It was nearly four o'clock when they left the theater. Jacob Crayford,
Mr. Mulworth and Jimber were still at work when they came out of the
stage door into the cold blackness of the night and got into the
taxi-cab. Alston said he would drive with them to the hotel and take the
cab on to his rooms in Madison Avenue. But when they reached the hotel
Claude asked him to come in.
"I can't go to bed," he said.
"But, Claudie, it's past four," said Charmian.
"I know. But after all this excitement sleep would be out of the
question. Come in, Alston, we'll have something to eat, smoke a cigar,
and try to quiet down."
"Right you are! I feel as lively as anything."
"It would be rather fun," said Charmian. "And I'm fearfully hungry."
At supper they were all unusually talkative, unusually, excitedly,
intimate. Instead of "quieting down" Claude became almost feverishly
vivacious. Although his cheeks were pale, and under his eyes there were
dark shadows, he seemed to have got rid of all his fatigue.
"The climate here carries one on marvellously," he exclaimed. "When I
think that I wanted to go to bed just before you came, Alston!"
He threw out his hand with a laugh. Then, picking up a glass of
champagne, he added:
"I say, let us make a bargain!"
"What is it, old chap?"
"Let us--just us three--have supper together after the first
performance. I couldn't stand a supper-party with a lot of
semi-strangers."
"I'll come! Drink to that night!"
They drank.
Cigars were lit and talk flooded the warm red room. Words rushed to the
lips of them all. Charmian lay back on the sofa, with big cushions piled
under her head, and Claude, sometimes walking about the room, told them
the history of the night in the theater. They interrupted, put
questions, made comments, protested, argued, encouraged, exclaimed.
Mr. Cane had brought pressman after pressman to interview Claude on the
libretto scandal, as they called it. It seemed that Madame Sennier had
made her libelous statement in a violent fit of temper, brought on by a
bad rehearsal at the Metropolitan Opera House. Annie Meredith, who was
to sing the big role in Sennier's new opera, and who was much greater as
an actress than as a vocalist, had complained of the weakness of the
libretto, and had attacked Madame Sennier for having made Jacques set
it. Thereupon the great Henriette had lost all control of her powerful
temperament. The secret bitterness engendered in her by her failure to
capture the libretto of Gillier had found vent in the outburst which, no
doubt with plenty of amplifications, had got into the evening papers.
The management at first had wished to attempt the impossible, to try to
muzzle the pressmen. But their publicity agent knew better. Madame
Sennier had been carried by temper into stupidity. She had made a false
move. The only thing to do now was to make a sensation of it.
As Claude told of the pressmen's questions his mind burned with
excitement, and a recklessness, such as he had never felt before,
invaded him. He had been indignant, had even felt a sort of shame, when
he was asked whether he had been "cute" in the libretto matter, whether
he had stolen a march on his rival. Crayford's treatment of the affair
had disgusted him. For Crayford, with his sharp eye to business, had
seen at once that their "game" was, of course with all delicacy, all
subtlety, to accept the imputation of shrewdness. The innocent "stunt"
was "no good to anyone" in his opinion. And he had not scrupled to say
so to Claude. There had been an argument--the theater is the Temple of
Argument--and Claude had heard himself called a "lobster," but had stuck
to his determination to use truth as a weapon in his defense. But now,
as he told all this, he felt that he did not care either way. What did
it matter if dishonorable conduct, if every deadly sin, were imputed to
him out here so long as he "made good" in the end with the work of his
brain, the work which had led him to Africa and across the Atlantic?
What did it matter if the work were a spurious thing, a pasticcio, a
poor victim which had been pulled this way and that, changed, cut, added
to? What did it matter if the locusts swarmed over it--so long as it was
a success? The blatant thing--everyone, every circumstance, was urging
Claude to snatch at it; and in this early hour of the winter morning,
excited by the intensity of the strain he was undergoing, by the pull on
his body, but far more by the pull on his soul, he came to a sudden and
crude decision; at all costs the blatant thing should be his, the
popular triumph, the success, if not of the high-bred merit, then of
sheer spectacular sensation. There is an intimate success that seems to
be of the soul, and there is another, reverberating, resounding, like
the clashing of brass instruments beaten together. Claude seemed to hear
them at this moment as he talked with ever-growing excitement.
One of the pressmen had mentioned Gillier, who had arrived and been
interviewed at the docks. He had evidently been delighted to find his
work a "storm center," but had declined to commit himself to any direct
statement of fact. The impression left on the pressmen by him, however,
had been that a fight had raged for the possession of his libretto,
which must have been won by the Heaths since Claude Heath had set it to
music. Or had the fight really been between Joseph Crayford and the
management of the Metropolitan Opera House? Gillier had finally
remarked, "I must leave it to you, messieurs. All that matters to me is
that my poor work should be helped to success by music and scenery,
acting and singing. I am not responsible for what Madame Sennier, or
anyone else, says to you."
