ROSALIND.
"_Ah, mon bon petit public_, be kind to my leetel child!" says Achille
Talma Dufard, when his daughter is about to go on the stage for the
first time. The words were in the heart, if not on the lips, of Mrs.
Christmas, as the kindly old woman busied herself in Annie Brunel's
dressing-room, and prepared her favourite for the coming crisis. She
had a vague presentiment that it was to be a crisis, though she did not
know why.
By the time the inevitable farce was over, the house was full. Miss
Featherstone, rushing downstairs to change her costume of a barmaid for
that of 'Celia,' brought word that all the critics were present, that
Royalty was expected, and that her own particular young gentleman had
laughed so heartily at the farce that she was sure he was in a good
humour, and inclined to let bygones be bygones.
"So you must cheer up," said Mrs. Christmas, blithely, when Nelly had
gone; "you must cheer up, and do great things, my dear."
"Am I not sufficiently cheerful, Lady Jane?"
"Cheerful? Cheerful? Yes, perhaps cheerful. But you must forget all
you have been saying about the people, and mind only your character, and
put fire and spirit into it. Make them forget who _you_ are, my dear,
and then you'll only think of yourself as 'Rosalind.' Isn't your first
cue '_Be merry_'?"
"Then I will be merry, mother, or anything else you wish. So don't vex
your poor little head about me. I shall add a grey hair to it if you
bother yourself so much."
"You would find it hard to change it now, unless you changed it to
black," said Lady Jane.
When 'Rosalind' and 'Celia' together appeared on the stage, a long and
hearty welcome was given forth from every part of the house. Mr. Melton
was standing in the wings with Mrs. Christmas, and his dry grey face
brightened up with pleasure.
"They have not forgotten her, have they?" he said, triumphantly.
"How could they?" was the natural response.
From that moment the old woman's eyes never left the form of her scholar
during the progress of the play. Keenly and narrowly she watched the
expression of her face, her manner of acting, the subtle harmony of word
and gesture which, in careful keeping, make the part of 'Rosalind' an
artistic wonder. And the more narrowly she studied her pupil's
performance, the more she convinced herself that there was nothing to be
found fault with. The timid pleasantries, the tender sadness, the coy
love advances, tempered and beautified by that unconscious halo of
modesty and virgin grace which surrounds the gentlest of all
Shakspeare's heroines, were there before her eyes, and she was forced to
say to herself that no 'Rosalind' could be more charming than this
'Rosalind.' She did not reflect that never before had she been
constrained so to convince herself, and that never before had she been
so anxious to know the effect on the audience.
That, so far as was yet appreciable, was satisfactory. The mere charm of
admirably artistic acting, combined with a graceful figure and a pretty
face, was enough to captivate any body of spectators. Mrs. Christmas,
however, dared not confess to herself that they seemed to want that
electric thrill of sympathy which had been wont to bring them and the
young actress immediately _en rapport_. Once only did they in the first
act catch that swift contagion of delight which flashes through an
audience bound by the master-spell of genius. It was where 'Rosalind,'
having graced the victorious wrestler with a chain from her own neck, is
about to go away with 'Celia,' and yet is loth to go without having had
speech of the young man who has so awakened her interest. The
half-interpreted longing, the hesitating glance, and maiden bashfulness
with which she turned to him and said:
"Did you call, sir?--
Sir, you have wrestled well, and overthrown
More than your enemies,"
--her eyes first seeking his face, and then being cast down, as the
words became almost inaudible--provoked the house into a sudden tempest
of applause which covered her disappearance from the scene, Mrs.
Christmas caught her as she came off, and kissed her, with nervous tears
in her eyes.
At the end of the first act she was called before the curtain. Any one
calmly observing the house would have seen that it was not very
enthusiastic, and that it fell to talking almost before she had passed
behind the curtain at the opposite side. Then she went down to her
dressing-room.
Mrs. Christmas welcomed her and complimented her with an emphasis which
was a little forced and unnecessary. Annie Brunel said nothing, but
stood and contemplated, with her straight-looking honest eyes, the poor
little woman who was courageously trying to act her part naturally.
Then she sate down.
"Do you think I did my best, mother?" she said. And again she fixed her
large eyes, with a kind conciliation in them, on her aged friend.
"Of course----"
"And you were watching me, I think?"
"Yes."
"And the house?"
"A little," said Mrs. Christmas, rather nervously.
"Then you know," she said, calmly, "that I have made a total failure,
that the people think so, and that to-morrow every one, including the
papers, will say so."
"My dear!----"
"Why should we not speak frankly, mother? I felt it within myself, and
I saw it in their faces. _And I knew it before I went on the stage._"
"That is it! That has done it all!" exclaimed the old woman, inclined
to wring her hands in despair and grief. "You convinced yourself that
you were going to fail, and then, when you went on the stage, you lost
command over yourself."
