Читать книгу Footlights - Rita Weiman - Страница 4

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On a brilliant night in January, 1920, under the sponsorship of Oswald Kane, Mme.Lisa Parsinova made her bow to an expectant New York public.

For a long time, almost a year to be exact, Mr.Kane had been letting fall gentle hints of his discovery of a rare Russian genius, driven by the war to these shores. He was having her instructed in English, the story went, and once equal to the exigencies of emotional acting in a strange tongue, she would be presented by him to an American public which could not fail to be entranced by her great art. All this had been revealed in various interviews, bit by bit—a word here, a phrase there, a subtle suggestion elsewhere. At first he had not given out her name, had been gradually prevailed upon to do so, and by the time he announced the date of her première, “Mme.Lisa Parsinova” was on the lips of all that eager theater-going throng alert for a new sensation.

Stories of a cloudy past had already gone the rounds, vaguely suggested by Mr.Kane’s press representative, not through the medium of the press. There were tales of her startling beauty, her lovers, her temper. But so far no one had been permitted even a glimpse of her.

So that when she made her appearance the opening night, the gasp of thrilled admiration that met her was very genuine. The play was “The Temptress”—Oriental in atmosphere, written for her by Kane and a young collaborator whose name didn’t particularly matter. The [18] plot was not by any means unconventional, that of a slave of early Egypt wreaking revenge through the ages upon the descendants of the master, who, because she refused to yield to him, threw her to the crocodiles.

The first act, a prologue, took place on a flagged terrace of a palace by the slow-flowing Nile. As the curtain rose, faint zephyrs of incense wafted outward, a misty aroma. The terrace glistened under a golden moon with still stars piercing a sky of emerald. The tinkle of some far-off languorous instrument sounded soft against the night. And waiting, his lustful gaze on the marble steps, sat the master.

Slowly, the slave descended. Sullen and silent, she slunk forward, like some halting panther in the night.

Her body gleamed, golden as the moon, sinuous and satiny under the transparent cestus. Her bare feet moved noiselessly, every step one of infinite grace. She came forward, eyes brooding, and stood half shrinking, half defiant before the long stone bench where sat her master. Suddenly she raised her head, tossed back her short black hair and faced him.

As by a signal, opera-glasses went up, a sigh of pleasure went through the house. The audience waited. She opened her lips and her voice, low and liquid, flowed out, thrilling through their veins. The thick contralto of it, the fascinating foreign accent, completely captivated them.

He reached out, drew her toward him. One felt the wave of terror seizing her. His big hands grasped her shoulders. She gave a smothered cry and he laughed.

[19] She pleaded, then resisted, and finally, voice rising like a viol with strings drawn taut, defied him, calling upon the gods to save her for the man she loved.

And all the while he laughed, a chuckling laugh full of anticipation.

At last his arms closed round the golden body, his lips bent to hers. The sudden gleam of a tiny dagger, its clatter as he caught her upraised arm,—and he flung her from him, clapping his hands for the eunuchs who waited.

With one swift word he condemned her.

She crumpled at his feet. The black men lifted her. She cried out in horror, a curse upon him and his through all the ages.

A long moan as they bore her away, a pause, a splash against the silence, and the curtain descended.

For a breath the house sat motionless. Then came a surge of applause. But the curtain did not rise.

Buzz of conversation met the upgoing lights. Only a few, however, moved from their seats. Those who did came together in the lobby and discussed the new star with a wonder close to awe.

“They sure can turn them out over there,” avowed one seasoned first nighter. “Temperament, that’s the answer, Slav temperament. No little cut and dried two-by-four conventions to tie them down. They’ve got something the American woman don’t know the first thing about.”

“Well, they know how to let go, for one thing!”

The curtain rose on ActII, a modern drawing-room in the London home of an English peer, member of [20] Parliament, on the occasion of his thirty-ninth birthday. He entered, big, handsome, with his little, clinging English wife.

There was revealed the fact that for generations the oldest male of his line died before the age of forty, a violent death. They married, there were children, and always reaching the prime of manhood, they were cut down. A curse upon his family it seemed to be and the little wife trembled.

Guests dropped in to tea. With them came the announcement that a prominent barrister was bringing a French authoress who had asked to meet their host. She had heard him in the House of Lords. They spoke of her beauty, her extraordinary personality.

Then Mme. Parsinova appeared. In the brilliantly lighted set, the audience had its first good look at her. Slim, with a slenderness that made her seem tall, a mass of pitch-black hair piled high on her small head, a pair of burning eyes, dark and shadowed, creamy skin, a short nose, deep-cleft chin, and scarlet lips full and mobile, she seemed a living flame. She moved forward with gliding step, her lizard-green velvet gown clinging about her limbs, her sable cloak drooping from her shoulders. And one felt at once, as her white hand, weighted with a cabochon emerald, rested in his, the spell she would weave about the insular and very British member of Parliament.

