An Opera and Lady Grasmere/Book 2/Chapter 5

OPWITH'S opera, Francesca of Rimini, was really going to be put on that season. Almost every paper that Merceron picked up at his club contained preliminary announcements to this effect: the announcement direct, the announcement indirect, the personal, the superfluous,—every variety, and all bearing marks of similar inspiration. Some of the illustrated weeklies even indulged in portraits of the gifted composer himself, and The Musical Messenger, ever in the van, added an exclusive biographical notice to the information already imparted in its news columns. Sopwith's likeness, too, was on the front page, a matter of ten guineas cash, or twenty guineas credit. As Captain Mills had already stated, the sitter's hair had gone to enormous lengths; and, in addition, pose, costume, and expression were founded on easily recognisable precedent. Sopwith, if this portrait did him justice, had certainly been equal to the most popular conception of the musical exterior.

Harvey smiled broadly over this transformation; the careless bow and the velvet coat, that had replaced the faultless garb of the olden days, afforded him an unalloyed delight.

"I wonder if the music's half as good as old Sop—pity he doesn't call himself Soppesini!" he said, turning to the limited biography on the subsequent page.

This last partook greatly of the nature of those edifying fictions which are proclaimed by their authors to be "largely founded on fact." The composer's nationality, his unimpeachable British descent, were insisted upon with all the fervour of the fourth-rate trade journalist overeager to propitiate his audience. A stirring narrative! Sopwith's feats as a lad, his brilliant Oxford career, his successful songs, the pride of his parents and their son's devotion, were all deftly touched upon. Pathos and the admirative note blended; a character that the ladies have unanimously agreed to term "interesting" was unfolded in this pleasant history. Harvey's smile grew broader.

Of the composer himself, however, Merceron saw nothing; for Sopwith pleaded pressure of business to every suggested meeting, and, indeed, judging by the amount of attention his opera was already receiving, he must have been indefatigable. So Harvey was left to picture his perspiring friend, rushing breathless from place to place in search of advertisement, with intervals for rehearsals and the seeing of interviewers.

That distinguished patron of the arts, the Marquis of Stoke, was more fortunate. Sopwith had even attended a reception at Stoke House. "A most talented young man; and not above accepting advice from his seniors," was his host's description of him. Indirectly, too, Merceron had gathered further tidings. Had he not been more pleasantly occupied, he might himself have encountered the mobile Sopwith, for the composer was fully living up to former precept, and securing all possible social notice. But Harvey was in no mood for crushes, and so allowed opportunity to pass him by. He had a seat in Lady Grasmere's box for the first night of Francesca, and meanwhile other and more immediate calls occupied his time and attention.

The Countess was back at Albert Gate, and Harvey was troubling very little about Sopwith or any other outside diversion just then. True, he still went out a great deal, wherever Lady Grasmere led the way. But she had withdrawn considerably from last year's procession, and moved now only around an inner circle that kept reasonable hours and limited its entertainments. To these functions Sopwith had no access, for it required real social prestige to obtain cards for such smaller festivities, whereas most of the larger affairs were about as select as a race-meeting.

Harvey was to dine with Lady Grasmere the night that Sopwith's opera came on, and Mrs. Hodgson was to be handed over to the Warings both before and after the performance. The conspirators had reserved that evening as soon as the date had transpired, quick to seize upon any opportunity for one of the few unchallenged tête-à-têtes permitted them by the season's whirl. Their time would be their own in a month or two. They had preferred the present course, with Lady Horace and Mrs. Hodgson as sole confidantes, to the formalities of a duly paragraphed betrothal.

The evening, thus carefully set aside, arrived, doubly attractive; for, beside Lady Grasmere's presence, there would be the diversion of a spectacle which Harvey was looking forward to with almost a personal interest. The first night of Francesca meant more to him than the presentation of a musical novelty written by an intimate friend. The situation was primarily one that he himself had but barely escaped; as such, would possess a spice of the exquisitely egotistical, a flavour of self that few men are permitted to enjoy without due sacrifice and imminent risk. He knew, too, that Sopwith's work would be largely influenced by his own vanished method and vision. His step was more than ordinarily elastic as he walked over to Albert Gate that evening.

