Of Kings and Things

by Eric Stanislaus Stenbock

I never understood what dancing meant before. She did not so much dance, as actually float about the stage. There was a vertiginous poetry in her every movement. No wonder indeed that the hero forsakes his fiancée for her sake! Who would not? No wonder indeed again that when she appears the second time two men rush at one another on murder intent!

  The applause was enthusiastic. Surely—was this hallucination? When she stood still, a slight quiver still lingering in her limbs, to salute the audience, I thought to see the face of the girl I had seen in the omnibus. Surely I could not mistake that face. When she danced she seemed absolutely beautiful—inspired: of course she was painted and had on a wig. What gave certainty to my evidence was, as a flash of light caught her hand, there was the identical, peculiar ruby set in silver, which I had seen on her hand before. Beyond the single ruby she wore no jewel whatsoever. So she became to be more mysterious than ever.

  The third time I saw her was under still different circumstances. I was taking my, I may say well-earned holiday in Vienna, and was more or less staying with my old friend Professor Kóvacs. When I say more or less, I mean I had rooms at an hotel but usually took my meals with my friend.

  On the day in question Dr. Kóvacs had to attend some important case, at the throat hospital—that was his spécialité: but we had arranged to meet in the evening and go to the opera, which was to be followed by a ballet called La Mort de Cléopâtre in which La Girandola was to appear in the ‘title rôle’.

  I had been talking to my friend about La Girandola, and urged him to come and see her. So that day I dined at the hotel, after the Austrian custom, in the middle of the day, at the table d’hôte.

  Who should be sitting opposite me, and exactly at the other corner, as in the omnibus, but La Girandola herself! This time also she was dressed entirely in black; but this time not without elegance: a smoke-coloured ruffle round her neck gave a sort of piquancy to her face, which made me think she would look pretty, if she would only smile. But her pale face had still the same fixed expression of utter sadness—a sadness, it seemed to me, not essential or ingrained, but brought on by some particular cause; it was not a face that would not smile if it could—and also the same wistful, appealing expression, as of a punished dog.

  She spoke to no one. Indeed, she had purposely placed herself two chairs off her next door neighbour. She scarcely seemed to eat anything: but for a girl drank a good deal. Every now and then she would look at me steadfastly, but timidly.

  As I was leaving the table for the smoking-room, someone touched me lightly on the shoulder. ‘May I speak to you for an instant?’ a low, thrilling voice said.

  I turned round. There was La Girandola. With a slight blush and slight stammer, she continued: ‘I wish to consult you professionally.’

  I answered, ‘I have no right to practise here—’

  ‘Oh yes, I know that,’ she said rapidly, ‘but you are English, and knowledge of the German language is not my strong point.’ Here the ghost of a smile flitted across her face; which gave me a new idea of her. If she could smile like that at all she must have a profound sense of humour. It was merely the flicker of a smile of former days—and her face almost immediately regained its wonted sadness.

  ‘I can explain to you what I want so much better.’

  ‘If that is the case,’ I said, ‘perhaps you would not mind coming to my salon. But of course all advice given is gratuitous.’ She followed me without a word. Then when we arrived at my salon, she remaining standing and said, rapidly and monotonously, somewhat like a child reciting a lesson:

  ‘Well I had better be frank with you at once. I am unfortunately in the habit of taking morphia. On the way here both the bottle of morphia and the hypodermic syringe got smashed in my portmanteau. Now here in Austria no chemist will give one drugs on any account without a prescription; and a fresh supply which was forwarded to me is detained at the Custom House, and nothing will induce them to deliver it. The Custom Officer said,’ she said, this time actually laughing, “if God Himself applied for it he could not get it here in Austria.”’

  Then she continued, more vivaciously: ‘I am not asking you to pander to vice. But of course you don't know who I am. I am the person they call La Girandola, and I have to dance tonight at the Opera. If I don't get the morphia I shall be incapable of dancing at all. And as the Crown Prince is going to be present, I could scarcely excuse myself on the ground of indisposition, especially as there is no sort of understudy to take my part. All I want you to do is to give me a dose for to-night, and order me a hypodermic syringe.’

