Even then, Julia might yet have refused to go, had Ann not dwelt on the possibility of its being the last time they would be privileged to attend for many years, referencing, in a tone of mild surprise, the swift-drawing conclusion of their stay in town. Julia, who had been murmuring her indecision, fell silent, and a few minutes later announced her intention of after all accepting the invitation.
**
Chapter XLI
Ann and Julia were to discover that a necessary prelude to La Clemenza di Scipione was Lady Lenox’s eloquent rehearsal of the superiorities of London, of its conveniences and pleasures, and the unsurpassed elegance of its society. It was clearly not her first performance, nor likely to be her last. While listening to her precise, unfaltering tongue, and noting the smooth fashion in which she glided back and forth between praising her present situation, and lamenting her imminent removal from it, Ann could not but admire the respectful air with which Mr. Lenox attended to a presentation he must have witnessed many, many times before. The girls agreed with their hostess when it was possible, “hmm’d” ambiguously when it was not, and were exceedingly grateful when, in reply to particularly bitter complaints about the inn at Holyhead, and the condition of Welsh roads, Mr. Lenox conceded that neither were designed for a lady’s comfort, and added, “Indeed, ma’am, I know that in returning with us you will inevitably face many hardships. I do not doubt that it is a source of great pleasure for you to recall that Aunt Judith has urged you to join her establishment, if at any time you should find the burdens of your present situation intolerable.”
Whoever this aunt may have been, Ann was delighted to observe that this reference to her hospitable spirit served as the most complete damper on Lady Lenox, checking her laments as thoroughly, as if she feared that one more word on the subject might see the benevolent Judith descending Roc-like on the carriage, to snatch her away to the threatened establishment.
In the pause that resulted from her brief discomfiture, Julia and Ann essayed the introduction of a more general conversation, and accordingly began, with Mr. Lenox, to discuss the plot and characters of the performance they were about to see; a topic so unexceptionable, that even Sir Warrington was able to give an opinion on it, without sounding any more ridiculous than anybody else. (“Whenever I go to an opera,” wrote Lord Chesterfield, “I leave my sense and reason at the door with my half-guinea.”) This inclusion of her eldest son into the principal talk was enough to provoke Lady Lenox to further speech, and plying her fan in an agitated manner, she soon broke in with a pettish remark on the limited space available in the carriage, accompanied by a pointed look at the baronet, who really could not have contained his person in any smaller space without, perhaps, removing his feet and handing them up to the coachman. And having effectively suspended the conversation, she lost no time in improving the opportunity, but began to give them her opinion on weightier matters: “Far be it from her to quarrel with a Bishop, but she really could not see that it made any great degree of difference whether the opera ended precisely at midnight, or thirty minutes after; and certainly, she saw not the slightest reason why they must leave at such an absurdly early hour as eleven.”
As it was Mr. Lenox who had agreed with Mr. Parry on the wisdom of their party seeking its carriage at this unconscionable hour, this was not really the rhetorical complaint it appeared. Mr. Lenox hesitated a moment before replying that, “as they had already spoken on the subject, she knew why he must insist on seeing their guests home at eleven, but that she need not leave so early, if she did not wish it: he could very well return for her after taking Miss Parry and Miss Northcott back to Merrion House; she had only to command him.”
Though highly inconvenient to himself, he proffered this solution without impatience, and Lady Lenox of course responded to it with all the gratitude that really proficient grumblers usually accord to any reasonable effort made to alleviate their complaints: that is to say, she looked as if he had offered her some species of insult, and proceeded to find all manner of fault with the suggestion, demonstrating its utter impracticability in words which, had they not been addressed to dearest Edmund, would have cast grave doubts upon the intellectual competence of anyone capable of thinking even for a moment that such a solution might answer.
