Chapter XXVI: Behind the Scenes

"When fog and failure o'er ray being brood,
When life looks but a glimmering, marshy clod,
No fire out-flashing from the living God--
Then, then, to rest in faith were worthy victory!"
GEORGE MACDONALD.

Sardoni and Gomez, the Almaviva and Fiorello of the evening, were close at hand; Fiorello's part was practically over, but he had lingered near to see how Donati would get on; when he saw him hissed off the stage a quiet smile stole over his dark features, but when he saw him fall back fainting he rubbed his hands with satisfaction, lingered but a moment to assure himself that the baritone lay motionless on the boards with his guitar beside him, then rushed as fast as he could to his dressing-room, flung on a thick brown ulster, caught up his hat, and hurried out of the theatre. Just outside the stage door he encountered Mr. Britton.

Now Mr. Britton was one of those kindly-looking, courteous men who are constantly stopped by passers-by in the street who have lost their way or who need any kind of help; Gomez instinctively turned to the pleasant-looking stranger.

"Pardon me, sir, but can you kindly tell me whether it is too late to send a telegram from the post-office?" he asked breathlessly.

"Oh no, you will find it open," said Mr. Britton looking at him keenly.

Gomez thanked him, and ran at full speed down the narrow side street, and two minutes later he might have been seen standing at one of the little screened desks in the post-office, writing the following message in Italian:--

"Valentino ill; was hissed off stage to-night after '_Largo al factotum_.' Get paragraph put in one of London papers. See it to-morrow, and telegraph promptly to M., offering your services."

Meantime, Sardoni, far too much startled and shocked to pay the slightest attention to Gomez, rushed forward to his friend's help, flung the guitar out of the way, and raising Carlo's head, looked anxiously at his motionless features and pale lips, bitterly reproaching himself with the absorption in his own affairs which had made him blind to all else. Some sense of the contrast between that still form and the noisy confusion in the theatre first reminded him that the curious audience were watching this unexpected scene in the opera with eager eyes, and that although the hisses had changed into a babel of question and surmise, Carlo was still exposed to every sort of ruthless criticism.

"Tell those idiots to let down the curtain," he said impatiently, as Marioni came hurrying forward, with his pale face and his bushy hair, looking more distraught than usual. The little conductor had flung down his baton and rushed from the orchestra the instant Carlo had fallen, but he was too excitable to think, as Sardoni thought, of practical matters. And yet it was a relief to him to be told to do something; he rushed away to give the order, and the next minute the curtain descended, veiling from the audience the crowd of actors and attendants which had gathered round poor Figaro. Mr. Britton who had been admitted at the stage door, was just in time to see Carlo borne into the green-room, and to follow with those who came after; he had heard so much of theatrical jealousies and quarrels, and had formed so low an opinion of theatrical people, that he was surprised to see the real sympathy and concern shown by every creature present.

"He has been ill this long time," said old Bauer; "but he had too much spirit to give in. Poor lad! those brutes ought to have seen how it was with him."

"Thought more of the bad bargain they had made than of the singer's feelings," said Tannini, with his Yankee twang. "Well, 'tis the way of the world."

"Are you the doctor, sir?" asked Domenica Borelli, noticing Mr. Britton for the first time.

"No, I am a friend of Signor Donati's," he replied, glad to get speech of her, for he had noticed her quiet, womanly way of helping Sardoni and Merlino to do all that could be done for Carlo. "Shall I go and fetch a doctor?"

"I think it would be well----," she began. "But, stay, he is coming to himself; perhaps there is no need, and I know he would dislike having one called in."

"It's something new for every one to be waiting on Valentino," said old Bauer. "A reversal of the usual order."

"Yes," said Mlle. Duroc; "he was the factotum of the troupe as well as of the opera. But, see, he is reviving."

And now Mr. Britton observed a marked but perhaps not wholly unnatural change in Merlino. While his brother-in-law had remained unconscious he had been as kindly and solicitous as any man could possibly be, but the moment Carlo came to himself, Merlino, relieved from the anxiety, remembered that as Impresario he was left in an awkward predicament.

