This was what the post brought Grace the next morning:
"MY DEAR MISS BALLINGER,[1]--I hope to call on you to-morrow; but
I wish first to explain who I am. My husband was well acquainted
with Sir Henry Ballinger, and he was our guest while in the United
States. I am now a widow, living almost entirely in Colorado with
my son, though I have a house here. I do not go into New York
society, and fear I can be of little use to you during my short
stay, but if you and your brother have a spare evening and would
dine quietly with me I would try and get one or two pleasant
friends to meet you. Later on, if you are going West, it would give
me real pleasure to offer you and Sir Mordaunt such hospitality as
we can in our wild home in the Rocky Mountains. Should you not be
at home to-morrow, perhaps you will kindly write and say if I am
fortunate enough to find you both disengaged any evening. All are
the same to me.
Yours sincerely,
"JOANNA CALDWELL."
[Footnote 1: By the Americans it is considered more formal, by the
English more familiar, to begin with "My." I am surprised to find my
friend, Mr. Marion Crawford, asserting precisely the reverse in his
"American Politician." I can only refer this divergence of opinion to
the experience of the general reader.]
"Jem" Gunning's party that night was a great success. He had done a
good-natured thing by inviting Ferrars, whom he scarcely knew, but had
interchanged a few words with on board ship, and had subsequently met
at the Ballingers'. Ferrars was their friend; he had greatly admired
Carmencita's public performances, and he had expressed a desire to see
her in private, hence the invitation. Of course all the very "smartest"
of New York society were there, including the Hurlstones and Mrs. Van
Winkle, and besides these two or three artists justly supposed to be
more in touch with the wayward, capricious dancer, who, it was said,
required the enthusiasm of Bohemia to stimulate her efforts. Before a
cold, fashionable circle she had been known to be a failure. They had
arranged the beautiful picture-gallery added by the late Mr. Gunning
to his fine mansion so that the dancer should have a little stage to
herself at one end, backed by tall folding screens of Cordova leather.
The electric light fell full upon this, while it was subdued in the
rest of the gallery. The whole effect of the beautifully-dressed
women, mostly young, not overcrowded, but seated in groups with their
cavaliers, against the rich background of pictures, was, in itself, a
little _tableau_.
Before Carmencita arrived the Hungarian band played, and people
wandered about, some to look at the pictures (which were all modern
French), some to the refreshment-room adjoining. Then, when it was
announced that the dancer and her accompanying band of guitars had
arrived, the guests were arranged in semicircles of chairs; and, there
being plenty of room for all, the men were not relegated to doorways,
or flattened upright against the wall, as is generally the case in
London. The band of guitars seated themselves, and began thrumming a
_bolero_ with wonderful spirit and a body of sound that was surprising
from such poor instruments. In the midst of this a young woman entered
from a side door. She was dressed in white and gold, and wore a white
lace mantilla over her head. She was neither pretty nor ugly, a common
type of Spaniard, and her movement as she walked was swaggering. She
was greeted by a great clapping of hands, which the artists led. She
acknowledged this by an awkward and, as it seemed to Grace, a surly
salute. Then she sat down, with her feet apart, a fan in one hand, the
other lying in her lap, the palm upwards. Her eyes looked dead, her
whole face dull and expressionless. Could this be Carmencita? Why,
the woman was not even graceful! And the smart ladies who saw her for
the first time whispered, "So badly dressed! Hair so blowzy, and frock
gathered so fully over the hips that it makes them look ever so much
too large!"
Ferrars had a chair immediately behind Grace.
"Is it possible that this is the dancer all the artist world rave
about?" she asked.
"Wait."
"I can't fancy that any agility can compensate for the lack of grace
and charm," she insisted.
"Wait," he again repeated. "If you are not a convert before ten minutes
are over write me down an ass."
The guitars had ceased their little prelude. They were chattering to
each other. The leader's head was turned away. He had not once glanced
at Carmencita since she entered. Now, however, he revolved upon his
stool, struck a chord, looking down as he screwed up one string; then
raised his eyes. They met hers. It was like the falling of a spark upon
some explosive substance. Her whole face was illuminated. She flung
away her mantilla, and rose transformed, as the guitars struck up once
more. The genius of her art had now hold of her, and went impatiently
quivering through her frame. Her feet tapped the ground; her arms
and hands--those apathetic hands--were lifted with a sort of exultant
passion; she drew herself proudly up, and her _bolero_ began.
