Behind the scenes of the Royal Parthenon Theatre, on a sultry evening
in July. The first act of the play was over, and the carpenters were
busy setting and preparing the scenes for the next act, while Hart, the
stage manager, stood perspiring under his white hat with his back to
the curtain. Figures in all kinds of costumes coming and going; female
voices chattering, and male voices grumbling, made the confusion worse
confounded, when Abrahams, the manager, sumptuously attired in a dress
suit which might have been borrowed from a slop-shop in Hounds-ditch,
came panting on to the stage.
‘Well,’ he asked, gazing at Hart with a bloodshot, questioning eye; ‘is
it a go, will she do?’
The stage manager was too old a bird to commit himself so early in the
evening, but he answered off-hand, with one eye on the carpenters, the
other on his employer--
‘I think she will; what do they say in front?’
‘Say! They’re in ecstasies. Cakeford says she is the biggest thing he’s
seen since Desclée. Why the devil doesn’t Brady act up to her? Well,
it’ll depend now on her legs--if her legs are all right when she comes
on as the boy.’
‘That’s in Act III.?’
‘Yes, in Act III. Hay says she’s too thin, but didn’t she have them in
the garden scene? It was splendid. Well, I’m going to speak to her, and
tell her the impression she has made. I think it’s all right.’
So saying, the manager pushed his way across the stage, and, winding
in and out among set pieces, wings, loose pieces of canvas, and all the
flotsam and jetsam of the theatre, made his way along a dirty passage
till he came to a dingy door which stood ajar. Here he knocked, and,
without waiting for an invitation, entered a largish chamber, hastily
fitted up as an actress’s retiring room. Mirrors in various degrees
of magnificent dinginess were hung on every side; a large gilded sofa,
occasionally used on the stage in so-called ‘banqueting’ scenes, stood
in a corner, chairs of divers gaudy patterns were scattered here and
there, and in the centre was a white table with gilded legs.
At the further end of the room were drawn crimson curtains,
communicating with the more private portion of the dressing-room.
‘Hallo, White, here you are!’ exclaimed the manager to a solitary figure
sitting on the gilded sofa, and smoking a cigar.
The dramatic author (for it was he) rose and seized the manager’s hand.
His own was trembling like a leaf, and his eyes were dim with moisture
very like tears.
‘It’s all right, then?’ he said eagerly, almost pleadingly.
‘If she goes on as she has begun she’ll astonish the town. Ah, here she
is.’
As he spoke the curtains were drawn back by the hand of a female
attendant, and the heroine of the evening appeared, clad in her
‘change’ for the second act--an exquisite dress of white samite thinly
embroidered with silver. Locks of flaxen hair fell loosely over her
shoulders, and set in its midst was a face of the most dream-like and
spiritual beauty, lit by two large eyes which, once seen, were never to
be forgotten. In another woman perhaps those eyes might have seemed
too pale, too forget-me-not like in hue, but in her they harmonised
strangely with the wonderful hair and tremulous mobile lips. Tall,
slight, and yet finely and even fully formed, the actress was in the
prime of her womanhood, and as she advanced with eyes full of limpid
light and mouth tremulously smiling, she looked supremely bright and
fair.
Yet despite her loveliness and despite her air of evanescent happiness,
there was something in her look, and still more in her manner, which
seemed full of nameless trouble. There was too quick an attempt to seem
unrestrained and gay, too strange a readiness to seize light occasions
for nervous laughter, too impatient a sense of her own beauty, and
of the light sparkling upon it. Her very gesture at times was at once
imperious and reckless; she seemed like one who commands, yet shrinks
from the obedience of, some wild animal crouching at her feet.
What was strangest of all, she seemed suddenly, in the midst of her
gayest laughter, to pause with a kind of listening terror, while the
light faded from her eyes, and the sickness of a nameless horror touched
every feature of her face.
