BEHIND THE SCENES.
"When fog and failure o'er ray being brood,
When life looks but a glimmering, marshy clod,
No fire out-flashing from the living God--
Then, then, to rest in faith were worthy victory!"
GEORGE MACDONALD.
Sardoni and Gomez, the Almaviva and Fiorello of the evening, were
close at hand; Fiorello's part was practically over, but he had
lingered near to see how Donati would get on; when he saw him hissed
off the stage a quiet smile stole over his dark features, but when he
saw him fall back fainting he rubbed his hands with satisfaction,
lingered but a moment to assure himself that the baritone lay
motionless on the boards with his guitar beside him, then rushed as
fast as he could to his dressing-room, flung on a thick brown ulster,
caught up his hat, and hurried out of the theatre. Just outside the
stage door he encountered Mr. Britton.
Now Mr. Britton was one of those kindly-looking, courteous men who
are constantly stopped by passers-by in the street who have lost
their way or who need any kind of help; Gomez instinctively turned to
the pleasant-looking stranger.
"Pardon me, sir, but can you kindly tell me whether it is too late to
send a telegram from the post-office?" he asked breathlessly.
"Oh no, you will find it open," said Mr. Britton looking at him
keenly.
Gomez thanked him, and ran at full speed down the narrow side street,
and two minutes later he might have been seen standing at one of the
little screened desks in the post-office, writing the following
message in Italian:--
"Valentino ill; was hissed off stage to-night after '_Largo al
factotum_.' Get paragraph put in one of London papers. See it
to-morrow, and telegraph promptly to M., offering your services."
Meantime, Sardoni, far too much startled and shocked to pay the
slightest attention to Gomez, rushed forward to his friend's help,
flung the guitar out of the way, and raising Carlo's head, looked
anxiously at his motionless features and pale lips, bitterly
reproaching himself with the absorption in his own affairs which had
made him blind to all else. Some sense of the contrast between that
still form and the noisy confusion in the theatre first reminded him
that the curious audience were watching this unexpected scene in the
opera with eager eyes, and that although the hisses had changed into
a babel of question and surmise, Carlo was still exposed to every
sort of ruthless criticism.
"Tell those idiots to let down the curtain," he said impatiently, as
Marioni came hurrying forward, with his pale face and his bushy hair,
looking more distraught than usual. The little conductor had flung
down his baton and rushed from the orchestra the instant Carlo had
fallen, but he was too excitable to think, as Sardoni thought, of
practical matters. And yet it was a relief to him to be told to do
something; he rushed away to give the order, and the next minute the
curtain descended, veiling from the audience the crowd of actors and
attendants which had gathered round poor Figaro. Mr. Britton who had
been admitted at the stage door, was just in time to see Carlo borne
into the green-room, and to follow with those who came after; he had
heard so much of theatrical jealousies and quarrels, and had formed
so low an opinion of theatrical people, that he was surprised to see
the real sympathy and concern shown by every creature present.
"He has been ill this long time," said old Bauer; "but he had too
much spirit to give in. Poor lad! those brutes ought to have seen
how it was with him."
"Thought more of the bad bargain they had made than of the singer's
feelings," said Tannini, with his Yankee twang. "Well, 'tis the way
of the world."
"Are you the doctor, sir?" asked Domenica Borelli, noticing Mr.
Britton for the first time.
"No, I am a friend of Signor Donati's," he replied, glad to get
speech of her, for he had noticed her quiet, womanly way of helping
Sardoni and Merlino to do all that could be done for Carlo. "Shall I
go and fetch a doctor?"
"I think it would be well----," she began. "But, stay, he is coming
to himself; perhaps there is no need, and I know he would dislike
having one called in."
"It's something new for every one to be waiting on Valentino," said
old Bauer. "A reversal of the usual order."
"Yes," said Mlle. Duroc; "he was the factotum of the troupe as well
as of the opera. But, see, he is reviving."
And now Mr. Britton observed a marked but perhaps not wholly
unnatural change in Merlino. While his brother-in-law had remained
unconscious he had been as kindly and solicitous as any man could
possibly be, but the moment Carlo came to himself, Merlino, relieved
from the anxiety, remembered that as Impresario he was left in an
awkward predicament.