Mr. Lenox did not look as if a reception of this sort was any new occurrence in his life, and when her comprehensive rejection of his first suggestion came to its end, he at once ventured another: “It seemed to him quite likely, that as so many of her London acquaintances shared her taste for the opera, one of them could be found who would be delighted to have the opportunity of conveying her back to Berkeley Square after the ballet had ended, for the sake of her company.” The notion of having to solicit a ride in this fashion proved, however, completely repugnant to Lady Lenox’s feelings. When she had done expressing this, Mr. Lenox admitted the merit of everything she had said, and then, with the apparent intention of bringing the singularly fruitless exchange to a close, signified his regret over the inconvenience to which she was being subjected, and said that it was a pity she could not instead direct her grievances to either the manager, or the singers of the opera, who might then be persuaded to make a more concerted effort to bring the performance to a conclusion on the same day that it began.
“You cannot think they make it so long intentionally, I suppose!” she replied. “It is only the difficulty of getting in and out of all those costumes, and placing the scenery. Why, it stands to reason that they would end sooner if it were possible, at least on Saturday! What have they to gain by bringing down the curtain after the second act, and enraging their patrons?”
“What has a naughty child to gain, when he is made to retire at a sensible hour, and mutters and pouts and objects his way beneath the bedclothes? A paltry species of revenge; the satisfaction of knowing that, though he may have submitted to one his superior in power and authority, he has at least managed to do so without the smallest trace of grace or dignity.” The wry look that accompanied this speech seemed to indicate an acquaintance with the resolutions of a small naughty boy, by no means merely conjectural; and a half-smile invited his mother to remember, and admit the comparison.
No answering look was drawn from Lady Lenox--perhaps she could not countenance an implication that her youngest son’s behavior had ever been less than exemplary, even when made by himself--but this view of the matter silenced her for perhaps five minutes; then she sighed, and confided to Ann and Julia, that “she hoped she had not appeared to them to be in any way sacrilegious, but her son so seldom attended her to the opera, that she could not help feeling greatly disappointed, that they were not to be able to stay until its conclusion. But half a loaf, was, of course, better than no bread at all; and her life had been such, that she had learned to be content with whatever she was offered.”
And having made every one in the carriage wish they were elsewhere, she smiled a forgiving I-eat-these-crusts-for-your-sake-my-dearest-Edmund smile, and significantly removed the toes of her slippers another two inches away from Sir Warrington’s.
Ann was hopeful that having disseminated such universal discomfort, their hostess would be satisfied with her accomplishment, and say no more; but Julia having rashly attempted to palliate matters by remarking cheerfully that “though it was perhaps a trifle disappointing not to be able to see the entirety of the performance, she for one did not care for the ballet nearly as much as the singing, and would be glad to escape the usual crush of departure,” Lady Lenox could not remain silent. “The dancing was of all things her delight; the grace, the elegance of the pas de deux, she could not too highly commend. Had Julia been privileged to see the Deshayes’ performance before? No? Then she did not know of what she spoke, and it was doubly tragic that they were to miss it, and for the sake of mere minutes. She appealed yet again to dearest Edmund: surely it was not too much to ask that the delay of half an hour--a period to which even the Bishop could not object--be granted to her, and to these poor dear gi
rls, who would otherwise be denied the glories of the pas de deux.”
One of the poor dear girls said, “Oh, no! That is, you needn’t--” in a faintly protesting voice; the other merely lifted her eyes toward the ceiling of the carriage, and prayed that some act of merciful Providence might relieve them of Lady Lenox once they reached the Theatre. A whirlwind was preferable, but failing that, an invitation to join a box full of royalty should suffice. Ann tried to remember if any of the royal Dukes were said to be particularly fond of the opera.
Mr. Lenox waited a moment to be certain that Julia had truly sentenced her verb to an objectless existence, and then begged his mother’s pardon: he thought he had already explained to her how matters stood, but obviously either his memory had played him false, or his explanation had been stupidly unclear. “If it were only a matter of escaping a crush, ma’am, there would be no difficulty about your request; but Mr. Parry and I had another, more pressing reason for our decision: our distrust of large assemblages of frustrated persons. It is true that for the past few weeks the audience has accepted its dismissal with comparative good-humor; but who can say that it will last? Tonight I may seem unreasonable, but tomorrow you may thank me for sparing you a display of vice, unhallowed by score and libretto.”