  So was this her commonplace secret! No: I thought not.

  In my spécialité I have come in contact with morphinomaniacs as much as anyone in the world. But she certainly had not the character of a confirmed morphinomaniac. But she had evident traces of hysteria about her, and very probably had to have recourse to narcotics on particular occasions.

  ‘My dear young lady,’ I said: ‘I understand the awkward predicament in which you are placed. For this once I will write you a prescription: and have it countersigned by a Viennese Doctor, and sent to the Apotheke “zum Bären”, where on presenting one of these, my cards, and saying what you have come for—the man can talk English—you will receive it, about 4 or 5 o’clock this afternoon. But in return you must promise to come and see me tomorrow, and allow me to give you a little lecture about morphia generally.’

  ‘Oh, thank you!’ she said eagerly, smiling again. ‘I promise to come tomorrow: that is, if—if I am still alive,’ she said, with a little laugh. Then putting an envelope on the table, she disappeared without giving either name or address.

  I took up the envelope, and inside were a hundred guldens, a very large fee for Austria, where doctors are good and cheap. I went afterwards to return it but could not find her: and so thought I would wait until tomorrow.

  Kóvacs turned up somewhat late. So we only got in for the second act of the Opera; which did not matter much, as it was the ballet we had come to see. The Opera was a short three-act one of no particular merit. We were seated in the stalls. In a proscenium box on the right hand side sat, or rather shone, the most superbly beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life. She was looking, with a slight smile of languid indulgence, on the performers—especially the female performers—with an expression of authority as of one accustomed to criticize, and whose approval was worth winning.

  What a splendid creature! Dark-haired, with a perfect classic profile; and large, slumberous, somewhat heavy lidded eyes. Her hair was bound in classic fashion; and her dress was audaciously simple: she obviously wore no corset. Indeed, with her superb bust, just like that of the Venus of Milos, what need had she for one? She wore a simple classic robe, made exactly in the Greek fashion, of thin white soft clinging material, with a border of silver, making a diagonal stripe. The silver was studded with pearls, and occasional small rubies, and turquoises. Round her neck she wore a magnificent rivière of diamonds, clasped at the throat by a large ruby of extraordinary but peculiar lustre: in fact an exact counterpart, although rather larger, of the one that I had seen on the hand of La Girandola; which, while I sat talking to her that afternoon, I had had more opportunity of observing.

  At the end of the second act, Kóvacs rose from his seat and bowed to the lady in the box: which salutation she returned. Oh what sensuous languor there was in her every pose or gesture!

  ‘You know her?’ I said, ‘who is she?’

  ‘Oh, don't you know?’ he said: ‘that is the Duchesse de Morlaix, better known as La Cagliari. Of course you have heard of her—the celebrated contralto. My acquaintance with her has been more or less of the professional sort. She very kindly gave me permission to examine her larynx and make diagrams: as I wished to know how such a magnificent voice could be produced. What you have missed, never having heard her! Now she won't sing on stage anymore: thinking that no doubt below the dignity of a Duchess: and indeed can seldom be induced to sing in private. She is very different now to wha
t she used to be before she married. You see that “junger Geck” with the monocle behind her in the box? That is her husband, a Duke and a millionaire. She does not seem to set much store on him, does she?’

  ‘Oh, of course, I have heard of her,’ I answered: ‘and always longed to hear her. Unfortunately, my busy time comes, for obvious reasons, just during the London Opera Season.’

  Here the third act began.

  I could not take my eyes off her, and quite forgot to look at the opera. Somehow, although her expression was neither cruel nor evil, the words kept repeating themselves to me like a Litany, ‘Ave! faustina Imperatrix, morituri te salutant.’

  At the end of Act III she turned round to her husband. He was obviously saying ‘Shall we go or shall we stay?’; and she was obviously saying ‘Let me see the programme—if it's worth staying for.’

