JULIET.
By the time the "playing-in" farce was over, the house was quite full.
That morning's papers had written in such a fashion about the new
triumph of Miss Brunel on Saturday night, that long before the
box-office was closed there was not a registered place in the building
which had not been seized upon. Will foresaw what was likely to happen,
and had asked Mr. Melton to secure him a box.
When the little party drove from the Langham--Will's rooms in town
scarcely offering them the accommodation they required--Dove was in high
spirits. It was the first time she had gone anywhere with the young
gentleman opposite her since their "engagement;" and she already felt
that comfortable sense of extended possession which married people
enjoy. She took her seat in the brougham, which Count Schoenstein had
kindly placed at their disposal, with a new and fluttering pleasure; she
already imagined herself to have the importance and the claims to
attention of a wife; and she accepted Will's little courtesies in this
light, and made herself very happy over the altered aspect of their
relations.
When her opera-cloak had been hung up, and her tiny bouquet,
opera-glass, and bill placed daintily before her, the graceful little
woman ensconced herself in the corner, and timidly peeped round the
curtain. She was dressed in a very faint blue silk, with sharp broad
lines of white about it; and over and through her rippling brown hair
ran the strings of blue pearls which Count Schoenstein had given her.
Not even Mrs. Anerley, who saw her often enough, could forbear to look
with a tender pride upon the girl; and as for Mr. Anerley, whose tall,
upright figure was hid in the shadow of the box, he would fain have sat
down beside his adopted daughter, with his arm round her waist, and
forgotten all about what they had come to see.
The orchestra finished its overture, chiefly composed of the delicate
"Sonnambula" music, and the curtain rose. Dove was disappointed at not
seeing Miss Brunel; and paid but little attention to the preliminary
scenes.
Suddenly there was an extraordinary commotion throughout the house, and
a burst of that fine, strong, thunderous music which artists love to
hear--and then Dove saw advance a girlish-looking creature with a calm,
somewhat pale, and interesting face, and beautiful black hair. She was
only girlish in the slightness of her figure: there was an artistic
completeness in her motions and a self-possession in her bearing which
gave her something of a queenly look. She wore a magnificent white
satin dress, the train of which lay in splendid masses behind her; and
down over this white and gold fell a black lace veil, partly hiding the
rich hair, and enclosing the clear, beautiful dark face. Dove was
spell-bound by that face. It somehow suggested Italy to her, and blue
skies, and music, and the passionate artistic warmth of the South. Nor
was the illusion destroyed by the low chest-voice with which the girl
replied to the questions of Lady Capulet. And from that moment, Dove
thought no more of Miss Brunel and Will's friend. She was only Juliet,
and Dove followed her sad story with an aching heart and a trembling
lip.
During the matchless balcony scene, Will saw this intense sympathetic
emotion growing upon the girl. I believe it is considered to be the
proper thing for young ladies to be able to turn round and smile
compassionately to each other, when the tragic sadness on the stage is
making the women in the pit sob bitterly, and raising great lumps in the
throats of the men. It is a pretty accomplishment, in its way; and may
be indicative of other qualities which these young persons are accused
of possessing. Dove's emotional tendencies had never been educated,
however; and in this balcony-scene, as I say, she watched the lovers
with a painful interest, which wrote its varying story every moment on
her face. The theatre was still as death. The scarcely-uttered
tendernesses of Juliet were heard as distinctly as if they had been
breathed into one's ear; and the eyes of the audience drank in the
trembling lights and shadows of her girlish passion with an unconscious
delight and admiration. The abandonment of her affection, the reluctant
declarations, the coy shrinkings, and piteous, playful, tender apologies
were so blended as to make the scene an artistic marvel; and Dove sat
"laughin' maist like to greet," as the old Scotch song says. Indeed she
scarcely knew whether to laugh or cry with the delight--the absolute
delight--which this piece of true art gave her; and when at last Juliet
had forced herself to the parting--
"'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:
And yet no farther than a wanton's bird;
Who lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty"--
when, lingeringly and sadly, she had withdrawn from the balcony, Dove
rose suddenly, and with a half-choked sob in her voice, said:
"Oh, Will, I should like so much to see her--and--and----"
"Kiss her," she had nearly said; but thinking it might be ridiculous,
she stopped.
"It's against the rules, Dove," said Will, with a smile. "Besides, that
isn't Miss Brunel you've been looking at; that is Juliet. Both are very
nice ladies; but they are quite unlike each other."
