It had been an eventful day for Ethel Walton. Now but a brief half hour
remained to determine the creditable success of the rose pageant.
With a sandwich in her hand, she had slipped into the rear passage
leading to the door of Mrs. Sanderson's box.
"No, I can't come in," she replied to her friend's entreaty to enter. "I
want just one little peep at the audience, while I eat my supper. I must
feel particularly inspired in this last dreadful moment. And the house
is grand," she exclaimed, triumphantly. "'Delightful to the ravished
sense,'" she hummed, enveloping herself gleefully in the folds of a
sheltering portiere.
"What a relief, after all these weeks! Sister has just come from the
front, where they are actually speculating on the tickets. It sounds too
good to be true. I hear the distant strains of the new organ!" she
cried, dramatically. "If only we can postpone the murder of the calcium
light man by our bloodthirsty Professor Tiptoe success is ours!"
She flew gaily from the box to attend to the last few arrangements that
prefaced the overture.
Pasadena's handsome opera house had been, possibly, the supremest
blessing of the great boom. At the time it was built, few doubted the
absolute necessity of a rival city for the south of the State.
Fortunately for beautiful Pasadena, the men with visions were ruthlessly
awakened to find Los Angeles still the acknowledged commercial center of
the valley. In the meantime, her aristocratic suburb had an opera house
and a number of other delightful conveniences that might have been
delayed in the absence of a boom.
The audience assembled upon the night of the pageant indicated assured
prosperity. The sight was an opulent surprise for the uninstructed
stranger. Not a vacant seat was visible. The upper galleries were
crowded to the wall; many were standing in the aisles.
From our box we rejoiced for Ethel in the finished brilliancy of the
scene.
"Every one in the set is here but the Prince of Wales," Mrs. Sanderson
remarked, jestingly, as she surveyed with honest astonishment the
elaborate equipments of the evening.
Extending completely around the balcony, across the proscenium, and
encircling both upper and lower boxes, bloomed a variegated band of
exquisite roses, four feet in width.
Here and there the luxurious band turned from a knot of glorious
Duchesse into a stretch of Marechal Neil, which farther on caught hold
of the vivid Henrietta. Touching close the pure French rose-color, the
simple, unaffected La Marque lay like a field of snow between voluptuous
meadows--for next beyond, almost throbbing, scintillating with every
change of the lights, shone the Gold of Ophir.
In its distinctive beauty, it seemed to steal from the wonderful galaxy
of bloom the composite glory of all.
Last in the wonderful band, the Jacqueminot imparted its dark beauty,
also its rich odor of high-born culture that lingers in the petals long
after their color has fled.
Although the general scheme of the pageant had been a secret, it was
soon understood that the roses used in the decoration of the auditorium
were sympathetic representatives of those personified upon the stage.
Each dance was to be an idealization of a particular rose. In the
audience, personal preferences were quite noticeable; for favorite
dances were boldly championed, not only in corsage bunch and
boutonnieres, but by superb bouquets of enormous size.
It is doubtful if more beautiful floral decorations were ever seen.
Viewed from the stage, the dress circle and parquet appeared a huge
garden of beauty; the boxes, fairy bowers, twined with their
representative roses.
Those attending, almost without exception, were in full evening dress.
Gay parties of visitors from the various hotels waited eagerly for the
rise of the curtain, satisfied that the decorations of the house
justified great expectations for the performance. Anon, were heard
surprised confessions from the provincial Easterner, who had for the
first time discovered the existence of a civilized West.
Mrs. Wilbur laughingly owned that her only opportunity for enjoying a
peep at the notorious "wild and woolly" was one afternoon when she had
gone into Los Angeles to a wild and woolly show from New York. The show
pretended to represent the common peculiarities of the West, whereas she
blushed to acknowledge it an embarrassing portrayal of Eastern conceit
and prejudices.
Mariposilla was to dance in the Spanish dance. She was to personify the
Gold of Ophir rose--their subtile charms would mingle at last.
It is hardly necessary to relate that our box bloomed with her chosen
rose; that we ourselves heralded our devotion by wearing no rose but the
Gold of Ophir.
As the overture died away, the curtain lifted upon a scene at once
familiar with local beauty. The time of year was supposed to be
November; and at the foot of the protecting Sierra Madre, whose tops
stretched away in the distance, we beheld the old garden of Las Flores.
The gray haze of summer still hung about the peaks, for the Silver
Harlequin, the son of the mighty Rain God, had not come.
Nature was inactive, as yet unable to overcome the lethargy of her
annual rest.
In the garden, sheltered by interlacing trees and tall palms, upon a
couch of verdure, slept the goddess Flora--her pagan spirit now at last
purified and free, after weary wanderings in regions of ice and snow.
