She, ’midst the gay world’s hum,
Was the queen-bee--the glass of all that’s fair;
Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb--
The last’s a miracle.
BYRON.
That strain again--It had a dying fall;
O it came o’er my ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour. Enough--no more--
’Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
SHAKSPEARE.
It so happened that the Italian Opera was the first scenic exhibition
of any description at which Lucy had ever been present. If such
amusements had been of easier attainment from Bankside Farm, Mrs.
Darnell would have thought a play-bill only a synonymous term for
a sure pass to perdition. Alice Darnell, it is true, through all
her sorrows, had always retained a lingering partiality for a
“metior,” in which she had during her short career been so eminently
successful; and she often took pleasure in attempting to explain to
her little niece, whilst reading parts of Shakspeare, the effect
that might be produced by the impersonation of the characters by
different actors; but still, no previous description can give to a
person who has never witnessed it, any adequate idea of the power of
perfect dramatic representation. Lucy would have been much astonished
if taken for the first time to one of our great national theatres,
where she would at least have understood the language, and made out
the intentions of the performers. But Castleton was, except upon
extraordinary occasions, a creature of habit. Winter was past--spring
was already advanced. As Covent Garden market comes into season,
Covent Garden Theatre goes out, and Lucy was taken for the first
time, to the Italian Opera; and to the effect of novelty which
any thing of the kind would have produced on her, were added the
perfectly unintelligible incongruities of that style of performance.
Perhaps when given in perfection, there is no description of scenic
representation which opens a more varied source of enjoyment to an
habitual frequenter of theatres. But then the rudiments of dramatic
representation must have been first understood. The merits of an
accurate imitation of nature must not only first have been tasted,
but the pleasure derived from that pure source, must in some measure
have been exhausted, before the graft of song upon incident and
character, could be relished.
There is, perhaps, nothing yet produced by the progress of
civilization, so thoroughly artificial as an Italian opera; and to a
child of nature like Lucy, it may be imagined, that much that night
was perfectly incomprehensible. As long as deadly defiance is hurled
in the most perfect concord--voices ringing in harmony, whilst swords
are brandishing in enmity--the crisis of fate consumed in repeating,
some hundred times, some Italian paraphrase of “I cannot stay, I
must away,” which practical performance of an alleged impossibility,
is probably encored--the most confidential communications of the
most disordered despair given over the lamps in the most elaborate
_roulades_, whilst four-and-twenty old maids all in a row, repeat
together at stated intervals “Poor thing! Poor thing--how very
much we all pity you!”--whilst thus upon every occasion sense is
sacrificed to sound, it would appear that assumption of character
must be a mere mockery. Yet this is far from being the case. In
losing the verisimility of nature, the unity of effect as a whole is
of course destroyed; yet so powerful is the additional impulse given
to the excited senses, by the aid of appropriate music adapted to the
action portrayed, that perhaps much the most brilliant movements of
the mimic art have been of late years on the Italian boards. And the
night in question was rich in examples of that description, for the
opera was Semiramide, and the finest living actress of the world, the
splendid Pasta, was the heroine.
Lady Gayland’s box was upon the pit tier, more upon the stage than
over the orchestra. Lady Gayland, passionately fond of music as she
was, had already arrived when Castleton and his wife entered. Lady
Castleton sat in front next the stage, Lady Gayland on the opposite
side, with her back to the audience, and Castleton beside her. Partly
from the earliness of the hour, and partly from the interest of the
performance of that opera, then new to this country, they remained
long without any additional visitors. Every thing was a matter of
bewilderment to Lucy, from the very first crash of the overture,
which, except the war of the winter waves, was the loudest sound she
had ever heard.
As subjects of astonishment and admiration accumulated in the opera,
she became confused with their multitude, and ashamed to show the
extent to which she was puzzled, by asking any questions. Lady
Gayland’s good-natured attempt to explain the story as it proceeded,
was not very successful, as Lucy could not retain either the real or
assumed names of the persons described, so as to be able to identify
them again; and the nature of the (to her) strange costumes, puzzled
her even as to which were meant for men, and which for women. The
choruses she could not at all understand. She longed to ask how
so many people could think of singing exactly the same words all
together, unless it had been a psalm. The finely executed elongation
of a high note, to her ignorant simplicity, seemed only an unmeaning
squall.
In the mean time, Castleton and Lady Gayland were in a state of
ecstasy only known to the true “Fanatici,” an enjoyment certainly
much enhanced to both of them by their being able mutually to
communicate their sensations. It has been remarked, that the peculiar
character of Castleton was the refinement of his taste, which was on
some occasions much too fastidious for his happiness; but in nothing
was his taste more perfect than in music, though he was often too
much of an enthusiast to be a very captious critic.