It is not to be supposed that these fluctuations of feeling would at
once have struck any one but a very close observer. To the ordinary eye,
such as that of Abrahams, hers was simply a lovely face, characterised
by marvellous lights and shades of expression.
She advanced smiling into the room, and held out both her hands to
White.
‘Oh, Mr. White,’ she said, with something of her childish manner, ‘I am
so glad you have come round.’
White took both her hands and held them tenderly in his own, while the
manager beamed and nodded.
‘How do you feel, my dear?’ asked the latter. ‘Nerves all right, eh?
Shall I send you up some champagne?’
‘No, thank you; I never drink wine.’
‘And right you are,’ said Abrahams. ‘It’s the curse of the profession,
and death to a pretty face. Look at Mrs. Claudesley! She was the talk
of the town for a whole season, and yet she drank herself to death. The
very year she died they offered her one hundred pounds a night to star
in the States, and if she had gone and kept sober she might have come
back with twenty thousand pounds.’
The actress was not listening, her smile had faded, and she was gazing
with strange wistfulness into White’s face. She did not speak; but her
look said something more significant than words, something that
filled his eyes and throat with tears, and misted the glasses of his
spectacles. He squeezed her little fingers in his trembling hands.
‘I can’t tell you how happy I am,’ he said. ‘More than happy; proud!
This is a great night for all of us--a great night.’
‘You think so?’ she returned sweetly; ‘then I am quite satisfied. I
don’t care for what the others think; I only want to please _you!_’
and though her eyes were quite dry, she passed her hands lightly across
them, as if brushing away a tear.
Abrahams looked at her with growing admiration.
‘How about the big scene in Act III.?’ he asked. ‘Do you feel quite
up to it, my dear? Well, that’s right; and what White here says _I_
say--this will be a great night for all of us, if you only finish as
you’ve begun.’
Here there was a rap at the door and a shrill voice, ‘Overture’s
finished, Miss Vére;’ whereupon the three, still in conversation, moved
slowly towards the stage.
The play was ‘Cymbeline,’ and it was ‘Miss Vere’s’ first appearance in
the character of ‘Imogen.’ The regular season at the Parthenon being
over, and the eminent tragedian who was generally its chief ornament
being away in the provinces, Abrahams had been persuaded to try the new
actress in an unfamiliar Shakespearian character.
Of course, as is usual in such cases, the play was ‘scamped.’ All the
old scenery of the theatre was called into requisition, and the costumes
were a startling combination of all the early periods. This gave the
critics of the daily newspapers an opportunity of saying, next morning,
that ‘the new and appropriate scenery was everything that could be
desired, and that the strictest accuracy was observed in the minutest
detail of properties and costumes.’
But the play-going public had come that night not to see the fine
scenery or good costumes, not to listen to the dreary spouting of the
members of the stock company, but to witness the first London appearance
of a young lady of whom rumour had prophesied great things. The house
was crammed with ‘paper.’ The critics of the big papers sat in the
stalls, and the critics of the small papers were sprinkled through the
dress circle. Literature, art, and the drama were well represented. Sir
Tilbury Swallow, who had married the once famous actress, Miss Fawn, and
who had been knighted for his literary services by the reigning family,
occupied a private box with his still beautiful wife. Professional
beauties, of less conspicuous virtue, shone resplendent everywhere.
Deep in a stall, buried in the abyss of his own personality, and glaring
thence occasionally, with saturnine cheek and lack-lustre eye, sat
the great Mr. Blanco Serena, the pre-Raphaelite painter. The fact
was, nearly every individual present in the better parts of the
house possessed, or was supposed to possess, some sort of interest in
dramatic, pictorial, or literary art.
