Toward the end of the London season the management of the Covent Garden
Opera House startled its subscribers by announcing for production a new
opera, composed by a Frenchmen called Jacques Sennier, whose name was
unknown to most people. Mysteriously, as the day drew near for the first
performance of this work, which was called _Le Paradis Terrestre_, the
inner circles of the musical world were infected with an unusual
excitement. Whispers went round that the new opera was quite
extraordinary, epoch-making, that it was causing a prodigious impression
at rehearsal, that it was absolutely original, that there was no doubt
of its composer's genius. Then reports as to the composer's personality
and habits began to get about. Mrs. Shiffney, of course, knew him. But
she had introduced him to nobody. He was her personal prey at present.
She, however, allowed it to be known that he was quite charming, but the
strangest creature imaginable. It seemed that he had absolutely no moral
sense, did not know what it meant. If he saw an insect trodden upon, or
a fly killed on a window-pane, he could not work for days. But when his
first wife--he had been married at sixteen--shot herself in front of
him, on account of his persistent cruelty and infidelity, he showed no
sign of distress, had the body carried out of his studio, and went on
composing. Decidedly an original! Everybody was longing to know him. The
libraries and the box-office of the Opera House were bombarded with
demands for seats for the first performance, at which the beautiful
Annie Meredith, singer, actress, dancer, speculator, and breeder of
prize bulldogs, was to appear in the heroine's part.
Three nights before the premiere, a friend, suddenly plunged into
mourning by the death of a relation, sent Mrs. Mansfield her box.
Charmian was overjoyed. Max Elliot, Lady Mildred Burnington, Margot and
Kit Drake, Paul Lane, all her acquaintances, in fact, were already
"raving" about Jacques Sennier, without knowing him, and about his
opera, without having heard it. Sensation, success, they were in the
air. Not to go to this premiere would be a disaster. Charmian's
instinctive love of being "in" everything had caused her to feel acute
vexation when her mother had told her that their application for stalls
had been refused. Now, at the last moment, they had one of the best
boxes in the house.
"Whom shall we take?" said Mrs. Mansfield. "There's room for four."
"Why not invite Mr. Heath?" said Charmian, with a rather elaborate
carelessness. "As he's a musician it might interest him."
"I will if you like. But he's sure to refuse."
Of late Heath had retired into his shell. Mrs. Shiffney had not seen him
for months. Max Elliot had given him up in despair. Even in Berkeley
Square he was but seldom visible. His excuse for not calling was that he
knew nobody had any time to spare in the season.
"Don't write to him, Madre, or he will. Get him to come here and ask
him. He really ought to follow the progress of his own art, silly
fellow. I have no patience with his absurd fogeydom."
She spoke with the lightest scorn, but in her long eyes there was an
intentness which contradicted her manner.
Heath came to the house, was invited to come to the box, and had just
refused when Charmian entered the room.
"You're afraid, Mr. Heath," she said, smiling at him.
"Afraid! What of?" he asked quickly, and a little defiantly.
"Afraid of hearing what the foreign composers of your own age are doing,
of comparing their talents with your own. That's so English! Never mind
what the rest of the world is about! We'll go on in our own way! It
seems so valiant, doesn't it? And really it's nothing but cowardice,
fear of being forced to see that others are advancing while we are
standing still. I'm sick of English stolidity!"
Heath's eyes shown with something that looked like anger.
"I really don't think I'm afraid!" he said stiffly.
Perhaps to prove that he was not, he rescinded his refusal and came to
the premiere with the Mansfields. It was a triumph for Charmian, but she
did not show that she knew it.
Heath was in his most reserved mood. He had the manner of the defiant
male lured from behind his defenses into the open against his will. Some
intelligence within him knew that his cold stiffness was rather
ridiculous, and made him unhappy. Mrs. Mansfield was really sorry for
him.
Nothing is more humorously tragic than pleasure indulged in under
protest. And Heath's protest was painfully apparent.
Charmian, who was looking her best, her most self-possessed, a radiant
minx, with fleeting hints of depths and softnesses, half veiled by the
firm habit of the world, seemed to tower morally above the composer. He
marvelled afresh at the triumphant composure of modern girlhood. Sitting
between the two women in the box--no one else had been asked to join
them--he looked out, almost shyly, at the crowded and brilliant house.
Mrs. Shiffney, large, powerful and glittering with jewels, came into a
box immediately opposite to theirs, accompanied by Ferdinand Rades, Paul
Lane, and a very smart, very French, and very ugly woman, who was
covered thickly with white paint, and who looked like all the feminine
intelligence of Paris beneath her perfectly-dressed red hair. In the box
next the stage on the same side were the Max Elliots with Sir Hilary
Burnington and Lady Mildred.
Charmian looked eagerly about the house, putting up her opera-glasses,
finding everywhere friends and acquaintances. She frankly loved the
world with the energy of her youth.
