“I—I—have,” began Zuleime, passing her hand back and forth across her forehead, “I have been taking opium to stop my cough. I—never was used to it, and I think it has bewildered me a little; don’t you think so?”
“I think something has! Wake up, and try to listen to what is going on. Mr. —— is going to sing now. Come off.”
As the girl led her away between the walls of canvas, one of those insignificant incidents occurred, upon which nevertheless the fate of hundreds sometimes hang. Away among the back scenes through which they passed to reach the green-room, there was a chandelier hanging flaring in the draught. A boy seemed busy with it.
“Hoist it up higher, sir, why don’t you?” exclaimed one of the players, who happened to come up.
“If I do, it will set fire to the scenes,” replied the boy.
“Confound your insolence, do you think I would give you the order, if there were the least danger! Do as you are directed, sir.”
The boy obeyed; and the scenery instantly took fire. The chandelier was hastily drawn down; the alarm was given in the rear of the stage, and a scene shifter directed to cut the cords by which the combustible material was suspended. But the man became panic struck and fled.
The performers and their assistants in vain sought to take down the scenery. The canvas was covered with a resinous composition, and the draught of wind was strong; and Zuleime and her companion were swiftly encircled by walls of blazing canvas. The strong girl, terror-stricken, left her weak companion and fled. And the poor invalid, forgotten by all in the terror and confusion, sank down overpowered, suffocated by the heat and smoke. All this had happened in less than three minutes from the raising of the chandelier.
And at this time one of the performers was playing near the orchestra, and the greater part of the stage, with its appalling danger, was fatally concealed from the audience by the curtain. The flames spread with the rapidity of lightning; and the first notice the audience had of their danger, was the fire falling from the ceiling upon the head of the performer. Even then many supposed it to be a part of the play, and were for a short time restrained from flight by a cry from the stage that there was no danger. But soon the fire flashed in every part of the house with a rapidity horrible and appalling. Then terror seized upon the hearts of all, and the audience broke up in confusion. Those in the pit escaped by the pit entrance, and were every one saved. Those in the boxes, who, had they known it, might at first have escaped by way of the pit, all turned and hurried towards the only door of egress into the lobby. This door was unfortunately hung to open on the inside. And this circumstance was fatally overlooked by the frenzied crowd, who pressed and pressed against the door, trying to push it open, but really keeping it fast closed. The fire advanced upon them, filling the house with suffocating smoke, and with flame that seized the clothing of those behind, goading them horribly to still more frantic pressure upon those before. The most frightful uproar ensued; women shrieking, praying—men groaning, expostulating; all crowding one upon another, or rather hundreds upon hundreds, and all pressing towards the door that would not yield. The pit was now a lake of fire, darting out huge tongues of flame that wound themselves around the forms of the hindmost, who fell shriveled into the blaze. Then arose cries of horror, anguish and despair—children crying for lost parents, and parents calling in agony upon the names of missing children—for in the fierce pushing and struggling for life, parties got separated and families divided—children forced from the parents, women from their protectors, and the weaker unconsciously thrown down and trampled to death by the strong. Many, half roasted, dropped into the burning pit; many with their garments in flames, maddened by pain and terror, threw themselves headlong from the windows, and met another death. Many even chanced to save their lives in that way at the cost of broken limbs. And at last the door yielded; and as many as possible escaped that way; but to what a life, alas! darkened forever by the memory of dearest relatives and friends who perished in the fire. The whole building was now in flames. In less than an hour all was over. Naught remained but a heap of smoking ruins; and around them the agonized crowd of those who lived and raved—and around these again, an awe-struck, mourning city.