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Page 53
"We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview
impending," said Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip.
He did not betray her, but said, "Don't you think it's
better than sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?"
His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn't like it.
It would be most unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all
that, foreign theatres are notorious. Don't you remember
those letters in the 'Church Family Newspaper'?"
"But this is an opera--'Lucia di Lammermoor'--Sir Walter
Scott--classical, you know."
Harriet's face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few
opportunities of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad.
But it might be better than sitting idle all the evening.
We have no book, and I lost my crochet at Florence."
"Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?"
"It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I
should enjoy it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don't think we
ought to go to cheap seats."
"Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have
thought of that. As likely as not, we should have tried to
save money and sat among the most awful people. One keeps
on forgetting this is Italy."
"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"
"Oh, that'll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his
timorous, scrupulous women-kind. "We'll go as we are, and
buy the best we can get. Monteriano is not formal."
So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms,
battles, victories, defeats, truces, ended at the opera.
Miss Abbott and Harriet were both a little shame-faced.
They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were supposing
them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What
would Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back
Kitchen say if they could see the rescue party at a place of
amusement on the very first day of its mission? Philip,
too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began to see that he
was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the
tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional
contrariness of himself.
He had been to this theatre many years before, on the
occasion of a performance of "La Zia di Carlo." Since then
it had been thoroughly done up, in the tints of the
beet-root and the tomato, and was in many other ways a
credit to the little town. The orchestra had been enlarged,
some of the boxes had terra-cotta draperies, and over each
box was now suspended an enormous tablet, neatly framed,
bearing upon it the number of that box. There was also a
drop-scene, representing a pink and purple landscape,
wherein sported many a lady lightly clad, and two more
ladies lay along the top of the proscenium to steady a large
and pallid clock. So rich and so appalling was the effect,
that Philip could scarcely suppress a cry. There is
something majestic in the bad taste of Italy; it is not the
bad taste of a country which knows no better; it has not the
nervous vulgarity of England, or the blinded vulgarity of
Germany. It observes beauty, and chooses to pass it by.
But it attains to beauty's confidence. This tiny theatre of
Monteriano spraddled and swaggered with the best of them,
and these ladies with their clock would have nodded to the
young men on the ceiling of the Sistine.
Philip had tried for a box, but all the best were taken:
it was rather a grand performance, and he had to be content
with stalls. Harriet was fretful and insular. Miss Abbott
was pleasant, and insisted on praising everything: her only
regret was that she had no pretty clothes with her.
"We do all right," said Philip, amused at her unwonted vanity.
"Yes, I know; but pretty things pack as easily as ugly
ones. We had no need to come to Italy like guys."
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