Considered merely as dancing, probably many of the spectators had
witnessed more wonderful performances. It was the dramatic force,
the vivid intensity of every movement, that distinguished it from
any ordinary Terpsichorean feat. Without being what is understood as
pantomimic, the little dance told its story as no dance of the kind has
ever done before. When she sprang forward with that defiant audacity,
bent, swayed, flung her body back till it seemed as though her head
would touch the floor, her eyes appeared to flash fire, her hands
and wrists in their delicate and flexible intonations played through
the whole gamut of passionate emotion; they spoke with an eloquence
that was not to be resisted. It was no longer a woman dancing--it
was a creature possessed by some demoniac influence, struggling,
supplicating, conquered, swept like a leaf before the wind in a series
of gyrations so rapid and astounding that, when she sank to the earth,
the spectators gasped with almost a sense of relief, amid the storm of
applause that arose.
She smiled for the first time; then the light faded from her eyes, and
she swaggered back to her seat, the same awkward, lumpish-looking
peasant she had been ere the flame had been ignited.
"Well? What do you say?" asked Ferrars, from behind Grace's shoulder.
"Nothing. She has taken away my breath."
The flood-gates were burst. "Tremendous! Astonishing! Immense! Did you
ever see anything like that bend of body? There is no one can touch
her!" and so on poured the tide of frothy admiration round the room.
"They see nothing but an exhibition of agility," said Ferrars. "You see
something more than this, I am sure?"
"Yes." She waited a minute, then added, "It is a physical illustration
of Owen Meredith's line, 'Genius does what it must. Talent does what
it can.' She could no more help dancing as she does than a tornado can
help blowing. I am not quite sure that I _like_ a tornado. I think I
prefer a gentler breeze. But one is carried away by the tempest while
it lasts."
"And what do you want more? To be 'carried away,' even for a few
minutes, and by a dancing-girl, is rare in life. I tell you that this
creature has an individuality that is all her own. I have seen much
more wonderful dancing in Spain, but never any that had this curious
histrionic character."
"You have been in Spain much?"
"Yes, at one time. I hope Carmencita will sing some national airs
presently. She never does so in public. I hear her singing and dancing
together are extraordinary. Get our host to ask her."
There was a movement at the door at this moment, and a fat, fair woman,
with a sweet smile, laden with jewels, entered. Gunning went forward
with his mother, and then the magnificent George Ray strode down the
room and greeted the new guest with effusion.
"Who is that? They are going to bring her up to you," said Ferrars.
"It is the Princess Lamperti. I dare say you have heard her story. She
has just divorced her husband."
They approached, and the soft, cushiony-looking woman, with so
complacent an expression that it was impossible to believe that her
domestic sorrow had eaten deeply into her soul, was presented to Miss
Ballinger. As the honored guest of the evening, whom every one was
asked to meet, all presentations were made to her.
The princess began at once,
"I saw you last night at the opera, Miss Ballinger, and I was glad to
think I was to meet you to-night. Your face was very _sympathique_
to me; I am very susceptible to fresh impressions--too much so.
And you?" But she ran on without waiting for an answer. "How do you
like Carmencita? Wonderful, isn't she? But, for me, I like something
more--more _ondoyante_--more--more--how shall I say--ethereal?"
The princess, though pure American, had many foreign terms of speech,
and was much addicted to foreign words.
"Certainly she is not ethereal," smiled Grace. "And yet she seems a
sort of double-natured creature--a stupid peasant and--"
"A Paphian priestess!" murmured Mrs. Van Winkle, who stood near, with
her head dressed like a cockatoo. "It is like the frenzied orgies that
used to wind up some of their interesting rites! That intoxicating
twirl of hers at the end--it is realism _in extremis_."
This sounded to Grace very like nonsense, but she was quick enough to
respond,
"The _extremis_ I suppose are her head and her toes? They were so mixed
I could not quite tell for a moment which was which."
"You know," said the princess, "that the leader of the guitars is her
husband? She adores him."
"Indeed? That is interesting. I saw that he lit her by a look, as some
people, they say, light gas by the electricity in their fingers."
"I am one of the light-fingered gentry," laughed George Ray, fatuously.
"In cold weather I can always do it, I am so strongly charged with
electricity."
"You are such a large battery, such a mighty machine, that we are
ablaze when you come near us," said Mrs. Van Winkle, with a satirical
smile. Then she added, reflectively, as she opened and shut her fan,
"Fancy being lit by your own husband! How curious! Though once, long
ago, perhaps--" Then she broke off.
