12 - Mephisto, continued

       Luce strokes the creature absently, his long fingers burying themselves in the rich fur of tawny gold and jet black. It grumbles contentedly as it blinks its fierce amber eyes slowly, stretching out to lie at Luce's feet. Though its great bulk is intimidating – and, indeed, as it yawns, its teeth are an impressive sight – it is quite docile, and we are all aware that it will cause no harm that Luce does not intend. He seems for the moment to be content merely with the disturbance caused by its mere presence. I am certain he allowed a select few to note his entrance this evening, and word of such a delightful outrage will spread quickly and quietly.
       An usher makes one final attempt. “Sir. The staff would like you to be aware that you will be responsible for any damage incurred by this animal, whether to any items or persons.”
       Luce chuckles, and the beast lifts its head to gaze solemnly at the man. Its eyes are made all the more fearsome by the tangle of dark lines around its face, as if they were tattoos on an Oriental mystic, casting some terrible curse. “You will certainly die at my hands,” those eyes read, with a calm certainty. The usher's eyes widen, and he takes an involuntary step backward. The tiger licks its lips with an enormous pink tongue, then settles its head back down, eyes never leaving the petrified man.
       “We are well aware,” Luce replies casually, waving the man away. “Now do leave us be – the curtain shall rise at any moment.”
       The usher returns to the huddle, and I can just hear him insisting to the others that they keep mum about the whole affair, and make certain no knowledge of the beast reaches the excitable general audience. One usher remains just outside the entrance to our box, and his fear is palpable even at a distance.
       Luce's face is serene, but there is gaiety in his dark eyes. “Meres, my dear, I am sorry to have missed a portion of the opening. But the horses took less kindly to my companion than I had anticipated, and I was thus unfortunately delayed.”
       Meres rolls his eyes, trying not to smile in encouragement at Luce's ludicrous actions. “It is quite alright – the plot to the ballet is sparse, and simple enough. Julietta is the main point of interest, as I have told you, and it is quite impossible to neglect watching her, no matter her position on the stage.”
       The rich velvet curtains begin their gentle sweep of the stage floor, folding in upon themselves to reveal a fresh scene, with trees now standing in the garden, and a lovely young man seated at a window, gazing sorrowfully out into it. The nightingale begins to flutter anxiously within view of the window, seeking to hear of his woes. Through gesture and grasping motion, the youth reaches for something unattainable, his hand stretching out and then falling away from an object he cannot possess. A girl, haughty but beautiful, passes across the stage, dancing in stately grace. She dances in precise movements, and a swarm of like maidens soon gathers about her, dancing in perfect tandem, while the young man gazes helplessly after her. It is strange to see – for though she ought to seem a paragon of feminine beauty, in her richly colored dress and fine features, the girl somehow seems drab and dull, when compared to the wild grace of the nightingale. Still, the youth sees only this cold vision of his desire, reaching for some gift with which to please her, but she will not notice him.
       He turns to the garden, and moves about it desperately, his heart breaking for lack of a suitable gift, with which to gain the return of his affections. The nightingale swoops curiously about him, watching raptly, and growing ever more tender toward his longing. She caresses his outstretched hand, she reassures him of her aid. But he is deaf to her comforting song, and turns in despair back indoors, the lights dimming over him in sleep.
       The moon begins to rise, a delicate silver light, and the nightingale flits excitedly about the garden. She thinks only of Love, of the delight which is felt between lovers, and her thoughts are shown by many such pairs, which flit in and out of the flower-filled space. Yet she does not touch them, seeking only for that gift the young man so longs for.
       The curtains fall, but the pause is shorter this time. When they part again, the garden has grown richer, taking again the whole of the stage. The nightingale loops in searching circles about it, at last pausing beside a large rose bush. A slim dancer in rich green and tiny buds of white slips out from behind the bush, and dances alongside the nightingale. A flurry of white roses swirls around them, and the nightingale pauses among them, then continues her search. This is repeated with roses of yellow, which she again considers, but then moves on from, still alone. She approaches a withered rose bush, its leaves tipped with black from a harsh frost. The image of a red rose flits by, but the nightingale cannot grasp it, though she pleads with the bush. At last, the bush resigns, and leans close to whisper something in the nightingale's ear. The nightingale is struck with sorrow for just a moment, then seems to gain courage, and thinks again of the sad youth, yearning for his unattainable love.
       The curtain falls, and rises again, the youth laying in silent dreams on the ground. The nightingale swings around him, dancing joyously, her thoughts all of pure love realized, the splendor of that perfect union of two hearts, one to the other.
       The youth considers the bird a moment, but seems scarcely to hear her, as he sighs and returns indoors, despair still gripping tight his young heart.
       The nightingale pauses for a few moments, seeming timid of her intentions. She flits from tree to tree, and each caresses her in turn, saddened by something but so sweetly tender to the bird that she gains the strength to continue on. At last, she returns to the frost-bitten rosebush, and, with a burst of determination, presses herself tightly against its thorns. A flash of red, and a cry of pain, but she chokes back the sorrow and sings, in melodies of heartbreaking sweetness, singing only of love in its many ages, which flit as dreams through the garden beside her. She presses ever closer to the rose's thorns, and gradually, her brown body begins to stain with red, a living crimson which seeps along the limbs of both bird and tree. She thought of love in youth, as the first glimpses of an unknown beauty, which the heart longs for without knowing reason.
       And a bud formed on the side of the tree, slowly, painful in its slowness, uncurling. Its petals are first colorless in the moonlight, but as the nightingale sings on, it turns a pale flushed pink, and then darker, darker, as the blood flows from the bird to the tree.
       The nightingale sings of passionate love, as a man and woman unite in the heat of their emotion, and the rose's petals are lined with dark fuchsia, though it yet remains pale at its center. The rose flutters lightly in the night breeze, and the bird clings tighter still to the bush – and her song is lost again in a cry of pain. But she recovers her voice, and sings wildly, caught in the bush as they whirl about in an ecstacy of pain and love and longing, and the image of love which survives even death floats by on the wind...
       And the bird's song begins to fade, as a dawn light begins to color the sky.
       One final thrill of yearning melody, one burst of heartbreaking passion, and then all is still. The nightingale falls to the ground, and the rose spreads its fullness wide, crimson as rubies, crimson as only life's blood can be.
       A silver sylph slips out from the moon, skimming light as a moonbeam across the stage, caressing the nightingale's still form tenderly, lingering in the silent garden for a few long moments, then disappearing before the dawn has broken.
       The curtain falls, and the silence remains.
       The curtain rises, and the young man discovers the single red rose in his sunlit garden. He spins about the floor in rapture, and hurries away as the curtain drops for a moment. On its rising, the girl he has dreamed of is seated in a plush room, a swath of palest blue silk draped on a chair beside her. He rushes toward her, holding out the perfect red rose, passionate in his pleas, all delight at having found her gift. But she turns her head away, and gestures toward the pale blue dress, which a red flower would never suit, and then shows him a fine necklace of diamonds and palest sapphires, which she smiles at and holds tenderly to her bosom. The boy is stricken, and then grows angry, throwing the rose into the street, where he sightlessly treads upon it as he storms away from the girl. She continues to dance in contented solitude with her jewels, and he shuts himself in a poorly-lit room, losing his thoughts in books.
       And the moonbeam drifts across the stage, but does not touch the boy, and does not touch the girl, only echoes as best she can the grace of the wild nightingale, whose passion and love were so great, and yet so soon forgotten.

