An Opera and Lady Grasmere/Book 1/Chapter 1

UTCHINSON does not know. Not only is he blandly ignorant of the deeps from which he extracted Merceron, but his own flagrant part in all that was to follow upon this eventful routing out, his consequent claim to public monuments, is equally undreamed of by this darkened Hutchinson. He is, indeed, aware of the conditions and circumstances under which Merceron and the Countess of Grasmere first became acquainted—nobody more so, in fact,—but, speaking broadly and with a disregard of irrelevant detail, Hutchinson does not know.

And yet it is to Hutchinson even more than to Harvey Merceron's self that we owe that one masterpiece—the precursor, let us hope, of many—which has redeemed our operatic composers, British music in general, from the charge of insignificance. Before the advent of Hutchinson, British music was, relatively speaking, a negligible quantity. But now, Hutchinson has passed, and the ears of the civilised world strain hopefully towards London. And through it all, heedless and entirely deaf to an art which he may rightly be said to have created, Hutchinson, unconscious of his one great mission,—Hutchinson, a being doomed to perpetual darkness, treads lightly on a Mediterranean quarter-deck, and flirts indifferently well with the women of various stations.

Yet, perhaps, to this hero's maiden aunt, Miss Bray, are we even more indebted than to her favourite nephew; for she it was who presented Hutchinson with the two stalls that inspired his movements. But the claims of Miss Bray are infinitesimal, unworthy of further consideration. For without Hutchinson, Merceron had never issued forth into that July evening, Lady Grasmere had gone a different road, nor had Isabella known the ways of Providence. Without Hutchinson, Merceron would have lain idle at the bottom of his largest wicker-chair, and that night would have run to waste, fruitless as many a night preceding.

Hutchinson had lunched with Miss Bray, and had then been turned loose upon a sweltering town with those two flimsy stalls deep in his breast-pocket. Covent Garden was hardly in his line; "and yet it would be a pity to waste them," he reflected. At this point he bethought himself of Merceron. Merceron was musical; he had not seen him for years, and as boys they had been inseparable. He would go and look up Merceron; Merceron would enjoy Covent Garden and tell him what it was all about. So Hutchinson drifted from Kensington to Piccadilly, thence to the chambers in Down Street where Merceron had settled after taking his degree at Oxford.

It was like dragging a mole into broad daylight, this starting of Merceron, as Hutchinson—hearty as a south-west gale—roused him, made him shave, bullied him into his evening-clothes, and finally drove him forth into the open, where his locks were shorn and arranged at a convenient barber's, Hutchinson directing. As they walked, the sailor unfolded the details of their subsequent programme. It hardly coincided with the popular conception of a first move towards a Renaissance.

Merceron's mole-like tendencies had ceased with the donning of his swallow-tails, this utter re-construction of his exterior. True, he blinked as they strolled off to Hutchinson's hotel in Jermyn Street; but there was no inclination to burrow. Merceron's blinking was a pleasurable movement of unaccustomed eyelids.

They dined expensively at the newest thing in restaurants and drank champagne, Hutchinson leading. The sailor's visits to the metropolis were akin to those of the angels; and when he came, he did things in style, and thought them over when aboard his ship. And Hutchinson invariably contrived that these thoughts should be pleasant ones. Opportunity denied him the luxury of enjoyments that stale from habit or constant repetition, and, to Hutchinson, London was always new though never varying.

To Merceron fate was even kinder. London was brand-new, and their dinner an initiation. The string-band that discoursed behind a bank of flowers from the gallery at the restaurant's further end was as something celestial by mere virtue of its exalted position. The waiters in black and gold with silk stockings were Ganymedes, and the swiftly-served courses nectar and ambrosia. To Hutchinson, unafflicted as he was with a classical training, the service was but a luxury, while Merceron deemed it one of the Arts. Mirrors and gilding surrounded them, and Merceron spoke feelingly of the "white satin wall-paper."