"Ah! They are so young--all is new!" sighed the princess. "One asks
one's self, 'Will it continue?' Foreign natures are so _volages_.
They know not what fidelity means. And, more than all, Italians and
Spaniards--ah! They are a dreadful people, as I have good reason to
know!"
Grace, generally ready with her tongue, felt rather at a loss what to
say. Mrs. Van Winkle saved her.
"It must be very unexciting, dancing to your own husband. Herodias's
daughter would not have won the Baptist's head under _those_
circumstances. I feel like Marguerite de Valois, when she was thirsty,
and drank a cup of cold water, and exclaimed, 'Ah! If it were only a
sin!' The legitimate thing is always so very _fade_."
It was astonishing the pains this lady took to try and give a false
impression of herself. But it was all thrown away on Grace.
"My aunt would have gratified Marguerite de Valois," she said. "She
would have told her a cup of cold water _was_ a sin--a deadly sin
against hygienic laws. It is an _idée fixe_ with her."
Then Mrs. Van Winkle moved on, bowing her cockatoo-like crest to right
and left; and, as the princess had taken her seat, Grace turned to make
some remark to Ferrars, but she saw to her surprise that he had left
his chair, nor could she detect his head anywhere.
Carmencita now danced an _affondangodo_, followed by a _sequidillo_,
with increasing energy, terminating by explosions similar to that which
had roused such enthusiasm in her first dance.
Young Caldwell took the vacant chair behind Grace. After the usual
questions, as to whether she cared for the dancing, he said,
"My mother was so delighted to get your note. She is glad that Sir
Mordaunt and you can dine with us. Have you met Bagshot, our great
lawyer and wit? We hope to get him and one or two others to meet you.
But it will be quite a small party. You won't mind?"
"Oh! I shall like it so much better. Every one is most hospitable to
us here, but I prefer small parties to large ones. Mr. Gunning," she
called to her host, who was passing, "do ask Carmencita to sing while
she dances. I am told that is the most charming thing she does."
"Why, yes! Michael Angelo Brown will get her. He speaks Spanish, you
know, and understands how to tackle her."
He was going, when the princess stopped him.
"And after that, if you can induce her husband to dance with her--he is
difficult to persuade, sometimes, but if you can only succeed--it is
charming! so _entrain_! And there is something in their being husband
and wife so--I don't know what! You understand? Ah!" She heaved a deep
sigh.
The young man looked as though he did not in the least, but he hurried
off to find the artist ambassador who should convey his request to both
the performers. And, pleased with the fervor of her reception, the lady
consented, so far as she and the song were concerned. It was a long
story in couplets, threaded, so to speak, with dances. The precise
meaning of each verse required some knowledge of Spanish to understand,
but her marvellous play of countenance, and the variety of expression
in that low, husky voice, which she _trod_ with all the subtlety and
delicacy of a great artist, told quite enough. This performance seemed
to Grace to be even more remarkable, and certainly more pleasing,
than the preceding ones. When it was finished, she looked round once
more, with her bright enthusiasm, to try and catch Mr. Ferrars's eye,
but he was nowhere in sight. All she discovered was Mordaunt and Miss
Hurlstone in a distant corner, where she had seen them more than an
hour ago, engrossed in each other's conversation. Well! Dear Mordaunt
was an out-and-out flirt; of course, it meant nothing with _him_. It
was to be hoped the girl was equally case-hardened.
"Do you know, Miss Ballinger," said Caldwell. "I am afraid I like this
singing better than the opera last night. I'm not worthy of that grand
music. It's such an awful row."
"Which you tried to drown with the sound of your own voice, I dare
say," laughed Grace. "Most people did. Now every one paid devout
attention to Carmencita. That isn't fair to poor Wagner, is it?"
Here Gunning rushed up. "He has caved in at last! He has consented to
dance with her--but only after a regular battle. It was that funny to
watch 'em. Their goings on together were like a play, they were, but
she has got round him. I say, Miss Ballinger, I want to know if you and
your brother won't come out to Tuxedo on Saturday and stay till Monday,
as my guests. It's an awfully jolly place, and I'll get up a nice
party--just the right set, you know--no outsiders--if you'll come."
"You are very good; but it is impossible. We are engaged."
"What? both days? Couldn't you come for one?"
"No. _I_, at least, am engaged both days. I can't answer for my
brother."
And so, after the little dramatic dance of coquetry and pursuit and
capture between the Spanish husband and wife was gone through, the
evening came to an end.