Joy V. Sheridan writes

from "CHARITY AMOUR"
 
How would she fare? Would they both be acclaimed at the conclusion, or thrown into the refuse pit of obscurity? She could hear the chords of instruments as musicians in the pit orchestra tuned their instruments to the right pitch. She glanced, almost hysterically, to the left and right of her, searching for Lord Seyton Clover’s form, trying to thrust from her, the murk of shadows and apprehensions which threatened to stultify her into perpetual somnambulism. He was nowhere in evidence and she knew that very soon she should have to walk the boards.

Panic threatened to overwhelm her again. What was her cue?
 

What her words? Would she remember the actions, attitudes she must adopt? Was it also a fact that the King and various members of his family, were this very night, in the audience? Charity fiddled with the strands of pearls and jewels hanging about her slender, white throat, her own reflection staring vividly ashen white, back from a mirror. The snowy powder, lit with minute garlands and butterflies of gems, sparkled in the dappled density of her wig.

Her low-cut gown was spangled with subtle designs; the cloak and high collar - reminiscent of the Elizabethan age - forming a rising backdrop for the stark alabaster beauty of her bared throat, her shoulders. Her beautiful full bosom had been hauled, so it seemed to Charity, so that it looked twice its normal size: large, luscious fruits they were, and not many to the pound at that!

The stage had been hung in luxuriant fantasies of drapes and curtainings: all in medieval richness. The raised dais which supported the gold brocaded and tasselled couch (upon which she must pose), was surmounted by a black urn standing on a pedestal, whereon was displayed a cluster of pure white orchids and lilies.
 

There was the whisper of a curtain being hastily pushed to one side and Lord Seyton Clover was in front of her. She chewed nervously upon the vermillion painted lips, looking bewildered: she stared with intensity into his strangely transfigured face.

“I, I, I am .... nervous, Your Lordship.”

“And with good reason, my fair damsel, for there are royal personages upon the premises tonight. Do not worry, for I feel utterly confident that you will be superb. SUPERB!”

Charity found herself further at a loss, for the first half of the sentence he breathed upon her, he was saying she had good reason to fear and with the remainder, he was encouraging her, as only he could. She stared, deep into the velvety depths of his shimmering eyes. Dare she ever pull her own stare away from his gaze?

“You...will not....be...far... away, Your Lordship?”

“Not indeed! For do not forget: I shall be conducting the orchestra. It will be after all, Charity, only a performance of a few minutes. But, believe me, you shall bring the house down!”

The audience was becoming increasingly impatient, judging from the hullaballoo they were creating. Obviously they considered that they were being asked to wait an inordinately long stretch of time for what was, after all, only a Bill Filler.

“Who in hell’s teeth,” had hissed Lord Fitzroy Rispian, “was this ‘Hélène de Noir' anyhow?”

None, as far as he could construe, had ever heard of her before. He had some familiarity with the theatres of Paree and it was not a name which fell with seasoned ease from his lips. Lord Rispian was all set for heckling. That surely, was half the enjoyment of attending the theatre, the opera house. What! What an excuse, also, for a roughing-up of those you didn’t like, or couldn't stomach! Yes, a chap had to enjoy himself the best he could and if blooding the noses of a few jumped-up worthies added to the entertainments, then that was the sort of work he was set about enjoying! Not to mention the pinching of a few ample bottoms, nipping a flowing bosom here and there.

At length, silence was called for by the owner of the theatre and an uneasy quiet it was which enshrouded the playing house.

The curtains rose slowly upon a darkened stage. Some devilishly clever technician had been to work: for a subtle spot-light of candle flames transfused the wispy silhouetted figure who stood to the left of centre stage, back turned towards the audience. The conductor’s baton rose and hauntingly beautiful yet melancholic music flooded from the pit into the auditorium.

The figure turned slowly to face the audience, a domino of some black material - with the hint of rainbow-coloured gems flashing along the upper rim, - covering the eyes. The singer opened her mouth, the words were low at first, then rose to an incredible soprano, soaring high into indescribable crescendos.
 

The song was a tale of love and abandonment, of disaster and death. All eyes were fixed upon the tragic figure as she swayed and moved about amidst the shadows and rays which kaleidoscoped the stage.

Abandoning her cape, she cast herself into the pool of its luxuriant mystery, pulling the fabric closer about herself. Rising it fell into fluidic drifts away from her. Her monumental bosom heaving, she sank to the dais, singing like a nightingale – rising to dance like a swan, - before sinking again into a swoon upon the couch, imitating death upon the golden brocade of that support.
 

As though to add an extra dimension to the performance, the air was heavy, redolent with the scents of flowers. The audience was startled into awed silence. Then, as the heavy curtains rolled down, thunderous applause flooded throughout the theatre. An emotion, hitherto unknown, came to Lord Rispian, filling his breast with desire of the enchantress. He was filled with the yearning to possess that enigmatic and entrancing dame - completely to hold her in the breech of his own sturdy arms, to savour her complete fantasy, to know her in total!

A Girl on Stage --  Everett Shinn