for
society; her art was the one thing she lived for, and her friendship
with Lord Chandos. One day she said to him:
"I have never seen Lady Marion. What is she like?"
He noticed then and afterward that she never spoke of the queen of
blondes as Lady Chandos, or as "your wife," but always as Lady Marion.
This was a beautiful morning in May, and there, sitting under the great
cedar-tree on the lawn, all the sweet-smelling wind wafting luscious
odors from jasmine and honeysuckle, the brilliant sun shining down on
them, he had been reading to her the notes of a speech by which he hoped
to do wonders; she had suggested some alterations, and, as he found,
improvements; then she sat silently musing. After some time she startled
him with the question:
"What is Lady Marion like?"
"Did you not see her," he replied, "on the first evening we were at the
opera? She was by my side, and you saw me. Nay, I remember that she told
me you were looking at her, and that your eyes magnetized hers."
"I remember the evening," said Leone sadly, "but I do not remember
seeing my lady. I--I saw nothing but you. Tell me what she is like. Is
she very beautiful?" she asked, and the tone of her voice was very
wistful.
"Yes; she is very fine and queenly," he replied; "she is very quiet,
gentle, and amiable. Would you like to see her, Leone?"
A sudden flame of passion flashed in those dark eyes, and then died
away.
"Yes, I should like just once to see her. She is very clever, is she
not?"
"Yes, in a quiet way. She plays beautifully, and she composes pretty
airs to pretty words."
Leone looked up, with vivid interest in her face.
"Does she? Ah, that is greater art than being able to sing the music
another has written."
"I do not think so," he replied. "If you are thinking of Lady Marion in
comparison with yourself, there is no comparison; it is like moonlight
and sunlight, water and wine. She has the grace and calm of repose. You
have the fire of genius, before which everything grows pale. She quiets
a man's heart. You stir every pulse in it. She soothes one into
forgetfulness of life. You brace and animate and brighten. You cannot
compare the two characters, because they are quite different. You are
smiling. What amuses you?"
"Nothing. I was not amused, Lord Chandos. I was thinking, and the
thought I smiled over was not amusing."
"What was it?"
"I was thinking of how it would be the same, the end of all; all grace,
gifts, and talents; all beauty and genius. I read some lines yesterday
that have haunted me ever since. Shall I repeat them to you?"
"It is always a great treat to hear you recite poetry," he replied. "I
shall be only too delighted."
Her beautiful face grew more beautiful and more earnest, as it always
did under the influence of noble words. Her voice was sweeter than that
of a singing-bird, and stirred every pulse in the heart of the listener
as she recited this little poem:
"While roses are so red,
While lilies are so white,
Shall a woman exalt her face
Because it gives delight?
She's not so sweet as a rose,
A lily is straighter than she,
And if she were as red or white,
She'd be but one of three.
"Whether she flush in love's summer,
Or in its winter grow pale,
Whether she flaunt her beauty,
Or hide it in a veil;
Be she red or white,
And stand she erect or bowed,
Time will win the race he runs with her,
And hide her away in a shroud."
"Those words took my fancy, Lord Chandos," continued Leone; "they are so
true, so terribly true. All grace and beauty will be hidden away some
day in a shroud."
"There will be no shroud for the soul," he said.
She rose from her seat and looked round with a weary sigh.
"That is true. After all, nothing matters, death ends everything;
nothing matters except being good and going to heaven."
He smiled half sadly at her.
"Those are grave thoughts for the most brilliant beauty, the most gifted
singer, the most popular queen of the day," he said.
"The brilliant beauty will be a mere handful of dust and ashes some
day," she said.
Then Lord Chandos rose from his seat with a shudder.
"Let us go out into the sunlight," he said; "the shade under the old
cedar makes you dull. How you have changed! I can remember when you
never had a dull thought."
"I can remember when I had no cause for dull thoughts," she answered.
Then, fancying that the words implied some little reproach to him, she
continued, hastily: "My soul has grown larger, and the larger one's soul
the more one suffers. I have understood more of human nature since I
have tried to represent the woes of others."
He glanced at her with sudden interest.
"Which, of all the characters you represent, do you prefer?" he asked.
"I can hardly tell you. I like Norma very much--the stately, proud,
loving woman, who has struggled so much with her pride, with her sense
of duty, with her sacred character, who fought human love inch by inch,
who yielded at last; who made the greatest sacrifice a woman could make,
who risked her life and dearer than her life for her love. All the
passion and power in my nature rises to that character."
"That is easily seen," he replied. "There have been many Normas, but
none like you."
Her face brightened; it was so sweet to be praised by him!
"And then," she continued, "the grand tragedy of passion and despair,
the noble, queenly woman who has sacrificed everything to the man she
loves finds that she has a rival--a young, beautiful, beloved rival."
She clasped her hands with the manner of a queen. "My whole soul rises
to that," she continued; "I understand it--the passion, the anguish, the
despair!"
His dark eyes, full of admiration, were riveted on her.
"Who would have thought," he said, gravely, "that you had such a marvel
of genius in you?"
"You are very good to call it genius," she said. "I always knew I had
something in me that was not to be described or understood--something
that made me different from other people; but I never knew what it was.
Do you know those two lines:
"'The poets learn in suffering
What they tell in song.'
"I think the passion of anguish and pain taught me to interpret the pains
and joys of others. There is another opera I love--'L'Etoile du Nord.'
The grave, tender, grand character of Catherine, with her passionate
love, her despair, and her madness, holds me in thrall. There is no love
without madness."
A deep sigh from her companion aroused her, and she remembered that she
was on dangerous ground; still the subject had a great charm for her.
"If I ever wrote an opera," she said, "I should have jealousy for my
ground-work."
"Why?" he asked, briefly.
"Because," she replied, "it is the strongest of all passions."
"Stronger than love?" he asked.
"I shall always think they go together," said Leone. "I know that
philosophers call jealousy the passion of ignoble minds; I am not so
sure of it. It goes, I think, with all great love, but not with calm,
well-controlled affection. I should make it the subject of my opera,
because it is so strong, so deep, so bitter; it transforms one, it
changes angels into demons. We will not talk about it." She drew a
little jeweled watch from her pocket. "Lord Chandos," she said, "we have
been talking two hours, and you must not stay any longer."
When he was gone she said to herself that she would not ask him any more
questions about Lady Marion.