第 三十七 章 · Chapter III

In Lincoln the best part of the theatrical season came late, when the

good companies stopped off there for one-night stands, after their long

runs in New York and Chicago. That spring Lena went with me to see

Joseph Jefferson in ‘Rip Van Winkle,’ and to a war play called

‘Shenandoah.’ She was inflexible about paying for her own seat; said

she was in business now, and she wouldn’t have a schoolboy spending his

money on her. I liked to watch a play with Lena; everything was

wonderful to her, and everything was true. It was like going to revival

meetings with someone who was always being converted. She handed her

feelings over to the actors with a kind of fatalistic resignation.

Accessories of costume and scene meant much more to her than to me. She

sat entranced through ‘Robin Hood’ and hung upon the lips of the

contralto who sang, ‘Oh, Promise Me!’

Toward the end of April, the billboards, which I watched anxiously in

those days, bloomed out one morning with gleaming white posters on

which two names were impressively printed in blue Gothic letters: the

name of an actress of whom I had often heard, and the name ‘Camille.’

I called at the Raleigh Block for Lena on Saturday evening, and we

walked down to the theatre. The weather was warm and sultry and put us

both in a holiday humour. We arrived early, because Lena liked to watch

the people come in. There was a note on the programme, saying that the

‘incidental music’ would be from the opera ‘Traviata,’ which was made

from the same story as the play. We had neither of us read the play,

and we did not know what it was about—though I seemed to remember

having heard it was a piece in which great actresses shone. ‘The Count

of Monte Cristo,’ which I had seen James O’Neill play that winter, was

by the only Alexandre Dumas I knew. This play, I saw, was by his son,

and I expected a family resemblance. A couple of jack-rabbits, run in

off the prairie, could not have been more innocent of what awaited them

than were Lena and I.

Our excitement began with the rise of the curtain, when the moody

Varville, seated before the fire, interrogated Nanine. Decidedly, there

was a new tang about this dialogue. I had never heard in the theatre

lines that were alive, that presupposed and took for granted, like

those which passed between Varville and Marguerite in the brief

encounter before her friends entered. This introduced the most

brilliant, worldly, the most enchantingly gay scene I had ever looked

upon. I had never seen champagne bottles opened on the stage

before—indeed, I had never seen them opened anywhere. The memory of

that supper makes me hungry now; the sight of it then, when I had only

a students’ boarding-house dinner behind me, was delicate torment. I

seem to remember gilded chairs and tables (arranged hurriedly by

footmen in white gloves and stockings), linen of dazzling whiteness,

glittering glass, silver dishes, a great bowl of fruit, and the reddest

of roses. The room was invaded by beautiful women and dashing young

men, laughing and talking together. The men were dressed more or less

after the period in which the play was written; the women were not. I

saw no inconsistency. Their talk seemed to open to one the brilliant

world in which they lived; every sentence made one older and wiser,

every pleasantry enlarged one’s horizon. One could experience excess

and satiety without the inconvenience of learning what to do with one’s

hands in a drawing-room! When the characters all spoke at once and I

missed some of the phrases they flashed at each other, I was in misery.

I strained my ears and eyes to catch every exclamation.

The actress who played Marguerite was even then old-fashioned, though

historic. She had been a member of Daly’s famous New York company, and

afterward a ‘star’ under his direction. She was a woman who could not

be taught, it is said, though she had a crude natural force which

carried with people whose feelings were accessible and whose taste was

not squeamish. She was already old, with a ravaged countenance and a

physique curiously hard and stiff. She moved with difficulty—I think

she was lame—I seem to remember some story about a malady of the spine.

Her Armand was disproportionately young and slight, a handsome youth,

perplexed in the extreme. But what did it matter? I believed devoutly

in her power to fascinate him, in her dazzling loveliness. I believed

her young, ardent, reckless, disillusioned, under sentence, feverish,

avid of pleasure. I wanted to cross the footlights and help the

slim-waisted Armand in the frilled shirt to convince her that there was

still loyalty and devotion in the world. Her sudden illness, when the

gaiety was at its height, her pallor, the handkerchief she crushed

against her lips, the cough she smothered under the laughter while

Gaston kept playing the piano lightly—it all wrung my heart. But not so

much as her cynicism in the long dialogue with her lover which

followed. How far was I from questioning her unbelief! While the

charmingly sincere young man pleaded with her—accompanied by the

orchestra in the old ‘Traviata’ duet, ‘misterioso, misterios’

altero!’—she maintained her bitter scepticism, and the curtain fell on

her dancing recklessly with the others, after Armand had been sent away

with his flower.

Between the acts we had no time to forget. The orchestra kept sawing

away at the ‘Traviata’ music, so joyous and sad, so thin and far-away,

so clap-trap and yet so heart-breaking. After the second act I left

Lena in tearful contemplation of the ceiling, and went out into the

lobby to smoke. As I walked about there I congratulated myself that I

had not brought some Lincoln girl who would talk during the waits about

the junior dances, or whether the cadets would camp at Plattsmouth.

Lena was at least a woman, and I was a man.

Through the scene between Marguerite and the elder Duval, Lena wept

unceasingly, and I sat helpless to prevent the closing of that chapter

of idyllic love, dreading the return of the young man whose ineffable

happiness was only to be the measure of his fall.

I suppose no woman could have been further in person, voice, and

temperament from Dumas’ appealing heroine than the veteran actress who

first acquainted me with her. Her conception of the character was as

heavy and uncompromising as her diction; she bore hard on the idea and

on the consonants. At all times she was highly tragic, devoured by

remorse. Lightness of stress or behaviour was far from her. Her voice

was heavy and deep: ‘Ar-r-r-mond!’ she would begin, as if she were

summoning him to the bar of Judgment. But the lines were enough. She

had only to utter them. They created the character in spite of her.

The heartless world which Marguerite re-entered with Varville had never

been so glittering and reckless as on the night when it gathered in

Olympe’s salon for the fourth act. There were chandeliers hung from the

ceiling, I remember, many servants in livery, gaming-tables where the

men played with piles of gold, and a staircase down which the guests

made their entrance. After all the others had gathered round the

card-tables and young Duval had been warned by Prudence, Marguerite

descended the staircase with Varville; such a cloak, such a fan, such

jewels—and her face! One knew at a glance how it was with her. When

Armand, with the terrible words, ‘Look, all of you, I owe this woman

nothing!’ flung the gold and bank-notes at the half-swooning

Marguerite, Lena cowered beside me and covered her face with her hands.

The curtain rose on the bedroom scene. By this time there wasn’t a

nerve in me that hadn’t been twisted. Nanine alone could have made me

cry. I loved Nanine tenderly; and Gaston, how one clung to that good

fellow! The New Year’s presents were not too much; nothing could be too

much now. I wept unrestrainedly. Even the handkerchief in my

breast-pocket, worn for elegance and not at all for use, was wet

through by the time that moribund woman sank for the last time into the

arms of her lover.

When we reached the door of the theatre, the streets were shining with

rain. I had prudently brought along Mrs. Harling’s useful Commencement

present, and I took Lena home under its shelter. After leaving her, I

walked slowly out into the country part of the town where I lived. The

lilacs were all blooming in the yards, and the smell of them after the

rain, of the new leaves and the blossoms together, blew into my face

with a sort of bitter sweetness. I tramped through the puddles and

under the showery trees, mourning for Marguerite Gauthier as if she had

died only yesterday, sighing with the spirit of 1840, which had sighed

so much, and which had reached me only that night, across long years

and several languages, through the person of an infirm old actress. The

idea is one that no circumstances can frustrate. Wherever and whenever

that piece is put on, it is April.