Rose, Leonard and I first saw Naida Modeschka dance from the wings of
the great London music hall where she was the star performer, and where
we, very much to our surprise, had been offered a brief engagement. I
think that from our point of vantage she was even more wonderful than
from the vast and densely packed auditorium. None of us had ever before
seen movement like it. The wooden boards her feet touched seemed at the
moment of contact to become a sea of quicksilver. She had her own
arrangement of lights, and she floated in and out of them, her pale face
and limbs glittering at one moment like polished marble, the next only a
shadow, a skulking, floating shadow, with a pair of great black eyes
shining from a terrified face. She never told us or any one else whence
came the music to which she danced, notes as full of Arcadian and
mysterious poetry as Grieg, and sometimes breathing the riotous passion
of Dvorák. She seemed to delight in unexpected interludes, in sudden
changes, and there was something even a little cynical in the outburst
of savage passion with which her dance concluded. There was not the
slightest doubt, however, as to her complete success. The audience at
this particular music hall, the Parthenon, is seldom jaded--they are
drawn from too wholesome a class of people--but they are as quick to
appreciate a new thing as any audience in the world. There were
qualities in Naida's dancing which even the Russian Ballet had failed to
disclose--pride of the body, cynical contempt of passion for its own
sake, and underneath, the soft, alluring call to Love. She stood by us,
panting, after her fifth recall. The faintest of perfumes, something
between green tea and Russian violets, seemed to be exuded of her
breathlessness from the trembling, exquisitely shaped body, concealed,
for the sake of ancient prejudices, under a flowing veil of black net,
more subtly appealing to modern perceptions than even the naked Eve
reaching up to the branches of the apple tree. We were a little
spellbound, but her eyes caught mine and I spoke.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "you dance as no other on earth."
"Why not include heaven, monsieur," she answered quickly, "for I fear
there will be no dancing like mine there."
She made her final bow and came back to where a gaunt and stolid maid
pushed past us and wrapped her in a long black satin coat, trimmed and
lined with black sable fur. The maid would have hurried her off but she
lingered.
"It is your turn, Monsieur?" she asked me. "You three who appear now?"
I assented. The piano was already being drawn into position. Rose stood
a few yards away, looking at her hair in a glass. She had already thrown
aside her coat. In the auditorium I fancied that I could still hear that
faint emotional quiver lingering like the echo of feeling.
"It is our turn," I replied, "but how an audience could be expected to
listen to our banalities after the atmosphere you have created, I can't
imagine!"
She made no acknowledgment of my compliment. She was looking at me as
though engrossed in her own thoughts, so that in those few seconds I
found myself studying her. No breathing person could have called her
beautiful, even good-looking. She was dark, with dark hair, eyes and
eyebrows. Her cheek bones were almost prominent, her chin narrow, her
mouth large but so sensitive that it seemed never at rest. There was not
an atom of make-up on her face, and her pallor in the light in which she
stood was almost ghastly. Her arms and hands were as lovely as the rest
of her body. I could have imagined her, severely dressed, in the
classical shades of a great library, one of the leaders of women's
thought.
"I shall stay here for your performance," she announced. "Please do your
best. Sanda, fetch me a chair."
At the risk of seeming egotistical, I am here going to announce that we
three had very much improved in our work during these days of our
prosperity. Rose's perfectly chosen gowns, her renewed health of body
and mind, seemed to have given to her voice a richer and sweeter note,
and to her feet all the fascinating lightness of modern dancing.
Leonard's sense of humour had broadened, and his capacity for finding
new stories amounted positively to genius. I myself, in better health,
certainly found myself a more adequate partner for Rose, both in singing
and dancing. Whatever influence our patron had had to use in the earlier
days to secure us engagements was unneeded now. We were at the Parthenon
according to instructions, but the engagement had been given to us on
our own application and without any outside intervention. Perhaps
because our unambitious performance soothed the jangled nerves of our
audience, we were extraordinarily well received that night. When it was
all over, I found Naida still waiting in her chair. She rose at once and
took my arm.
"You will escort me to my dressing room," she said.
"With the greatest pleasure," I assented.
"You see," she went on, "I am making the way easy for you. You are a
myrmidon of the great Mr. Thomson, are you not?"