CHAPTER I

AT THE STAGE DOOR

Courtlandt sat perfectly straight; his ample shoulders did not touch the

back of his chair; and his arms were folded tightly across his chest. The

characteristic of his attitude was tenseness. The nostrils were well

defined, as in one who sets the upper jaw hard upon the nether. His brown

eyes--their gaze directed toward the stage whence came the voice of the

prima donna--epitomized the tension, expressed the whole as in a word.

Just now the voice was pathetically subdued, yet reached every part of the

auditorium, kindling the ear with its singularly mellowing sweetness. To

Courtlandt it resembled, as no other sound, the note of a muffled Burmese

gong, struck in the dim incensed cavern of a temple. A Burmese gong:

briefly and magically the stage, the audience, the amazing gleam and

scintillation of the Opera, faded. He heard only the voice and saw only

the purple shadows in the temple at Rangoon, the oriental sunset splashing

the golden dome, the wavering lights of the dripping candles, the dead

flowers, the kneeling devotees, the yellow-robed priests, the tatters of

gold-leaf, fresh and old, upon the rows of placid grinning Buddhas. The

vision was of short duration. The sigh, which had been so long repressed,

escaped; his shoulders sank a little, and the angle of his chin became

less resolute; but only for a moment. Tension gave place to an ironical

grimness. The brows relaxed, but the lips became firmer. He listened, with

this new expression unchanging, to the high note that soared above all

others. The French horns blared and the timpani crashed. The curtain sank

slowly. The audience rustled, stood up, sought its wraps, and pressed

toward the exits and the grand staircase. It was all over.

Courtlandt took his leave in leisure. Here and there he saw familiar

faces, but these, after the finding glance, he studiously avoided. He

wanted to be alone. For while the music was still echoing in his ears, in

a subtone, his brain was afire with keen activity; but unfortunately for

the going forward of things, this mental state was divided into so many

battalions, led by so many generals, indirectly and indecisively, nowhere.

This plan had no beginning, that one had no ending, and the other neither

beginning nor ending. Outside he lighted a cigar, not because at that

moment he possessed a craving for nicotine, but because like all

inveterate smokers he believed that tobacco conduced to clarity of

thought. And mayhap it did. At least, there presently followed a mental

calm that expelled all this confusion. The goal waxed and waned as he

gazed down the great avenue with its precise rows of lamps. Far away he

could discern the outline of the brooding Louvre.

There was not the least hope in the world for him to proceed toward his

goal this night. He realized this clearly, now that he was face to face

with actualities. It required more than the chaotic impulses that had

brought him back from the jungles of the Orient. He must reason out a plan

that should be like a straight line, the shortest distance between two

given points. How then should he pass the night, since none of his schemes

could possibly be put into operation? Return to his hotel and smoke

himself headachy? Try to become interested in a novel? Go to bed, to turn

and roll till dawn? A wild desire seized him to make a night of

it,--Maxim's, the cabarets; riot and wine. Who cared? But the desire burnt

itself out between two puffs of his cigar. Ten years ago, perhaps, this

particular brand of amusement might have urged him successfully. But not

now; he was done with tomfool nights. Indeed, his dissipations had been

whimsical rather than banal; and retrospection never aroused a furtive

sense of shame.

He was young, but not so young as an idle glance might conjecture in

passing. To such casual reckoning he appeared to be in the early twenties;

but scrutiny, more or less infallible, noting a line here or an angle

there, was disposed to add ten years to the score. There was in the nose

and chin a certain decisiveness which in true youth is rarely developed.

This characteristic arrives only with manhood, manhood that has been tried

and perhaps buffeted and perchance a little disillusioned. To state that

one is young does not necessarily imply youth; for youth is something that

is truly green and tender, not rounded out, aimless, light-hearted and

desultory, charming and inconsequent. If man regrets his youth it is not

for the passing of these pleasing, though tangled attributes, but rather

because there exists between the two periods of progression a series of

irremediable mistakes. And the subject of this brief commentary could look

back on many a grievous one brought about by pride or carelessness rather

than by intent.

But what was one to do who had both money and leisure linked to an

irresistible desire to leave behind one place or thing in pursuit of

another, indeterminately? At one time he wanted to be an artist, but his

evenly balanced self-criticism had forced him to fling his daubs into the

ash-heap. They were good daubs in a way, but were laid on without fire;

such work as any respectable schoolmarm might have equaled if not

surpassed. Then he had gone in for engineering; but precise and intricate

mathematics required patience of a quality not at his command.