Dove was terribly disappointed. She would like to have declared her
conviction that Miss Brunel was Juliet, that she had every bit the same
tenderness, and sweetness, and loveliness; but she was afraid her
enthusiasm might make Mrs. Anerley laugh at her, and so she bore the
rebuff patiently.
Presently, however, some one tapped at the box-door; and the next moment
Will was introducing the manager, Mr. Melton, to his companions.
"My young friend here," said Will to Melton, while Dove's pretty face
assumed an extra tinge of colour, "has been so much struck by Miss
Brunel, that she would like to go and thank her personally."
Now Mr. Melton was in a very good humour. The house was crammed; there
was almost no "paper" in it; and the prospect of a good run through the
popularity of his new acquisition had warmed up his impassive nature
into quite a pronounced geniality.
"Then you ought to introduce the young lady to Miss Brunel," said Mr.
Melton, blithely. "If you like, I'll take you round at the end of the
act, when Miss Brunel will have a little 'wait.'"
"Will you go, Dove?" asked Will.
"Yes," she said, timidly.
Just as the curtain fell upon the scene in Friar Lawrence's cell, at the
end of the second act, Mr. Melton conducted Dove and Will down a
tortuous little stone stair into a narrow passage, from which they
entered into the wings. A noisy and prolonged recall was thundering
throughout the house, and Miss Brunel was being led on to the stage by
Romeo to receive renewed plaudits. When she returned and passed under
the glare of the jets in one of the entrances, Will went forward to
shake hands with her.
"I have to congratulate you again," he said.
"Thank you," she said, simply.
There had been a pleased smile of welcome in her eyes when they met; and
yet it seemed to him that there was a strange, intense expression in her
look which was not natural to it. Once or twice before he had seen her
in the same circumstances; and invariably this unconscious, mesmeric
intensity was present in her eyes. He explained it to himself by
supposing that the emotional idealism of her assumed character had not
quite died out of her yet.
Then she turned and saw Dove standing with Mr. Melton. Will begged to
introduce his "sister;" and the brief ceremony was sufficiently
singular. For a moment the dark, lambent eyes of Miss Brunel were fixed
upon the fair young girl with a sort of hesitating look--an inquiring,
apprehensive look, which Will never forgot; then all at once she frankly
extended her hand. Dove, a little frightened, approached and shook
hands with her.
"Mr. Anerley has spoken to me about you," said Annie Brunel; and Dove
was conscious that the dark-haired girl before her knew her secret.
How singular it was to hear herself addressed in those low, rich tones
which a few minutes ago were addressing Romeo in the moonlight! Dove
almost felt herself enchanted; and could have believed at that moment
that she herself belonged to the old, sad, sweet play, which seems to
contain everything that was ever uttered about man's love and woman's
devotion.
"I must go down to my dressing-room now," said Miss Brunel to Dove.
"Will you come with me, if you are curious to see the place? I will
send some one round with you to your box afterwards."
Will saw that Dove would like to go, so he settled the proposal by
telling her not to be in Miss Brunel's way; and then he and Melton
returned to the front of the house.
Dove was now conducted by her companion down into the theatrical Hades
which lies beneath the stage. She saw the figures of the carpenters
gliding like the spirits of the damned through the dusky twilight; she
saw the cumbrous woodwork, the machinery of the traps, and what not,
rendered faintly visible by the glimmering jets; and then she was led
into the bright little room which was appropriated to Miss Brunel's use.
"You may go home if you like, now, Sarah," said the latter to her
dresser. "Mrs. Christmas is in the theatre, and will be here
presently."
"Thank you, miss," said the tidy little woman, who immediately hurried
away home to get supper ready for her husband, a gasman in the theatre.
It was the best single dressing-room in the place; but it was not a very
grand apartment. There was, however, a full-length mirror at one end,
which had been privately presented (with a hint as to its destination)
by Count Schoenstein to Mr. Melton; and the manager had thought that the
least _he_ could do was to newly paper the little chamber. At present
it was in a state of confusion which largely excited Dove's curiosity.
The implements of stage effect were displayed before her, on the floor,
on the table, and on the marble slab underneath the smaller
looking-glass; and all around lay or hung divers articles of costume and
ornament, the peculiarly bright materials and prominent decorations of
which were very new to her. But it needed only a glance at Juliet's
clear, beautiful face to see that she required very little "making-up,"
nor was Dove less surprised to find that the lace and similar little
delicacies of the young actress's costume were real and valuable.
