A PLACE OF ENCHANTMENT
Then came for Petite Jeanne an hour of swiftly passing glory.
She had arisen late, as was her custom, and was sipping her black coffee
when the telephone rang.
"This is Marjory Dean." The words came to her over the wire in the
faintest whisper. But how they thrilled her! "Is this Petite Jeanne? Or
is it Pierre?" The prima donna was laughing.
"It is Petite Jeanne at breakfast," Jeanne answered. Her heart was in her
throat. What was she to expect?
"Then will you please ask Pierre if it will be possible for him to meet
me at the Opera House stage door at three this afternoon?"
"I shall ask him." Jeanne put on a business-like tone. For all that, her
heart was pounding madly. "It may be my great opportunity!" she told
herself. "I may yet appear for a brief space of time in an opera. What
glory!"
After allowing a space of thirty seconds to elapse, during which time she
might be supposed to have consulted the mythical Pierre, she replied
quite simply:
"Yes, Miss Dean, Pierre will meet you at that hour. And he wishes me to
thank you very much."
"Sh! Never a word of this!" came over the phone; then the voice was gone.
Jeanne spent the remainder of the forenoon in a tumult of excitement. At
noon she ate a light lunch, drank black tea, then sat down to study the
score of her favorite opera, "The Juggler of Notre Dame."
It is little wonder that Jeanne loved this more than any other opera. It
is the story of a simple wanderer, a juggler. Jeanne, as we have said
before, had been a wanderer in France. She had danced the gypsy dances
with her bear in every village of France and every suburb of Paris.
And Cluny, a suburb of Paris, is the scene of this little opera. A
juggler, curiously enough named Jean, arrives in this village just as the
people have begun to celebrate May Day in the square before the convent.
The juggler is welcomed. But one by one his poor tricks are scorned. The
people demand a drinking song. The juggler is pious. He fears to offend
the Virgin. But at last, beseeching the Virgin's forgiveness, he grants
their request.
Hearing the shouts of the crowd, the prior of the monastery comes out to
scatter the crowd and rebuke the singer. He bids the poor juggler repent
and, putting the world at his back, enter the monastery, never more to
wander over the beautiful hills of France.
In the juggler's poor mind occurs a great struggle. And in this struggle
these words are wrung from his lips:
"But renounce, when I am still young,
Renounce to follow thee, oh, Liberty, beloved,
Careless fay with clear golden smile!
'Tis she my heart for mistress has chosen;
Hair in the wind laughing, she takes my hand,
She drags me on chance of the hour and the road.
The silver of the waters, the gold of the blond harvest,
The diamonds of the nights, through her are mine!
I have space through her, and love and the world.
The villain, through her, becomes king!
By her divine charm, all smiles on me, all enchants,
And, to accompany the flight of my song,
The concert of the birds snaps in the green bush.
Gracious mistress and sister I have chosen.
Must I now lose you, oh, my royal treasure? Oh, Liberty, my beloved,
Careless fay of the golden smile!"
"Liberty ... careless fay of the golden smile." Jeanne repeated these
words three times. Then with dreamy eyes that spanned a nation and an
ocean, she saw again the lanes, the hedges, the happy villages of France.
"Who better than I can feel as that poor juggler felt as he gave all this
up for the monastery's narrow walls?" she asked. No answer came back. She
knew the answer well enough for all that. And this knowledge gave her
courage for the hours that were to come.
She met Marjory Dean by one of the massive pillars that adorn the great
Opera House.
"To think," she whispered, "that all this great building should be
erected that thousands might hear you sing!"
"Not me alone." The prima donna smiled. "Many, many others and many, I
hope, more worthy than I."
"What a life you have had!" the little French girl cried rapturously.
"You have truly lived!
"To work, to dream, to hope," she went on, "to struggle onward toward
some distant goal, this is life."
"Ah, no, my child." Marjory Dean's face warmed with a kindly smile. "This
is not life. It is but the beginning of life. One does not work long,
hope much, struggle far, before he becomes conscious of someone on the
way before him. As he becomes conscious of this one, the other puts out a
hand to aid him forward. Together they work, dream, hope and struggle
onward. Together they succeed more completely.
"And then," her tone was mellow, thoughtful, "there comes the time when
the one who had been given the helping hand by one before looks back and
sees still another who struggles bravely over the way he has come. His
other hand stretches back to this weaker one. And so, with someone before
to assist, with one behind to be assisted, he works, dreams, hopes and
struggles on through his career, be it long or short. And this, my child,
is life."
"Yes, I see it now. I knew it before. But one forgets. Watch me. I shall
cling tightly to your hand. And when my turn comes I shall pray for
courage and strength, then reach back to one who struggles a little way
behind."
"Wise, brave child! How one could love you!"
With this the prima donna threw her arm across Jeanne's shoulder and
together they marched into the place of solemn enchantment, an Opera
House that is "dark."