Part 112 (1/2)

”It's strange to think of Madre in Berkeley Square to-night,” said Charmian slowly. ”I wonder what she is doing.”

”I am quite sure she is alone, up in her reading-room thinking of us, in one of her white dresses.”

”And wis.h.i.+ng us--” she paused.

The first notes of the Prelude sounded in the hidden orchestra.

Claude fixed his mind on the thought of Madre, in a white dress, sitting alone in the well-known quiet room, thinking of him--in that moment he was an egoist--wis.h.i.+ng him the best. He could almost see Madre's face rise up before him, as it must have looked when she wrote that cablegram, a face kind, intense, with fire, sorrow, and love in the burning eyes. And the thought of that face helped him very much just then, more than he would have thought it possible that anything could help him, was a firm and a tender friend to him in a difficult crisis of his life.

He sat back in the shadow behind Charmian in a sort of strange loneliness, conscious of the enormous crowd around him. He could not see the members of this crowd. He saw only Charmian in her pale green gown, with a touch of green in her cloud of dark hair, and a long way off the stage. He heard perpetually his own music. But to-night it did not seem to him to be his own. He listened to it with a kind of dreadful and supreme detachment, as if it had nothing to do with him. But he listened with great intensity, with all his critical intelligence at work, and with--so at least it seemed to him--his heart prepared to be touched, moved. It was not a hard heart which was beating that night in the breast of Claude, nor was it the foolish, emotional heart of the partisan, lost to the touch of reason, to the influence of the deepest truth which a man of any genius dare not deny. No critic in the vast theater that night listened to Claude's opera more dispa.s.sionately than did Claude himself. Sometimes he thought of the colored woman in the huge pink hat. He knew she was somewhere in the theater, probably far up in that dim gallery toward which he had looked at rehearsal, when the building had presented itself to his imagination as a monster waiting heavily to be fed. On this one night at least he had fed it full. Was not _she_ stretching her great lips in a smile?

Sometimes Claude heard faint movements, slight coughing, little sounds like minute whispers from the crowd. Now and then there was applause.

Alston Lake was applauded strongly once after a phrase which showed off his magnificent voice, and Charmian looked quickly round at Claude with cheeks flus.h.i.+ng, and s.h.i.+ning eyes, which said plainly, ”It is coming!

Listen! The triumph is on the way!” Then the widespread silence of an attentive crowd fell again, like some vast veil falling, and Claude attended intensely to the music as if it were the music of another.

After the first act there was more applause, which sounded in their box rather strong in patches but scattered. The singers were called three times, but always in this unconcentrated way.

”It's going splendidly. They like it!” said Charmian quickly. ”Three calls. That's unusual after a first act, when the audience hasn't warmed up. Isn't it odd, Claudie, that Americans always applaud quite differently from the way the English do? They always applaud like that.”

She had turned right round and was almost facing him.

”How do you mean?” he said.

”Didn't you notice? Persistently, but in clumps as it were. It is by their persistence they show how pleased they are, rather than by their--their--I hardly know just how to put it.”

”By their unanimity perhaps.”

”Oh, no! Not exactly that! Here's Mr. Crayford.”

Crayford slipped in, but only stayed for a moment.

”Hear that applause?” he said. ”They're mad about it. Alston's got them.

I knew he would. That boy's going to be famous. But wait till the second act. They're in a fine humor, only asking to be pleased. I know the signs. The libretto's. .h.i.t them hard. They're all asking what's to happen next.”

”You're satisfied then?” said Charmian.

”Satisfied! I'm so happy I don't know what to do.”

He was gone.

”He knows!” Charmian said.

Her eyes were fixed upon Claude. They looked almost defiant.

”If anyone in America knows what he is talking about I suppose it is Mr.

Crayford,” she added.

There was a tap at the door. Claude opened it and two of their American friends came in and stayed a few minutes, saying how well the opera was going, how much they liked it, how splendidly it was ”put on”--all the proper and usual things which are said by proper and usual persons on such occasions. One of them was an acquaintance of Van Brinen's. Claude asked him if Van Brinen were in the house. He said yes. Claude then inquired whether Van Brinen knew the number of his box, and was told that he did know it. The conversation turned to other topics, but when the two men had gone out Charmian said:

”Why did you ask those questions about Mr. Van Brinen, Claudie?”