In the centre of the stalls, however, sat a figure whose appearance was
in striking contrast to that of the habitual theatre-goers surrounding
him. In any gathering he would have attracted attention; in the present
he was specially remarkable. He was a broad-shouldered muscular man of
about thirty, with a face bronzed to a deep brown by exposure to the
tropical sun. He had a high forehead, black eyes, a square, determined
jaw; a thick, black moustache covered his upper lip, but his cheeks were
clean shaven. Even in his well-made dress suit, with faultless linen and
spotless tie, he had the appearance of a man whose true place would be
leading a forlorn hope or standing alone in some position of loneliness
and peril. He sat and listened, or rose and looked about him between the
acts, with the air of one to whom a theatre was more or less unfamiliar,
and he listened to the whole play, even to the ranting of the
subordinate actors, with the approval of a man enjoying a new sensation,
and quite unable or unwilling to be dissatisfied or critical.
But from the first moment the new actress appeared upon the stage this
man had watched her in fascinated amazement, and as long as she remained
there he had eyes for nothing else but her face. As the play proceeded,
his expression changed from one of wonder and doubt to another of deep
surprise and pain. His brows were knitted, his countenance strangely
troubled. When the curtain fell on the first act he sat moveless, and
made no attempt to join in the general applause.
Throughout the second act he remained in the same position, troubled
and expectant. When it ended he rose quietly, and made his way to the
saloon.
Various excited groups were congregated here. One group, consisting of
several very young gentlemen, a little bald-headed man with a simpering
voice, and a swarthy lean man wrapt up to the throat in a large white
muffler, clearly representing the fourth estate.
The lean man in the muffler was holding forth with more zeal than
eloquence on the personal appearance of the _débutante_.
‘Where did she come from?’ asked one of the very young gentlemen. ‘Where
did Abrahams pick her up?’
‘I’ve heard that her parents lived in Paris,’ answered the lean man,
‘and that she used to sing once, when quite a young girl, at a _café
chantant_. White knows all about her, I believe.’
‘What power she showed in the cave scene!’ said another very young
gentleman.
‘Do you think so?’ the lean man said, reflectively. ‘She rather
disappointed me there. And I don’t like her delivery of the blank
verse.’
‘Beastly immoral play!’ drawled the man with the bald head. ‘What the
French call _scabreux?_’
‘Why, it’s Shakespeare,’ gasped one of the very young gentlemen.
‘Are you sure of that? And if it is? Shakespeare or no Shakespeare, the
licenser would suppress it if it were submitted to him now for the first
time.’
‘Oh, oh!’ groaned several voices.
‘And what is more,’ persisted the man with the bald head, ‘no manager
could look at such rubbish. It’s very good poetry, and all that sort of
thing, but it’s what I call a----bad play, though you fellows haven’t
the pluck to say so!’
Here there was a general laugh.
‘What do you think of the Imogen?’ asked the lean man.
‘Pretty good,’ drawled, the other. ‘When I was an _attache_ in
Constantinople, I once saw a woman’s hand waving out of a house on the
Bosphorus. I jumped out of my boat, and went into the house, tripping an
eunuch at the door who tried to prevent me. I ran from room to room
till I came to a splendid open court with a fountain, and there I saw a
veiled woman sitting in the sun. The moment I appeared she lifted up the
veil, and showed the loveliest face I ever saw. I need not give you the
sequel of the story. She had seen me at a distance, and been struck by
my style of beauty. I afterwards found she was the favourite wife of the
Grand Vizier. Well, she was the very image of the girl who is playing
“Imogen” tonight. Poor little Schelsalmaigàr.’
‘Was that her name?’
‘Yes; old Muzid afterwards found out about my visits, and the cruel
bowstring and sack business terminated the adventure. I tried to save
her, but they found some of my Turkish letters (I write Turkish rather
better than I write English) on her person. She kept them too long, in
the hopes of getting some one to read them to her, for she couldn’t read
herself.’
Standing close to the group the swarthy gentleman with the moustache
had listened to the close with a smile as he sipped a glass of lemonade.
Suddenly he felt himself touched upon the shoulder, while a hasty voice
exclaimed, ‘Sutherland! is it possible!’