Carlo opened his eyes for a moment, caught a confused vision of the
faces round him, then closed them again for very weariness, and began
to wonder, in a dreamy, but troubled way, where on earth he could be.
He heard Merlino swearing and raving, and Tannini, and Bauer, and the
local manager, and Marioni all talking at once.
"_Santo Diavolo!_" cried Merlino. "Was ever Impresario worse
treated? Here is the best house we have had for months, and what can
I do but give back the money? There is no going on without a Figaro!"
"Had Donati told you this morning that he was ill you would have had
time to telegraph for Comerio, who no doubt would be willing to help
you in such an emergency," remarked Gomez, who had glided into the
room.
Mr. Britton glanced sharply round at him, instantly recognizing his
face, though he was now once more in his Fiorello costume. He
perceived at once that the man was no friend to Carlo, and wondered
why he had rushed to the telegraph office.
"_Accidente!_ why did you not do so?" said Merlino, turning upon his
brother-in-law with a wrathful gesture. "I ask you now what am I to
do? Is all this money to be lost?"
"You might telegraph to Comerio now and secure him for to-morrow, at
any rate," suggested Gomez. "He could join us at Queenbury and take--
"No such thing," interrupted Carlo, catching at Sardoni's arm, and
dragging himself up. "Give _Fra Diavolo_ to-morrow, and that will
give me a day's rest; and go quickly and say to the audience that I
am unwell, but that, since the opera can't be continued without the
leading part, I will do the best I can, if they'll put up with me."
There was a vigor and force in his tone which astonished every one;
Merlino, with a look of relief, hurried away to pacify the audience;
and, though the others had serious doubts whether Donati could
possibly get through so trying a part, they would not side with
Gomez, who began to remonstrate with him.
"I never saw any one more afraid of being supplanted," said the
Spaniard vindictively. "For my part I call it mere obstinacy and
conceit to attempt what it is clearly impossible for you to do."
"I calculate it doesn't much affect you, my friend," said Tannini,
dryly. "Your part is over for to-night, so just shut up, will you?
If the rest of us who have to sing with Donati make no bones about
it, why should you take upon yourself to grumble?"
Gomez turned away with a muttered curse, and Carlo looked gratefully
at the American.
"I'll do my best not to put you out; I shall be glad for Merlino's
sake and my own too if you and the audience will tolerate such a bad
Figaro. Come to my room with me, will you, Jack?" then, as he caught
sight of Mr. Britton, and received a hearty grip of the hand, "How
good of you to come round! I had no idea you were here. I was so
ashamed to give you such a miserable rendering of that song."
Mr. Britton was not sorry to leave the green-room and to go with
Carlo and Sardoni into one of the little dressing-rooms. There were
not many chairs to be had, and Carlo, without ceremony, dropped into
the one drawn close to the tiny fireplace, unable to hide any longer
the severe pain he was suffering, though when questioned he made
light of it.
"You surely ought not to sing," said Mr. Britton.
"It won't do my voice any harm if I can only get breath enough," he
replied. "And the pain isn't continuous, only just a sharp stab in
the side every now and then."
"Dear old fellow, it was madness of you to come at all," said
Sardoni. "You must give in; you must put up with Comerio's return;
there is no help for it."
Carlo leant his head on his hand and was silent, as if struggling
with himself; both speakers seemed to have forgotten Mr. Britton's
presence.
"It's no good looking ahead," said Carlo, after a pause. "Of course
it will be all right. But don't argue now, Jack; I've got to sing if
they will have me, and there's an end of it."
As he spoke there was a knock at the door, and Merlino entered.
"I think they will hear you," he said. "They are in a bad temper,
but they see we are doing all that can be done, and they'll hardly
hiss you off again. They are very easily pacified these English
audiences."
Carlo glanced at Mr. Britton with the strangest mixture of pain and
laughter in his dark, shining eyes. The contented look of the
Impresario as he painted the sort of reception which probably awaited
him tickled his fancy.
"A glass of porter before you go on?" said Bauer, pressing it upon
him.
"Try this raw egg, signor," said his dresser, eagerly.
"Or a troche," suggested Sardoni.
"Or a Stolberg," said Merlino, producing a little box full of
dark-looking lozenges.
