The Ghost | Page 8

everything to me. She went to Vienna to fulfil an engagement,
and Lord Clarenceux after her. I followed. I saw her, and I laid myself
out to arrange terms of peace.

"I have had difficulties with prime donne before, scores of times. Yes; I
have had experience." He laughed sardonically. "I thought I knew what
to do. Generally a prima donna has either a pet dog or a pet
parrot--sopranos go in for dogs, contraltos seem to prefer parrots. I
have made a study of these agreeable animals, and I have found that
through them their mistresses can be approached when all other
avenues are closed. I can talk doggily to poodles in five languages, and
in the art of administering sugar to the bird I am, I venture to think,
unrivalled. But Rosa had no pets. And after a week's negotiation, I was
compelled to own myself beaten. It was a disadvantage to me that she
wouldn't lose her temper. She was too polite; she really was grateful for
what I had done for her. She gave me no chance to work on her feelings.
But beyond all this there was something strange about Rosa, something
I have never been able to fathom. She isn't a child like most of 'em.
She's as strong-headed as I am myself, every bit!"
He paused, as if inwardly working at the problem.
"Well, and how did you make it up?" Sullivan asked briskly.
(As for me, I felt as if I had come suddenly into the centre of the great
world.)
"Oh, nothing happened for a time. She sang in Paris and America, and
took her proper place as the first soprano in the world. I did without her,
and managed very well. Then early this spring she sent her agent to see
me, and offered to sing ten times for three thousand pounds. They can't
keep away from London, you know. New York and Chicago are all
very well for money, but if they don't sing in London people ask 'em
why. I wanted to jump at the offer, but I pretended not to be eager. Up
till then she had confined herself to French operas; so I said that
London wouldn't stand an exclusively French repertoire from any one,
and would she sing in 'Lohengrin.' She would. I suggested that she
should open with 'Lohengrin,' and she agreed. The price was stiffish,
but I didn't quarrel with that. I never drive bargains. She is twenty-two
now, or twenty-three; in a few more years she will want five hundred
pounds a night, and I shall have to pay it."

"And how did she meet you?"
"With just the same cold politeness. And I understand her less than
ever."
"She isn't English, I suppose?" I put in.
"English!" Sir Cyril ejaculated. "No one ever heard of a great English
soprano. Unless you count Australia as England, and Australia wouldn't
like that. No. That is another of her mysteries. No one knows where she
emerged from. She speaks English and French with absolute perfection.
Her Italian accent is beautiful. She talks German freely, but badly. I
have heard that she speaks perfect Flemish,--which is curious,--but I do
not know."
"Well," said Sullivan, nodding his head, "give me the theatrical as
opposed to the operatic star. The theatrical star's bad enough, and
mysterious enough, and awkward enough. But, thank goodness, she
isn't polite--at least, those at the Diana aren't. You can speak your mind
to 'em. And that reminds me, Smart, about that costume of Effie's in the
first act of 'My Queen.' Of course you'll insist--"
"Don't talk your horrid shop now, Sullivan," his wife said; and Sullivan
didn't.
The prelude to the third act was played, and the curtain went up on the
bridal chamber of Elsa and Lohengrin. Sir Cyril Smart rose as if to go,
but lingered, eying the stage as a general might eye a battle-field from a
neighboring hill. The music of the two processions was heard
approaching from the distance. Then, to the too familiar strains of the
wedding march, the ladies began to enter on the right, and the
gentlemen on the left. Elsa appeared amid her ladies, but there was no
Lohengrin in the other crowd. The double chorus proceeded, and then a
certain excitement was visible on the stage, and the conductor made
signs with his left hand.
"Smart, what's wrong? Where's Alresca?" It was Sullivan who spoke.

"He'll sail in all right," Sir Cyril said calmly. "Don't worry."
The renowned impresario had advanced nearer to the front of our box,
and was standing immediately behind my chair. My heart was beating
violently with apprehension under my shirt-front. Where was Alresca?
It was surely impossible that he should fail to appear! But he ought to
have been