The audience went absolutely wild. They jumped off their seats, some even stood on them, clapping their hands and stomping their feet, shouting, whistling and cheering. Top hats and bonnets were flying through the air and many a time I wondered if it was always the rightful owner who caught his or her possession after having thrown it away so foolishly. The sound was deafening and I have to say that the frenzied screaming of the few had soon touched all present and every last man and woman in the auditorium was up and shrieking. Mass hysteria, I believe would be the expression for it. In different circumstances it would have been quite frightening.
Bouquets and individual flowers, mostly red roses were showered onto the stage, landing around the small woman who was the centre of attention, her colleagues carefully stepping away and allowing her the moment of triumph all to herself.
"Bravo!", "Superb!", "Repete! Repete!" screamed the audience. "Biss! Biss!" screeched the man in the private balcony suite next to mine and I was surprised to realize that he was sobbing, his face wet with tears.
I turned to my wife and found her standing quietly, visibly shaken. She too, had fallen under the spell of the people, in astonishment and disbelief admiring the powerful voice of Georgina Sjorensen, the Canary from Sweden, as she had been known. The name was slightly misleading, I dare say. Her father was a Swedish immigrant that much was true. Her mother, however, was a resident of London's East End and I doubted Georgina spoke even a word of Swedish let alone seen her fatherland. The woman was small, from a distance one might have mistaken her for a child, but her voice was powerful enough to shatter glass, or so I believed.
Even from afar she appeared delicate and fragile; blond hair cupped on top of her head, most of it covered by the wide brimmed hat, her victorious face red with excitement and perhaps even embarrassment. Each time she bowed, she would place her small, gloved hand onto her stomach as if that was the point where her body would fold. She did not curtsy as other women did, rather she thanked the audience like a man, bowing slightly, tilting her head up and stealing a glance at the people who at that time loved her more than any other performer in the whole of London.
After a few bows, she straightened and blew kisses at the audience. The tip of the umbrella in one of her hands was firmly pressed against the stage floor and she had used it to keep her balance as she carefully squatted to pick up a few stems of the beautiful flowers, throwing them back into the crowd, which only caused the collective scream to become even louder, if that was at all possible.
After a few long minutes, the rest of the cast joined her, standing in a chorus line next to her, holding each other's hands and bowing in unison.
"Georgina! Georgina!" the crowd didn't seem to notice anyone but the small woman in the middle. For a moment I wondered how the others felt about this public show of affection. They were all good performers, the best London had to offer in fact and here they were, treated as mere sidekicks to the woman who had swept the city like a hurricane and in a span of a short year rose from the slums of East End and ending up as the brightest star of British opera.
"Time to go, my dear." I whispered to my wife while clapping enthusiastically. "Come on, we should leave before the crowd lets out. It will be a stampede, I should imagine." I said, noticing that Aurelia, my wife was very reluctant to leave. She wanted to stay and enjoy the happiness and exhilaration of the audience as long as she could. I had to admit that the atmosphere was very catchy and intoxicating.
"Come, now." I said gently and firmly grabbed my wife's elbow, half dragging her behind me, out of the private balcony box, down the stairs and towards the exit. All the while, she kept glancing back, obviously disappointed over my actions of preventing her to enjoy the hysteria shared by others.
Too eager to wait for the coachman to spot us, and still dragging my wife behind me, I found our calash and pushed Aurelia inside it. "I have a meeting to attend to, my dear." I said and noticed panic striking her face. "Now?" she asked, holding onto my hands as if for dear life.
"I shan't be long, I promise." I said and before she could utter another word of protest, I closed the door and waved to the coachman to leave. "Straight home!" I said sternly, which in itself was an absurd command. Where on Earth could my wife go in the middle of the night but home?
I watched the calash turn the corner and just before it disappeared, I saw my wife's sad face in the window, the palms of her hands firmly pressed against the glass. She was no fool, Aurelia. I was a good husband to her, I think. However, she did suspect me of many indiscretions that I had had and even if I were dying in a hospital, she'd still think I had some alternative motive to stay away from her. I couldn't blame her. She took it all with dignity, crying in private, away from anyone's view, too afraid to confront me, incapable to do anything about it.
Like I said, I was a good husband to her, providing for her comfort and our children's. She was a good wife to me, too. She kept an immaculate household, our children were healthy and happy, and we were well liked by our friends and neighbours. One thing that was missing in our marriage, however, was true passion. I had married Aurelia because it was time for me to marry and sire offspring, my heirs. She married me because she loved me, I believe. I cannot go as far as to say that I didn't feel anything for her. That would have been completely untrue. However, there was never any passion that I felt for her. I would make love to her gently and carefully while she laid still, her eyes closed, little moans escaping her mouth and absolutely not moving. I always felt like she was simply taking all that I was dishing out, without even the slightest effort of her own.