Carlo opened his eyes for a moment, caught a confused vision of the faces round him, then closed them again for very weariness, and began to wonder, in a dreamy, but troubled way, where on earth he could be. He heard Merlino swearing and raving, and Tannini, and Bauer, and the local manager, and Marioni all talking at once.

"_Santo Diavolo!_" cried Merlino. "Was ever Impresario worse treated? Here is the best house we have had for months, and what can I do but give back the money? There is no going on without a Figaro!"

"Had Donati told you this morning that he was ill you would have had time to telegraph for Comerio, who no doubt would be willing to help you in such an emergency," remarked Gomez, who had glided into the room.

Mr. Britton glanced sharply round at him, instantly recognizing his face, though he was now once more in his Fiorello costume. He perceived at once that the man was no friend to Carlo, and wondered why he had rushed to the telegraph office.

"_Accidente!_ why did you not do so?" said Merlino, turning upon his brother-in-law with a wrathful gesture. "I ask you now what am I to do? Is all this money to be lost?"

"You might telegraph to Comerio now and secure him for to-morrow, at any rate," suggested Gomez. "He could join us at Queenbury and take--

"No such thing," interrupted Carlo, catching at Sardoni's arm, and dragging himself up. "Give _Fra Diavolo_ to-morrow, and that will give me a day's rest; and go quickly and say to the audience that I am unwell, but that, since the opera can't be continued without the leading part, I will do the best I can, if they'll put up with me."

There was a vigor and force in his tone which astonished every one; Merlino, with a look of relief, hurried away to pacify the audience; and, though the others had serious doubts whether Donati could possibly get through so trying a part, they would not side with Gomez, who began to remonstrate with him.

"I never saw any one more afraid of being supplanted," said the Spaniard vindictively. "For my part I call it mere obstinacy and conceit to attempt what it is clearly impossible for you to do."

"I calculate it doesn't much affect you, my friend," said Tannini, dryly. "Your part is over for to-night, so just shut up, will you? If the rest of us who have to sing with Donati make no bones about it, why should you take upon yourself to grumble?"

Gomez turned away with a muttered curse, and Carlo looked gratefully at the American.

"I'll do my best not to put you out; I shall be glad for Merlino's sake and my own too if you and the audience will tolerate such a bad Figaro. Come to my room with me, will you, Jack?" then, as he caught sight of Mr. Britton, and received a hearty grip of the hand, "How good of you to come round! I had no idea you were here. I was so ashamed to give you such a miserable rendering of that song."

Mr. Britton was not sorry to leave the green-room and to go with Carlo and Sardoni into one of the little dressing-rooms. There were not many chairs to be had, and Carlo, without ceremony, dropped into the one drawn close to the tiny fireplace, unable to hide any longer the severe pain he was suffering, though when questioned he made light of it.

"You surely ought not to sing," said Mr. Britton.

"It won't do my voice any harm if I can only get breath enough," he replied. "And the pain isn't continuous, only just a sharp stab in the side every now and then."

"Dear old fellow, it was madness of you to come at all," said Sardoni. "You must give in; you must put up with Comerio's return; there is no help for it."

Carlo leant his head on his hand and was silent, as if struggling with himself; both speakers seemed to have forgotten Mr. Britton's presence.

"It's no good looking ahead," said Carlo, after a pause. "Of course it will be all right. But don't argue now, Jack; I've got to sing if they will have me, and there's an end of it."

As he spoke there was a knock at the door, and Merlino entered.

"I think they will hear you," he said. "They are in a bad temper, but they see we are doing all that can be done, and they'll hardly hiss you off again. They are very easily pacified these English audiences."

Carlo glanced at Mr. Britton with the strangest mixture of pain and laughter in his dark, shining eyes. The contented look of the Impresario as he painted the sort of reception which probably awaited him tickled his fancy.

"A glass of porter before you go on?" said Bauer, pressing it upon him.

"Try this raw egg, signor," said his dresser, eagerly.

"Or a troche," suggested Sardoni.

"Or a Stolberg," said Merlino, producing a little box full of dark-looking lozenges.