Turning quietly, he found himself face to face with a bright-eyed,
full-bearded little man of forty, who used an eye-glass, and spoke with
the greatest suspicion of a Scottish accent.
‘Crieff?’
‘Yes,’ returned the little man. ‘But is it yourself? How long have you
been in England?’
‘Just one month,’ said Sutherland.
‘When I last heard of you, you were somewhere in the wilds of North
America. There was a paragraph going round that you had joined a
Free-love community in the Western States. Well, of all the places in
the world, the last I should expect to find you in is a theatre. Do you
like the new actress?’
‘I am not a very good judge of acting,’ replied Sutherland, quietly;
‘but if you mean do I like her personally----’
‘Well, it comes to that.’
‘Then I think she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’
‘You don’t say that!’ said the little man, opening his eyes.
‘Only once in my life before, and that was years ago, under
extraordinary circumstances, have I seen such a face. Should it be the
same--but no, that is scarcely possible. Do you know anything of Miss
Vere’s history?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Of course, it is not her first appearance on the stage.’
‘I think not. She has had some years of practice in the provinces. If
you are interested in the lady, come and sup with me to-night at the
Harum-Scarum.’
‘What’s that?’
‘A club of night-birds, where the small critics compare their notes and
pick each other’s brains for ideas. The strongest will and the loudest
voice settle the matter, and what they say overnight is echoed in a
dozen newspapers next morning.’
‘But what has that to do with Miss Vere?’ i Everything. You’ll hear
all that is known concerning her, for the night-birds know everything,
and--but the curtain’s going up. Of course you’ll come?’
‘Yes,’ said Sutherland; and the two men returned to their places in the
auditorium.
The third act was a revelation and a surprise, even to those who
believed most in the new actress. In the great scene with Pisanio,
when, on her way to Milford Haven, Imogen learns for the first time her
husband’s diabolical suspicions, the actress fairly took the house by
storm, till, at the great speech ending:
Prithee dispatch.
The lamb entreats the butcher; where’s thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master’s bidding,
When I deserve it, too!--
the whole audience rose in one surge of vehement applause. Pale as
death, with her large eyes gleaming, and her delicate frame trembling
like a leaf, Miss Vere trembled before the unexpected tempest, and it
was some minutes before the scene could proceed. When it did so the
actress seemed moved to the quick, and the pensive wail:
Talk thy tongue weary; speak
I have heard. I am a strumpet; and mine ear,
Therein false struck, can make no greater wound,
Nor tent to bottom that--
was uttered with a melancholy so infinite, pathos so despairing, that
Sutherland, who had heard the excitement and enthusiasm, felt the words
sink like lead into his heart. His own face was livid now, despite its
tan, and a shiver ran through his veins.
A scene or two later, when Imogen is transformed into
Fidele, the actress still held her audience, but with a less mysterious
fascination. In her boy’s dress, which was charmingly delicate and
becoming, she fully warranted the exclamation of Belarius on first
beholding her:
By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,
An earthly paragon! Behold divineness
No elder than a boy.
Her acting, moreover, was pathetic in the extreme; and thenceforth,
until the end of the play, her success was assured.
The curtain fell. Call after call greeted the actress, who looked
completely exhausted by her efforts, and could scarcely conjure up a
smile, as she accepted the bouquets which had been liberally provided
for her. White sat in the dark background of a box, crying for joy.
As the audience streamed out of the theatre, Sutherland came shoulder
to shoulder with little Crieff, who had invited him to sup at the
Harum-Scarum.
‘How glum you look!’ said Crieff. ‘Are you disappointed?’
‘Disappointed, no!’
‘You don’t seem to share the general enthusiasm?’
‘I do share it, but, as I told you, I am no judge of acting.’
‘Well, come and hear what the night-birds say about it. Shall we walk to
the club? It’s only a few streets off.’
Arm-in-arm in the moonlight the two men walked away. Sutherland had
lighted a cigar, and now, while the other chattered, he scarcely uttered
a word.