Lady Lenox was not noticeably amused by his attempt at lightness. She demanded stiffly what he could mean: “Almost he spoke as if those who attended an opera were to be compared with the vulgar crowds who frequented such things as prize-fights and bear-baitings.”
Once again he paused before replying, as if seeking words that would give least offense. At last he said, “No; but the English are not a submissive people; nor are they a people of such great piety, that any consideration of the claims of the Sabbath will long divert them from the fact that they have paid for a certain measure of amusement, and have not received it.”
Lady Lenox was not pleased; it is possible that angry, reproachful words formed in her mind questioning the judgement of dearest Edmund; conceivable that she might, in another minute, even have voiced them. But at this juncture Sir Warrington, who had obviously been turning the beginning of this exchange over in his head, was now visited by a most alarming idea, which caused him to ask, in a tone of great disquiet, if his brother thought there might be a riot?
Lady Lenox turned on him at once, and in a tone that rang with opprobrious epithets left uttered, ridiculed his use of the word, saying that even he might have been expected to know the difference between an audience composed of English ladies and gentlemen, and a mob of Irish peasants.
Sir Warrington ducked his head; Mr. Lenox, as if he had not heard his mother’s outburst, replied to his brother that no, he had no expectation of anything as energetic as a riot. He did not say anything else on the subject, but the manner in which he did not say it, was enough not only to silence the already-flattened baronet, but also to cause Lady Lenox to perceive the wisdom of suppressing further animadversions on that, or any other, head.
Shortly after this the King’s Theatre was blessedly espied, and they made their way to the box with no more than half a dozen stops for Lady Lenox, who appeared entirely restored to her former Edolatrous ways, to greet this or that acquaintance, and make Mr. Lenox known to them. From the triumph of her manner in doing so, and the polite wariness with which his identity was received, Ann collected, that though he might seldom accompany his mother into those circles of society which she preferred, she had in all likelihood borrowed a page from Sir Warrington’s book, and expounded on dearest Edmund’s talents and opinions during his absence to such a degree, as to make his actual appearance generally dreaded. She presented her other son as well, but with so much the air of submitting to a condition, that Ann was irresistibly moved to picture a scene, in which Mr. Lenox pointed out the impossibility of his acknowledging her introductions of himself, unless his brother also received due notice. Under her dismissive eye, Sir Warrington relapsed into the tongue-tiedness of his first visit to Merrion House, and no doubt deeply relieved his parent, by only bowing and smiling at the mention of his name; afterward turning his head to gaze in mute admiration at his brother, as that gentleman performed the impressive feat, of responding to the murmurs of fashionable persons who find themselves being introduced to those in whom they have not the slightest interest, without once sounding either inane, affected, or premeditatively clever.
It was with considerable relief that Ann and Julia heard themselves being greeted by Mrs. Spenhope, and contrasting her good-natured face, and pleasant manner--she always singled Sir Warrington out for a kind word, whenever they met--with that of their hostess, Ann could not help wishing they were of the Spenhope’s party instead. It was the briefest of respites. When necessary introductions had been made, civilities exchanged, and the continued health of all absent family members established, they were forced to pass on, and fell almost at once into another clutch of Lady Lenox’s acquaintance.
But when the box was finally achieved, Ann felt repaid for all the aggravations involved in reaching it, for almost without any contrivance on her part, the seats were arranged, precisely as she would have wished them to be; and Julia and Mr. Lenox, without being in any way separate from the rest, were so situated, as to make it awkward for Lady Lenox or Sir Warrington to address them rather than Ann, and for them to address any one but each other. Lady Lenox appeared at first rather displeased with this arrangement, but Ann seated herself with the air of one who assumes that she will not be required to move, and summoned up a speech of elaborate praise of the box’s situation. This was an opportunity for Lady Lenox to explain how dearest Edmund had obtained it for her, which she could not resist; and she was so busy implying to Ann that it was some magnificent piece of cleverness for him to have actually seen and answered an advertisement in a newspaper, that she took her own chair without giving voice to any of the objections that might have been assembling on her tongue.