"My mother taught me to make all these things myself," she explained to
Dove. "She was very particular about them; and used to say that when
one meant to spend one's life in a profession, one ought to have as much
pride in wearing real lace on the stage as out of doors."
"And do you mean to spend all your life in your profession?" asked Dove,
timidly.
"Yes; why not?" said the girl, with a smile.
"I--I don't know," stammered Dove, blushing dreadfully.
"Come, be frank with me," said Annie Brunel, taking the girl's hand in
hers. "Don't you think it very wicked to be an actress?"
Dove was now forced to explain herself.
"I don't, indeed," she said. "But I couldn't help thinking that you are
too young and--and too pretty--to waste all your life in a theatre."
"Oh, nonsense," said Miss Brunel, laughing in a motherly sort of way.
"I live only in the theatre. I find my life wasted whenever I go out of
it, and spend my time in amusing myself like a child. I have nothing to
interest me but the theatre; nothing to live for out of it; and it is
only when I get into the spirit of my part that I feel myself all
throbbing over with a delicious life. You cannot understand that? Why,
my very fingers tingle with enjoyment; I get quite a new warmth within
me; and many a time I can't help laughing or crying quite naturally when
the scene suggests it. I'm sure no one in front has half the delight in
a play that I have. I scarcely see the wings, and the prompter, and the
scene-shifters; I forget the abominable smell of gas; and I should like
to keep on the character for ever--if it is one that pleases me. When I
get a new and unpleasant part, I hate acting. I feel as if I were doing
exactly what Mrs. Christmas taught me; and that the people must be
laughing at me; and I become afraid of the critics, and hope that I
shan't forget the cues."
Here the call-boy came running to the door; Juliet was wanted for the
second scene. She hastily departed; and Dove was left alone.
"How very friendly she must be with Will, to receive me so kindly, and
talk to me so frankly," thought Dove; when it was her own pretty face
that had won upon the young actress's heart.
The scene in Capulet's House is a short one, and Annie Brunel was
speedily back in her room. She brought with her Mrs. Christmas; and the
bright, white-haired little woman made a pert courtesy when she was
introduced, and said how sorry she was to hear that the young lady had
been sitting alone. The next moment she was running into a series of
ludicrous stories about the mistakes inexperienced people had made in
trying to find their way about the theatre by themselves; and it must be
confessed that her anecdotes were sometimes so very humorous that it was
as well that only ladies heard them.
"And something of the same kind," she continued, with her merry little
eyes sparkling, "happened to Mr. ----, the celebrated author, you know,
with Nelly Featherstone, who is in this theatre at the present
moment--or ought to be. You know it was a benefit night,
Miss--Anerley?--yes, Miss Anerley; and there was a general hurry-scurry,
and he had been left in the wings. He asked a super how he should get
to Mr. Crimp (and it was his benefit, my dear, and he had several
friends with him, all drinking in his room), and the man told him to go
to the first dressing-room on the right when he went downstairs. But
his right was our left, as you know, my dear; and there were in the
first dressing-room on the left Nelly Featherstone and her sister, and
another girl, all dressing as hard as ever they could for the burlesque.
Nelly was 'Perseus,' and before she had got on her tights, she was
in--in a transition state, shall we say, my dear?"
Here the merry little woman laughed until the tears ran down her
withered grey cheeks. "And up to the door goes Mr. ----, and opens it
without thinking. Oh, Lor! what a fright he must have got! Nelly
screamed at the pitch of her voice, and fell into a chair, and screamed
again; and her sister Jeanie (_she_ had some clothes on) ran at the poor
man, and said something very offensive, and slammed the door in his
face. Poor fellow, he nearly died of shame; and Nelly's scream told
everybody of his blunder, and Crimp and all his friends shrieked over
it--but not before him, my dear, for he was much too celebrated a man to
be laughed at. Only he sent her next day an explanation and an apology
through the manager, and as beautiful a bouquet as ever you saw; and he
got a friend of his to write a lovely notice of her in the _Diurnal_
itself, when old Yellowjaw's piece was--Mercy, gracious me! There's the
call-boy again--run, Miss Annie!"
"Good-bye," said Miss Brunel, hurriedly, shaking hands with Dove. "I
should like you to come often and see me."
She bent over her for a moment, kissed her lightly, and left.
