12 - Mephisto, continued

       Meres hesitates a moment as he reaches for his drink, then sighs as he brings it to his lips. “I had thought, for a moment, that he had forgotten to bring Veri's drink. But once again, he has chosen to remain in his own rooms, alone...”
       “He did not come to see this production you have put so much time into?” I am rather surprised at this – Veri is perhaps the most selfish among us, and yet, he and Meres are so very close. It is quite a slight.
       “No. He gave the usual excuses, but I still do not know what truly troubles him, and I have tired of searching for the answer. He can find it for himself.” His voice is unusually dull, and the flatness is quite obviously covering over a very, very deep emotion. What a pathétique little drama these two are bound in! I sip my wine slowly, letting the richness of ancient grapes soak into my tongue, savoring the rich woody flavor, that strange blend of bitter and sweet.
       “Our young protégés seem to be enjoying your creation quite thoroughly,” I comment as my eyes fall on the box beside ours. David and Claude are seated as close as possible to the railing, apart from the small handful of others in the box, who sit farther back and talk amongst themselves, caring little for the enchanting things on the distant stage. The boys seem entranced - Claude by the artistry in the sets and costumes, the grace of the dancer's motions, the beauty of every curve traced in the air by a well-toned limb. David, it is a little more difficult to discern, but I suspect he is enthralled by the interplay between the music and motions, the way the two compliment each other in their expressions, each making the other grander by association. He has not been to such a grand ballet as this before, and I am eager to hear of his reactions to it. The dear boy lacks for grace in his own motions, but I suspect it makes him all the more admiring of that quality in others.
       Meres smiles as he looks over at the young men. “I am glad of it. Claude's paintings became so prosaic in his years of schooling, I am trying to bring some more exotic flavors to them. His figures are too posed, as well – I hope he shall learn something of the beauty in motion, and perhaps discover some new positions to make use of.”
       I raise an eyebrow at this, the corner of a smile on my lips as I look at Meres. “Are you not able to show him different positions yourself?”
       He laughs, and taps his glass lightly against mine. “Perhaps soon. I worry about overwhelming the boy too soon, you know.”
       “He did seem rather shy at such suggestions, by Luce's account.”
       Meres groans, and settles back in his seat, taking another sip from his glass. “Luce ought to consider something besides his own amusement from time to time. I could hardly get Claude to look me in the eye for a quarter of an hour, before he managed to blurt out enough that I understood what Luce had suggested. A common thing among ourselves, but to such a new entrée in our little clique? He was absolutely distraught, and now I shall have to spend a good deal more energy in reconciling him to such ideas. He was coming along so nicely! That painting of David and Jonathan, he has been doing without any – or, very little – input from myself. But I suspect he has kept from his own conscious thoughts the desires which he has put into their eyes. For though he may have yearnings, so long as he does not name them, he cannot feel guilty about them. I had hoped to make use of this, to bring him into situations he dared not imagine but had longed for nonetheless... but now I shall have to find a new tactic.”
       I nod thoughtfully, smiling to myself. “David is quite similar in that – he will not call a rose by name, but he will indulge in the rich scent of it all the same.”
       We return our full attention to the stage, watching as the dancers swirl around each other. A garish canary, a bold cardinal, and a mocking jay, curl around the stage in procession, moving in perfect synchronization. Their motions are so like that it is as though one watched a single dancer through a kaleidoscope, the image fractured into several of different hue. There is a superb attitude to their motions, making the character of these birds quite clear. They are snobbish creatures, delighting in their own vivid plumage, exuding a superiority over all the world, confident in their own perfections. They snub the poor drab nightingale, darting near her and then quickly away, spinning about her with such speed that she is left dizzy, unable to follow and bewildered in their wake. She stumbles about the stage piteously, and a piccolo cries out in sharp pangs of pain from the orchestra. She slows, then stops, and though the other three flutter around the edges of the stage, it seems that all the world is still. Her presence is so strong that all the attention of all the theater has been drawn to her, and she holds it tight in her motionless frame, binding all to the stillness of herself. The audience, the world, is powerless to her in this moment.
       It is this moment that I most admire. A smile widens across my face, and I wait with bated breath for her to move, that my heart might resume its beating.
       It seems that she smiles too. She takes a few tiny steps, slowly, as if regaining her balance. Lifting to her toes, she stutters in a few looping circles around the stage, her arms lifting gracefully, her body tilting from one side to the other, in exemplars of ballet tradition. She copies the motions of the other birds in perfect measure, then pauses for half of a heartbeat, and leaps boldly across the stage, throwing herself into the air in a fresh burst of passion, as though she had been constrained by such staid motions as those of the other birds, and was now breaking free. She tumbles and whirls around the floor, again with the moves of an acrobat, flying in the faces of the more conservative birds, laughing as she flips and twirls. Flutes duet in an ecstasy of trills and darting countermelodies, and the girl dances as a waterfall, fluid and smooth and unceasing, a tangible power of exhortation in every gesture.
       The other birds cry out in dismay, casting about with stilted motions, but the nightingale flies about them in joyous circles. The other birds soon confine themselves to the edges of the stage, letting the drab nightingale steal all the glory, her purity of heart outshining all their vainglories.
       Such is the opening to the ballet – the lights fall slowly, and the orchestra swells, the curtains flowing across the stage. When they open again, the story will begin, and yet for me, I think the climax has already occurred. This Julietta has entirely stolen the show, and the remainder of it hardly needs heeded, save where she is present. I wonder what the papers will make of her on the morrow? For while I find her exhilarating, I am sure there will be argument against her, for her complete disregard for the refined traditions of the ballet.
       I turn to Meres, and begin to congratulate him on such a coup, when a low growl attracts my attention. My eyes move quickly toward the sound, and I join in the laughter of those around me. It seems Luce arrived at some point during the opening scene, while our attentions were on the stage, and he has brought with him a pet, which has thrown the ushers into fits of consternation. Luce rests easily in a plush chair in the corner of the box, and holds a golden chain studded with topaz, which restrains (so hope the ushers!) a tiger, I suspect not quite fully grown, though it is more than enough to upset the staff!
       The ushers are huddled in a terrified cluster at the entrance to the box, and every few moments one approaches Luce, with some argument that he waves off breezily, petting the tiger absently.
       “But, sir... you must be aware of the panic such a creature could cause.”
       “Only if he is seen by the general public. Which he will not, so long as he remains in our box.”
       “But, sir, the manager of the establishment would not want---”
       “---his financial endowment to disappear, yes, I agree. You will allow me to enjoy the performance in peace then?”
       Flustered, the usher starts to speak again, then abandons the idea and returns to the huddle. Another usher approaches, attempting to look stern. He steps directly in front of Luce, who gazes up at him with all the calm of a child lying peacefully abed.
       “Now, sir, if you would kindly cease such games. We cannot have such a beast in such a refined establishment.”
       “Oh I assure you, he is quite refined! Why, that growl was merely his comment on the sour note the second viola hit in that final chord. Did you not notice it?”
       The usher thinks quickly, seeing that no appeal to the common social rules will work in this case. “Sir. There are no seats for tigers in the building. He has no ticket.”
       “But we have bought the box for the entirety of the season. Are not at liberty to populate it as we wish? I have given you no ticket for myself, nor for my other companions here, and yet you gave us no trouble.”
       Now, the usher seems defeated. He returns to the huddle, and they murmur loudly to each other, entirely consternated.