  They had evidently taken a box for the season and had not even troubled to see what was coming, and dropped into the opera or not as they felt inclined. The husband produced a programme and handed it to her. She looked down the programme languidly; with a faint, half satirical, half good-humoured smile on her divine lips.

  Then suddenly she seemed to give a slight start. A faint momentary flush came over her marble skin. Then she turned round to her husband with a rapid glance.

  He went out of the box and presently returned with a tumblerful of champagne which she took at one gulp. Then she recomposed herself. But her eyes were no longer slumberous, but had an expression of interest: indeed even of painful interest, as far as that face could express pain at all.

  Anyhow, she meant to stay.

  Much as I had been impressed by La Girandola the first time I saw her, I could not but think that Cleopatra would be the very last rôle suited to her. To look the part how very much better the woman in the box would be. Then again, Cleopatra would be about the last person one would expect to dance; although Théophile Gautier represents her as doing so. Still there is no knowing what she might do. The music anyhow would be interesting, because it was a relic of that young Belgian composer who died so suddenly, Sybrandt von den Velden, I think his name was, whom my wife having heard in Belgium, so very much praised. I have very great faith in her judgment in such matters.

  So I was interested for several reasons.

  The first bar struck up. The music indeed was very remarkable.

  The gipsies pretended to have come from Egypt. I believe it is proved they did not come from there. Still they might have brought their peculiar music thence. We really do not know what ancient Hellenic music was like. It could hardly have been, to judge by its effects on its hearers, like the Byzantine music of Mount Athos, and old fashioned Greek monasteries and churches: especially as it was always accompanied by stringed instruments. I can quite fancy that the amalgamation of Greek and Semitic music, as it must have been in Cleopatra's time, was not wholly unlike the Gipsy music of to-day.

  The music of the ballet in question, although of course softened and elaborated in modern cadences, might give one some fair idea of what that music may have been like. Of course the thing began with a sort of Nautch Dance. Then Cleopatra rowed up reclining in her barque. The scenery, by the bye, was exceptionally good.

  There in the barque was my little friend, reclining gracefully, in a sensuous languorous kind of way, very much like the lady in the box. Indeed it struck me at the time that the imitation was even meant to be intentional. Anyhow, she looked uncommonly well, as Cleopatra, or at least, much better than I should have thought.

  Then she landed from her barque, and danced. Her face had again that ecstatic expression: again she looked beautiful. Everything the voluptuous and the sensuous could desire was expressed in that dance. It seemed small wonder that the potentates of the earth were willing to make themselves her slaves. And yet the dance consisted of merely a few simple steps. I don't know how I can describe it. She seemed to be literally dancing the music. Then at the same time it seemed that if she had danced it without the musical accompaniment the music would have struck up of its own accord from some invisible quarter. It was rather remarkable that although she was impersonating the Queen of Egypt, she wore no jewellery at all, with the exception of the one ruby ring, with which I was already familiar. What was most remarkable, while she was dancing her eyes seemed fixed, with a wistful appealing, reproachful glance, on the beautiful woman in the box.

  Although frantically applauded she did not smile, but merely looked up at the box.

  The Duc de Morlaix made some remark to his wife: she remained absolutely immobile, and did not attend to him.

  I will pass over the other details of the ballet and come to the final scene: where Cleopatra kills herself with the asp which—people do not generally seem to know—is the long Egyptian cobra. A wonderfully realistic snake it was. Even I myself, who am, by way of being a zoologist, was deceived for a moment. But the colours were too brilliant.

  Then commenced the Dance of Death. She fondled the snake, and made it glide over her with indescribable grace: gliding at the same time round herself with a serpentine motion as though she and the snake had become one. Several of the audience turned pale with a sort of vague terror. The beautiful Cagliari seemed to have become marble indeed. She moved no muscle: her eyes had the expression of a statue.

  Then the dance became more and more wonderful: an appeal for Life, a remonstrance against Fate, the terror of Death, one last sigh—then the weariness of Life, the Joy of Death welcomed as a bridegroom, then the solemn dignity of Death, awful and mysterious, whose shrines are the Pyramids of Egypt—all this she expressed merely by the motions of her body.

