Essential Novelists - Dinah Craik. August NemoЧитать онлайн книгу.
last, in the midst of the confusion, a lady put her head out of the sedan and gazed around her.
It was a remarkable countenance; once seen, you could never forget it. Pale, rather large and hard in outline, an aquiline nose — full, passionate, yet sensitive lips — and very dark eyes. She spoke, and the voice belonged naturally to such a face. “Good people, let me pass — I am Sarah Siddons.”
The crowd divided instantaneously, and in moving set up a cheer that must have rang through all the town. There was a minute’s pause, while she bowed and smiled — such a smile! — and then the sedan curtain closed.
“Now’s the time — only hold fast to me!” whispered John, as he sprang forward, dragging me after him. In another second he had caught up the pole dropped by the man who was hurt; and before I well knew what we were about we both stood safe inside the entrance of the theatre.
Mrs. Siddons stepped out, and turned to pay her bearers — a most simple action — but so elevated in the doing that even it, I thought, could not bring her to the level of common humanity. The tall, cloaked, and hooded figure, and the tones that issued thence, made her, even in that narrow passage, under the one flaring tallow-candle, a veritable Queen of tragedy — at least so she seemed to us two.
The one man was paid — over-paid, apparently, from his thankfulness — and she turned to John Halifax.
“I regret, young man, that you should have had so much trouble. Here is some requital.”
He took the money, selected from it one silver coin, and returned the rest.
“I will keep this, madam, if you please, as a memento that I once had the honour of being useful to Mrs. Siddons.”
She looked at him keenly, out of her wonderful dark eyes, then curtsied with grave dignity —“I thank you, sir,” she said, and passed on.
A few minutes after some underling of the theatre found us out and brought us, “by Mrs. Siddons’ desire,” to the best places the house could afford.
It was a glorious night. At this distance of time, when I look back upon it my old blood leaps and burns. I repeat, it was a glorious night!
Before the curtain rose we had time to glance about us on that scene, to both entirely new — the inside of a theatre. Shabby and small as the place was, it was filled with all the beau monde of Coltham, which then, patronized by royalty, rivalled even Bath in its fashion and folly. Such a dazzle of diamonds and spangled turbans and Prince-of-Wales’ plumes. Such an odd mingling of costume, which was then in a transition state, the old ladies clinging tenaciously to the stately silken petticoats and long bodices, surmounted by the prim and decent bouffantes, while the younger belles had begun to flaunt in the French fashions of flimsy muslins, shortwaisted — narrow-skirted. These we had already heard Jael furiously inveighing against: for Jael, Quakeress as she was, could not quite smother her original propensity towards the decoration of “the flesh,” and betrayed a suppressed but profound interest in the same.
John and I quite agreed with her, that it was painful to see gentle English girls clad, or rather unclad, after the fashion of our enemies across the Channel; now, unhappy nation! sunk to zero in politics, religion, and morals — where high-bred ladies went about dressed as heathen goddesses, with bare arms and bare sandalled feet, gaining none of the pure simplicity of the ancient world, and losing all the decorous dignity of our modern times.
We two — who had all a boy’s mysterious reverence for womanhood in its most ideal, most beautiful form, and who, I believe, were, in our ignorance, expecting to behold in every woman an Imogen, a Juliet, or a Desdemona — felt no particular attraction towards the ungracefully attired, flaunting, simpering belles of Coltham.
But — the play began.
I am not going to follow it: all the world has heard of the Lady Macbeth of Mrs. Siddons. This, the first and last play I ever witnessed, stands out to my memory, after more than half a century, as clear as on that night. Still I can see her in her first scene, “reading a letter”— that wondrous woman, who, in spite of her modern black velvet and point lace, did not act, but WAS, Lady Macbeth: still I hear the awe-struck, questioning, weird-like tone, that sent an involuntary shudder through the house, as if supernatural things were abroad —“THEY MADE THEMSELVES— AIR!” And still there quivers through the silence that piteous cry of a strong heart broken —“ALL THE PERFUMES OF ARABIA WILL NEVER SWEETEN THIS LITTLE HAND!”
Well, she is gone, like the brief three hours when we hung on her every breath, as if it could stay even the wheels of time. But they have whirled on — whirled her away with them into the infinite, and into earthly oblivion! People tell me that a new generation only smiles at the traditional glory of Sarah Siddons. They never saw her. For me, I shall go down to the grave worshipping her still.
Of him whom I call Mr. Charles I have little to say. John and I both smiled when we saw his fine, frank face and manly bearing subdued into that poor, whining, sentimental craven, the stage Macbeth. Yet I believe he acted it well. But we irresistibly associated his idea with that of turnip munching and hay-cart oratory. And when, during the first colloquy of Banquo with the witches, Macbeth took the opportunity of winking privately at us over the foot-lights, all the paraphernalia of the stage failed to make the murderous Thane of Cawdor aught else than our humorous and good-natured Mr. Charles. I never saw him after that night. He is still living — may his old age have been as peaceful as his youth was kind and gay!
The play ended. There was some buffoonery still to come, but we would not stay for that. We staggered, half-blind and dazzled, both in eyes and brain, out into the dark streets, John almost carrying me. Then we paused, and leaning against a post which was surmounted by one of the half-dozen oil lamps which illumined the town, tried to regain our mental equilibrium.
John was the first to do it. Passing his hand over his brow he bared it to the fresh night-air, and drew a deep, hard breath. He was very pale, I saw.
“John?”
He turned, and laid a hand on my shoulder. “What did you say? Are you cold?”
“No.” He put his arm so as to shield the wind from me, nevertheless.
“Well,” said he, after a pause, “we have had our pleasure, and it is over. Now we must go back to the old ways again. I wonder what o’clock it is?”
He was answered by a church clock striking, heard clearly over the silent town. I counted the strokes — ELEVEN!
Horrified, we looked at one another by the light of the lamp. Until this minute we had taken no note of time. Eleven o’clock! How should we get home to Norton Bury that night?
For, now the excitement was over, I turned sick and faint; my limbs almost sank under me.
“What must we do, John?”
“Do! oh! ’tis quite easy. You cannot walk — you shall not walk — we must hire a gig and drive home. I have enough money — all my month’s wages — see!” He felt in his pockets one after the other; his countenance grew blank. “Why! where is my money gone to?”
Where, indeed! But that it was gone, and irretrievably — most likely stolen when we were so wedged in the crowd — there could be no manner of doubt. And I had not a groat. I had little use for money, and rarely carried any.
“Would not somebody trust us?” suggested I.
“I never asked anybody for credit in my life — and for a horse and gig — they’d laugh at me. Still — yes — stay here a minute, and I’ll try.”
He came back, though not immediately, and took my arm with a reckless laugh.
“It’s of no use, Phineas — I’m not so respectable as I thought. What’s to be done?”
Ay! what indeed! Here we were, two friendless youths, with not a penny in our pockets, and ten miles away from home. How to get there, and at midnight too, was a very serious question. We consulted