With a smile and a gesture he thanked them, and made everyone laugh
by quoting Figaro's words, "_Oh, che vita! che vita! oh, che
mestiere!_"
"Was there ever such a fellow?" said Bauer. "I verily believe he
would make us laugh if he were on his death-bed."
"If the audience do but realize his courage he will be well
received," said Mr. Britton, who was standing at the wings beside the
old German singer. "There is nothing that pleases the British public
like pluck."
In truth, to face again the audience which had so lately refused to
hear him was no very pleasant task to Carlo, but then he had a habit
of grasping the nettles of life which stood him in good stead. More
sensitive than most men, he had turned his weakness into strength by
resolutely refusing to make the smallest concession to it, and he was
able even with overwrought nerves and failing physical powers to
endure with composure the trying ordeal. It was as Merlino had said,
the audience kindly consented to put up with him; they allowed him to
appear without a single hiss. Indeed, the chilling silence was
broken by five or six resounding claps from the third row of stalls.
"That is Francesca's cousin," he thought to himself, and he felt glad
to have one friendly face among the hundreds of coldly critical ones.
He was glad, too, to have such friends as Domenica Borelli and
Sardoni to sing with that night, and was cheered by Mr. Britton's
kindness. If only he could get through his work he thought that,
spite of the dark future, he should feel perfectly happy. But that
was the great question. All thought he had attempted what was
physically impossible, and he shrank in horror from making another
exhibition of himself on the stage. "If I do faint again," he
reflected, "I hope I shall do it decently in my dressing-room."
By sheer force of will he got through the long weary duet with
Sardoni, but it left him so worn out with pain that he could hardly
stand. He got off the stage somehow, and the moment they were out of
sight Sardoni took him by the arm and half dragged him to his room,
where, with an irrepressible groan, he threw himself on the floor
beside the fire, seeming to find a sort of relief in thrusting the
guitar under his arm so that he actually lay upon it.
"Pleurisy," thought Mr. Britton, who had followed to see if he could
be of any use; but Carlo was evidently in such pain that he did not
like to talk to him, so he turned instead to Sardoni, to whom he had
taken a great fancy, and who, to make up for his past selfishness,
was devoting himself to his friend in a way that pleased the
Englishman. They discussed all possible means of helping him, and
Sardoni going out to fetch some restorative brought back word that
Mlle. Borelli had been encored in her cavatina which would give Carlo
a little longer space to recover his strength.
"Are you sure I am not in your way here?" asked Mr. Britton. "I
don't feel as if I could sit in the audience not knowing how our
friend is getting on."
Sardoni, who realized that the stranger must be some relation to
Francesca Britton, warmly assured him that he was the greatest
possible help; and Carlo, though too much exhausted to speak an
unnecessary word, gave him a glance which conveyed more than many
sentences.
All too soon came the unwelcome call-boy. Again Carlo braced himself
up for the effort, and Sardoni and Mr. Britton watched him anxiously
through his scene with Rosina.
"He is on the stage a great deal after this," explained Sardoni, "but
the most trying part is over for him as far as singing goes when he
is once through this scene."
"Will he get through, do you think?"
"If he does it will be by the skin of his teeth," said Sardoni.
"But, like the _Barbiere_ himself, he is a '_Bravo giovinotto_.' No
other man whom I know would do it, but he perhaps may."
"Ah, I thought so!" he exclaimed, as, the duet over, the baritone
beat a hasty retreat, and on reaching the shelter of the wings would
have fallen had he not promptly caught him. "It is as I said, by the
skin of his teeth."
They carried him back to his room, but had barely restored him to
life when Sardoni was obliged to go on the stage again, leaving him
alone with Mr. Britton.
It was the strangest evening the Englishman had ever spent, as he sat
in the dismal little dressing-room, with its bare floor and
whitewashed walls, its confusion of stage dresses and the garments of
prosaic life. Some one had brought in two or three cushions from the
green-room, and as soon as Carlo had recovered his senses they had
laid him on these upon his left side, the position which seemed to
give him the greatest ease. The firelight played on his face, and
Mr. Britton, as he watched him, found his thoughts wandering back to
the time when he had first met him with Francesca outside the English
church at Naples. He recalled the strange, sad smile which had
passed over the young Italian's face when he congratulated him on his
betrothal, and he felt irresistibly drawn to a man who could
deliberately choose a career so self-denying, so little likely to be
understood.
