MELPOMENE.
Hers was the spell o’er hearts
That only Acting lends—
The youngest of the sister Arts,
Where all their beauty blends:
For ill can Poetry express
Full many a tone of thought sublime,
And Painting, mute and motionless,
Asks but a glance from time;
But by the mighty Actor brought,
Illusion’s perfect triumphs come,—
Verse ceases to be airy thought,
And Sculpture to be dumb.—_Campbell._
It was just a quarter to eight o’clock when our party, consisting of
Colonel Bingham, Mr. Deville and Perdita, took their seats in the
private box to the right of the stage in the City Theatre. The house was
brilliantly lighted and well filled by a fashionable and appreciating
audience. Mr. Deville’s eyes wandered over the crowd, turning from the
many beautiful women that gemmed the dress-circle, to rest with pride
upon the more brilliant beauty of the young girl at his side. He saw
that this new, splendid beauty was attracting general attention, that
many lorgnettes were levelled at their box, and whispering faces were
leaned together in eager inquiry.
Never yet, in her short young life, had Perdita looked so brilliantly
beautiful as upon this evening. She had thrown back her ermine mantle,
and now appeared in a tight-fitting spencer of bright crimson satin,
with neck and sleeve trimmings of fine point-lace, and a little
opera-hat of the same shade of crimson, turned up at the left side with
a white plume. Her long, jet black ringlets hung down each side her
white forehead and blooming cheeks. Her large dark eyes were sparkling,
her ruby lips smiling, her whole face glowing with the delight of
youthful anticipation.
Orville Deville gazed at his young charge in pride and joy. He had seen
a more lovely woman—Adelaide; he had known a more fascinating one,
Lionne; but never, no, never, had he beheld a creature so perfectly
beautiful as Perdita now appeared to him. And he saw that his own
judgment was indorsed by the whole audience, who could scarcely keep
their eyes from rudely resting upon the brilliant young girl.
But—stop! oh, heaven, what is this? a wonder, a revelation, a
resemblance never, in his whole knowledge of her young life, seen
before! but which now, the mere accidents of costume and of emotion and
of light and shade, betrayed to him!
Yes, the tight-fitting boddice revealing every undulation of the slight,
graceful form, the piquant hat and plume surmounting the little, elegant
head, the long, black ringlets shading the crimson cheeks, the burning,
black eyes, the glowing, ruby lips, the dark, bright face, instinct with
enthusiasm—the form partly in the shade of the curtained box, partly in
the glare of the lamp light—yes! it was the re-produced and living image
of Lionne, as fourteen years before he had seen her first, in the
darkness of the thunder cloud and the glare of the lightning, on the
brink of the mountain precipice!
While he gazed in something like amazement, doubting his own senses and
sanity, Perdita turned to answer some observation made by Colonel
Bingham, who was seated upon her left, and by this change of position
the accident of light and shade was reversed, and the identity of
resemblance dispelled. And before Colonel Bingham could point out to
Perdita the various persons present, distinguished for talent, wealth,
position, beauty or fashion, etc., the curtain rose and the attention of
all was riveted upon the stage.
At first, Perdita’s faculties were a little bewildered by the novelty of
the whole scene. Her eyes were dazzled by the glowing of gaudy colors,
the glittering of jewels, the gleaming of steel and the flashing of
lights, before she could well understand what was going on. It was an
uninteresting preliminary scene—a sword fight between two young
Grecians, rival suitors for the hand of a princess. Perdita watched
attentively, all her anxiety being to behold the expected wonder of the
evening—the illustrious MELPOMENE.
The scene was short, the combatants were parted by the intervention of
an aged courtier. And then—
“Oh! she comes!” exclaimed our young Perdita, as a lady “in gleam of
satin and glimmer of pearls,” with her bright hair encircled by the
“golden round” of royalty, entered upon the scene. “See! is that
Melpomene?”
Colonel Bingham smiled and whispered:
“No, my dear, that is not the star! That is only a rushlight! Not
Roxana, but the little Princess Parisitas.”
“But she is very beautiful and stately.”
“A pretty and intelligent little girl, well got up. The footlights do
the rest.”
Perdita watched the progress of the drama with the interest of a novice.
The scenes changed.
Presently again Perdita grasped the arm of her old friend, exclaiming,
breathlessly:
“Oh, there she certainly is!” as a lady, handsome as all the houries,
robed in scarlet and gold, with the royal diadem upon her brow, preceded
by music and attended by courtiers, entered upon the scene.
