An Opera and Lady Grasmere/Book 1/Chapter 2

UTCHINSON did not know, was blind to Merceron's elation as the latter sat swelling in his seat—from the time of their arrival, when Valentine occupied the centre of the stage, down to the fall of the curtain. They had gone out between the acts, upstairs to the foyer and on to the verandah; and even here Merceron's ardour was unabated, had increased rather than slackened. He had exchanged whiskies and cigarettes with perfect strangers, become the centre of a group of promiscuous swallow-tails. Merceron was glowing. He radiated a warmth, a subtle magnetism that attracted passers by, and made pretty women wonder why he had never taken them down to dinner.

He had called the opera "fine," accompanied by varying adverbs, no less than six times—twice to each entr'acte—and he had drawn Hutchinson's attention with an equal frequency to the girl in front of them, a refreshingly youthful girl dressed in white, evidently in her first season, and possessed of the loveliest of complexions and tip-tilted noses.

But outer and external symbols of elation were all these, the merest trifles; inside, the commotion was volcanic. The music was much, the music and the singing had their place in Merceron's intoxication; but the house, with its triple row of radiant boxes, its low-lying parterre of jewelled colour that swept from the orchestra to these festive tiers—the house was more. To-night was the farewell appearance of a supreme soprano, and all London had come in to assist at this leave-taking. Her Marguerite was indeed divine, yet to our newly liberated friend, little more than an accompaniment, and, again, a pretext for the coming together of all those dazzling people, who beamed down on the stage, like flowers out of a window-box, or shone, row on row, about and before him.

"And to think that I should have lived among all this and never have known!" said Merceron as his two eyes roamed. He lay back in his stall and the performance had vanished. He was thinking his own thoughts with the music as aid and furtherer, hastening and heightening his emotions.

At the end of each act he applauded mechanically, and then drew Hutchinson away for a stroll. Impressions followed each other so rapidly as to be a fever. Greetings, snatches of conversation, tiny bursts of laughter came to him, kaleidoscopic, Wagnerian, sustained. Every box opening on these public corridors swelled the movement. All London, from Royalty downward to the newest millionaire, had become orchestral.

He would have liked to participate, to lose himself in this universal melody, to be one of this celestial crowd; but he was without beginning, without halting point, a being tossing idly, impotent, and anchorless over that blissful sea, possessing all, yet possessed of nothing,—desiring all, yet too hurried for any premeditated attack.

The suddenness of the incursion had destroyed his reflective powers, and he could only gaze with eyes busily working, his handsome face alight with the concentrated movement of the entire throng.

On to the verandah they went, past the foyer, with its graceful, recumbent figures, lavish illumination. Outside was comparative calm, some respite from the disturbing aura of splendid woman-kind and blue-veined romance, the thrills and possibilities of that maison d'élite. Here the two men paused, and Merceron made friends. Now they were back in their seats again, Merceron still active; sweeping the black cloud of gods that clustered like a swarm of flies upon the ceiling, and again the tiers of boxes and the broad reach of the stalls. And all the while Hutchinson did not know.

The curtain fell, and the orchestra ran down on the final bars. The applause was tempestuous and universal; recall followed recall. The conductor, too, was driven to share in the ovation.

The house rose, and Merceron dragged Hutchinson into the vestibule. A company of footmen stood to attention at the far end. The people streamed out, and down the broad staircase, crowding the spacious hall, and jostling our two friends.

"Let's look at them!" said Merceron.

They stood aside and watched.

"This is Life!" said Merceron; "by Jove it is!" and his eyes fed on the gaily-robed procession, and he swelled now in this ante-chamber.

The silks and satins rustled, the gems gleamed, and the bright faces shone, radiant with recent emotion. The men were all athletic, the black and white of their dress distinction's self. Nobody heeded Merceron, bending over this changing scene, ardent as a lover. Hutchinson's interest, though keen, was but platonic.

The crowd was thinner now; the carriages were picking up the silks and satins, the men in black and white. Outside, the street was gay with lamps and glossy horseflesh.

"Supper," said Hutchinson; "shall we go to the club?"

"No; I want more of this—men and women!" and Merceron took his arm, treading on air as they turned into the Strand. "I 've wasted a lot of time," he said—"a deuce of a lot!"

"At it again?" said Hutchinson.

But Merceron was not to be silenced.

"Gounod's a very great man," he resumed; "but those people were greater!"

"Don't see it," came in reply.

"Gounod composed that opera, didn't he?—worked on it like a nigger. Result: a few detached fragments, selected moments, with great gaps in between. What he rescued is lovely enough; but think what remains! And that audience was complete—complete, Hutchie, no gaps in that! It didn't work; it didn't smug itself bald; it was just its own wonderful self—and it beat Gounod, even Gounod!"

Hutchinson yawned.

"Didn't you feel the blood under it all? Weren't those women fine, and those men I had drinks with, weren't they wonderful? Is this the supper-place?"

Hutchinson led, and Merceron followed. The house had a reputation of a sort, and was living up to it.

The two men mixed lobster salad and champagne. Women, gorgeously attired and hectic with cosmetics, made eyes at them; and Merceron the glowing, Merceron the new-born, who, for three whole years, ever since he had gone down from Oxford, had shut himself away from London, recked only of Isabella and Horatio Sopwith, who to-night had once more issued forth into the common life, had dined and operaed, now grew discouraged.

Hutchinson was indifferent so long as his surroundings savoured of the metropolis. To-morrow he rejoined his ship.

"I wanted to continue," said Merceron. "I wanted more Life—not this!"

A leering turned away from his kindling eye.

"This is decay," said Merceron, "decay!"

The naval officer continued his repast.

"That's what we 're striving to repair, isn't it?" he said, emptying a claw with his fork.

But Merceron was in earnest. "How are the fallen, mighty!" he moralised, startling Hutchinson, who ultimately laughed.

"Jolly good! jolly good! Did you get that out of a book?" enquired the sailor.

"Er—partly," replied Harvey.

They rose and left this gaudy Borderland, making for Merceron's chambers, and puffing their cigars up Waterloo Place and Piccadilly. There was a big dance on at one of the houses on their route.

"Supposing we went in?" said Merceron, as they watched a carriage empty before the awning.

"We aren't asked, are we?"

"The more fun!"

"But they're masked."

"The devil they are!" said Merceron. He reflected for a moment, and then his face cleared. "Makes it ten times better—less risk," he concluded.

"And the clothes?" asked Hutchinson.

"We'll have to cab it to the Haymarket, or else—it's all right; I 've the Oxford things, mine and Charlie's. We used 'em in Romeo," alluding to a performance of the Oxford University Dramatic Society, "and we'll use 'em to-night. Come on!" And Merceron hailed a hansom.