He was startled to find that his thoughts of Francesca must have
affected his companion.
"We may not be alone again," said Carlo, turning his face towards
him. "If anything should happen to me, will you promise to give this
to Francesca "--he indicated their betrothal ring--"and tell her how
good every one was to me?"
Mr. Britton felt a choking sensation in his throat, but he promised,
and then, partly to break the uncomfortable silence, remarked that he
had heard from Casa Bella that morning.
"They are well?" asked Carlo.
"Quite well. Francesca comes to England in June."
The next moment he regretted his words, for they seemed to give the
finishing touch to Carlo's suffering. He turned abruptly away, and,
though his face was hidden, Mr. Britton could see that he was
struggling to suppress a tempest of passionate emotion. So little do
people understand each other, that it had never occurred to the
Englishman, with all his kind-heartedness, to picture to himself the
torture of a lover who knows that his love will be close at hand, yet
that he is to be denied even a sight of her. But that silent, bitter
struggle taught him much, and once more set his kind heart to weave
plans for helping the course of true love to run smooth.
Before anything more had passed, the call-boy rapped at the door, and
Mr. Britton in dismay turned to see what his companion would do. He
had yet to learn that Italian storms, if violent, are brief, and that
an Italian nature, if it has strong emotions, has also a wonderful
self-mastery upon which it can fall back in time of need. Carlo rose
promptly, rearranged his disordered costume in a business-like
fashion, and smoothed his hair; then, fearing that Mr. Britton might
regret the words which had escaped him, said in the manner which won
him so many friends, "Do you mind coming with me to the wings? I
like to feel that you are there."
And before the Englishman had recovered from his surprise at this
unlooked-for composure, Figaro was in the thick of the noisy group on
the stage, acting better than he had done all the evening, and
endeavoring to play the part of peacemaker, and to put an end to the
altercation.
Mr. Britton could hardly believe as he watched the lithe, active
figure, now here, now there, that a few minutes ago he had seen the
same man lying in the extremity of mental and bodily pain; and when
once more in the interval between the acts he and Sardoni had to
restore the Italian to his senses, he could no longer keep his
astonishment to himself.
"What in the world can our friend be made of?" he exclaimed. "I
should not have thought it possible for a man of his temperament to
persevere in the teeth of such difficulties."
"I suppose pluck and goodness generally do go together," said
Sardoni; "and though you may be Donati's friend, no one who is not in
this troupe can have much idea of what he really is. He's out and
out the best fellow I ever came across."
"He seems very much liked by most of the Company."
"Yes, and with good reason. They all apply to him one of their
expressive Italian sayings--'Good as a piece of bread'--a description
which would not hold for the rest of us."
"He is coming to himself," said Mr. Britton, and there was silence in
the room, broken at last by Carlo's voice.
"How much more, Jack?" he asked, faintly.
"The second act," said Sardoni, "three more scenes for you."
He closed his eyes again, and they noticed that as the evening
advanced he became less and less willing to speak an unnecessary word.
The opera, which had seemed to all the singers interminable, did at
length end, and with it the last remains of Carlo's strength. More
dead than alive he was carried to Mr. Britten's brougham, which had
been ordered round to the stage door, and leaving the kindly
Englishman to see him safely home, Sardoni hurried off in search of a
doctor.
Carlo had fancied that if only he could get through the opera he
should be perfectly happy, but when his work was really done he was
suffering too acutely to be able to bestow a thought on the future or
on Anita. Too faint to speak, he allowed Mr. Britton to help him up
to his room, never troubling himself to consider the impression that
No. 62 would make on the rich ship-builder. The miserable little
place was to him now a haven of rest, and there was deep relief in
the consciousness that he could now suffer in peace, that no call-boy
would rap at his door, that there was no longer the horrible
necessity of acting and singing before a critical audience. But to
Mr. Britton that dismal little attic was the climax of the evening.
Its total lack of comfort appalled him, and when he had left the
patient to the care of Sardoni and the doctor he drove home, vowing
that Carlo should be moved to Merlebank the very next day.