 | IV. Rambles and reveries |  |
4. IV.
`Hitherto my love had been ideal. Personal intercourse
had not revealed to me the imperfections of the
fair Thespian.—Report spoke highly of her character,
and the earnest approbation of the public sufficiently
remark would seem to a mere worldly reasoner, you
my friend, will understand me, when I assert that
few attachments excelled mine in real and beautiful sentiment.
It was much like the love which we know ardent
men have cherished for a portrait, a statue, or the being
of their dreams.—Whatever the object of my affections,
in reality, was—however tainted with the alleged evil influences
of her pursuit, however intellectually endowed or
morally gifted—remember that as presented to me, she
was always the living portrait of departed worth, the renovated
image of some hallowed being, the human embodiment
of a poet's dream. Naturally favored with a classical
species of womanly beauty, displaying manners in
which feminine grace and modesty struggled with a vivid
conception of the part she was representing—you cannot
wonder that a hallow of romance was thrown around the
person of my idol. I never saw her but as the personator
of virtue. No other parts were adapted to her talents.
And thus, to my ardent fancy, she became the personification
of all that was good, and beautiful, and true.
`It was not in human nature to be long content with
such a semi-interchange of sympathy. Alas! the thought
struck me, all at once, that there had been no interchange,
that my heart had been given to one who knew me not—
that I was no more to the Thespian than the multitude
who nightly witnessed her performance. I felt foolishly
conscious of my wandering moods. I resolved, after
long and troubled musing, to come face to face with the
admired actress. And yet I feared to adventure. The
What then? I should, at least, know my fate. Stripped
of the adventitious aid of her profession, she might prove
uninteresting. And then—I laughed wildly at the
thought—I should be free! Yet, in a moment I discarded
the idea. If I have been in bondage this month past,
thought I, then let me be a slave forever. It seemed to
me easier to die a victim to imaginary wo, than to return
again to barren studies or common cares. My resolution
taken, I grew impatient, yet never suffered myself
to think of what I was about to do, without realizing that
awe with which the German dramatist says all mortals
must `grasp the urn of destiny.'
`Capital, capital!' exclaimed Mr. Connington, one
morning, at the breakfast-table, as he laid down the Post
and resumed his muffin. `What is it?' inquired my
cousin, taking up the paper. `Why, an excellent criticism
on the Portia we saw Monday night.' `Ah! signed
F. G., too—who can that be?' `Who should it be but
Frank Graham?' asked the dramatist, his eye brightening
at the discovery. I could not deny the authorship. Mr.
Connington hastily swallowed his last cup of tea, and as
he left the room, with a significant nod, remarked—
`Well done, master Frank; she shall know it, too; she
shall, I declare.' I was after him in an instant. `My
dear Mr. Connington,' said I, `pray be careful. If you
choose to force this hasty notice upon the attention of
Miss —, do it in a way which shall impress her favorably
as to the author. See, see, my friend, that I am not
merged in her mind with the herd of coxcomb admirers
I spoke astonished him, but recovering quickly from his
surprise, he replied, `Why, look you, my young man;
the literary editor of this paper is the best friend her
family ever had; I mean he shall tell her. And should
you like to know her, Frank? I'll ask him to introduce
you. What say?' I could scarcely speak from agitation.
So near the object of my wishes? It seemed impossible.
Clinging to Mr. Connington's arm, I accompanied him
down to the last step, succeeding finally in hurriedly signifying
my assent. I was lost in joyful surprise, from
which I was aroused by my cousin's voice reprimanding
the porter for leaving the street door open, and hastened
in, to prepare for the expected interview.
`That long forenoon passed heavily enough. Not an
iota of legal knowledge did it bring me. The dinner
hour came. I longed to know if Mr. Connington had
seen the editor; but the conversation, for the first time
since my arrival in Edinburgh turned upon foreign politics,
and argument ensued. I thought it inexpressibly
tedious. My abstraction was noticed, which I did not
regret, since it relieved my suspense. `Frank,' said the
dramatist, `your wits seem a wool-gathering. Rally,
man!—you 're a critic, you know. I'm sorry my editorial
friend has gone to Glasgow for a fortnight. I saw
him this morning, just as he was starting. Give my
regards to Mr. Graham,' said he; `I hope to form his
acquaintance on my return—and then, as you say he's
really a fine fellow—I'll introduce him to Miss —; a
thing I would not do for many young men. The lady
I was terribly disappointed. A fortnight's delay
seemed an age. A proposal of my cousin suggested
consolation.—`Frank,' said he, `I want you to know
my friend Bouvier the composer; he has a sanctum near
the painting-room of the theatre—we'll go up and see
him to-night, between the acts.'
`The platforms extending over the wings, above the
stage are called the flies. They command a view of the
actors and the orchestra. It was necessary to cross these,
on our way to the composer's studio. I looked down a
moment as we passed, and was delighted to find that while
the stage was completely under my cognizance, I myself
was invisible to the performers, unless indeed they should
take great pains to spy me out. I determined to become
intimate with the musical occupant of this curious region,
that I might at will come hither, and, unseen, behold the
Thespian. Mr. Bouvier, upon my kinsman's favorable
representation of my talents, begged me to write the
words adapted to some opera music he was preparing.