Yet these were but material aids. Crowning all, lending her mystery and subtle charm to this opening foray, still further ravishing his unused senses, was Woman. The capital W is Merceron's. White hands toyed with the dainty menu-cards, gems flashing on the supple fingers; silken hair curled, jewelled, and over ivory brows, framing the face in radiant gold, or dark, nocturnal, paling it with a more spiritual glory; diamonds stirred limpid on snowy necks, the round arms shimmered, catching light and colour from the clustered glow-lamps and shaded candles; and there were bright eyes, joyous, eloquent, subduing, bright eyes that lingered on Merceron's. And Merceron, who had eaten chops in a colourless club these many months, swayed in his seat and deemed that life, though earnest and leading to the grave, had indeed its hours of relaxation.

Merceron was leaving his rut—was approaching the high road. He began to contemplate their after-dinner movements with some degree of satisfaction. The thought of the opera no longer left him unmoved; it was a goal, an inevitable sequel to his present beatitude. He even took the trouble to discover what was being played, and the names of the singers. They were giving Faust—and Faust had its moments! Harvey, who knew every note of the score, commenced to hum. Hutchinson, meanwhile, was reminiscent, and told stories anent a life on the ocean wave. Some of these were rude. Merceron was surprised; he had forgotten the existence of such adventure. His own life had been far too engrossing to permit of such incidents as these. So consistently had he passed such action by, that it had altogether ceased to exist. But then he had passed everything by, and to-night—well, there was something in this busy outdoor life after all!

The string-band played a waltz of Strauss, and Merceron recalled dances, and the tent they had put up in his college quad in "Commem." week, and the races. He had evidently once been as they, as these people—it was strange! and he turned on the throng of diners, the men and the women; and the women's exceeding beauty made him wonder whether it were ever possible to go back, to return to the days when he lived their life and they were part of his?

"How old do I look, Hutchie?" he asked, across the table.

"Twenty-one this morning," came jestingly from the other side.

"No larking!" protested Merceron, very much in earnest.

"Young—deuced young! I don't want to offend you; you should grow a moustache."

"I'm twenty-five."

"I know; but really, you don't look it," protested Hutchinson—"comes of living quiet, I suppose."

"Hope so!"

They went out on to the balcony and lit cigars and sipped their coffee. Below ran the river, and London was rich with the gold of evening. A faint orange tinged the Western sky, and ahead over the water the moon was turning from down to metal. A steamboat glided to a pier below and cabs hurried along the Embankment. A raucous boy shouted the evening papers, and through green foliage they could see the statue of Robert Raikes gazing placid over beds of flowers towards Cleopatra's needle. A man on a seat was eating the contents of a greasy newspaper.

"Who will ever put this to music!" said Merceron.

"Eh!" from Hutchinson.

The river glided, a strip of burnished metal rolling East. Warehouse and factory, wharf and pointed chimney, brooded dark and silent over the further bank. The bridges were live with ceaseless traffic, and dotted with pressing humanity.

"My God, what melody!" said Merceron.

"Eh!" said Hutchinson.

"If these Cockneys only knew what they were singing!—give me another match."

"Doesn't it draw?" asked Hutchinson.

"The weed's all right—it's these people," and Merceron indicated the diners sitting behind the tall windows and the hastening folk below.

"'Youth on the prow and pleasure at the helm!'" spouted Hutchinson. The quotation was nautical and it had stuck.

"Etty's picture is crude literalism—why didn't he dine here!"

"What do you mean? Harvey, old boy, you're raving; that's because I haven't been to see you of late!"

"Wish you had," said Merceron. "This is good!" and he thought of Isabella, smiled over Sopwith, leaning back in his chair and letting the smoke run through his nostrils. "This is good!" he repeated.

"Trust me for knowing what's what!" said Hutchinson. "When we put in at Spezzia—by Jove, those Italians did do us well!..."

And then Hutchinson again took the helm, and narrated the secret history of a visit of the British Mediterranean Squadron to a Latin port. And Merceron listened eagerly, for there was Life in the yarn.

It was nearer nine than eight when they arose and walked across—through the Strand, past the Lyceum, and into the Opera House.

And in the Opera House there was more Life.