Colonel Bingham laughed, saying:
“Mistaken again. This is only the daughter of Darius the Princess
Statira, for whom Alexander the Great has forsaken Roxana.”
“But she is royally beautiful, and walks and speaks and looks like a
queen!”
“Um-m—yes! Mrs. West, who plays the part, is a fine-looking woman, of
considerable talent—scarlet and gold, rouge and ringlets do the rest.”
Perdita looked at him reproachfully.
“Why will you dampen all my delight?” she asked.
“I do not wish you to waste enthusiasm on these frumpery people. High,
unapproachable genius is the only thing worthy of such warmth. Wait, my
little rustic, until you see Melpomene—as Roxana.”
“It seems we are _never_ to see her! The first act is almost over!” said
Perdita, impatiently.
“And the second act will be quite over before you see her. These royal
personages are chary of their presence, especially this royal
Melpomene,” replied Colonel Bingham, smiling.
The remainder of the first act and the whole of the second was filled
with the triumphal festivals attending the arrival of Alexander, the
conspiracies of the disaffected courtiers, and the jealousy of Queen
Statira. At the falling of the curtain at the close of the second act,
Perdita sat back pleased, but impatient.
The rising of the curtain upon the third act restored her good humor.
“Oh, there she is now! That is Melpomene! that is Roxana! that is THE
QUEEN!” exclaimed Perdita, in the low, hushed tone of intense feeling,
as she bent forward to gaze upon the scene. There sat a woman who never
met the gaze of the public except beyond the burning barrier of the
footlights—yet a woman who, in bower or hall, church or mart, must have
drawn all eyes upon herself as the magnet draws steel—a woman of
surpassing, of superhuman, of goddess-like beauty, grace and majesty! “a
queen by virtue of her brow and breast, not needing to be crowned!” an
awful goddess, such as Homer and the antique poets dreamed of. No crown,
indeed, sat upon that brow, royal of itself; no useless jewel lent its
meretricious light to her imposing costume. The cincture of diamonds
that flamed like a serpent of fire around her head, was only there to
confine the heavy masses of her midnight hair. The cestus of diamonds
around her waist was only meant to bind the folds of her flowing purple
velvet robe. Her eyes were cast down until the long black lashes lay
distinctly marked upon the cheek, white as marble.
A courtier, a messenger, it seemed, of heavy news, stood at a respectful
distance, waiting for her words.
The spectacle represented that scene of the drama in which Cassander
brings to the queen intelligence that she is forsaken by Alexander for
the fresher charms of the daughter of Darius, the young Princess
Statira. She—the forsaken queen—had not yet spoken. She had heard the
news, and her still, white face was that of a goddess stunned into
marble by astonishment which is, as yet, too incredulous to be mixed
with anger or pain. Her words and her tone, when she first spoke, were
low, slow, measured, and calm and incredulous as her look.
“‘Deserted?—saidst thou?—for a girl abandoned?
A puny girl made up of watery elements’
Shall _she_ embrace the god of my desire,
And triumph in the heart ROXANA claims.”
Yet, somehow, those words and that look thrilled to the hearts of all
who heard and saw them.
“Ay,” said Colonel Bingham, “_she_ at least is not made up of watery
elements. All fire and air is that consuming nature. I really should
_not_ like to make her angry. I dread for the daughter of Darius—do not
you, my dear?”
“Oh, hush! I want to hear!” replied Perdita, in a deep, breathless tone,
and without removing her fascinated gaze from the stage.
“Oh, I forgot, my charming little rustic! you are not a hackneyed
play-goer. You come here not to be admired, but to admire. You are
really interested in what is going on. Come! there, then, I’m silent,”
added the Colonel, noticing the growing impatience of his beautiful
young friend.
Perdita’s gaze remained riveted upon the scene as it progressed. She
watched with the most intense interest the growing passion of the
queen’s soul, as her incredulity was merged in doubt, and her doubt was
lost in certainty. And then the stony stillness of the deserted wife and
outraged queen was broken as startlingly as a rock is blasted by an
explosion of gunpowder—and when, throwing up her arms, she thundered
forth,
“‘Away! away! and give a whirlwind room!’”
the effect was absolutely terrific.
With a half smothered gasp, Perdita sank back and covered her face with
her hands.
Colonel Bingham, a “hackneyed play-goer,” smiled, and stooping forward,
whispered to Mr. Deville:
“Our young rustic will expose us to ridicule if she betrays such acute
feeling!”