With a smile and a gesture he thanked them, and made everyone laugh by quoting Figaro's words, "_Oh, che vita! che vita! oh, che mestiere!_"

"Was there ever such a fellow?" said Bauer. "I verily believe he would make us laugh if he were on his death-bed."

"If the audience do but realize his courage he will be well received," said Mr. Britton, who was standing at the wings beside the old German singer. "There is nothing that pleases the British public like pluck."

In truth, to face again the audience which had so lately refused to hear him was no very pleasant task to Carlo, but then he had a habit of grasping the nettles of life which stood him in good stead. More sensitive than most men, he had turned his weakness into strength by resolutely refusing to make the smallest concession to it, and he was able even with overwrought nerves and failing physical powers to endure with composure the trying ordeal. It was as Merlino had said, the audience kindly consented to put up with him; they allowed him to appear without a single hiss. Indeed, the chilling silence was broken by five or six resounding claps from the third row of stalls.

"That is Francesca's cousin," he thought to himself, and he felt glad to have one friendly face among the hundreds of coldly critical ones. He was glad, too, to have such friends as Domenica Borelli and Sardoni to sing with that night, and was cheered by Mr. Britton's kindness. If only he could get through his work he thought that, spite of the dark future, he should feel perfectly happy. But that was the great question. All thought he had attempted what was physically impossible, and he shrank in horror from making another exhibition of himself on the stage. "If I do faint again," he reflected, "I hope I shall do it decently in my dressing-room."

By sheer force of will he got through the long weary duet with Sardoni, but it left him so worn out with pain that he could hardly stand. He got off the stage somehow, and the moment they were out of sight Sardoni took him by the arm and half dragged him to his room, where, with an irrepressible groan, he threw himself on the floor beside the fire, seeming to find a sort of relief in thrusting the guitar under his arm so that he actually lay upon it.

"Pleurisy," thought Mr. Britton, who had followed to see if he could be of any use; but Carlo was evidently in such pain that he did not like to talk to him, so he turned instead to Sardoni, to whom he had taken a great fancy, and who, to make up for his past selfishness, was devoting himself to his friend in a way that pleased the Englishman. They discussed all possible means of helping him, and Sardoni going out to fetch some restorative brought back word that Mlle. Borelli had been encored in her cavatina which would give Carlo a little longer space to recover his strength.

"Are you sure I am not in your way here?" asked Mr. Britton. "I don't feel as if I could sit in the audience not knowing how our friend is getting on."

Sardoni, who realized that the stranger must be some relation to Francesca Britton, warmly assured him that he was the greatest possible help; and Carlo, though too much exhausted to speak an unnecessary word, gave him a glance which conveyed more than many sentences.

All too soon came the unwelcome call-boy. Again Carlo braced himself up for the effort, and Sardoni and Mr. Britton watched him anxiously through his scene with Rosina.

"He is on the stage a great deal after this," explained Sardoni, "but the most trying part is over for him as far as singing goes when he is once through this scene."

"Will he get through, do you think?"

"If he does it will be by the skin of his teeth," said Sardoni. "But, like the _Barbiere_ himself, he is a '_Bravo giovinotto_.' No other man whom I know would do it, but he perhaps may."

"Ah, I thought so!" he exclaimed, as, the duet over, the baritone beat a hasty retreat, and on reaching the shelter of the wings would have fallen had he not promptly caught him. "It is as I said, by the skin of his teeth."

They carried him back to his room, but had barely restored him to life when Sardoni was obliged to go on the stage again, leaving him alone with Mr. Britton.

It was the strangest evening the Englishman had ever spent, as he sat in the dismal little dressing-room, with its bare floor and whitewashed walls, its confusion of stage dresses and the garments of prosaic life. Some one had brought in two or three cushions from the green-room, and as soon as Carlo had recovered his senses they had laid him on these upon his left side, the position which seemed to give him the greatest ease. The firelight played on his face, and Mr. Britton, as he watched him, found his thoughts wandering back to the time when he had first met him with Francesca outside the English church at Naples. He recalled the strange, sad smile which had passed over the young Italian's face when he congratulated him on his betrothal, and he felt irresistibly drawn to a man who could deliberately choose a career so self-denying, so little likely to be understood.

