University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
THE PLAY, AND IN WHAT MANNER IT WAS INTERRUPTED.

The curtain rose, and Romeo made his appearance in
the midst of a deathlike pause.

If our readers have come to the conclusion, that Mr.
Max Courtlandt was only an ordinary “rattle-trap,” with
a voluble tongue, a handsome face, and a faculty of coaxing
persons into doing what at the moment he desired
them to do, they have done that young gentleman very
great injustice. Max Courtlandt's was no ordinary mind;
to a facility in taking impressions on all sides, he united
an individuality of character, as distinctly marked as any
even the most unmistakably individual in that vast audience.
He seemed careless, thoughtless, light in temperament
as the down of the thistle tossed about hither and
thither by the slightest breath of wind;—in reality, no
more sadly thoughtful mind, when his exuberant health
did not fire his blood, could be conceived.

Max Courtlandt was no common jester; he often uttered
with a laugh, sad truths. He was no mere wheedler
of people, as Nina said; from a low opinion of human
nature, practicing on its foibles; true, he saw through
these foibles and made merry with them; but a kinder,
softer, more hopeful, humanity-loving, humanity-admiring
heart could not be found. Our readers, therefore,
have too lightly rated the character of this young man
if seeing him impressible and volatile, they have conceived

him to be shallow; if from hearing him jest always, they
have concluded that life to his thoughtless mind was but
a jest.

It had been predicted by some, that he would, on his
appearance before the audience as Romeo, salute them
with a burst of laughter, from pure inability to overcome
the humor of the contrast. Mistaken idea! This boy
was capable of greater things than keeping countenance
in presence of a mere crowd, ready to laugh at him.

The Romeo who appeared was the Romeo of Shakspeare;
his griefs, his love—the course of which had run
so roughly—and his mortal purpose plainly written in his
face. Still a calm face, very calm—thoughtful, dreamy,
“sicklied o'er” with doubts of every thing, even whether
the phantasmagoria around him were phantasmagoria—
or mere phantom phantoms!—a dream within a dream,
all to dissolve before long, leaving no trace!

Romeo advanced, chaining the large assemblage with
his melancholy eye—dreamy, and full of melting sadness.
Then turning to Balthasar lost in the shadow, he uttered
in the deep tone of overwhelming woe, those heart-broken
words:

Balthasar, who has raised this tempest of affliction, by
the intelligence of Juliet's death, goes out—the apothecary
enters, and in reply to the demand for poison, pleads the
Mantuan law of death against vending such. Romeo,
with a scornful look, asks:

The tone with which these latter words were uttered,
electrified the audience: “this loathsome world,” expressed
all the mournful fortunes, all the gloomy horror of a
despairing shipwrecked soul.

Then the scene shifted to the tomb of Juliet. Romeo
and Balthasar stand before it: Romeo takes the iron from
his servant's hand shuddering.

Balthasar starts back at these terribly passionate words,
frightened at the glittering sword, which leaps from its
scabbard, and flashes in his eyes. Romeo left alone gazes
with heaving breast, on the tomb of Juliet: then pale,
shuddering, with clenched teeth wrenches open the vault,
murmuring:

Hearing a noise he starts, and turns round with fiery,
affrighted eyes. Paris with drawn sword stands before
him.

Romeo shrinks not before the threatening sword point;
but meets the eye of Paris with a scornful calmness.

Paris sword in hand, throws himself upon Romeo.

Romeo, with a whirl of his sword dashes aside the
murderous point just as it touches his breast.

They commence the mortal combat with flashing eyes,
close pressed lips, hatred driven to fury. Romeo runs his
adversary through the heart—he falls with a groan of
anguish.

Romeo gazes steadfastly on the writhing body of his
adversary. Then kneeling, pale and overcome by some
sudden memory, he takes the dying man's hand. He
starts, one hand on his cold brow.

He lays the body in the monument, then reappears with
the smile of incipient madness, but shuddering beneath
that ice-like merriment; he has seen in the tomb, a sight

to freeze his blood. His head bent back, his brow streaming
with cold sweat, his lips move, and he whispers almost:

He turns trembling, with clasped hands, toward the
tomb; a passionate sob tears his breast in its passage.