"Had I not command over myself?" the young girl asked, with a smile. "I
had so great command of myself that I knew and was conscious of
everything I did--the tiniest thing--and kept continually asking myself
how it would impress the people. I was never in the least excited; had
I been--but there is no use talking, Lady Jane. Help me to change my
dress; I suppose I must go through with it."
So Mrs. Christmas officiated in place of Sarah, whom she always ordered
out of the way on grand occasions; and, as she did so, she still
administered counsel and reproof, not having quite given up hope.
Two of the most distinguished of the critics met in the lobby leading to
the stalls.
"A pity, is it not?" said one.
The other merely shrugged his shoulders.
The general run of the critics fancied that Annie Brunel had added
another to her list of brilliant successes, and were already shaping in
their brain elaborate sentences overflowing with adjectives.
Lord Weyminster, whom people considered to have a share in the
proprietary of the theatre, went behind the scenes and met Mr. Melton.
"This won't do, my boy," he said.
"Do you think not?" said the manager, anxiously. "They received her very
warmly."
"They received Miss Brunel warmly, but not her 'Rosalind.'"
"What's to be done?"
"Change the piece."
"I can't. Perhaps it was only a temporary indisposition."
"Perhaps," said his lordship, carelessly. "I never saw such a
difference in the acting of any woman. Formerly she was full of fire;
to-night she was wooden--pretty enough, and proper enough, but wooden."
Further consolation or advice Mr. Melton could not get out of his
patron. In despair, he said that his lordship was exaggerating a
temporary constraint on the part of the young actress, and that the
succeeding scenes would bring her out in full force.
The wood scene was of course charming. Miss Featherstone's young
gentleman, sitting in the stalls, surrendered himself to the delicious
intoxication of the moment ('Celia,' it will be remembered, wears long
petticoats), and wondered whether he could write a poem on the forest of
Ardennes. He was in that fond period of existence when the odour of
escaped gas, anywhere, at once awoke for him visions of greenwood
scenery and romantic love-affairs; and when the perfume of cold cream
conjured up the warm touch of a certain tender cheek--for Miss
Featherstone, when in a hurry to get home from the theatre, occasionally
left her face unwashed.
The people never lost interest in the play. Indeed, being Londoners,
they were sufficiently glad to see any character played with careful
artistic propriety, and it was only as an afterthought that they missed
the old thrill of Annie Brunel's acting. It could always be said of the
part that it was gracefully and tenderly done, void of coarse comedy and
of clap-trap effects. It struck a certain low and chastened key of
sweetness and harmony that partially atoned for the absence of more
daring and thrilling chords.
And yet Annie Brunel went home sick at heart. The loss of popular favour
did not trouble her; for had not the people been remarkably kind, and
even enthusiastic, in their final call? It was the certain
consciousness that the old power had passed away from her for ever--or
rather, that the intensity and emotional abandonment of her artistic
nature had been sucked into her own personal nature, and was never more
to be separately exhibited as a beautiful and wonderful human product.
"Mother, I am tired of acting," she said. "It has been weighing upon me
ever so long; but I thought I ought to give myself one more chance, and
see if the presence of a big audience would not remove my sickness. No;
it has not. Everything I had anticipated occurred. I was not
frightened: but I knew that all the people were there, and that I could
not command them. I was not 'Rosalind' either to them or to myself; and
it was not 'Rosalind' whom they applauded. The noise they made seemed
to me to have a tone of pity in it, as if they were trying to deceive me
into thinking well of the part."
All this she said quietly and frankly; and Mrs. Christmas sate stunned
and silent. It seemed to the old woman that some terrible calamity had
occurred. She could not follow the subtle sympathies and distinctions
of which the young actress spoke: she knew only that something had
happened to destroy the old familiar compact between them, and that the
future was full of a gloomy uncertainty.
"I don't know what to say, Miss Annie. You know best what your feelings
are. I know there's something wrong somewhere----"
"Don't talk so mournfully," said she. "If I don't act any more we shall
find something else to keep us out of starvation."
"If you don't act any more!" said the old woman, in a bewildered way.
"If you don't act any more! Tell me, Miss Annie, what you mean. You're
not serious? You don't mean that because your 'Rosalind' mayn't have
gone off pretty well, you intend to give up the stage altogether--at
your time of life--with your prospects--my darling, tell me what you
mean?"
She went over and took her companion's two hands in her own.
"Why, mother, you tremble as if you expected some terrible misfortune to
happen to us. You will make me as nervous as yourself if you don't
collect yourself. You have not been prepared for it as I have been. I
have known for some time that I should not be able to act when I
returned to London----"
With a slight scream, she started up and caught her friend, who was
tottering and like to fall in her arms. The old woman had been unable
to receive this intelligence all at once. It was too appalling and too
sudden; and when at last some intimation of it came home to her mind,
she reeled under the shock. She uttered some incoherent words--"_my
charge of you_," "_your mother_," "_the future_"--and then she sank
quite insensible upon the sofa to which Annie Brunel had half-carried
her.