There was no answer. Colonel Bingham, astonished, fixed his eyes upon
his silent friend, and started.
Well he might.
Orville Deville sat motionless, colorless as a statue, gazing in a sort
of horror of amazement upon the fury on the stage!
“Deville! why, in the name of all the fates, what ails you? Has this
sorceress bewitched you?” inquired the Colonel.
“I—I have just recollected a most pressing engagement! You—you will
oblige me by taking charge of Perdita and bringing her home at the close
of the performance,” said Mr. Deville, in an agitated manner, as he
hurriedly arose from his seat.
“Are you going, father?” asked Perdita, turning around at the sound of
his voice.
“Yes, my dear, an engagement I have just remembered calls me away! _You_
need not leave! Colonel Bingham will take you home.”
“Certainly, with pleasure,” replied Colonel Bingham, still in amazement.
And before he had recovered his presence of mind, Mr. Deville had left
the box.
Perdita’s attention was once more drawn to the stage by the entrance of
Statira, when ensued the celebrated stormy encounter between the “Rival
Queens.”
The intense interest and excitement of the young girl increased in
proportion to the rising action and passion of the drama—until at last,
at the catastrophe where Roxana, overwhelmed with wrongs and insults,
and frenzied with jealousy and despair, destroys her rival. Then the
young Perdita, pale with profound emotion, sank back and once more
covered her face with her hands.
The curtain fell amid thunders of applause.
“Shall we wait for the afterpiece?” inquired Colonel Bingham.
“Oh! no, let us go,” murmured Perdita.
“Well—at least, perhaps, you would like to see the ballet between the
pieces?”
“No, no, nothing after this! Take me home!”
“Enthusiast! Well, come, then,” said Colonel Bingham, rising and placing
the ermine mantle upon the shoulders of his charge.
The applause continued—augmented—and cries of “Roxana! Roxana! Roxana!”
filled the house.
“They are calling her out! Will you stop a moment to see her?” asked the
Colonel.
“Yes! yes!” murmured Perdita, eagerly.
Here a gentleman from the next box bending forward, said—
“It is no use, Colonel! _She will not come!_ She never has done so yet,
and it is not likely she will now!”
“We’ll see,” said Colonel Bingham.
“Roxana! Roxana! Roxana!” called the crowd.
“They may call—they have called her every evening, but she has never
come.”
“Roxana! Roxana! Roxana!” cried the assembly.
To the surprise of all—even of those who most persistently called her,
the majestic form once more glided before them and stood—grand,
beautiful, self-possessed, silent as a goddess awaiting worship!
“Glorious!” muttered Colonel Bingham under his breath.
Her appearance was greeted by a round of ecstatic applause.
When this was over and silence restored, she slowly bowed her head, as
Juno throned in Olympus might do, and so passed from their view.
“Come, I think it quite time that I had taken you home. These mental and
passional stimulants will not do for you, my dear,” said Colonel
Bingham, as he wrapped Perdita in her ermine mantle, drew her arm within
his own and took her from the theatre.
As they stepped out upon the street, they saw, above the turmoil of the
crowded city, the full moon shining, a globe of liquid, silvery light,
amid the dark-blue heavens.
“Oh, grand, beautiful, glorious!” muttered Perdita to herself.
“What, the moon?”
“Oh, no, the lady, the tragedienne, the enchantress!”
“Look up, my child; the moon is really worth looking at!”
Perdita raised her eyes to the queen of night, and then turned them
inquiringly upon her mentor.
“The moon is beautiful, serene and heavenly, is she not?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The very emblem of peace, joy and repose?”
“Yes.”
“So she _seems_, at this distance, to our admiring eyes! Yet, Perdita,
my child, that serene queen of night, that benignant lighter of the
traveller’s darkened path, that perfect emblem of cheerful love and
benign repose, that lovely moon is really and truly a most horrible
Hades, an awful Gehenna, a scathed, darkened and blasted desert, such as
no part of our own earth’s surface could possibly show—a black Tartarus
without inhabitants, without vegetation, without water and without air!
Its surface, that seems so fair and serene, and shines so soft and
bright, is rent and gashed with awful chasms fifty miles in depth and
seamed by ghastly rocks; and is on one side burned, and on the other
frozen, by such extremes of heat and cold as even fire and ice give us
no real idea of! Perdita, this woman that we have seen to-night reminds
me of that satellite!—_fair, queenly, glorious without! but—a blasted
ruin within!_”
Perdita shuddered.