"Then what do they really believe?" exclaimed Charmian, raising herself
up on the cushions, and resting one flushed cheek on her hand.
"The worst, no doubt!" said Alston.
"What does it matter?" said Claude.
Quickly he took out of a box, clipped, lit, and began to smoke a fresh
cigar.
"What does anything matter so long as we have a success, a big,
resounding success?"
Charmian and Alston exchanged glances, half astonished, half
congratulatory.
"I never realized till I came here," Claude continued, "the necessity of
success to one who wants to continue doing good work. It is like the
breaths of air drawn into his lungs by the swimmer in a race, who, to
get pace, keeps his head low, his mouth under water half the time. I've
simply got to win this race. And if anything helps, even lies from
Madame Sennier, and the sly deceit of Gillier, I mean to welcome it.
That's the only thing to do. Crayford is right. I didn't see it at
first, but I see it now. It's no earthly use the artist trying to keep
himself and his talent in cotton wool in these days. If you've got
anything to give the public it doesn't do to be sensitive about what
people say and think. I had a lecture to-night from Crayford on the uses
of advertisement which has quite enlightened me."
"What did he say?" interjected Alston.
"'My boy, if I were producing some goods, and it would help any to let
them think I'd killed my mother, and robbed my father of his last
nickel, d'you think I'd put them right, switch them on to the truth? Not
at all! I'd get them all around me, and I'd say, "See here, boys,
mother's gone to glory, and father's in the poorhouse, but it isn't up
to me to say why. That's my affair. I know I can rely on you all
to--keep my name before the public."'"
Charmian and Alston broke into laughter, but Claude's face continued to
look grave and excited.
"The fact of the matter is that the work has got to come before the
man," he said. "And now we've all got so far in this affair nothing must
be allowed to keep us back from success. Let the papers say whatever
they like so long as they talk about us. Let Madame Sennier rail and
sneer as much as she chooses. It will be all to the good. Crayford told
me so to-night. He said, 'My boy, it shows they're funky. They think our
combination may be stronger than theirs.' It seems Sennier's new
libretto has come out quite dreadfully at rehearsal, and they've been
trying to re-write a lot of it and change situations. Now, we got
nearly everything cut and dried at Djenan-el-Maqui. By Jove, how I did
work there! D'you remember old Jernington's visit, Charmian? He believed
in the opera, didn't he?"
"I should think so!" she cried. "Why, he positively raved about it. And
he's not an amateur. He only cares for the music--and he's a man who
knows."
"Yes, he does know. What a change in our lives, eh, Charmian, if we
bring off a big success! And you'll be in it Alston."
"Rather! The coming baritone!"
"What a change!"
His eyes shone with excitement.
"I used to be almost afraid of celebrity, I think. But now I want it, I
need it. America has made me need it."
"This is the country that wakes people up," said Alston.
"It drives me almost mad!" cried Claude, with sudden violence.
"Claudie!" exclaimed Charmian.
"It does! There's something here that pumps nervous energy into one
until one's body and mind seem to be swirling in a mill race. When I
think of my life in Mullion House and my life here!"
Charmian, with a quick movement, sat upright on the sofa.
"Then you do realize--" she began, almost excitedly. She paused, gazing
at Claude.
The two men looked at her.
"What is it?" Claude said at length, as she remained silent.
"You do realize that I did see something for you that you hadn't seen
for yourself, when you shut yourself and your talent in, when you
wouldn't look at, wouldn't touch the world?"
"Of course. I hadn't courage then. I dreaded contact with life. Now I
defy life to get the better of me. I know it, and I'm beginning to know
how to deal with it. I say, let us plan out our campaign if Madame
Sennier persists in her accusations."
He sat down between them.
"But first tell us exactly what you gave out to the pressmen to-night,"
said Alston.
They talked till the dawn crept along the sky.
When at last Alston got up to go, Claude said:
"If three strong wills are worth anything we must succeed."
"And we've got Crayford's back of ours," said Alston, putting his arms
behind him into the sleeves of his coat. "Good-morning! I'm really
going."
And he went.
Charmian had got up from her sofa, and was standing by the
writing-table, which was in an angle of the room on the right of the
window. As Alston went out, her eyes fell on an envelope lying by itself
a little apart from the letters with which the table was strewn.
Scarcely thinking about what she was doing she stretched out her hand.