"You know what that means?" said Mrs. Christmas to Dove. "That means
that she will speak to no one this night again until her part is
finished. All the theatre knows her way, and humours her. It's when the
genius is working on her--that's what I say; and I know it, for I've
seen it in her mother. _There_ was the sweetest woman you ever heard
of--not very friendly, Miss, you know, in the way of talking of her own
affairs--and it's nothing I could ever make out about her life before I
knew her--but the sweetest creature! the tenderest creature! And she
was such a rare good actress, too--but nothing like her daughter; she
knew that, and used to sit and talk for hours--it was the only thing she
would talk about--over what she expected Miss Annie to be. And once she
said to me, with tears running down her face, 'I pray every night that
my little girl may be kept always an actress; and that she may never
look for happiness outside her own profession.' But it's a shame to
keep you here, Miss, if you've never seen Miss Annie's 'Juliet;' she
said I was to take you back to your box when you wished to go."
So once more Dove passed through the gloomy region and worked her way
upward to the light of the theatre. Her friends were astonished at her
long absence; but they were too much enthralled by what was going on
upon the stage to speak to her. And again Dove looked down upon that
queenly little person with whom she had been talking; and could not
explain to herself the strange sensation she then experienced. It
seemed as if her visit to the dressing-room had been a trance; and that
she had really been speaking with Juliet. In the dressing-room she had
seen before her only a fine-looking, intellectual, and very courteous
lady; but now upon the stage, she could not see this lady at all. She
even lost the power of remembering her. Those jet-black tresses, those
fine eyes, and that pale, beautiful forehead--above all, that rich,
majestic voice--all these belonged to Juliet, were Juliet, and she knew
that it was a Juliet in nature, if not in name, who had spoken to her,
and taken her hand, and kissed her.
This is perhaps the severest test to which an artist can be put. When
you know the writer of a book, you cannot help under-estimating the
book. You are familiar with the author's personality, his habit of
thought, perhaps with the material on which he works; you think of him
more than of his book; and nothing but the soundest and most
concentrated effort will overcome the influence of this unwittingly
unjust scrutiny. When you know an actor or an actress, you
involuntarily search for himself or herself in the assumed character;
you look at the character from within, not from without; you destroy the
illusion by a knowledge of its material elements. Nothing but the power
of genius will force upon you under these circumstances the idealism
which the artist is labouring to complete.
But Dove was an easy subject for the spiritual magnetism of art. Her
keenly sympathetic nature vibrated to the least motion of the magician's
hand; and when the passionate climax of Juliet's misery was reached,
Dove had entirely lost self-control. For a little time she tried to
retain her composure, although Mrs. Anerley saw her lips suddenly
tremble when Juliet begged the Friar to show her some means of remaining
faithful to her husband--
"And I will do it without fear or doubt,
To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love."
But in the final scene she quite broke down. She rose and went to the
back of the box, and stood in a corner, sobbing bitterly. Mr. Anerley
drew her towards him; and tried to soothe her, in his quiet, kindly way.
"My darling, why should you vex yourself? You will see 'Juliet' alive
in a few minutes."
"I know it well enough," she said, trying to assume her ordinary manner,
"but it's very wrong for any one to write things like that, to make
people cry."
"The naughty Shakespeare shan't do it again, that he shan't," said Will,
compassionately. "And as for Miss Brunel, who is most in fault--but
here she comes!"
Will picked out of the corner the large bouquet which lay there; and
returned in time to let it drop--nearly the first of a fine collection
of similar tributes which welcomed the triumph of the young
actress--almost at her feet. Romeo picked it up, along with two others;
she took this particular one and sent a single bright look so clearly up
to the box, that a good many heads were turned thither. When Romeo had
picked up the remaining bouquets, and when she had again and again bowed
her acknowledgments of the cordial applause of the theatre, the girl
with the pale face and the black hair retired, and the people calmed
down.
"Now, Dove," said Will, "if you wish to be cheered up a bit before
going, there is as absurd a farce as ever was written to follow. Shall
we stay?"
"Just as you please, Will," said Dove, looking down.
The first of her new duties, she thought, was submission and obedience;
and she hoped neither Mr. nor Mrs. Anerley noticed her little conjugal
effort.
It was agreed, however, that they should go home at once; and Will went
off to hunt up Count Schoenstein's brougham. In a short space of time
they were seated in the Langham hotel, awaiting supper.
"And not the least pleasant part of a play," said Mr. Anerley,
dogmatically, as he fingered one of his wine-glasses, "is the supper
after. You come out of the gas and the heat into a cool, fresh room;
and--and--waiter! bring some ice, please."
"Yes, sir."