Castleton and Lady Gayland had often together heard and admired Pasta
in the same opera in Italy; and whilst they therefore anticipated
the brilliancy of each well-known passage, or subsequently discussed
its comparative merit, now and the last time they had heard it, Lucy
could not conceive how it was possible for any one to remember sounds
so long.
Perhaps that sympathy which depends on sound is, of all others, the
most independent of events, the most survives change, or despises
distance. It may be, that when any similarity occurs, the points of
difference are not so distinguishable by the ear as by the eye; but
certainly in foreign lands the tone of a bell, or even the whistling
of the wind, will sometimes recall a distant home more strongly than
any likeness in the outline of the landscape. And amongst individuals
the recollection of a loved and a lost one is sometimes casually
revived by a well-known intonation, or even emphasis, in the mouth
of an indifferent relative, when no family resemblance of feature
would have been admitted. Be this as it may, the impression now made
on Castleton and Lady Gayland, as the opera proceeded, and each
well-remembered cadence recurred was, that here again were the same
syren sounds which they had together heard, together admired. Even so
had they then sat, side by side; yet how changed in every respect now
was their relative position!
“I remember,” said Castleton, in answer to some remark of Lady
Gayland’s, “you made a similar observation to me last time we heard
it--it was the night before I left Naples.”
“Yes,” said Lady Gayland, “and Frank Melmoth was sitting, as it might
be, where Lady Castleton now is--I have never seen him either, since
that night.”
“You have never seen him since that night?”
“No; the pennyless treasurer passed on to his appropriate post in one
of the colonies.”
“And after that night you _never_ saw him?” eagerly asked Castleton.
“Never,” replied Lady Gayland calmly, clearing her “_longnettes_,”
and directing them towards the stage with a “_sang froid_” that
seemed to convey the idea that the fact was one which neither had
then made any impression on her, nor did she wish that its recital
should now make any on her auditor.
It will not be necessary to inflict on the reader any speculation
upon the nature of those mixed reflections which, during the next
few minutes of silence, whilst they were apparently absorbed in
attention to the performance, distracted the attention of the two
musical amateurs. It will be sufficient to explain that this Frank
Melmoth was rather a popular character, though what is commonly
called a cool hand. It was impossible to deny that he was amusing;
though not witty, he was funny,--a characteristic acquired by a
mixture of impudence and humour, which forms a sort of chemical
compound, often substituted for the real attic salt. There were
moments when it rather suited Lady Gayland’s humour to be amused
than interested, and of these Frank Melmoth availed himself during
his stay at Naples, on his way to the distant sinecure which his
necessities had obliged him to accept. A widow is said to be the
reverse of a sinecure, but he thought that a jointure, even with
its lively accompaniment, was better than being buried alive with
a pension; and therefore did his best to win her favour: in which
attempt he soon detected Castleton to be a formidable rival; and in
his endeavours to overcome that obstacle, Frank Melmoth was up to
a certain point successful. He had certainly most powerful weapons
with which to work, in Lady Gayland’s keen relish for ridicule, and
Castleton’s morbid sense of its slightest application to himself. Not
only did he sometimes succeed in amusing Lady Gayland at Castleton’s
expense, but in causing her demonstration of that amusement to be
offensive to Castleton’s taste, as well as hurtful to his feelings.
Lady Gayland was afraid that she had already shown herself too
sensible of the partiality of her sensitive admirer, to render these
playful ebullitions on her part of more than momentary impression;
but Castleton, whose feelings were too irritable on this subject
for his judgment to be very sound, thought that he perceived in her
readiness, when in a merry mood, to seek amusement from the society
of Frank Melmoth, another proof that (like the young lady whom he
mentioned in his letter to his friend St. Clair,) if she hesitated
between them, it was only the adventitious advantages of his
position in the world which rendered her choice doubtful, otherwise
her preference would have been decidedly accorded to the needy Frank
Melmoth.
This was an opinion which Frank did every thing in his power to
confirm. He had, indeed, induced Castleton by this means to hasten
his departure from Naples, and as he was obliged himself to proceed
soon, if not successful in his then pursuit, he had succeeded
in driving Castleton from the box at San Carlo that night, _in
dispetto_ with himself, and fancying that he was leaving behind a
triumphant rival, who five minutes afterwards brought upon himself
the sudden termination of all his hopes by an abrupt proposal, which
was summarily and concisely rejected, and the next morning, which
saw Castleton flying with foaming steeds in imaginary discomfiture
over the Pontine Marshes, saw Frank Melmoth thoroughly defeated,
paddling in a sulky steam-boat out of the bay of Naples. It may
therefore be seen, that if in the reflections which the same opera,
seen again together, mutually aroused, there was any food for
regret--that regret could on neither side be entirely unmingled
with self-reproach. Thoughtlessness had made Lady Gayland assume
the appearance of what she was far from being--a coquette; and in
Castleton’s case, distrust of himself had made him most unjust to
another whom he had then no right to doubt.