He was startled to find that his thoughts of Francesca must have affected his companion.

"We may not be alone again," said Carlo, turning his face towards him. "If anything should happen to me, will you promise to give this to Francesca "--he indicated their betrothal ring--"and tell her how good every one was to me?"

Mr. Britton felt a choking sensation in his throat, but he promised, and then, partly to break the uncomfortable silence, remarked that he had heard from Casa Bella that morning.

"They are well?" asked Carlo.

"Quite well. Francesca comes to England in June."

The next moment he regretted his words, for they seemed to give the finishing touch to Carlo's suffering. He turned abruptly away, and, though his face was hidden, Mr. Britton could see that he was struggling to suppress a tempest of passionate emotion. So little do people understand each other, that it had never occurred to the Englishman, with all his kind-heartedness, to picture to himself the torture of a lover who knows that his love will be close at hand, yet that he is to be denied even a sight of her. But that silent, bitter struggle taught him much, and once more set his kind heart to weave plans for helping the course of true love to run smooth.

Before anything more had passed, the call-boy rapped at the door, and Mr. Britton in dismay turned to see what his companion would do. He had yet to learn that Italian storms, if violent, are brief, and that an Italian nature, if it has strong emotions, has also a wonderful self-mastery upon which it can fall back in time of need. Carlo rose promptly, rearranged his disordered costume in a business-like fashion, and smoothed his hair; then, fearing that Mr. Britton might regret the words which had escaped him, said in the manner which won him so many friends, "Do you mind coming with me to the wings? I like to feel that you are there."

And before the Englishman had recovered from his surprise at this unlooked-for composure, Figaro was in the thick of the noisy group on the stage, acting better than he had done all the evening, and endeavoring to play the part of peacemaker, and to put an end to the altercation.

Mr. Britton could hardly believe as he watched the lithe, active figure, now here, now there, that a few minutes ago he had seen the same man lying in the extremity of mental and bodily pain; and when once more in the interval between the acts he and Sardoni had to restore the Italian to his senses, he could no longer keep his astonishment to himself.

"What in the world can our friend be made of?" he exclaimed. "I should not have thought it possible for a man of his temperament to persevere in the teeth of such difficulties."

"I suppose pluck and goodness generally do go together," said Sardoni; "and though you may be Donati's friend, no one who is not in this troupe can have much idea of what he really is. He's out and out the best fellow I ever came across."

"He seems very much liked by most of the Company."

"Yes, and with good reason. They all apply to him one of their expressive Italian sayings--'Good as a piece of bread'--a description which would not hold for the rest of us."

"He is coming to himself," said Mr. Britton, and there was silence in the room, broken at last by Carlo's voice.

"How much more, Jack?" he asked, faintly.

"The second act," said Sardoni, "three more scenes for you."

He closed his eyes again, and they noticed that as the evening advanced he became less and less willing to speak an unnecessary word.

The opera, which had seemed to all the singers interminable, did at length end, and with it the last remains of Carlo's strength. More dead than alive he was carried to Mr. Britten's brougham, which had been ordered round to the stage door, and leaving the kindly Englishman to see him safely home, Sardoni hurried off in search of a doctor.

Carlo had fancied that if only he could get through the opera he should be perfectly happy, but when his work was really done he was suffering too acutely to be able to bestow a thought on the future or on Anita. Too faint to speak, he allowed Mr. Britton to help him up to his room, never troubling himself to consider the impression that No. 62 would make on the rich ship-builder. The miserable little place was to him now a haven of rest, and there was deep relief in the consciousness that he could now suffer in peace, that no call-boy would rap at his door, that there was no longer the horrible necessity of acting and singing before a critical audience. But to Mr. Britton that dismal little attic was the climax of the evening. Its total lack of comfort appalled him, and when he had left the patient to the care of Sardoni and the doctor he drove home, vowing that Carlo should be moved to Merlebank the very next day.