Close to the Goddess slumbered the golden Poppies, who ring always the
first sweet bells of spring. The Poppies were dainty children, whose
golden heads and gowns of yellow and green told instantly the story of
the Foothills. The music, which from the first had been soft and dreamy,
now suddenly grew harsh. Its poetry was gone, for stealing into the
peaceful garden came the ashy Breath of the torrid Desert.
At last he had outwitted the Silver Harlequin, the son of the mighty
Rain God! and his diabolical joy was horrible to behold. His agile
movements were wonderful, as he appeared to actually float through the
air. One moment he leered at the unconscious Goddess, the next he
satirized, in a demoniac dance, the belated Harlequin. Then, unable to
control his mad fury longer, he summoned from his desert kingdom an army
of Cacti to despoil the beautiful Valley. At the head of this evil
legion, bristling with cruel needles, and grotesquely formidable in its
reality, the Breath of the Desert took formal possession of the Happy
Valley. Through excited gestures he commanded the Cacti to take root in
the fruitful land, to spear the charming plants and choke the tender
flowers; while he breathed upon the sleeping Flora his own fiery breath,
that she might never again gaze into the shining face of the Silver
Harlequin, or feel the touch of the gentle maiden, Spring.
But his conquest is short, for, even as he exults, the Silver Harlequin
appears, glittering and strong, from the realms of the Rain God.
In his hand is the magic sword with which he fells to the ground the now
powerless Cacti; then, in majestic anger, challenges to single combat
the vile usurper.
A moment the irreconcilable enemies pause, and then ensues a deadly
fight; thrilling and uncertain as the passionate music leads it on.
Again and again each combatant strives for mastery. Implacable hate
flashes from their burning eyes as their merciless swords strike fiercer
and fiercer. Now, wilder grows the combat; wilder speaks the music,
until at last the fatal plunge is made. The magic sword of the Rain
God's son has triumphed. At the feet of the glittering Harlequin the
Breath of the Desert falls.
The music then sank into a low, sweet whisper of melody, while at the
same instant the precious rain was heard. The veil of mist ascended from
the glad "Mother Mountains," and a glorious rainbow proclaimed the
advent of the gentle maiden, Spring, who came joyfully from the Magic
Canon. In her train danced a company of wee, fairy raindrops, who
deluged the Valley gleefully with showers from their sparkling wands.
Spring held in her hand the magic fern, stolen from the queen of the
highest waterfall of the Enchanted Canon. With her glittering band she
descended the mountain to do obeisance before the mighty Harlequin;
then with the wonderful fern she awoke the golden Poppies and the
sleeping Goddess.
In the second scene, Nature is fully aroused, and gracious Flora smiles
again. The maiden, Spring, pulsing with joy, clad in a robe of palest
green, adorned with sprays of maidenhair from the far, cool canon, the
breath of almond blossoms in her golden locks, dances before the
Harlequin the dance of Spring. Gliding about the garden she tells her
wonderful secret with poetic grace, falling at last upon her knees
before her shining master, who commands her to bid the Poppies ring once
more the glad, golden bells of Spring.
No words are spoken. All is action--poetry in motion, intensified by
music.
As the drop fell on each of the scenes, the house grew stormy with
applause, the air sweet with flying bouquets; while the audience turned
one to another to exclaim at what they had seen, and to speculate upon
what was yet to come.
The curtain now rose upon the carnival of the Foothills.
The season had advanced to the latter part of February, and from field
and roadside trooped the wild flowers.
In a succession of charming dances and marches, children and young girls
personified, in artistic and sympathetic costumes, the wealth of wild
flowers which each year adorns the Southern California spring. First
came the Poppies, ringing long chimes of golden bells to the music of
their dainty yellow feet, while close to them marched, in bewildering
phalanx, the delicate lavender Brodiaeas. The Brodiaeas were graceful
maidens in aesthetic gowns, overlaid with the effective flowers that
trailed from a belt, like green silk cords tipped with purple tassels.
Their pilgrim hats were solid with purple bloom; their long pilgrim
staves a marvel of loveliness, covered with ferns and nodding lavender
flowers.
Next came the Wild Daisies--dear little girls in quaint, creamy gowns,
sprinkled with yellow field flowers. On their heads, demure Dutch caps
produced the impression of careworn Gretchens, as they sat upon
three-legged daisy stools, knitting their stint of a daisy stocking.
Last, from the Foothills came the Baby-Blue-Eyes--wee men in blue,
trundling small wheelbarrows overflowing with starry blue flowers.
When each group of wild flowers had in turn completed the dance or march
expressing its idealized part in the carnival, they together formed into
a triumphant tableau as the curtain fell, stormed again with
enthusiastic applause.