Not so insular at that, for it developed that in his veins ran a strain, a very thin strain, of the blood of Egypt.

[21] There followed the love story, obvious if you like, but with the everlasting thrill and appeal of a great passion, magnificently portrayed. For as the drama moved to its climax, the spirit of the slave which through the ages had visited its will upon the family of its master, found itself captive. The French woman fell madly in love with her victim and in the end gave her life that the curse might be lifted and his saved.

In the climactic love scene at the end of ActIII when passion tore from her lips, an onrushing tide, the beautiful voice ran a crescendo of emotion that was almost song. Its strange accent stirred and fascinated. Its abandon was that of a soul giving all, sweeping aside like an avalanche law, thought, ultimate penalty.

And still at the curtain, when the house rang with demands for her, Parsinova did not appear. Oswald Kane made his accustomed speech, coming before the purple velvet curtain to tell his audience in his usual reticent manner how deeply he appreciated their reception of the genius he had discovered. He thanked them—he thanked them—he thanked them. He raised a graceful hand, pushed back his weight of hair and slipped into the wings while the house resounded once more with clapping hands and stamping feet, and a full fifteen minutes elapsed before the play could go on.

All through the final act sounded the low note of tragedy, the realization that she who for centuries had ruthlessly taken toll must now once more be sacrificed that the one who had become dearer than life might endure.

When the audience finally rose after another futile [22] attempt to bring her out, the women’s eyes were red, the men’s faces white. New York was undoubtedly taken by storm. It had been more than a typical Kane first night. It had been a Kane ovation.

In the first row a man got to his feet as if shaking off a spell. He was tall, very erect, almost rawboned, with hair turning gray about the temples, a demanding jaw, sharp straight nose and eyes that somehow seemed younger than the rest of his face, younger than the bushy black brows that mounted over them. They had caught Parsinova’s gaze, those eyes, as it swept once or twice over the audience. They had held it longer than was fair to her.

“Great, isn’t she, Rand?” His companion tapped his arm as he stood gazing at the fallen curtain.

“Paralyzing,” was the laconic reply. He wheeled about and made his way up the aisle, followed by the other man.

Outside, close to the shadowy stage entrance, Oswald Kane’s car, a royal blue limousine, and a curious throng of bystanders waited.

Inside, Oswald Kane himself begged the circle of those privileged by wealth, position, influence, who clustered round the door of the star’s dressing-room, to excuse her for to-night. Madame was completely exhausted.

When both crowds, tired of waiting, had dispersed two figures hurried down the little alley that led to the stage door and entered the limousine.

The door slammed.

The car rolled out and east toward Fifth Avenue.

The man switched off the light that illumined the [23] woman’s white face. Her dark-shadowed eyes were burning with excitement. She leaned back, closing them, and heaved a great sigh. He leaned forward, hair falling over his eyes, echoed the sigh, and his hand shut tightly round her ungloved one. With a tense, almost nervous movement she drew it away, shrank imperceptibly into her corner.

“They are at your feet,” he whispered. “I have made you.”

She did not answer—merely opened her eyes and looked at him and through the darkness, something like tears glistened on the lashes.

They drove on in silence. He recaptured her hand, held it to his lips. She looked away.

The car drew up before a modest apartment building in a side street. He helped her out, entered with her, and the elevator swung them upward. He made a movement for the key she took from her bag but she unlocked the door and led the way into the foyer.

Slowly he reached up, lifted the fur toque from her black hair and the wrap from her shoulders, and his touch lingered caressingly as he turned her toward him.

“You are my creation!” he told her. “Parsinova cannot exist without me.”

Into the throat of the great Russian actress with the questionable past came a flutter of fear. Her lips quivered. She gave a convulsive choking sound. Her eyes raced the length of the hall as though she wanted to run away, then went pleading up to his. He smiled down into them, drew her firmly to him.

[24] With a swift, hysterical laugh, a twist of her body, she was out of his arms and across the foyer.

“Come,” she called.

She opened a door at the other side. The gold flames of a log fire played upon the face of the little gray-haired woman in dusky silk who rose to greet her.

“Mother,” said Parsinova, “kiss your child and thank Mr.Kane. I think I’ve made a hit.”

Oswald Kane watched with a frown as she held out her arms adoringly to the little old woman.

For over a year the little mother had had a way of appearing in the background whenever he claimed the few sentimental hours which should have been but small acknowledgment of his new pupil’s debt to him.