"She sees far, I think," he murmured, scarcely moving his sensitive lips.
Charmian sat watching his pale forehead, his white eyelids.
CHAPTER XXXII
The respective publicity agents of the two opera houses had been so energetic in their efforts on behalf of their managements, that, to the Senniers, the Heaths, and all those specially interested in the rival enterprises, it began to seem as if the whole world hung upon the two operas, as if nothing mattered but their success or failure. Charmian received all the "cuttings" which dealt with the works and their composers, with herself and Madame Sennier, from a newspaper clipping bureau. And during these days of furious preparation she read no other literature. Whenever she was in the hotel, and not with people, she was poring over these articles, or tabulating and arranging them in books. The Heaths, Claude Heath, Charmian Heath, Claude Heath's opera, Armand Gillier and Claude Heath, Madame Sennier's quarrel with Claude Heath, Mrs. Heath's brilliant efforts for her talented husband, Joseph Crayford's opinion of Mrs. Charmian Heath, how a clever woman can help her husband—was there really anything of importance in this world except Charmian and Claude Heath's energy, enterprise, and ultimate success?
From the hotel she went to the Opera House. And there she was in the midst of a world apart, which seemed to her the whole of the world. Everybody whom she met there was concentrated on the opera. She talked to orchestral players about the musical effects; to the conductor about detail, color, ensemble; to scene-painters about the various "sets," their arrangement, lighting, the gauzes used in them, the properties, the back cloths; to machinists about the locusts and other sensations; to the singers about their rôles; to dancers about their strange Eastern poses; to Fakirs about their serpents and their miracles. She lived in the opera, as the opera lived in the vast theater. She was, as it were, enclosed in a shell within a shell. New York was the great sea murmuring outside. And always it was murmuring of the opera. In consequence of Jacob Crayford's great opinion of Charmian she was the spoilt child in his theater. Her situation there was delightful. Everybody took his cue from Crayford. And Crayford's verdict on Charmian was, "She's a wonderful little lady. I know her, and I say she's a peach. Heath did the cleverest thing he ever did in his life when he married her."
Charmian really had influence with Crayford, and she used it, revelling in a sense of her power and importance. He consulted her about many points in the performance. And she spoke her mind with decision, growing day by day in self-reliance. In the theater she was generally surrounded, and she grew to love it as she had never loved any place before. The romance and beauty of Djenan-el-Maqui were as nothing in comparison with the fascination of the Monster with the Maw, vast, dark, and patient, waiting for its evening provender. To Charmian it seemed like a great personality. Often she found herself thinking of it as sentient, brooding over the opera, secretly attentive to all that was going on in connection with it. She loved its darkness, the ghostly lightness of the covers spread over it, the ranges of its gaping boxes, the far-off mystery of its galleries receding into a heaven of ebon blackness. She wandered about it, sitting first here, then there, becoming intimate with the monster on whom she sometimes felt as if her life and fortunes depended.
"All this we are doing for you!" something within her seemed to whisper. "Will you be satisfied with our efforts? Will you reward us?"
And then, in imagination, she saw the monster changed. No longer it brooded, watched, considered, waited. It had sprung into ardent life, put off its darkness, wrapped itself in a garment of light.