**
Chapter XLII
When Ann had permitted herself to consider the matter, she had always pictured an interminable evening spent with opera in one ear, and Sir Warrington’s prattle, or his mother’s immaculate diction in the other. But in this she had failed to take into account his fondness to music, and instead of being assailed by his softly mangled vowels, she found herself being urgently hushed at the first note of the overture; after which he closed his eyes, and sat in perfect silence throughout, leaving Ann’s mind at liberty to wander, and observe Julia and Mr. Lenox as best she might, without being conspicuous about it. Nor did Lady Lenox offer her any disturbance, at first. She talked and inspected the occupants of the opposite boxes through her glass, and informed Ann of such of their histories as had any interest for herself, until the singing began, and then fixed her attention on the performers with a raptness equal to the baronet’s. Ann respected such musicality, though she did not share it, and when a respite came, and Lady Lenox turned and sighed, as one reluctantly awakened from an ecstatic dream, Ann did not dare speak, until the other pronounced softly, “’Music wakes the soul, and lifts it high, and wings it with sublime desires, and fits it to bespeak the Deity.’” Ann had not yet been able to contrive a response to this, less inadequate than “Indeed, yes,” when Lady Lenox leaned back in her chair, and after another sigh, proceeded to criticize the scenery, the lights, the costume of the villain, the figure of the soprano, the voice of the hero, and the German language entire, and talk about the musical evenings her father (the son of the Duke) used to hold, and all the significant people who came from all over England to hear them. These wonderful times had, of course, ceased abruptly, once she married and went to live in a land where no one had any interest in coming to a musical evening if there was a horse fair to be gone to anywhere within fifty miles.
Ann was pleased to see, that though Mr. Lenox may have felt the same enchantment as his brother, it did not, in his case, prevent him from addressing and receiving the occasional low comment; and once, following a brief inclination
of heads, Ann thought she perceived on his face, as he looked down at her friend, just such an expression, as she had often seen on Mr. Parry’s as he gazed at Lady Frances, when she had made some remark, that he found both absurd and endearing. This naturally kept Ann’s thoughts fully occupied for a considerable time, giving her little opportunity to think how thrice dull an opera was, when there was no one nearby, to whom she dared whisper even the mildest of witticisms at the characters’ expense.
By and by Lady Lenox grew weary of sustaining rapt appreciation, and began making comments, which showed her to be more alert to the conversations taking place in the adjoining boxes, than to those being trilled on the stage. As Ann could not gratify her hostess’s desire to converse without ignoring Sir Warrington’s desire to listen, Lady Lenox was forced to content herself with informing Ann every now and then how much she loved all aspects of the opera; what a pity it was, that such performers, such voices, were not to be found anywhere but in London; and how much she would miss it when they were returned home. The notion that came to her at one point, that this might very well be the last opera of such quality she would ever attend, was enough to draw a sigh from her being, deep enough to extinguish a fifteen-branch candelabra, and reduce her to mournful silence for a good ten minutes. Shortly afterward a whirlwind entered the box.
Ann did not at once recognize it as such. At first, it took on the appearance of a short round woman in a green turban, whose entrance put an end to Lady Lenox’s indulgence in grief, and forced her to assume a tolerable lightness of spirit. Considering that the visitor made every effort to drown out with her voice the last opera of quality Lady Lenox might ever hear, the command of countenance displayed by her ladyship was indeed marvelous. The woman might even have been pardoned for thinking Lady Lenox actually welcomed the disturbance, had she not made it rather clear that she considered the woman’s approaching her to be something of an impertinence--that is, until she learned of certain Persons of Consequence who made up the round woman’s party.
Friendship and Folly: The Merriweather Chronicles Book I Page 27