“I like to see her; but I should not like to know her,” continued the
Colonel, speaking more to himself than to his companion.
“And yet there is nothing against her; no, not a word, not a breath;
every one speaks as highly of the woman as of the artiste,” said
Perdita, instinctively taking up the defence of the tragedienne.
“And, yet, such is the impression she has made upon me.”
“She seems—she _is_—very unhappy,” mused Perdita, as her old friend led
her to and placed her in the carriage.
The drive home was performed almost in total silence. Perdita was musing
upon the subject of the fascinating woman who had so strangely won her
heart; and Colonel Bingham was meditating deeply upon the character of
the young enthusiast by his side.
When they reached the hotel, the Colonel conducted the young girl to the
private parlor of her party, and there took leave.
On one side of this parlor was Lady Adelaide’s chamber. On the other
side was Perdita’s. The doors of both were closed.
Too much excited by all she had seen and heard to retire to bed, Perdita
walked restlessly about the room, until she was interrupted by the
opening of Lady Adelaide’s door and the entrance of the old maid Keziah,
who said to her—
“Lady Adelaide wishes to see you, in her room, Miss Perdita.”
“Indeed! is not my father with her?”
“No, he is not come in yet, Miss Perdita.”
The young girl threw off her mantle and her hat, and hurried into the
adjoining chamber, where she found Lady Adelaide wrapped in a white
merino dressing-gown, and sitting in an easy chair awaiting her. The
lady half rose and held out her arms; and when Perdita approached, she
folded her as a recovered treasure, to her bosom, murmuring—
“My child! my sprite! I have spent these long hours in prayer for you.”
“You should have gone to rest, sweet mamma,” replied Perdita, returning
her embrace.
“Had you been exposed to danger by fire or flood, could I have slept,
think you?”
“No, dear mamma, but then I was not so. I was exposed to neither fire
nor flood.”
“My child, there are moral and spiritual dangers more to be dreaded than
either. The former can hurt only the body. The latter can kill the
soul.”
“Mamma, you make me shudder.”
“I did not mean to do so. But come, tell me, where is Mr. Deville, that
he did not return with you?”
“He suddenly remembered an engagement that gave him some anxiety, and he
left at the commencement of the third act, leaving _me_ in the care of
Colonel Bingham.”
“Ah, and how did you pass the evening, my dear?”
“Oh, mamma, mamma, I do not know whether I were the most pleased or
pained! Oh, mamma, that wondrous, wondrous woman!” said Perdita, with a
smile and a shudder.
“The actress, you mean?”
“No, the tragedienne, the artiste, the—sorceress!”
“Well, the actress.”
“Oh, mamma do not call that awful goddess an actress!”
“Well, but my little enthusiast, what is she but an actress, after all?”
“I know not! a witch! a wonder! an enchantress! Oh, mamma, her looks,
her tones, her gestures were not _acting_, they were _real_!”
“You are too enthusiastic, my dear,” said Lady Adelaide, gravely.
“Oh, mamma, I cannot help it when I think of her! Her tones, her words,
her looks _draw my heart—draw it from my very bosom as it were to cleave
to her_!”
“You are very much too excitable,” sorrowfully observed the lady.
“Mamma, you do know _she draws me—draws me as the magnet draws the
needle_! Mamma I cannot resist it! I must see that lady!”
“See _her_! you _have_ seen her!”
“But, mamma, _I must see her singly—face to face_!”
“Child, you are certainly——deranged!”
“Mamma, _I feel her drawing me—drawing me all the time_!”
“Oh, your head is turned! Alas I why did I let you go! Ah! where is Mr.
Deville?” exclaimed Lady Adelaide, in distress.
“Dear mamma, go to bed and go to rest. I will not vex you further! Come,
I promise! Give me your good-night kiss and let me go,” said Perdita,
throwing her arms around the lady’s neck, and offering her lips for the
kiss.
“Good-night! good night! oh, my dear one, pray that you be not led into
temptation!” said Lady Adelaide, pressing her lips to those of her
adopted child.
“I will! I will! sweet mother, I will! good-night!” said Perdita, as she
received the parting kiss and retired from the chamber.
“Ah! where is Mr. Deville? Why does he not come! My mind is full of the
most mournful misgivings!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide, when left alone.
And where _was_ Orville Deville?