At this moment the sight of the huge and crowded theater, full of
watchful eyes and whispering lips, full of brains and souls waiting to
be fed, the sound of its hum and stir, sent a warm thrill through her,
thrill of expectation, of desire. She thought of that man, Jacques
Sennier, hidden somewhere, the cause of all that was happening in the
house, of all that would happen almost immediately upon the stage. She
envied him with intensity. Then she looked at Claude Heath's rather grim
and constrained expression. Was it possible that Heath did not share her
feeling of envy?
There was a tap at the door. Heath sprang up and opened it. Paul Lane's
pale and discontented face appeared.
"Halloa! Haven't seen you since that dinner! May I come in for a
minute?"
He spoke to the Mansfields.
"Perfectly marvellous! Everyone behind the scenes is mad about it! Annie
Meredith says she will make the success of her life in it. Who's that
Frenchwoman with Adelaide Shiffney? Madame Sennier, the composer's
wife--his second, the first killed herself. Very clever woman. She's not
going to kill herself. Sennier says he could do nothing without her,
never would have done this opera but for her. She found him the
libretto, kept him at it, got the Covent Garden management interested in
it, persuaded Annie Meredith to come over from South America to sing the
part. An extraordinary woman, ugly, but a will of iron, and an ambition
that can't be kept back. Her hour of triumph to-night. There goes the
curtain."
As Lane slipped out of the box, he whispered to Heath:
"Mrs. Shiffney hopes you'll come and speak to her between the acts. Her
name's on the door."
Heath sat down a little behind Mrs. Mansfield. Although the curtain was
now up he noticed that Charmian, with raised opera-glasses, was
earnestly looking at Mrs. Shiffney's box. He noticed, too, that her left
hand shook slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"Her hour of triumph!" Yes, the hour proved to be that. Madame Sennier's
energies had not been expended in vain. From the first bars of music,
from the first actions upon the stage, the audience was captured by the
new work. There was no hesitating. There were no dangerous moments. The
evening was like a crescendo, admirably devised and carried out. And
through it all Charmian watched the ugly white face of the red-haired
woman opposite to her, lived imaginatively in that woman's heart and
brain, admired her, almost hated her, longed to be what she was.
Between the acts she saw men pouring into Mrs. Shiffney's box. And every
one was presented to the ugly woman, whose vivacity and animation were
evidently intense, who seemed to demand homage as a matter of course.
Several foreigners kissed her hand. Max Elliot's whole attitude, as he
bent over her, showed adoration and enthusiasm. Even Paul Lane was
smiling, as he drew her attention to a glove split by his energy in
applause.
Heath had spoken of Mrs. Shiffney's message. He was evidently reluctant
to obey it, but Charmian insisted on his going.
"I want to know what Madame Sennier is like. You must ask her if she is
happy, find out how happy she is."
"Charmian, Mr. Heath isn't a mental detective!"
"I speak such atrocious French!" said Heath, looking nervous and
miserable.
"I suppose you can say, '_Chere Madame, j'espere que vous etes bien
contente ce soir_?'"
When Heath had left the box Mrs. Mansfield said gravely to her daughter:
"Charmian!"
"Yes, Madretta."
"I don't think you are behaving very kindly this evening. You scarcely
seem to remember that Mr. Heath is our guest."
"Against his will," she said, in a voice that was almost hard. There was
a hardness, too, in her whole look and manner.
"I think that only makes the hostess's obligation the stronger," said
Mrs. Mansfield. "I don't at all like the Margot manner with men."
"I'm sorry, Madre; but I had no idea I was imitating Margot Drake."
Mrs. Mansfield said no more. Charmian, with flushed cheeks and shining
eyes, turned to look once more at Adelaide Shiffney's box.
In about three minutes she saw Mrs. Shiffney glance behind her. Max
Elliot, who was still with her, got up and opened the door, and Heath
stood in the background. Charmian frowned and pressed her little teeth
on her lower lip. Her body felt stiff with attention, with scrutiny. She
saw Heath come forward, Max Elliot holding him by the arm, and talking
eagerly and smiling. Mrs. Shiffney smiled, too, laughed, gave him her
powerful hand. Now he was being introduced to Madame Sennier, who surely
appraised him with one swift, almost cruelly intelligent glance.
His French! His French! Charmian trembled for it, for him because of it.
If Mrs. Mansfield could have known how solicitous, how tender, how
motherly, the girl felt at that moment under her mask of shining,
radiant hardness! But Mrs. Mansfield was glancing about the house with
grave and even troubled eyes.
Heath was talking to Madame Sennier. He was even sitting down beside
her. She spoke, evidently with volubility, making rapid gestures with
her hands. Then she paused. She was listening attentively to Heath. Mrs.
Shiffney and Elliot listened, too, as if absorbed. Heath's French must
really be excellent. Why had he--? If only she could hear what he was
saying! She tingled with curiosity. How he held them, those three
people! From here he looked distinguished, interesting. He stood out
even in this crowd as an interesting man. Madame Sennier made an upward
movement of her head, full of will. She put out her hand, and laid it on
Heath's arm. Now they all seemed to be talking together. Madame Sennier
looked radiant, triumphant, even autocratic. She pointed toward the
stage emphatically, made elaborate descriptive movements with her hands.
