But he pretended that he did not understand. "What did you and Mary row about?" "Oh! Debussy. She thinks him so extraordinary. I don't. No climax, all pretty nuance, not a virile bar in him. A composer who fell asleep and dreamed of Tristan. But after Wagner he is like absinthe after brandy. I like the big, passionate style. I like Rodin. I adore D'Annunzio. Debussy is for artistic capons, and other fearful fowl. But Mary is wonderful. I envy her all the same. I love sumptuous characters. That's why I like to read Mlle de Maupin and also about that perverse puss, Satin, in Nana. She reminds me of Allie, and her pranks—simply adorable, I tell you. Toujours fidèle. But great God, look at the hour! Good-bye, for the present, Jewel. No, don't come to the door: I'll have a hard enough time explaining to those people— they hate each other as do cats and dogs. Don't forget your old sweetheart, Jewel," and she patted his cheek as if he were a schoolboy. He could have killed her. She fled the apartment. But she hadn't said a word about the Munich elopement or the royal lover.
VI
Alfred exploded some nasty phrases when he heard of Easter's début. Close as he was to the Opera direction not a word had been hinted. As a newspaper man he revolted. He wanted the "scoop" for the "Clarion." No one got it; the news was ladled out to all, a regular soup-kitchen affair. He determined to get even with someone, with Easter herself. He had lost heavily that afternoon on the races, and it demanded all Madame Ash's tact to smooth his outraged vanity and feathers. But she did it. She promised to sit beside him that first night. Perhaps Easter wouldn't carry off everything with such a high hand as in Germany ... and there was always Jean de Reszke, not to drag in Edouard, who must be counted ... except Lilli, what Isolde had ever divided the interest of the audience? Jean was peerless. Poor Easter had a rocky road ahead.... Alfred's eyes glistened with malice....
The Great White Way, pleasure-ground of America, is the incandescent oven of the metropolis. Under its fierce glare all felines appear alike. But gray, never. Alfred, who had lived in Europe, noted that the sad-colored procession that slowly moves around Piccadilly Circus, the merry crush of the Friedrichstrasse, and the gayer swirl of the Grand Boulevard, was not so cosmopolitan as Broadway's army. Every nationality helps to swell the stream of petticoats. Lo! this is the City of Dis, he thought, when he saw the maelstrom of faces pass him; faces blanched by regret, sunned by crime, beaming with sin; faces rusted by vain virtue, weary faces, and the triumphant regard of them that are loved. The eyes, the eyes! The city had begun its nocturnal carnival as he went down to the Opera House, and like all organized orgies the spectacle was of a consuming melancholy. No need for him to moralize; cause and effect spoke with an appalling clarity. If Matthew Arnold had been there he would have called Gotham, not Lutetia, the spot where is most worshipped the Great Goddess of Lubricity. Through this volcano of noise, a sinister medley of farce and flame, the Will-to-Enjoy wound like a river of red-hot lava. The day-birds are gone to bed; night-fowl are afield. The owl is a denizen of the dark, yet Minerva's wisdom is not to be found. Even the cats are bathed in the blaze of publicity. Alfred reached the Metropolitan....
All operatic triumphs resemble each other; it is the failures that differ. The début of Istar—how that exotic name did boldly stand out on the bill-boards!—as like the début of the pre-elected. From the rising of the curtain when she hurls her angry disdainful: "Wer wagt mich zu hohnen?" her success was assured. In the first entr'acte Madame Ash said to Alfred: "That settles it." He didn't quite agree with her. He went to Easter's dressing-room. He was not admitted. It looked as if she intended to burn behind her all her boats and bridges; but a few words from Jean, always considerate to débutantes, confirmed Madame Ash's judgment. At the dress-rehearsal Easter had been rotten. That, averred Jean, was sure sign of success. And it was a brilliant success. This audacious American girl came, sang, conquered. She actually divided honors with Tristan. After the last curtain she received an unmistakable personal call. It was for her alone and Jean graciously left the field free. As cool as usual she made a little speech:
"Thank you, dear people. Thank you for your indulgence. It is my début in my beloved land. I am an American-born girl. My first teacher, and my best, was my mother...." The audience received this filial sentiment with overwhelming applause. "Does that young lady know the ropes?" ironically inquired Alfred. "Mother first and best teacher!—that's the stuff to put over for the sentimental imbeciles. And isn't she grateful? Not a word about you—not a word about Lilli or Cosima—that girl has won out in a "walk," he added. As they pushed through the guzzing throng—Max Hirsh told them that the gate-money was bigger than at any other opening night for seasons—they heard nothing but praise. It was Istar here, Istar there, everywhere Istar! The sound of the exotic name seemed to hypnotize the mob. Madame Ash smiled:
"Are you green enough to expect gratitude from a singer? I think the 'mother' allusion was a master-stroke. Esther is a genius."