"But is there an opera? Right up here?"
"Why, yes. These people know how to live. They would sooner have a thing bad than not have it at all. That is why they have got to have so much that is good. However bad the performance is tonight, it will be alive.
Italians don"t love music silently, like the beastly Germans. The audience takes its share--sometimes more."
"Can"t we go?"
He turned on her, but not unkindly. "But we"re here to rescue a child!"
He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure and the light went out of her face, and she became again Miss Abbott of Sawston--good, oh, most undoubtedly good, but most appallingly dull. Dull and remorseful: it is a deadly combination, and he strove against it in vain till he was interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door.
They started as guiltily as if they had been flirting. Their interview had taken such an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn morality--all had ended in a feeling of good-will towards each other and towards the city which had received them. And now Harriet was here--acrid, indissoluble, large; the same in Italy as in England--changing her disposition never, and her atmosphere under protest.
Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for a little tea. She did not scold Philip for finding Gino out, as she might reasonably have done.
She showered civilities on Miss Abbott, exclaiming again and again that Caroline"s visit was one of the most fortunate coincidences in the world. Caroline did not contradict her.
"You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don"t forget the blank cheque. Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two.
Twelve o"clock. Lunch. Well--then it"s no good going till the evening train. I can manage the baby as far as Florence--"
"My dear sister, you can"t run on like that. You don"t buy a pair of gloves in two hours, much less a baby."
"Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence we get a nurse--"
"But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott, "what if at first he was to refuse?"
"I don"t know the meaning of the word," said Harriet impressively. "I"ve told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and we shall keep to it."
"I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man I met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man."
"He"s insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to bring him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the baby to the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And try, if you can, to get poor Lilia"s silver bangles. They were nice quiet things, and will do for Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her--lent, not gave--to keep her handkerchiefs in. It"s of no real value; but this is our only chance. Don"t ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just say--"
"No, Harriet; I"ll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise to do that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as we"re all tired, we want a change of topic. We want relaxation. We want to go to the theatre."
"Theatres here? And at such a moment?"
"We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview impending," said Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip.
He did not betray her, but said, "Don"t you think it"s better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?"
His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn"t like it. It would be most unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres are notorious. Don"t you remember those letters in the "Church Family Newspaper"?"
"But this is an opera--"Lucia di Lammermoor"--Sir Walter Scott--cla.s.sical, you know."
Harriet"s face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few opportunities of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence."
"Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?"
"It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don"t think we ought to go to cheap seats."
"Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that.
As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy."
"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"
"Oh, that"ll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We"ll go as we are, and buy the best we can get.
Monteriano is not formal."
So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they could see the rescue party at a place of amus.e.m.e.nt on the very first day of its mission? Philip, too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began to see that he was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional contrariness of himself.
He had been to this theatre many years before, on the occasion of a performance of "La Zia di Carlo." Since then it had been thoroughly done up, in the tints of the beet-root and the tomato, and was in many other ways a credit to the little town. The orchestra had been enlarged, some of the boxes had terra-cotta draperies, and over each box was now suspended an enormous tablet, neatly framed, bearing upon it the number of that box. There was also a drop-scene, representing a pink and purple landscape, wherein sported many a lady lightly clad, and two more ladies lay along the top of the proscenium to steady a large and pallid clock.
So rich and so appalling was the effect, that Philip could scarcely suppress a cry. There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy; it is not the bad taste of a country which knows no better; it has not the nervous vulgarity of England, or the blinded vulgarity of Germany.
It observes beauty, and chooses to pa.s.s it by. But it attains to beauty"s confidence. This tiny theatre of Monteriano spraddled and swaggered with the best of them, and these ladies with their clock would have nodded to the young men on the ceiling of the Sistine.
Philip had tried for a box, but all the best were taken: it was rather a grand performance, and he had to be content with stalls. Harriet was fretful and insular. Miss Abbott was pleasant, and insisted on praising everything: her only regret was that she had no pretty clothes with her.
"We do all right," said Philip, amused at her unwonted vanity.
"Yes, I know; but pretty things pack as easily as ugly ones. We had no need to come to Italy like guys."
This time he did not reply, "But we"re here to rescue a baby." For he saw a charming picture, as charming a picture as he had seen for years--the hot red theatre; outside the theatre, towers and dark gates and mediaeval walls; beyond the walls olive-trees in the starlight and white winding roads and fireflies and untroubled dust; and here in the middle of it all, Miss Abbott, wishing she had not come looking like a guy. She had made the right remark. Most undoubtedly she had made the right remark. This stiff suburban woman was unbending before the shrine.
"Don"t you like it at all?" he asked her.
"Most awfully." And by this bald interchange they convinced each other that Romance was here.
Harriet, meanwhile, had been coughing ominously at the drop-scene, which presently rose on the grounds of Ravenswood, and the chorus of Scotch retainers burst into cry. The audience accompanied with tappings and drummings, swaying in the melody like corn in the wind. Harriet, though she did not care for music, knew how to listen to it. She uttered an acid "Shish!"
"Shut it," whispered her brother.
"We must make a stand from the beginning. They"re talking."
"It is tiresome," murmured Miss Abbott; "but perhaps it isn"t for us to interfere."
Harriet shook her head and shished again. The people were quiet, not because it is wrong to talk during a chorus, but because it is natural to be civil to a visitor. For a little time she kept the whole house in order, and could smile at her brother complacently.
Her success annoyed him. He had grasped the principle of opera in Italy--it aims not at illusion but at entertainment--and he did not want this great evening-party to turn into a prayer-meeting. But soon the boxes began to fill, and Harriet"s power was over. Families greeted each other across the auditorium. People in the pit hailed their brothers and sons in the chorus, and told them how well they were singing. When Lucia appeared by the fountain there was loud applause, and cries of "Welcome to Monteriano!"
"Ridiculous babies!" said Harriet, settling down in her stall.
"Why, it is the famous hot lady of the Apennines," cried Philip; "the one who had never, never before--"
"Ugh! Don"t. She will be very vulgar. And I"m sure it"s even worse here than in the tunnel. I wish we"d never--"
Lucia began to sing, and there was a moment"s silence. She was stout and ugly; but her voice was still beautiful, and as she sang the theatre murmured like a hive of happy bees. All through the coloratura she was accompanied by sighs, and its top note was drowned in a shout of universal joy.
So the opera proceeded. The singers drew inspiration from the audience, and the two great s.e.xtettes were rendered not unworthily. Miss Abbott fell into the spirit of the thing. She, too, chatted and laughed and applauded and encored, and rejoiced in the existence of beauty. As for Philip, he forgot himself as well as his mission. He was not even an enthusiastic visitor. For he had been in this place always. It was his home.
Harriet, like M. Bovary on a more famous occasion, was trying to follow the plot. Occasionally she nudged her companions, and asked them what had become of Walter Scott. She looked round grimly. The audience sounded drunk, and even Caroline, who never took a drop, was swaying oddly. Violent waves of excitement, all arising from very little, went sweeping round the theatre. The climax was reached in the mad scene.
Lucia, clad in white, as befitted her malady, suddenly gathered up her streaming hair and bowed her acknowledgment to the audience. Then from the back of the stage--she feigned not to see it--there advanced a kind of bamboo clothes-horse, stuck all over with bouquets. It was very ugly, and most of the flowers in it were false. Lucia knew this, and so did the audience; and they all knew that the clothes-horse was a piece of stage property, brought in to make the performance go year after year.