Roy J. Snell

“ Petite Jeanne, whose circle of true friends in this great world had been pitiably small, found her horizon greatly enlarged. Truly the day of adventures in Merry’s cellar and out in the park while she danced the sun up from the depths of the lake had been her lucky day. For one might well have gone about the city of three million souls holding a lamp before every face without finding the equal to that brave trio, Angelo the playwright, Swen the maker of melodies and Dan Baker the beloved vagabond of the stage. ”

“ All silk from China it was, where little yeller women wound it out from cocoons. And the bows all made from hand forged steel. Strong they were, strong as London Bridge.
“And when I thought of my umbrella I knew it was all right; parachute, don’t you know.”
Once more his voice trailed away like the last echo of a distant tolling bell.
Petite Jeanne stole a look at his face. It was still, and almost beautiful. “Like a child’s dream,” she thought.
“And then—” He came to himself with a start. “Then I opened up that umbrella. Silk, you understand, all pure silk, and bows of forged steel. ”

“ As they moved from city to city, the people of each city were only an audience to be amused. They have made the audience laugh; they have made it cry. But always they have thought of that audience as a great lump of humanity. Not one individual in that lump cared for one of them in a personal way. Only among their own group have they found companions. Little by little a strong bond has been formed. Hemming them in, it keeps others out. That is their golden circle.”
“It is a most wretched circle!” cried Jeanne with a touch of anger. ”

“ On our great night you will not see the faults of this poor, gray old house that has known the joys and sorrows of three generations of human souls, and which is now standing among tall skyscrapers waiting its destruction; you will see only the gracious people who have come to catch the glow of light and joy that is our opera.”
110
As Petite Jeanne looked at him her heart glowed with fresh fire. To her at this moment the aged trouper, with his flowing locks and drooping hat, was the noblest work of God.
“Thanks, old timer,” said Angelo. His tone was husky as he gripped Dan Baker’s hand. ”

“ When it was music for her dance Petite Jeanne, bare-footed, bare-armed, with eyes shining, sprang into motion with such abandon as made her seem a crimson cardinal, a butterfly, a mere flying nothing.
How Swen would throw back his blonde mane and laugh! How Dan Baker shook his old head and sighed with joy!
“Our play!” he would murmur. “Our play. How can it fail? With such an angel of light even Heaven would be a complete success.” ”

“ Long ere this, as you will recall, Jeanne had resolved what she should do on the opening night. When the curtain rose for her first big scene, when she received the cue to begin her dance, she would make it her dance indeed. At that moment, before the throng of first-nighters, she would defy the tyrannical director. She would forget the steps they had taught her. Before the gypsy campfire she would become a gypsy once again and dance, as never before, that native dance to the Fire God. Bihari, the gypsy, had taught her that dance, and there was nothing like it in all the world, she felt sure. ”

“ Removing a heavy wire screen, Angelo dropped on his knees before a broad fireplace. A match flickered and a yellow flame appeared. As if by magic, the place that a moment before had seemed a theatre became an artist’s retreat glowing with light and warmth. At the right of the fireplace, where real flames went roaring skyward, was a broad wooden seat. Here, amid many bright pillows, Petite Jeanne and Florence were soon enthroned. The young host and his companions threw themselves upon thick rugs before the fire. ”

“ It was with a light tread that Petite Jeanne’s nimble feet carried her up the seven flights of stairs leading to the studio of a young playwright named Angelo. It appeared incredible that this young Italian who tried to write plays and had known no success, and a white-haired wanderer who had danced his way from one small city to another across the country, could accomplish great things in mending her fortune and in setting her once more before the gleaming footlights of some great theatre. ”

“ When she spoke of it to Angelo he, too, appeared distressed, not for himself, but for others.
“This will make no difference to our play,” was his optimistic pronouncement. “When hard times come, the people feel the need of amusement, diversion, more than before. Only one playhouse in our city is dark.”
“If so, where is our play to open?” Jeanne asked quickly.
“Leave that to me.” He shrugged. “Plays come. Plays go. A house dark to-night will be aglow to-morrow. I have friends. Once our light opera is on, it will go on forever.” ”

“ Bravo!” shouted Swen.
“Bravo! Bravo!” they all echoed. “The play will be a great success even if there is nothing more than this.”
“There will be more—much more!” Angelo shouted joyously.
“As you dance,” he began again a moment later, when Petite Jeanne had settled back among her cushions, “an aged gypsy woman creeps from the shadows to whisper a word in the ear of the chief of the tribe. Word is passed round the circle. A great sadness falls over all. The Dance of Fire has failed. The dancing bear will dance no more. He is dead. ”

“ As Petite Jeanne entered her dressing room she found a diminutive figure hidden away in a corner. At sight of the little French girl this person sprang to her feet with a cry of joy:
“Oh, Petite Jeanne! I have waited so long!” It was Merry.
“But see!” She pointed proudly at Jeanne’s dressing table. “I brought him to you. He will bring you luck to-night, I am sure. For, only look! He is still gazing toward the sky!” On Petite Jeanne’s dressing table rested the marble falcon.
“My own Merry!” Jeanne clasped her in her arms. “You think only of others. ”

“ When the little French girl, a frail wisp of humanity all done in red and gold, came spinning upon the stage to dance before the leering God whose very eyes appeared to gleam with hidden fire, the silence seemed to deepen. ”