But the event of the evening was yet to come. The rose pageant was about
to begin, and Mariposilla would soon dance.
Thus far there had been no delay in the performance, no uncertainty, no
halt. We rejoiced momentarily for those who had worked so tirelessly.
The director of the orchestra, a German, intense and enthusiastic, had
worked hand in hand with Ethel to interpret to the highest degree her
poetic ideas. The little man's delight was visibly manifest as the
performance proceeded. Not once did the music halt, not once did the
intelligent leader fail to intensify the climax of the stage.
When the drop rose for the grand pageant of the season a hush was upon
the house.
Then murmurs escaped from all.
"How superb" exclaimed Mrs. Sanderson, her handsome, critical face
softening with pleasure.
It was now the season of Easter; the rapturous Valley was in its glory.
High up in the mountains, in a wooded canon, fringed with growing ferns,
beneath a canopy of roses, we beheld the Goddess. The simple outlines of
her classic robe defined her nobly. Her charming, gracious bearing was
beyond expression, her serene beauty the theme of all.
Before her knelt the Silver Harlequin.
With dignity the smiling Flora commanded him to arise and produce the
pageant of Roses, the glory of the year. Now, in obedience to the
Harlequin's magic sword, the Spirit of Easter is felt in the land.
Mission chimes smite suddenly the air. The music deepens into a grand
march, while the bells strike time to its solemn measures. Then appears
a wonderful procession moving slowly to the old church; for from the
far-reaching ranchos of the Valley have assembled strong youths and
sweet senoritas. The snowy robes of the neophytes are embellished with
symbolic stoles of white roses; in their hands they carry long fronds
from the date palm, that wave as they march to the victorious strains of
the music. The girls follow, wonderfully beautiful in the ever-changing
lights that intensify their pure robes, or color, with violet, and
green, and amber, the long, floating veils fastened to crowns of white
roses. Pure roses deck their throats and glistening arms, while in their
hands they bear tall tapers in rose candlesticks. Like a beautiful
vision they pass and repass, the waving palms and shining tapers telling
a sweet story of youthful devotion to a poetic religion. Then the music
deepens, the fickle lights intensify, and the old bells ring sadly and
solemnly the chimes of a picturesque and dead past.
As the White Roses drifted away, the scene suddenly changed.
In a blaze of light and music, the Silver Harlequin now called before
the Goddess an array of dainty color and grace. Stepping the faultless
measures of a court quadrille came the ladies of the Duchesse Rose. Clad
in Empire gowns of pink, garlanded with pink roses, wearing huge hats
from under whose rose-laden brims they glanced with coquettish charm,
they took all hearts by storm.
Next in the marvelous pageant came the Yellow Butterflies, born in the
hearts of the great Marechal Neil. One by one they flitted with bright
yellow wings from the dark hiding-places of the garden.
The sixteen glancing creatures were blondes. Golden hair floated about
their white shoulders, and golden crowns sustained the jeweled antennae,
which quivered while they danced. Marechal Neil roses clung to their
gowns and smiled into their faces, as they poised and wavered in the
gorgeous, ever-changing lights.
Now from the distant Orient were seen approaching dark beauties clad in
the purest rose color. They were borne by slaves of the Sultan in
sumptuous sedans covered with rich Henrietta roses. As the beauties left
their flower chairs, they posed gracefully before the goddess, then sped
away to perform a charming tamborine dance, which fully realized the now
exalted expectations of the audience.
Hardly had the roses of the Orient vanished before the garden was again
brilliant. The sweet Jacqueminots had come in dainty aprons, big
kerchiefs, and colonial caps. Industriously the pretty maidens plied the
rose-twined spinning wheels of their grandmothers, until the imaginary
stint was spun; then, abandoning their picturesque wheels, they joined
in an old-fashioned dance upon the green.
When the colonial maids had passed from sight, followed by rounds of
patriotic applause, Mrs. Sanderson moved nearer to the front of the box.
"The senoritas have discharged their spiritual duties; they are coming
now to dance," she said, smiling, as she eagerly scanned the side
approaches of the stage.
She had but ceased to speak when from secluded Spanish gardens,
flourishing now only in the imagination of the aliens who destroyed
them, came the dark, happy, historic senoritas.
Emotional, fickle, passionate--rare personifications of their typified
rose--the matchless, wonderful Gold of Ophir. A hush of surprise for a
moment pervaded the house; then its enthusiasm burst forth, when the
sixteen senoritas began to weave and glance in the intricate measures
of an old Spanish dance.
"Where," whispered Mrs. Wilbur, "did Miss Walton find these marvelous
creatures? And how did she create such costumes?"