The inherent ambition was to make money; but recognizing the absurdity of

adding to his income, which even in his extravagance he could not spend,

he gave himself over into the hands of grasping railroad and steamship

companies, or their agencies, and became for a time the slave of guide and

dragoman and carrier. And then the wanderlust, descended to him from the

blood of his roving Dutch ancestors, which had lain dormant in the several

generations following, sprang into active life again. He became known in

every port of call. He became known also in the wildernesses. He had

climbed almost inaccessible mountains, in Europe, in Asia; he had fished

and hunted north, east, south and west; he had fitted out polar

expeditions; he had raided the pearl markets; he had made astonishing

gifts to women who had pleased his fancy, but whom he did not know or seek

to know; he had kept some of his intimate friends out of bankruptcy; he

had given the most extravagant dinners at one season and, unknown, had

supported a bread-line at another; he had even financed a musical comedy.

Whatever had for the moment appealed to his fancy, that he had done. That

the world--his world--threw up its hands in wonder and despair neither

disturbed him nor swerved him in the least. He was alone, absolute master

of his millions. Mamas with marriageable daughters declared that he was

impossible; the marriageable daughters never had a chance to decide one

way or the other; and men called him a fool. He had promoted elephant

fights which had stirred the Indian princes out of their melancholy

indifference, and tiger hunts which had, by their duration and

magnificence, threatened to disrupt the efficiency of the British military

service,--whimsical excesses, not understandable by his intimate

acquaintances who cynically arraigned him as the fool and his money.

But, like the villain in the play, his income still pursued him. Certain

scandals inevitably followed, scandals he was the last to hear about and

the last to deny when he heard them. Many persons, not being able to take

into the mind and analyze a character like Courtlandt's, sought the line

of least resistance for their understanding, and built some precious

exploits which included dusky island-princesses, diaphanous dancers, and

comic-opera stars.

Simply, he was without direction; a thousand goals surrounded him and none

burned with that brightness which draws a man toward his destiny: until

one day. Personally, he possessed graces of form and feature, and was

keener mentally than most young men who inherit great fortunes and

distinguished names.

* * * * *

Automobiles of all kinds panted hither and thither. An occasional smart

coupe went by as if to prove that prancing horses were still necessary to

the dignity of the old aristocracy. Courtlandt made up his mind suddenly.

He laughed with bitterness. He knew now that to loiter near the stage

entrance had been his real purpose all along, and persistent lying to

himself had not prevailed. In due time he took his stand among the gilded

youth who were not privileged (like their more prosperous elders) to wait

outside the dressing-rooms for their particular ballerina. By and by there

was a little respectful commotion. Courtlandt's hand went instinctively to

his collar, not to ascertain if it were properly adjusted, but rather to

relieve the sudden pressure. He was enraged at his weakness. He wanted to

turn away, but he could not.

A woman issued forth, muffled in silks and light furs. She was followed by

another, quite possibly her maid. One may observe very well at times from

the corner of the eye; that is, objects at which one is not looking come

within the range of vision. The woman paused, her foot upon the step of

the modest limousine. She whispered something hurriedly into her

companion's ear, something evidently to the puzzlement of the latter, who

looked around irresolutely. She obeyed, however, and retreated to the

stage entrance. A man, quite as tall as Courtlandt, his face shaded

carefully, intentionally perhaps, by one of those soft Bavarian hats that

are worn successfully only by Germans, stepped out of the gathering to

proffer his assistance. Courtlandt pushed him aside calmly, lifted his

hat, and smiling ironically, closed the door behind the singer. The step

which the other man made toward Courtlandt was unequivocal in its meaning.

But even as Courtlandt squared himself to meet the coming outburst, the

stranger paused, shrugged his shoulders, turned and made off.

The lady in the limousine--very pale could any have looked closely into

her face--was whirled away into the night. Courtlandt did not stir from

the curb. The limousine dwindled, once it flashed under a light, and then

vanished.

"It is the American," said one of the waiting dandies.

"The icicle!"

"The volcano, rather, which fools believe extinct."

"Probably sent back her maid for her Bible. Ah, these Americans; they are

very amusing."

"She was in magnificent voice to-night. I wonder why she never sings

_Carmen_?"

"Have I not said that she is too cold? What! would you see frost grow upon

the toreador's mustache? And what a name, what a name! Eleonora da

Toscana!"

