THE VOICE OF——!
Theproprietor of “The Paradise” had said freely that she would “knock them.” Broad, full-coloured, and with the clear, swimming eye of an imaginative man, he was trusted when he spoke thus of his new “turns.” There was the feeling that he had once more discovered a good thing.
And on the afternoon of the new star’s dress rehearsal it was noticed that he came down to watch her, smoking his cigar calmly in the front row of the stalls. When she had finished and withdrawn, thechef d’orchestre, while folding up his score, felt something tickling his ear.
“Bensoni, this is hot goods!”
Turning that dim, lined face of his, whose moustache was always coming out of wax, Signor Bensoni answered: “A bit of all right, boss!”
“If they hug her real big to-night, send round to my room.”
“I will.”
Evening came, and under the gilt-starred dome the house was packed. Rows and rows of serious seekers for amusement; and all the customary crowd of those who “drop in”—old clients with hair and without hair, in evening clothes, or straight from their offices or race-course; bare-necked ladies sitting; ladies who never sat, but under large hats stood looking into the distance, or moved with alacrity in no particular direction, andhalted swiftly with a gentle humming; lounging and high-collared youths, furtively or boldly staring, and unconsciously tightening their lips; distinguished goatee-bearded foreigners wandering without rest. And always round the doorways the huge attendants, in their long, closely buttoned coats.
The little Peruvian bears had danced. The Volpo troupe in claret-coloured tights had gone once more without mishap through their hairbreadth tumbles. The Mulligatawny quartet had contributed their “unparalleled plate spray.” “Donks, the human ass,” had brayed. Signor Bensoni had conducted to its close his “Pot-pourriture” which afforded so many men an opportunity to stretch their legs. Arsenico had swallowed many things with conspicuous impunity. “Great and Small Scratch” had scratched. “Fraulein Tizi, the charming female vocalist,” had suddenly removed his stays. There had been no minute dull; yet over the whole performance had hung that advent of the new star, that sense of waiting for a greater moment.
She came at last—in black and her own whiteness, “La Bellissima,” straight from Brazil; tall, with raven-dark hair, and her beautiful face as pale as ivory. Tranquilly smiling with eyes only, she seemed to draw the gaze of all into those dark wells of dancing life; and, holding out her arms, that seemed fairer and rounder than the arms of women, she said: “Ladies and gentlemen, I will dance for you de latest Gollywog Brazilian caterpillar crawl.”
Then, in lime-light streaming down on her from the centre of the gallery, she moved back to the corner of the stage. Those who were wandering stood still; every face craned forward. For, sidelong, with a mouthwidened till it nearly reached her ears, her legs straddling, and her stomach writhing, she was moving incomparably across the stage. Her face, twisted on her neck, at an alarming angle, was distorted to a strange, inimitable hideousness. She reached the wings, and turned. A voice cried out: “Épatant!” Her arms, those round white arms, seemed yellow and skinny now, her obviously slender hips had achieved miraculous importance; each movement of her whole frame was attuned to a perfect harmony of ugliness. Twice she went thus marvellously up and down, in the ever-deepening hush. Then the music stopped, the lime-light ceased to flow, and she stood once more tranquil and upright, beautiful, with her smiling eyes. A roar of enthusiasm broke, salvo after salvo—clapping and “Bravos,” and comments flying from mouth to mouth.
“Rippin’!” “Bizarre—I say—how bizarre!” “Of the most chic!” “Wunderschön!” “Bully!”
Raising her arms again for silence, she said quite simply: “Good! I will now, ladies and gentlemen, sing you the latest Patagonian Squaw Squall. I sing you first, however, few bars of ‘Che farò’ old-fashion, to show you my natural tones—so you will see.” And in a deep, sweet voice began at once: “Che farò senz’ Euridice”; while through the whole house ran a shuffle of preparation for the future. Then all was suddenly still; for from her lips, remarkably enlarged, was issuing a superb cacophony. Like the screeching of parrots, and miauling of tiger-cats fighting in a forest, it forced attention from even the least musical.
Before the first verse was ended, the uncontrollable applause had drowned her; and she stood, not bowing, smiling with her lips now—her pretty lips. Then raisinga slender forefinger, she began the second verse. Even more strangely harsh and dissonant, from lips more monstrously disfigured, the great sound came. And, as though in tune with that crescendo, the lime-light brightened till she seemed all wrapped in flame. Before the storm of acclamation could burst from the enraptured house, a voice coming from the gallery was heard suddenly to cry:
“Woman! Blasphemous creature! You have profaned Beauty!”