And thus was I unexpectedly furnished with a reasonable
excuse for frequenting the vicinity of the hallowed scene
of my favorite labors.
`The next day, at about noon—the hour I had ascertained
she would be at rehearsal, I closed a huge volume
of commentaries, snatched up my hat, and, with a beating
heart, hastened to the theatre. I entered the private door,
passed through the corridors, by the range of dressing-rooms,
and, to my joy, encountered no one until I arrived
at the top of the stairs, where stood a knot of carpenters,
appearance. `Where is Mr. Bouvier's room?' I inquired.
`This way, sir,' said one of the men, conducting me
across the apartment to a little door. The moment he
retired, I gently closed it behind me, and found myself
alone upon the flies. It was sometime before, in the kind
of twilight which prevailed, I could distinctly behold the
scene upon the stage. Near the foot-lights stood a small
table, upon which three or four candles were burning
amid a mass of papers, two or three books, and a standish.
Here sat a portly man who, I afterwards learned, was the
prompter; beside him was a lad technically denominated
the call-boy; and standing about in groups, pacing in
couples to and fro, or ranged in order and reading their
several parts, were the performers. It was only now and
then that a phrase or two stole up to my ear from the
voices below, but the tones familiar to my dreams arose
not.—Suddenly the readers paused and looked round, as
if a new personage should appear. The prompter whispered
to the urchin at his side, and the boy ran towards
the green-room, shouting the name that was to me so
sacred. Presently the Thespian entered. I saw her for
the first time in the ordinary habit of her sex. Her dress
was simple, but becoming in the extreme. Her manner
of greeting the performers, and their obvious deference
towards her, confirmed me in the idea I had formed of
her lady-like demeanor in private life. Hearing some one
approach, I glided into Mr. Bouvier's room. But to this
post of observation I daily repaired. Thence I watched
every movement and caught every tone of the Thespian
over the old oaken beam, and gazed down upon the
rehearsals! The superiority of my charmer among her
mates, her self-possessed dignity under the trying circumstances
of her lot—I saw and marked from my ærie, and
fondly remembered ever. Sometimes I was tempted to
spring down into the midst of the group who were blessed
with her presence. At such moments I turned aside
and paced the platform, then looked down again, and
wrestled with my impatience till she departed, and then
hurried into the street to catch a glimpse of her beautiful
figure, as it glided through the neighboring thoroughfares
to her home.
`The fortnight elapsed; the editor returned. It was a
fine, clear morning—I remember it as if it were to-day.
I was earlier than usual at my post, and judged, from the
aspect of things below, that a quarter of an hour would
elapse before the performers would assemble. Helen
was there. I was at the office of the Post in a trice.
`Is Mr. — in?' I breathlessly asked. `He is,' was the
reply, and I was shown into the inner room.
`Good morning, sir,' I began. “I am Mr. Graham,
the gentleman whom you kindly promised to introduce to
Miss —. She is at the theatre now, sir; the rehearsal
has not commenced. Can you conveniently accompany
me at once?'
`Certainly, sir, with the greatest pleasure. I have to
see the lady myself. I brought a letter from her brother
in Glasgow.'
`How we got to the theatre, I cannot tell. One over-powering
was the turning point in my destiny. I answered only
in monosyllables to the editor's warm eulogiums of the
Thespian, and ran along almost dragging him, despite
his half articulated protestations against the pedestrianism
of country-bred Scotchmen. Emerging from the glare of
mid-day into the shadowy gloom of the theatre, we stopped
to take breath and accustom our dimmed vision to the
change. My companion taking my hand, drew me between
two scenes in about the centre line of the stage,
and there we began to observe.
`Is she here?' I asked faintly. Just then Helen appeared,
slowly walking up the stage, intent upon a manuscript.
She was dressed in a simple gown of black silk,
and over her neck was carelessly flung a shawl of richly
wrought lace of the same color. As she walked, the light
from a very high upper window fell directly upon her features;
and ever and anon, she lifted her full expressive
eye from the paper, and repeated to herself, as if to make
trial of her memory. When she came parallel with
us, my companion whispered her name. She turned towards
us; he stepped forward, and was instantly recognized
and kindly greeted. A few expressions passed between
them among which such words as—`news,' `cold,'
`Glasgow,' and others of an import so common-place
that they seemed to mock the solemn interest of my feelings,
when my companion beckoned me forward. I
approached with my hat in my hand and my heart in my
throat. `Miss —, this is the gentleman of whom I
spoke to you,—Mr. Francis Graham, of —.' `I
with a smile that thrilled me, and an accent that
seemed heavenly. I bowed repeatedly. I looked my
veneration and tenderness. I could not speak.
| IV. Rambles and reveries | |