"The coloring is perfect," Mrs. Sanderson declared. "The fickle shading
is all there, showing in every detail. See how the Ophir buds nestle in
the yellow lace mantillas. The effect is thrilling."
Fast and daintily flew the thirty-two golden feet. Brilliantly flashed
the jewels on the white arms, swung high at the bidding of castanets.
Then the spirit of the music changed, and the senoritas vanished into
the shadow of the trees, to return instantly with gorgeous hoops of
Ophir roses. Dancing again, they formed at last on each side of the
garden.
From this living phalanx of bloom, extending like twin sprays of the
marvelous Ophir, sprang Mariposilla.
Shaming not her prototype, she stood before us, the vision of all that
we had anticipated.
For a moment she hesitated, trembling like an Ophir bud in the breeze.
Then her lovely, tearful eyes sought for Sidney. For once in his life,
the man forgot himself. For once, honest emotion swayed him.
Leaning unconsciously from the box, enamored, forgetful of the audience,
spellbound, he snatched from his coat the rose that Mariposilla had
given him. Pressing it to his lips, he flung it at the feet of the
trembling child.
It was enough. The dancer's response told passionately, without words,
what she never could have said.
Her form seemed suddenly enveloped in translucent light. She was
oblivious to everything but the rapturous moment.
Clad in the fatal satin skirt of the Dona Maria's little dead sister;
about her throat, the coveted necklace of opals, and, draping her
beautiful head, the filmy yellow wedding lace of her mother, she danced
as she never danced before. She seemed a marvelous apparition, freed
from a haunted chamber of the Alhambra. With every step, with every
movement of the palpitating figure, with every droop of the deep-fringed
eyelids and every fling of the glancing arms, the ecstatic passion of
her young life was manifest.
Unconsciously she imparted to the dance of her nation the tragic
possibilities of her nature.
Forgetting all restraint, all method, she abandoned her liberated body
to the emotions of her throbbing soul.
Long afterward, all remembered how she had swayed the great house into
irresistible tumult; then suddenly had floated mysteriously away, lost
in the dazzling retreat of the senoritas.
The pageant terminated with a superb tableau, symbolizing the end of the
prolific rose season.
At Easter, and for a number of weeks after, nature grows prodigal. Then
comes a lull. The roses have exhausted themselves. The brilliant
carnival is over, and a number of weeks must now elapse before the vines
and bushes gather strength to flower again.
With an appropriate accordance to reality, the closing tableau
represented, with poetic significance, the return of Spring, accompanied
by wild flowers and roses, to the Magic Canon.
From the front of the garden the brilliant procession wound upward in
tiers of harmonious color, until, far above in the mountains, the
Silver Harlequin and Spring stood close to the entrance of the Magic
Canon. From the heart of this enchanted spot all had issued--a divine
secret; all were again returning to sleep until nature bid them once
more arouse. This last magnificent spectacle was glorified by strong
rose lights; while from above a silent rain of variegated rose petals
fell like a soothing benediction.
When the curtain was at last down, the artistic and financial success of
the pageant was the theme of the entire community.
The profits of the matinee, to be given the next afternoon, would more
than defray expenses, and the proceeds of this victorious night would be
safe.
Ethel and her able assistants were happy with excitement. Upon the now
demoralized stage they were receiving congratulations from throngs of
friends. Ethel stood like a delighted child between her father and the
rector, when Mrs. Sanderson approached to utter the pretty things she
always said so well.
At her side stood Mariposilla, flushed and submissive to the woman's
bold caresses.
"Our little Butterfly is weary after her wonderful flight," the lady
said, turning to the rector in her inimitable way. "Bring the little
one's cloak, Sidney," she continued, addressing her son, who went at
once to find a rich, fur-lined garment belonging to his mother.
"There," she said, when the young man returned with the wrap and placed
it solicitously about Mariposilla, "the dear child will now be quite
safe from a cold."
The running hither and thither was at last decreasing. The lights were
growing dim and the performers were rapidly dispersing. We ourselves
were just leaving the stage, when Ethel flew to my side and claimed
Mariposilla for the night.
"She must come home with me," she declared. "I want to take care of her
for to-morrow. It is perfect nonsense for her to drive to San Gabriel
when she must return at noon to-morrow. I am determined to have my own
way to-night," she cried. "It is the duty of all to spoil me this once,"
she declared, when Sidney interfered, volunteering to bring Mariposilla
to the opera house in good season the next day.
"No, sir," said the girl with an oracular shake of her finger,
"Mariposilla belongs to me to-night. You may control her movements after
to-morrow."
Reluctantly the child yielded to the decision of Ethel. As she parted
from her lover she unconsciously smiled up into his face a regretful
good-night that answered touchingly his own silent renunciation.