It was close on seven when Harvey came in. He had brought a spray of orchids for her ladyship, and was visibly excited over the evening's arrangements. Mrs. Hodgson met him in the hall, ready for the cab that was to take her to the Warings.

"Punctual," said she; "such deception too!" with mock indignation. The Countess joined them. "They're always hours late when they're married," added Mrs. Hodgson.

"I'm sorry," said Harvey.

"So am I," said the Countess.

"What about?" asked Mrs. Hodgson.

"That you've brought Mr. Hodgson up so wickedly," said Harvey.

"So shamefully!" added the Countess.

"That's my cab," said Mrs. Hodgson, "and I'm only going to give him a shilling."

They wished her good-night.

Dinner was ready, and the carriage would take them down in good time for the overture.

"I almost feel as though I'd written it myself," declared Harvey, as they sat down. "It's more exciting than I thought it would be: he's not conducting himself—I would have done!"

His eagerness was infectious, and, as they dined, this new work was discussed with multifarious speculations as to the treatment.

"The wind up ought to be splendid," insisted Harvey. "Of course he will have them put to death on the stage—it 'll make a splendid finale—I feel quite envious!" he exclaimed with dancing eyes.

Lady Grasmere assisted, joining in with:

"It 'll be something like the finish of Tristan, only more dramatic. Don't you think so?"

"Yes; only Lanciotto's a brute, not a man like King Mark—and there's no love philtre or magic of any kind—it's almost modern," he answered, following out the comparison that her question had suggested.

"I wonder whether they 'll have the scene in The Inferno? It would make a fine tableau at the end—Dante watching them sail by."

But Harvey objected to this.

"It would be bad art—quite outside the tragedy—and one wouldn't quite see the force of it unless one were a believing Papist," he protested.

No external event had ever roused him as this. She had never fully recognised the artist in him till to-night. When he had played to her, only the musician had been evident; now, the critic completed a personality that was full of surprises.

Their light meal was swiftly served. Harvey was to come back afterwards for some supper. There was time for a cigarette and coffee before the carriage would be round.

The Countess was looking hard at Merceron in the interval. She suddenly interrupted this brown study, and came over to him.

"Harvey," she said probingly, "you 're never going to get spoiled, are you?"

He shook his head in contradiction, wondering.

"You were quite your first self just now," she resumed, "just now when we were guessing what the opera was going to be like—I was so happy. Sometimes, of late, I think you 've lost a great deal," she continued, "and sometimes I'm sure I'm mistaken. I do so wish that you 'll never get like the other men one knows, hard to please and critical—and more selfish than is absolutely necessary." She smiled as she added this last item to the rest, but there was an earnest, even an undernote of sadness, running through her voice.

"I won't, darling; I didn't quite know that I had altered—I haven't, have I? In fact," he added, with evasive lightness, "the only change I 've noticed is that I usually have a brandy-and-soda in the morning—which I never used to."

She leaned over his shoulder and placed her cheek on his:

"There's no real difference, and you 're ever so much nicer, really," she said, "but one becomes machine-made if one lets one's self go."

"That's just what I did at the beginning," he gaily expostulated.

She smiled as well.

"I don't mean that sort, but getting indifferent just to save on I know it's easy, but, Harvey, I often think that that's the reason why half the men one meets are such bores—and some of them were such nice boys once!"

He kissed the dear face thoughtfully.

"I don't think I'm ever likely to become a vegetable?" he said.

"You won't, will you? It's time we were starting!"

"You are no end of a dear," he whispered five minutes later, as they sat in the brougham.

Her hand stole into his.

Outside roared London, with voice redoubled, fully raised; a chorus, joyous, gigantic, hailing its evening release, trumpeting forth its myriad anticipations. Westwards and eastwards, through the sounding street, the traffic surged, and pavements were gay with life and motion.

Calm, as though filled with an unutterable peace, the blue of heaven showed above the housetops, contrasting, almost consciously contrasting, with the strife below—a protest and a promise.

The carriage picked its way, through and under, one of a hundred that that night emptied before the portico of the Covent Garden opera house. And now Harvey and the Countess were in their box, studying the programme and libretto of Sopwith's initial flight, Francesca of Rimini.