He falls upon his knees covering his face; then raising
his head again, gazes deeper into the tomb.

Starting up, he advances to the entrance of the vault
and kneels, sobbing and murmuring:

He bends toward the body, now no longer horrified but
in love with death.

His arms encircle the dear form, his lips approach the
pale cheek.

He rises, drawing from his pouch the flask of poison.
Holding it up, he gazes upon it with eyes full of despair,
love, and madness. “Come!” he groans,

He drains the flask of poison, staggers, drunk with the
fiery potion; and falls writhing, dead.

The audience, overcome by the profound reality of the
scene, uttered no sound. A white form, weak, with
feeble feet, rises from the vault. It is Juliet in her white
clothes, with the undecided gaze of a person just awakened
from sleep. She sees Romeo, and starts with a suppressed
scream; then throws herself on the body, yet “warm and
newly dead.” The dreadful reality flashes across her
eyes; she sees the flask and clutches it.

She starts up, sobbing with passionate anguish; a
noise is heard without; she looks around, and seizes
Romeo's poignard.

Juliet stabs herself, and falls on the body of Romeo
with a wild cry.

That cry was answered by another from the front
benches—more passionate, frightful, terrifying than Juliet's;
and the next moment, Barry pale and overcome
with horror, sprang upon the platform, and running to

the child, caught her in his arms and raised her up. In
the spot he had left, stood hunter John, pale and trembling.

For a moment the audience were too much astounded
to comprehend the full significance of the scene; they
seemed, however, suddenly, to realize how the boy had
been carried away by the terrible reality of the performance;
and then there arose one tremendous burst of applause,
which shook the “Globe” from roof to foundation
stone. The assemblage undulated like a stormy sea, a
hundred voices clashed together, and in the midst of the
most tremendous excitement the curtain fell upon the
group, so picturesquely arranged.

It was a long time before order could be restored, or a
hearing for the after-piece (as Max pompously called it),
was thought of as attainable. In that piece the reader
will recollect, Nina was to act a part—and this fact—in
which was embraced an expectation—gradually quieted
the tumult. By slow degrees the waves subsided, the
voices were lowered, and soon only the low hum of comment
upon the strange scene that had just been enacted,
disturbed the silence.

It is not necessary for us to minutely trace Nina through
her light comedy part, as we have done Mr. Max and little
Sally, seduced by their remarkable performance on
this occasion. Nina, and the other young ladies who
played with her in these private theatricals, did their
duty very manfully in presence of those laughing eyes—
Nina, indeed, looking exceedingly beautiful.

But the second piece had its consequence more important
than the strange incident of the first. If Barry proved
by his conduct that little Sally was all in all to him—Mr.
William Lyttelton proved by his own for days afterward,
that Nina had made a complete conquest of him. Such
was the plain and unmistakable fact. When Mr. Lyttelton
went away with the delighted company, he felt

that he was no longer the heart-whole man he had
been.

In an hour the vast room was empty. All had sought
their homes, loud in their praises of the performance.
Max was, if not a prophet in his native country, at least
a hero for the moment.

Miss Josephine Emberton, at least, was of this opinion;
and in coming out, Max read in her admiring looks, and
her unusual quietness of manner, the effect his tragic performance
of the part of Romeo had produced upon her
feelings.

“You liked it, I hope, Miss Josephine?” he said.

“Oh, yes, you did it so well.”

“Thank you.”

“You did it admirably!”

“Praise from so fair a source, is praise indeed,” said
our hero, bowing low.

“See the fine chevalier!” laughed Miss Josephine,
unable to suppress her besetting sin.

“Happy chevalier, if I am yours,” said Max.

“Would you like to be my knight?”

“Yes, yes! How can you ask?”

“I promote you, then.”

“But I must have a token of my lady's favor:—all
knights have,” said Max.

“A token—what sort?”

“Any thing; that pretty bracelet, say.”

“Take it,” said Josephine, merrily unclasping the
bracelet from her white arm.

Max took it with a profound bow, and placed it in the
pocket of his Romeo coat—which he had not removed—
nearest his heart. After which, their respective parties
calling them, the young girl and her companion separated,
laughing. This trifling incident bore fruits in aftertimes.