Courtlandt was not in the most amiable condition of mind, and a hint of

the ribald would have instantly transformed a passive anger into a blind

fury. Thus, a scene hung precariously; but its potentialities became as

nothing on the appearance of another woman.

This woman was richly dressed, too richly. Apparently she had trusted her

modiste not wisely but too well: there was the strange and unaccountable

inherent love of fine feathers and warm colors which is invariably the

mute utterance of peasant blood. She was followed by a Russian, huge of

body, Jovian of countenance. An expensive car rolled up to the curb. A

liveried footman jumped down from beside the chauffeur and opened the

door. The diva turned her head this way and that, a thin smile of

satisfaction stirring her lips. For Flora Desimone loved the human eye

whenever it stared admiration into her own; and she spent half her days

setting traps and lures, rather successfully. She and her formidable

escort got into the car which immediately went away with a soft purring

sound. There was breeding in the engine, anyhow, thought Courtlandt, who

longed to put his strong fingers around that luxurious throat which had,

but a second gone, passed him so closely.

"We shall never have war with Russia," said some one; "her dukes love

Paris too well."

Light careless laughter followed this cynical observation. Another time

Courtlandt might have smiled. He pushed his way into the passage leading

to the dressing-rooms, and followed its windings until he met a human

barrier. To his inquiry the answer was abrupt and perfectly clear in its

meaning: La Signorina da Toscana had given most emphatic orders not to

disclose her address to any one. Monsieur might, if he pleased, make

further inquiries of the directors; the answer there would be the same.

Presently he found himself gazing down the avenue once more. There were a

thousand places to go to, a thousand pleasant things to do; yet he

doddered, full of ill-temper, dissatisfaction, and self-contempt. He was

weak, damnably weak; and for years he had admired himself, detachedly, as

a man of pride. He started forward, neither sensing his direction nor the

perfected flavor of his Habana.

Opera singers were truly a race apart. They lived in the world but were

not a part of it, and when they died, left only a memory which faded in

one generation and became totally forgotten in another. What jealousies,

what petty bickerings, what extravagances! With fancy and desire

unchecked, what ingenious tricks they used to keep themselves in the

public mind,--tricks begot of fickleness and fickleness begetting. And

yet, it was a curious phase: their influence was generally found when

history untangled for posterity some Gordian knot. In old times they had

sung the _Marseillaise_ and danced the _carmagnole_ and indirectly plied

the guillotine. And to-day they smashed prime ministers, petty kings, and

bankers, and created fashions for the ruin of husbands and fathers of

modest means. Devil take them! And Courtlandt flung his cigar into the

street.

He halted. The Madeleine was not exactly the goal for a man who had, half

an hour before, contemplated a rout at Maxim's. His glance described a

half-circle. There was Durand's; but Durand's on opera nights entertained

many Americans, and he did not care to meet any of his compatriots

to-night. So he turned down the Rue Royale, on the opposite side, and went

into the Taverne Royale, where the patrons were not over particular in

regard to the laws of fashion, and where certain ladies with light

histories sought further adventures to add to their heptamerons. Now,

Courtlandt thought neither of the one nor of the other. He desired

isolation, safety from intrusion; and here, did he so signify, he could

find it. Women gazed up at him and smiled, with interest as much as with

invitation. He was brown from long exposure to the wind and the sun, that

golden brown which is the gift of the sun-glitter on rocking seas. A

traveler is generally indicated by this artistry of the sun, and once

noted instantly creates a speculative interest. Even his light brown hair

had faded at the temples, and straw-colored was the slender mustache, the

ends of which had a cavalier twist. He ignored the lips which smiled and

the eyes which invited, and nothing more was necessary. One is not

importuned at the Taverne Royale. He sat down at a vacant table and

ordered a pint of champagne, drinking hastily rather than thirstily.

Would Monsieur like anything to eat?

No, the wine was sufficient.

Courtlandt poured out a second glass slowly. The wine bubbled up to the

brim and overflowed. He had been looking at the glass with unseeing eyes.

He set the bottle down impatiently. Fool! To have gone to Burma, simply to

stand in the golden temple once more, in vain, to recall that other time:

the starving kitten held tenderly in a woman's arms, his own scurry among

the booths to find the milk so peremptorily ordered, and the smile of

thanks that had been his reward! He had run away when he should have hung

on. He should have fought every inch of the way....

"Monsieur is lonely?"

A pretty young woman sat down before him in the vacant chair.