THE FIRE-BIRD
Strange as it may seem, it was at this very hour that Petite Jeanne
received one of the most unusual thrills of her not uneventful life. She
and Madame Bihari were back in Chicago. The Ballet Russe, too, was in
that city. And to Jeanne who, as you may know, was one of the finest of
gypsy dancers, anything like the Ballet Russe was a call which, if need
be, would draw from her purse the last silver coin.
“The Ballet Russe!” she exclaimed to Madame. “We must go. And ah yes,
tonight we must go! This is the last performance.”
“Impossible, my pretty one,” Madame said with slow regret. “I have
promised to say farewell to our good friends of Bohemia. They are
leaving tomorrow for their native land.
“But you, my child, you must go. Put on your bright gown of a thousand
beads and your purple cape with the white fox collar, and go. Surely no
one, not even the Fire-Bird, shall outshine my Petite Jeanne.”
So Jeanne went alone. She secured a seat at the side of the gallery
where she might look almost directly down upon the dancers. And was that
an hour of pure joy for Jeanne! Not for months had she witnessed
anything half so charming. The lights were so bright, the costumes so
beautiful, the dancers so light-footed and droll, and the music so
entrancing that she at times believed herself transported to another
world.
The first piece was a bit of exquisite nonsense. But when the time came
for that entrancing story, “The Fire-Bird,” to be told in pantomime,
music and dancing, Jeanne sat entranced. Once before, as a small child,
she had seen this in Paris. Now it came to her as a thing of renewed and
eternal beauty.
As the lights of the great Auditorium went dark and the orchestra took
up an entrancing strain, Jeanne saw at the back of the stage a tree that
seemed all aglow with light. And before this tree, dancing like some
enchanted fairy, was a creature that, in that uncertain light, seemed
half maiden, half bird.
“The Fire-Bird!” Jeanne’s lips formed the words they did not speak.
Soon the beautiful, glimmering Fire-Bird began to seem ill at ease. The
shadow of a young man appeared in the background.
“Prince Ivan,” Jeanne whispered.
The Prince pursued the Fire-Bird. Round and round they danced. How light
was the step of the Fire-Bird! She seemed scarcely a feather’s weight.
How Jeanne envied her!
And yet there were those who would have said, “Petite Jeanne is a more
splendid dancer.”
The Prince seized the Fire-Bird in his arms. She struggled in vain to
escape. She entreated him. She attempted to charm and beguile him. He
released her only, in beautiful and fantastic dance rhythm, to capture
her again. At last, on being given one of her shining feathers as a
charm against all evil, he granted her the freedom she asked.
The Fire-Bird vanishes. Day begins to dawn upon the stage. The music is
low and enchanting. Then a bevy of dancing girls emerge from a castle
gate. These are Princesses, bewitched and enslaved by a wizard.
As the thirteen Princesses danced upon the stage, Jeanne received a
momentary shock. One of these, the third from their leader, had about
her an air of familiarity. Jeanne was a dancer. She had learned to
recognize other dancers by their movements. But this one—
“Where have I seen her?” she whispered.
Closing her eyes, she attempted to call forth upon the dimly lighted
picture gallery of memory some scene of other days, some open air arena,
some stage where this one had danced.
“No, no!” She tapped her small foot. “It will not come. And yet I _have_
seen her!”
Then again she gave herself over to the story unfolding so beautifully
before her.
In the story played out for Jeanne, Prince Ivan falls in love with the
most beautiful of the enchanted Princesses. There follows a marvelous
dance done by the maidens. Jeanne as she watched had eyes for but one
dancer, the mysterious person she felt she should know, but could not
recall.
Dawn comes. The enchanted ones disappear through the gate of the castle.
Prince Ivan, in the abandon of love, follows. There comes the unearthly
din of gongs and bells. A host of weird creatures come out to attack
him. They are powerless because of the magic feather, gift of the
Fire-Bird. Ivan is not afraid.
Then comes the terrible wizard who, if he could, would destroy Ivan with
his very breath.
For the time Jeanne forgot the mysterious dancer who had once more
appeared upon the scene. Carried away by the story, Jeanne had eyes only
for the brave little Prince and the terrible creature who seeks his
destruction. As the wizard approaches step by step, his hand trembling
with rage, his small hard foot stamping the floor, Jeanne actually
trembled with fear. Then, as Prince Ivan waved the magic feather and
called upon the Fire-Bird to aid him, when the splendid dancing
Fire-Bird appeared upon the scene, Jeanne wanted to scream for joy.
Such enchantment passes rapidly. When at last Ivan had triumphed and the
wizard been destroyed, Jeanne thought again of the mysterious dancer who
had, she was sure, played some part in her past life.
“If you please—” she spoke to her nearest neighbor whose opera glass
dangled idly from a ribbon. “Just for one moment, may I borrow it?”
“Certainly.” The lady smiled.
Strangely enough, as she put the glass to her eyes, the little French
girl found herself all atremble. “Coming events cast their shadows
before them.” Scarcely had the glass been focussed upon the mysterious
dancer than her hand dropped limply to her lap.
“It cannot be!” she murmured aloud. “But yes! It is she! It can be no
other. There is the dark face. Even beneath her make-up one feels it.
There is the torn ear. I can’t be wrong. It is the dark lady! It is the
spy!”
Twenty seconds later the opera glasses were in their owner’s hands.
Jeanne had vanished.