It was a strange chance that took the Easy Chair, the other evening,
to the opera in the midst of a terrible war. But there was the scene,
exactly as it used to be. There were the bright rows of pretty women
and smiling men; the white and fanciful opera-cloaks; the gay rich
dresses; the floating ribbons; the marvellous _chevelures_; the
pearl-gray, the dove, and "tan" gloves, holding the jewelled fans and
the beautiful bouquets--the smile, the sparkle, the grace, the superb
and irresistible dandyism that we all know so well in the days of
golden youth--they were all there, and the warm atmosphere was sweet
with the thick odor of heliotrope, the very scent of _haute societe_.
The house was full: the opera was "Faust," and by one of the exquisite
felicities of the stage, the hero, a mild, ineffective gentleman, sang
his ditties and passionate bursts in Italian, while the poor Gretchen
vowed and rouladed in the German tongue. Certainly nothing is more
comical than the careful gravity with which people of the highest
civilization look at the absurd incongruities of the stage. After the
polyglot love-making, Gretchen goes up steps and enters a house.
Presently she opens a window at which she evidently could not appear
as she does breast high, without having her feet in the cellar. The
Italian Faust rushes, ascends three steps leading to the window, which
could not by any possibility appropriately be found there, and
reclines his head upon the bosom of the fond maid. We all look on and
applaud with "sensation." But ought we not to insist, however, that
ladies in the play shall stand upon the floor, and that the floor in a
stately mansion shall not be two feet below the front door-sill? And
ought we not to demand that Faust shall woo Gretchen in their
mother-tongue?
But we, the ludicrous public, who snarl at the carpenter and shoemaker
if the fitness of things be not observed; we, the shrewd critics, who
pillory the luckless painter who dresses a gentleman of the
Restoration in the ruff of James First's court, gaze calmly on the
most ridiculous anachronisms and impossibilities, and smite our
perfumed gloves in approbation. It is no excuse to say that the whole
thing is absurd; that people do not carry on the business of life in
song, nor expire in recitative. That is true, but even fairy tales
have their consistency. Every part is adapted to every other, and, in
the key, the whole is harmonious. Hermann, for instance, the basso,
who sang Mephistopheles, would have been quite perfect if he had only
remembered this. But he forgot that Mephisto is a sly and subtle
devil. He caricatured him. He made him a buffoon and repulsive. Such
extravagance could not have imposed upon Faust or Martha; yet we all
agreed that it was very fine, and amiably applauded what no opera-goer
of sense could seriously approve.
You think that this is taking syllabub seriously, and that the
circumstances of the time had made the Easy Chair hypercritical. No;
it was only that there comes a time in theatre-going when the boxes
are more interesting than the stage. The mimic life fades before the
real. In the midst of the finest phrases of the impassioned Herr
Faust, what if your truant eyes stray across the parquette and see a
slight, pale figure, and recognize one of the bravest and most daring
Union generals, whose dashing assaults upon the enemy's works carried
dismay and victory day after day? Herr Faust trills on, but you see
the sombre field and the desperate battle and the glorious cause.
Gretchen musically sighs, but you see the brave boys lying where they
fell: you hear the deep, sullen roar of the cannonade; you catch far
away through the tumult of war the fierce shout of victory. And there
sits the slight, pale figure with eyes languidly fixed upon the stage;
his heart musing upon other scenes; himself the unconscious hero of a
living drama.
Or, if you choose to lift your eyes, you see that woman with the
sweet, fair face, composed, not sad, turned with placid interest
towards the loves of Gretchen and Faust. She sees the eager delight of
the meeting; she hears the ardent vow; she feels the rapture of the
embrace. With placid interest she watches all--she, and the sedate
husband by her side. And yet when her eyes wander it is to see a man
in the parquette below her on the other side, who, between the acts,
rises with the rest and surveys the house, and looks at her as at all
the others. At this distance you cannot say if any softer color steals
into that placid face; you cannot tell if his survey lingers longer
upon her than upon the rest. Yet she was Gretchen once, and he was
Faust. There is no moonlight romance, no garden ecstasy, poorly
feigned upon the stage, that is not burned with eternal fire into
their memories. Night after night they come. They do not especially
like this music. They are not infatuated with these singers. They have
seats for the season; she with her husband, he in the orchestra
chairs. She has a pleasant home and sweet children and a kind mate,
and is not unhappy. He is at ease in his fortunes, and content. They
do not come here that they may see each other. They meet elsewhere as
all acquaintances meet. They cherish no morbid repining, no
sentimental regret. But every night there is an opera, and the theme
of every opera is love; and once, ah! once, she was Gretchen and he
was Faust.
Do you see? These are three out of the three thousand. There is
nothing to distinguish them from the rest. Look at them all, and
reflect that all have their history; and that it is known, as this one
is known, to some other old Easy Chair, sitting in the parquette and
spying round the house. "All the world's a stage, and men and women
merely players."
Is it quite so? Are these players? The young pale general there, the
placid woman, the man in the orchestra stall, have they been playing
only? There are scars upon that young soldier's body; in the most
secret drawer of that woman's chamber there is a dry, scentless
flower; the man in the orchestra stall could show you a tress of
golden hair. If they are players, who is in earnest?