Her intention was to put the envelope with its fellows. But when she
took it up she saw that it had not been opened and contained a letter,
or note, addressed to Claude.
"Why, here's a letter for you, Claudie!" she said, giving it to him.
"Is there? Another autograph hunter, I suppose."
Without glancing at the writing he tore the envelope, took out a letter,
and began to read it.
"It's from Mrs. Shiffney!" he said. "She arrived to-day on the same ship
as Gillier."
"I knew she would come!" cried Charmian. "Though they all pretended she
was going to winter at Cap Martin."
"And she's brought Susan Fleet with her."
"Susan!"
"But read what she says. It seems to have all been quite unexpected, a
sudden caprice."
"You poor thing!" said Charmian, looking at him with pitiful eyes. "When
will you begin to understand?"
"What?"
"Us."
Claude sent a glance so keen that it was almost like a dart at Charmian.
But she did not see it for she was reading the letter.
"THE RITZ-CARLTON HOTEL,
_Friday._
"DEAR MR. HEATH,--I've just arrived with Susan Fleet on
the _Philadelphia_. I heard such reports of the excitement over
your opera out here that I suddenly felt I must run over. After all
you told me about it at Constantine I'm naturally interested. Do be
nice and let me into a rehearsal. I never take sides in questions
of art, and though of course I'm a friend of the Senniers, I'm
really praying for you to have a triumph. Surely the sky has room
for two stars. What nonsense all this Press got-up rivalry is.
Don't believe a word you see in the papers about Henriette and your
libretto. She knows nothing whatever about it, of course. Such
rubbish! Susan is pining to see her beloved Charmian. Can't you
both lunch with us at Sherry's to-morrow at one o'clock? Love to
Charmian.--Yours very sincerely,
ADELAIDE SHIFFNEY."
"Well?" said Claude, as Charmian sat without speaking, after she had
finished the letter. "Shall we go to Sherry's to-morrow?"
He spoke as if he were testing her, but she did not seem to notice it.
"Yes, Claudie, I think we will."
She looked at him.
"What are you thinking?" she asked quickly.
"Do you still believe Mrs. Shiffney tricked me at Constantine?"
"I know she did."
"And yet--"
She interrupted him.
"We are in the arena!"
"Ah--I understand."
"If we go to Sherry's, and Mrs. Shiffney speaks about coming to a
rehearsal, what do you mean to do?"
"What do you think about it?"
"Of course she only wants to come in the hope of being able to carry a
bad report to the Senniers."
Claude was silent for a moment. Then he said:
"That may be. But--we are in the arena."
"What is it?"
"You dislike Mrs. Shiffney, you distrust her, but you do think she has
taste, judgment, don't you?"
"Yes--some."
"A great deal?"
"When she isn't biased by personal feeling. But she is biased against
you."
Claude's eyes had become piercing.
"I think," he said, "that if I were with Mrs. Shiffney at a rehearsal I
should divine her real, her honest opinion, the opinion one has of a
thing whether one wishes to have it or not. If _she_ were to admire the
opera--" He paused. His face looked self-conscious.
"Yes?"
"I only mean that I think it might be the verdict in advance."
"I see," she said slowly. "Yes, I see."
She got up.
"We simply must go to bed."
"Come along then. But I feel as if I should never want to sleep again."
"We must sleep. The verdict in advance--yes, I see. But Adelaide might
make a mistake."
"She really has a flair."
"I know. Oh, Claudie, the verdict!"
They were now in their bedroom. Charmian sighed and put her arms round
his neck.
"The verdict!" she breathed against his cheek softly.
He felt moisture on his cheek. She had pressed wet eyes against it.
"Charmian, what is it? Why--"
"Hush! Just put your arms round me for a minute--yes, like that!
Claudie, I want you to win, I want you to win. Oh, not altogether
selfishly! I--I am an egoist, I suppose. I do care for my husband to be
a success. But there's more than that. Yes, yes, there is!"
She held him, with passion, and suddenly kissed his eyes. She was crying
quite openly now, but not unhappily.
[Illustration: "'CLAUDIE, I WANT YOU TO WIN, I WANT YOU TO WIN!'"--_Page
378_]
"There's something in you far, far down, that I love," she whispered. "I
am not always conscious of it, but I am now. It called me to you, I
believe, at the very first. And I want that to win, I want that to win!"
Claude's face had become set. He bent over Charmian. For a moment he was
on the verge of a strange confession. But something that still had great
power held him back from it. And he only said:
"You have worked hard for me. If we do win it will be your victory."
"And if we lose?" she whispered.
"Charmian--" he kissed her. "We must try to sleep."