There was a little applause, all due to Ashmead's preliminary apology, but there was no real reception; for Germany is large and musical, and she was not immediately recognized at Homburg. But there was that indescribable flutter which marks a good impression and keen expectation suddenly aroused. She was beautiful on the stage for one thing; her figure rather tall and stately, and her face full of power: and then the very way she came on showed the step and carriage of an artist at home upon the boards.
She cast a rapid glance round the house, observed its size, and felt her way. She sung her first song evenly, but not tamely, yet with restrained power; but the tones were so full and flexible, the expression so easy yet exact, that the judges saw there was no effort, and suspected something big might be yet in store to-night. At the end of her song she did let out for a moment, and, at this well-timed foretaste of her power, there was applause, but nothing extravagant.
She was quite content, however. She met Ashmead, as she came off, and said, "All is well, my friend, so far. They are sitting in judgment on me, like sensible people, and not in a hurry. I rather like that.""Your own fault," said Joseph. "You should have been announced. Prejudice is a surer card than judgment. The public is an ass.""It must come to the same thing in the end," said the Klosking firmly.
"One can sing, or one cannot."
Her next song was encored, and she came off flushed with art and gratified pride. "I have no fears now," said she, to her Achates, firmly.
"I have my barometer; a young lady in the stalls. Oh, such a beautiful creature, with black hair and eyes! She applauds me fearlessly. Her glorious eyes speak to mine, and inspire me. She is _happy,_ she is. Idrink sunbeams at her. I shall act and sing 'Le Parlate d'Amor' for _her_--and you will see."Between the acts, who should come in but Ned Severne, and glided into the vacant stall by Zoe's side.
She quivered at his coming near her; he saw it, and felt a thrill of pleasure himself.
"How is 'S. T.'?" said she, kindly.
"'S. T.'?" said he, forgetting.
"Why, your sick friend, to be sure."
"Oh, not half so bad as he thought. I was a fool to lose an hour of you for _him._ He was hipped; had lost all his money at _rouge et noir._ So Ilent him fifty pounds, and that did him more good than the doctor. You forgive me?""Forgive you? I approve. Are you going back to him?" said she, demurely.
"No, thank you, I have made sacrifices enough."And so indeed he had, having got cleaned out of three hundred pounds through preferring gambling to beauty.
"Singers good?" he inquired.
"Wretched, all but one; and she is divine.""Indeed. Who is she?"
"I don't know. A gentleman in black came out--""Mephistopheles?"
"No--how dare you?--and said a singer that had retired would perform the part of 'Siebel, to oblige; and she has obliged me for one. She is, oh, so superior to the others! Such a heavenly contralto; and her upper notes, honey dropping from the comb. And then she is so modest, so dignified, _and_ so beautiful. She is fair as a lily; and such a queen-like brow, and deep, gray eyes, full of sadness and soul. I'm afraid she is not happy. Once or twice she fixed them on me, and they magnetized me, and drew me to her. So I magnetized her in return. Ishould know her anywhere fifty years hence. Now, if I were a man, Ishould love that woman and make her love me.""Then I am very glad you are not a man," said Severne, tenderly.
"So am I," whispered Zoe, and blushed. The curtain rose.
"Listen now, Mr. Chatterbox," said Zoe.
Ned Severne composed himself to listen; but Fraulein Graas had not sung many bars before he revolted. "Listen to what?" said he; "and look at what? The only Marguerite in the place is by my side."Zoe colored with pleasure; but her good sense was not to be blinded. "The only good black Mephistophe-_less_ you mean," said she. "To be Marguerite, one must be great, and sweet, and tender; yes, and far more lovely than ever woman was. That lady is a better color for the part than I am; but neither she nor I shall ever be Marguerite."He murmured in her ear. "You are Marguerite, for you could fire a man's heart so that he would sell his soul to gain you."It was the accent of passion and the sensitive girl quivered. Yet she defended herself--in words, "Hush!" said she. "That is wicked--out of an opera. Fanny would laugh at you, if she heard."Here were two reasons for not ****** such hot love in the stalls of an opera. Which of the two weighed most with the fair reasoner shall be left to her own ***.
The brief scene ended with the declaration of the evil spirit that Marguerite is lost.