Towards the conclusion of the opera, these reflections were
interrupted by the dropping in, in succession, of many “a young man
about town,” _habitués_ of Lady Gayland’s box, whose nightly visit
had this time a double motive, as they were all anxious to have a
nearer view of the “new woman,” whom they had been admiring from a
distance.
At the conclusion of the opera, this rotation proceeded rapidly;
and Lucy was presented to an undistinguishable succession of young
gentlemen, with black heads and neckcloths, who had each hardly time
to mutter, “how divine Pasta had been!” when another and another
still succeeded.
Through all this Castleton had kept his station by the side of Lady
Gayland, by a sort of brevet rank, which the presence of his bride
gave him. Latterly, the society had again become more stationary.
Next to Castleton was his friend St. Clair, with whom he was soon
engaged in an interesting conversation. Opposite to them was Lord
Stayinmore, who had never more than a certain set of phrases to
address to a lady. Having exhausted these to Lucy, he suffered
himself to be engrossed by Sir North, on his other side, in a
political discussion.
Lady Gayland, therefore, took the opportunity of inquiring of Lucy,
“how the opera had amused her?” There was that unmistakable air of
real interest in Lady Gayland’s manner, whenever she addressed Lucy,
which made her always reply in a tone of confidence, different from
that which she felt towards any other member of the society in which
she moved.
“Why, to tell the honest truth,” said she, leaning forward towards
her questioner, “I can’t say that I could the least understand what
it all meant. It’s not likely that people should sing when they’re in
such sorrow; and then I can’t guess why that young man should kill
the queen that was so kind to him all along.”
“I don’t wonder that that should surprise you, my dear; but he was
not aware of what he was doing. It was in the dark.”
“In the dark! But I could see very well who it was, though I did not
know her so well as he did, and was so much farther off.”
“I am afraid you are in the dark, too, a little as yet,” said Lady
Gayland, (tapping her gently with her fan.) “But, tell me, did you
not admire the singing, though you could not understand the story?”
“Why, I should, perhaps, if I had known the language; but even then
they seemed to me more like birds, than men and women singing words.
I like a song that I can make out every word that’s said, just as
cousin George used to sing.”
She rather dropped her voice at the last half sentence, but not so
much as for it to escape the quick ear of Castleton, who turned
sharply round, even before Lady Gayland asked, “And who, pray, is
cousin George, my dear?”
“A relative of Lady Castleton’s, who is in the navy,” answered
Castleton for her; and then turned round to St. Clair again, as if,
though having heard it he had answered it, it was nevertheless a
question of no moment.
The overture to the ballet, just then commencing with a crash, Lady
Gayland took advantage of that moment to beckon Lucy towards her, and
whisper, “At Hornscliff that day, was he not?” and on her assenting,
Lady Gayland raised her finger to her lip in token of silence on the
subject.
The curtain then rose for the ballet; at first, Lucy was delighted
with the scenery and pageantry, for the spectacle was grand and
imposing. But at length the resounding plaudits announced the
_entrée_ of the perfect Taglioni. Lucy was a little astonished at her
costume upon her first appearance. She was attired as a goddess, and
goddesses’ gowns are somewhat of the shortest, and their legs rather
_au naturel_; but when she came to elicit universal admiration by
pointing her toe, and revolving in the slow _pirouette_, Lucy, from
the situation in which she sat, was overpowered with shame at the
effect; and whilst Lady Gayland, with her _longnette_ fixed on the
stage, ejaculated, “Beautiful! inimitable!” the unpractised Lucy
could not help exclaiming, “O that is too bad! I cannot stay to see
that!” and she turned her head away, blushing deeply.
“Is your ladyship ill?” exclaimed Lord Stayinmore. “Castleton, I am
afraid Lady Castleton feels herself indisposed.”
“Would you like to go?” kindly inquired Castleton.
“O so much!” she answered.
“Are you ill, my dear?” asked Lady Gayland.
“O no!” she said.
“Then you had better stay, it is so beautiful.”
“Thank you, Lord Castleton is kind enough to let me go.”
Which he did, still imagining that she had been suddenly taken ill.
Therefore St. Clair volunteered to call her carriage--Lord Stayinmore
bowed his lowest as she passed--Sir North reached his highest to
help her on with her cloak--Lady Gayland took leave of her most
kindly--and Castleton attending her with the greatest care, she was
safely conveyed to the carriage; and it was not till then that he
entreated an explanation of what had really been the cause of her
sudden departure.