  Then to a singularly beautiful, languorous motif, she floated over the stage once more, taking to her bosom Death, in the form of the asp, as the consoler of the afflicted. In this last dance she contrived to combine all she had expressed before at once: then she gave one glance—only one—(did anyone notice it, except myself?) towards the woman in the box.

  It was evident it had not failed in its mark. Her statue-like form trembled, however much she tried to conceal it. Then wrapping the serpent round her, with a very sweet smile, she put the mouth of the serpent to her bosom, gave one convulsive shudder, and died.

  Never had I seen a performance so ideal, and yet so realistic: the latter fact seemed to strike the audience emphatically—and they applauded furiously. But she did not get up. Someone behind me said:

  ‘How stupid these people are! It would spoil the entire effect if she got up. But fortunately she has really too much artistic sense to attempt to do so.’

  And that was exactly what I thought myself.

  Just as I and Dr. Kóvacs were going out, someone came to us hurriedly and said:

  ‘Come at once! You are Doctors. She is frightfully, dangerously ill.’

  Then turning to me he said: ‘You, Herr Doctor, I think are English. Perhaps you do not know that she is also English, in spite of her Italian pseudonym. She seems just now simply in a dead faint: though I think it is something much worse. If she would come to, she could explain herself to you. Anyhow, come here quickly! and I will show you what has happened.’

  He took us hurriedly behind the scenes. He first of all showed us the Egyptian asp. In the mouth of the asp was ingeniously introduced a hypodermic syringe, with means in the neck to press it.

  A cold perspiration came to my forehead. So I had been indirectly responsible for the manslaughter of this girl. I too (pride and selfishness ever surge into one's thoughts!) might well have known that she was not one accustomed to take large quantities of morphia.

  ‘How on earth did she get the hypodermic syringe?’ asked Dr. Kóvacs. ‘They are rather particular about these things in Austria. But I suppose she brought it with her. She has evidently been playing tricks with it. I daresay it's really all right: let's go and see her.’

  I did not dare to tell Kóvacs the truth at that moment. So I simply agreed to his words—‘Yes, let us go and see her,’ taking the hyp
odermic syringe with me.

  It did not require much investigation to find that she had not fainted, but was dead: with all the symptoms, if I may use the word, of one who had died suddenly and violently. This (it may seem atrocious at the moment to say so) raised a ray of hope in my mind. If she had died only from morphia injection, the manifestations would have been quite different. The syringe was not quite empty. I poured a few drops in to a glass, and—it was not morphia! I am a doctor, a sober and sensible person: and it would never do for me to lose my head. Just then I felt as if I were in the whirl of a dream.

  Yes, of course, the dance, the beautiful woman, the whole thing must have been all a dream caused by my overstrained nerves, to recruit which I had come abroad. It was clear I had prescribed too large a dose for La Girandola. I certainly had lain down for some time after dinner.

  Kóvacs said: ‘We must analyse this.’

  This brought me to my senses: no, it was certainly not a dream, but a reality. And scarcely had Kóvacs said these words, when someone violently burst into the room.

  It was the beautiful woman of the box. She went straight to the recumbent corpse: ‘Ethel!’ she said in English, with a slight foreign accent, very tenderly: ‘Ethel dear, don't you know me?’

  Then she burst out into Italian: ‘O Etelina, O Poverina! Wake up! It is I that am calling you. I, Giacinta! Why did you run away from me, you naughty little wretch?’

  Then she called her by several pet names; and continued lamenting in Italian.

  Then walked in the Duc de Morlaix, holding in his hand an ermine lined cloak: ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I have come to fetch you, and brought your cloak.’

  She froze at once into marble again. Then turning to me she said, this time in excellent English, with little or no trace of foreign accent: ‘I suppose Doctor, it is merely a fainting fit, she was always subject to these.’

  There was such an obvious insincerity about the ring of her voice, that I comprehended at once that she understood the whole situation.