For a single second there was utter silence, then a huge, angry “Hush!” was hurled up at the speaker; and all eyes turned toward the stage.
There stood the beautiful creature, motionless, staring up into the lime-light. And the voice from the gallery was heard again.
“The blind applaud you; it is natural. But you—unnatural! Go!” The beautiful creature threw up her head, as though struck below the jaw, and with hands flung out, rushed from the stage. Then, amidst the babel of a thousand cries—“Chuck the brute out!” “Throw him over!” “Where’s the manager?” “Encore, encore!”—the manager himself came out from the wings. He stood gazing up into the stream of lime-light, and there was instant silence.
“Hullo! up there! Have you got him?”
A voice, far and small, travelled back in answer: “It’s no one up here, sir!”
“What? Limes! It was in front of you!” A second faint, small voice came quavering down: “There’s been no one hollerin’ near me, sir.”
“Cut off your light!”
Down came the quavering voice: “I ’ave cut off, sir.”
“What?”
“I ’ave cut off—I’m disconnected.”
“Look at it!” And, pointing toward the brilliant ray still showering down onto the stage, whence a faint smoke seemed rising, the manager stepped back into the wings.
Then, throughout the house, arose a hustling and a scuffling, as of a thousand furtively consulting; and through it, of it, continually louder, the whisper—“Fire!”
And from every row some one stole out; the women in the large hats clustered, and trooped toward the doors. In five minutes “The Paradise” was empty, save of its officials. But of fire there was none.
Down in the orchestra, standing well away from the centre, so that he could see the stream of lime-light, the manager said:
“Electrics!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cut off every light.”
“Right, sir.”
With a clicking sound the lights went out; and all was black—but for that golden pathway still flowing down the darkness. For a moment the manager blinked silently at the strange effulgence. Then his scared voice rose: “Send for the Boss—look alive! Where’s Limes?”
Close to his elbow a dark little quick-eyed man, with his air of professional stupidity, answered in doubt: “Here, sir.”
“It’s up to you, Limes!”
The little man, wiping his forehead, gazed at the stream of golden light, powdering out to silver at its edges.
“I’ve took out me limes, and I’m disconnected, and this blanky ray goes on. What am I to do? There’s nothing up there to cause it. Go an’ see for yourself, sir!” Then, passing his hand across his mouth, he blurted out: “It’s got to do with that there voice—I shouldn’t be surprised. Unnat’ral-like; the voice o’——”
The manager interrupted sharply: “Don’t be a d—d ass, Limes!”
And, suddenly, all saw the proprietor passing from the prompt side behind that faint mist where the ray fell.
“What’s the theatre dark like this for? Why is it empty? What’s happened?”
The manager answered.
“We’re trying to find out, sir; a madman in the gallery, whom we couldn’t locate, made a disturbance, called the new turn ‘A natural’; and now there’s some hanky with this lime. It’s been taken out, and yet it goes on like that!”
“What cleared the house?”
The manager pointed at the stage.
“It looked like smoke,” he said. “That light’s loose; we can’t get hold of its end anywhere.”
From behind him Signor Bensoni suddenly pushed up his dim, scared face.
“Boss!” he stammered: “it’s the most bizarre—the most bizarre—thing I ever struck—Limes thinks——”
“Yes?” The Boss turned and spoke very quickly: “What does he think—yes?”
“He thinks—the voice wasn’t from the gallery—but higher; he thinks—he thinks—it was the voice of—voice of——”
A sudden sparkle lit up the Boss’s eyes. “Yes?” he hissed out; “yes?”
“He thinks it was the voice of—— Hullo!”
The stream of light had vanished. All was darkness.
Some one called: “Up with your lights!”
As the lights leaped forth, all about the house, the Boss was seen to rush to the centre of the stage, where the ray had been.
“Bizarre! By gum!... Hullo! Up there!”
No sound, no ray of light, answered that passionately eager shout.
The Boss spun round: “Electrics! You blazing ass! Ten to one but you’ve cut my connection, turning up the lights like that. The voice of——! Great snakes! What a turn! What a turn! I’d have given it a thou’ a week!...Hullo! up there! Hullo!”
But there came no answer from under the gilt-starred dome.