“ Petite Jeanne could scarcely await their departure. Hardly had the door closed when, in true French fashion, she threw her arms about the old trouper and kissed him on both cheeks. Nor was Angelo neglected.
“We’re made!” she cried joyously. “The footlights, oh, the blessed footlights!” She walked the young composer about the room until she was dizzy. Then, springing like a top, she landed in a corner by the fire and demanded a demi-tasse of coffee. ”

“ Without further ado, she robed herself in a dress of flaming red which was as short as a circus rider’s costume and decorated with so many ruffles that it was impossible to tell where dress ended and ruffles began.
After tying a broad sash of darker red about her waist, she slipped on socks that rose scarcely above her shoetops, kicked on some pumps, switched out the light and tripped down the stairs to step out into the dewy night.
There are those who are thrilled as they prowl about a city in the dead of night. Others are fascinated by the white lights that gleam before midnight. ”

“ Florence and Petite Jeanne arrived each evening with apple-squares, date-tarts or some other form of tempting dessert; Dan Baker practiced the ancient and all but lost art of coffee brewing so skilfully that after drinking they all felt that dawn was on the point of breaking, and they were ready to walk out into a dewy morn.
Wild, hilarious, dizzy hours followed. Was a light opera ever before produced in such a fantastic fashion?
Angelo was continuously prepared with fresh script. This dark-eyed youth was a worker. Swen kept pace with musical compositions. ”

“ Gypsy camp fires were indeed dispelling dark shadows of a fading day in the heart of a forest glade when the truck bearing Merry’s “Golden Circle” arrived at the scene of the encampment. But no little French girl danced about any of them.
“They’re gone, those Frenchies,” said the greasy gypsy who came out of a tent in answer to their call. “Don’t know much about ’em. They’re not of our tribe. We’re Americans; been here for generations.” ”

“ Jeanne spoke before she thought.
“My dear,” said Dan Baker, stepping before Angelo to conceal his look of pain, “it is not the house, but the people that make a theatre. The glowing, pulsating throng of living beings. This is a theatre. Picture this broad stage filled with dreams of beauty and grace. ”

“ Dan Baker echoed.
“You have found no gold. You have found something better—a beautiful young lady in distress.”
The color in Petite Jeanne’s cheek deepened.
“The gypsies have given up hope. For them the bear is as good as dead.”
“But you—” He turned again to Jeanne. “You have not despaired. For, is there not still the Dance of Fire? Is not the gypsy God of Fire close beside you? And have not this dance and this god worked miracles in the past?” ”

“ Members of the chorus might be engaged in an animated conversation, but let her join them and their gayety ceased while they moved silently away.
Not many attempts were made before the sensitive soul of the little French girl curled up like an oyster in a shell. But it was an aching little heart, at that.
“Why? Why?” she demanded of her conscience, and of her confessor, Dan Baker.
“My child,” the aged dancer smiled faintly, “they live in what might be called a golden circle. The circle is complete. None may enter. It is the way of the stage. ”

“ How much it meant to them all; to Angelo, to Swen, to Dan Baker, to Petite Jeanne and to all the rest.
This night they had held dress rehearsal. And it had been such a glorious affair! She had not dreamed that such a multitude of lovely scenes and heavenly melodies could be packed into two short hours. Everyone, from Solomon, the manager, to the least and youngest of the chorus, was jubilant. They were made! In a lean year they would score a triumph. The thing would run for months. They would ride in taxis and find flowers in their dressing rooms each night. ”

“ To this little French girl the world was a stage indeed, and all men actors. She was to learn more of the ways of those who haunt auction sales ere the day was done.
Had some great artist come upon that scene, he would surely have hidden himself away behind boxes and bundles, to peer through some narrow crack and prepare a hasty sketch which must in time be developed into an immortal work of art. There they were, Jeanne and Merry, like two beings from another world ”

“ He lies in the shadows, out of sight. But the gypsies, gathered about the camp fire that burns before the gaily painted wagons, are conscious of his presence. They, too, are sad. Sad because they love you and your ponderous dancing companion; sad, as well, because no longer the coins will jingle at your feet when the dance of the bear is ended. ”

“ What he said both puzzled and troubled the little French girl. “That whole affair,” he said quietly, “was a faux pas.”
“How could it be!” she exclaimed. “I thought it quite wonderful. What right have those big, bluffing bullies to run down poor people on Maxwell Street?”
“None at all,” Angelo replied soberly. “But after all, the battle of Maxwell Street is not our battle. This is a large city. Yet it is strange the way we meet the same people again and again. If that man really comes upon me in some other place, if he finds out what I do and where I live, he will do his best to ruin me. ”

“ His blue eyes were wide and smiling.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Angelo with a flourish, “allow me to present the big Swede who will write the music for our immortal masterpiece!
“Perhaps—” His eyes circled the room. “Perhaps you believe that the Scandinavians are not musicians. You are mistaken. Only recall Jenny Lind and Ole Bull and Eduard Grieg!
“But here—” He stood on tiptoe to touch that shock of yellow hair. “Here shall rest the richest crown of all!”
“It may be so,” grumbled Swen, as a broad grin belied his assumed ill humor. “But if you don’t explain I’ll crown you with a chair.” ”

“ Yet she was possessed of an even greater gift; she knew the art of making friends. Defeated by an ancient unwritten law, in her attempt to be a friend to the girls of the chorus, she had found her friends among the lowly ones of the theatre. For with all her art she never lost the human touch.
She had not haunted the ratty old theatre long before Mary, the woman who dusted seats, Jimmie, the spotlight operator, Tom, the stoker who came up grimy from the furnaces, and Dave, the aged night watchman, one and all, were her friends. ”