Motion Picture Classic (May 1921 - Dec 1927)

CLASSIC had gone out to her, until she saw the strange look of his eyes. He seemed to be gazing at someone that stood between them, someone she could not see. “Sophia! You come to me with flowers picked from their graves ’’ A shiver went down her spine. Almost she could see what he saw, a slim, young girl holding a bunch of wild flowers, watching him anxiously, pleading with him silently. With a violent effort Rosa turned and hurried from the room. As the door closed, she heard his voice, inexpressibly tragic, “Yes, ! I know I mustn’t love her, Sophia ! She belongs to Ames, -after this — besides a dead man yes doesn’t she? I’ll remetnberhasn’t any business — loving — ” To her relief Dimitri did not come to the attic studio hereafter while she was taking her lessons. Scales were abandoned for more ambitious effort. For Griffeth had composed an opera and a rich pupil of his had induced her mother to put it on at a charity fete at her country house. “It will be splendid practice for you, Miss Marcella,” he told Rosa eagerly, “of course your voice isn’t trained yet, but I’m almost sure that some day you can get a chance at grand opera. It’s perfectly amazing how you’ve developed since you began taking lessons — why; your voice is like a jewel — a ruby, all warm lights and fire!” “You will sing?” the Signora demanded in pulpy disapproval, “for this poor unknown one you will risk losing all? If Mr. Ward should hear that you have broken your pledge? You are a fool !” “It is his chance,” Rosa said softly, with far-away eyes, “he has written beautiful music, and if it is sung beautifully — who knows ? He may be another Puccini !” In her musician’s brain doubt stirred, a doubt of the genius of Griffeth Ames’s work ; the suspicion that it was merely pretty, but her heart denied it. She wished passionately to believe in him, to find him great, worthy of any sacrifice. Sitting beside him on the shabby sofa in his miserable lodging on the night of the charity fete, she was acutely conscious of him, and when their fingers touched in turning the sheets of music a pang of joy so keen that it was like pain swept her. If she could have suffered for him she would have rejoiced — the need of sacrifice she felt was almost maternal. To fling away her future for him was nothing. Her exaltation swept her on thru the evening. The faces in the audience were dream faces, the roar of applause that grew in enthusiasm as the evening passed was unheard in the tumult of her thoughts, and for the first time in all her conscious years she sang not for herself but for someone else, not for her own glory but to embroider his art, to enrich his melody. The dream persisted after the curtain fell, remained with her until she found herself at home in her own apartment, gazing at a radiant reflection in her mirror, a girl with eyes brighter than the blaze of her mother’s jewels. “I love him !” Rosa cried, La Tosca in her pride of passion, Marguerite in her humility, “how strange the world looks ! It is as tho 1 had just been born ’’ She felt that she must see him, now — tonight, before she could sleep. Moving to the telephone, she called up the attic studio. “Griffeth? I — I called you — ” shame swept her in a hot flood. She could not give until he asked. Her brain worked swiftly, supplying words, “Signora Torani is away tonight. I am foolish, but somehow I am timid — if you could come and reassure me — you will be here ? Till then ” The peal of the door bell sounded thru the silence of the apartment as she hung up the receiver. She hesitated an instant, then went to the door, admitting Ogden Ward. The Opera Director's red face was suffused with rage as he closed ( Continued on page 79) “I’ll write great operas for you to sin$,” he cried exultantly, seeing himself leading her out before an audience shouting his name with bravas (Thirty-one)