A bell sounded somewhere. Heath got up. In a moment he and Max Elliot
had left the box together. The two women were alone. They leaned toward
each other apparently in earnest conversation.
"I know they are talking about him! I know they are!"
Charmian actually formed the words with her lips. The curtain rose as
Heath quietly entered the box. Charmian did not turn to him or look at
him then. Only when the act was over did she move and say:
"Well, Mr. Heath, your French evidently comes at call."
"What--oh, we were talking in English!"
"Madame Sennier speaks English?" said Mrs. Mansfield.
"Excellently!"
Charmian felt disappointed.
"Is she happy?" she asked, moving her hand on the edge of the box.
"She seems so."
"Did you tell her what you thought?"
"Yes," said Heath.
His voice had become suddenly deeper, more expressive.
"I told her that I thought it wonderful. And so it is. She said--in
French this: 'Ah, my friend, wait till the last act. Then it is no
longer the earthly Paradise!'"
There was a moment of silence. Then Charmian said, in a voice that
sounded rather dry:
"You liked her?"
"I don't know. Yes, I think I did. We were all rather carried away, I
suppose."
"Carried away! By what?"
"Well, it is evidently a great moment in Madame Sennier's life. One must
sympathize."
Charmian looked and saw two spots of color burning high up on his
cheeks. His voice had suddenly quivered.
"I should think so," said Mrs. Mansfield. "This evening probably means
more to Madame Sennier even than to her husband."
Charmian said nothing more till the end of the evening. Beneath the
radiant coolness of her demeanor, the air of triumphant self-possession,
she was secretly quivering with excitement. She feared to betray
herself. Soon she was spellbound by the music of the last act and by the
wonderful performance of Annie Meredith. As she listened, leaning
forward in the box, and always feeling intensely the nearness to her of
Heath, and of Heath's strong musical talent, she remembered something
she had once said in the drawing-room in Berkeley Square, "We want a new
note." Here was the new note in French music, the new talent given to
the wondering and delighted world to-night. To-morrow doubtless Europe
and America would know that the husband of the red-haired woman opposite
had taken his place among the famous men to whom the world must pay
attention. From to-morrow thousands of art lovers would be looking
toward Jacques Sennier with expectation, the curious expectation of
those who crave for fresh food on which they may feed their intellects,
and their souls. The great tonic of a new development in art was
offered to all those who cared to take it by the man who would probably
be staring from behind the footlights at the crowd in a few moments.
If only the new note had been English!
"It shall be! It shall be!" Charmian repeated to herself.
She looked again and again at Madame Sennier, striving to grasp the
secret of her will for another, even while she gave herself to the
enchantment of the music. But for that woman in all probability the
music would never have been given life. Somewhere, far down in the
mystery of an individual, it would have lain, corpse-like. A woman had
willed that it should live. She deserved the homage she had received,
and would receive to-night. For she had made her man do a great thing,
because she had helped him to understand his own greatness.
Suddenly, out of the almost chaotic excitement caused in Charmian by the
music, and by her secret infatuation, concrete knowledge seemed to
detach itself and to arise. As, when she had looked at the island in the
Algerian Garden, she had felt "I shall be here some day with him!" so
now she seemed to be aware that the future would show a brilliant crowd
assembled in some great theater, not for Jacques Sennier, but for one
near her. Really she was violently willing that it should be so. But she
thought she was receiving--from whom, or from what, she could not
tell--a mysterious message.
And the red-haired woman's place was filled by another.
At last the curtain fell on the final scene, and the storm which meant a
triumph was unchained. Heath sprang up from his seat, carried away by a
generous enthusiasm. He did not know how to be jealous of anyone who
could do a really fine thing. Charmian, in the midst of the uproar,
heard him shouting "Bravo!" behind her, in a voice quick with
excitement. His talent was surely calling to a brother. The noise all
over the house strengthened gradually, then abruptly rose like a great
wave. A small, thin, and pale man, with a big nose, a mighty forehead,
scanty black hair and beard, and blinking eyes, had stepped out before
the curtain. He leaned forward, made a movement as if to retreat, was
stopped by a louder roar, stepped quickly to the middle of the small
strip of stage that was visible, and stood still with his big head
slightly thrust out toward the multitude which acclaimed him.
Charmian turned round to Claude Heath, who towered above her. He did not
notice her movement. He was gazing at the stage while he violently
clapped his hands. She gazed up at him. He felt her eyes, leaned down.
For a moment they looked at each other, while the noise in the house
increased. Claude saw that Charmian wanted to speak to him--and
something else. After a moment, during which the blood rose in his
cheeks and forehead, and he felt as if he were out in wind and rain, in
falling snow and stern sunshine, he said:
"What is it?"
"All this ought to be for you. Some day it will be--for you!"