       The lights rise, and the audience applauds, but I scarcely hear them. I do not see the dancers take their bows, for my eyes have filled with tears which I cannot dissipate. I excuse myself hurriedly – I will congratulate Meres later, but I cannot speak idle words of comment and critique in a moment such as this. The usher at the entrance to our box starts at my hurried motion – I suppose he is afraid the tiger has bitten me or some such nonsense – but I will not stop for him. I pass quickly through the still-empty halls, and reach my carriage long before the crowds have left their seats. Once inside, I am safe. They will comment on my rapid departure, but I shall think of some excuse. Better they suspect, than that they see such uncontrolled display...
       And I cannot control it. To see such love – not the simple love of a man for a woman, but that deeper love, which gives all of itself and does not even think of asking a thing in return. That selflessness... it is a subject too delicate for such broad statement. The dance expressed it beyond all words, and I cannot find words with which to explain and thus allay my heartbreak at its expression. The nightingale, singing of love in its purest expression, with her very last breath...
       There is a knock at the carriage door. I neglected to address myself to the driver – he must be inquiring as to my desired destination. I hurriedly brush my eyes with my sleeve, but keep my face hidden in shadow as I open the door. “Take me home. That will be all.”
       “...Mephisto? It is David, may I enter?”

Notes

I was just checking up on when Oscar Wilde's "The Happy Prince and Other Tales" was published, to see if using "The Nightingale and the Rose" as a basis for the ballet was entirely absurd. 1888 - so, the story itself was written sometime before, and either which way, that's right about the correct time period.

I skimmed over Wikipedia's summary of the story (which I might re-read this morning, for reference and for sheer love of the thing), and discovered a good bunch of adaptations of the story have been done, including - totally unbeknownst to me - A BALLET. lmao. Had no idea. From 2007, so totally irrelevant to the story, but that's better for me anyway. Two reviews linger on the 'nets, the first of which is lovely, and, the way the nightingale seems to have been portrayed is *exactly* the thing I had in mind myself. I feel so validated. (The second review was brief and negative, dissing both the story and production, and saying the story was an odd choice for a ballet. I think it's absolutely perfect - simple by way of plot, incredibly rich in emotion.)

P.S. No I have no idea why Luce has brought a tiger to the theater. The thought popped into my head, and it seemed a good whim for him to have. Very decadent and absurd. He demanded to be allowed to do it.