But, to be just, I must mention one ridiculous thing that occurred here. After the murder of the King, when there is a knocking at the door, Lady Macbeth says to her husband—
“Hark, more knocking!
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us,
And show us to be watchers.”
Now ‘nightgown’ does indeed mean dressing-gown; but yet I could scarcely believe my eyes, when Macready entered in a fashionable flowered chintz dressing-gown, (perhaps the one he usually wears,) loosely thrown over his steel armour, which was seen glittering at every movement of his body, and in this curious costume drew his sword to kill the chamberlains who were sleeping near the King.
I did not observe that this struck any body; indeed the interest was generally so slight, the noise and mischief so incessant, that it is difficult to understand how such distinguished artists can form themselves, with so brutal, indifferent, and ignorant an audience as they have almost always before them. As I told you, the English theatre is not fashionable, and is scarcely ever visited by what is called ‘good company.’ The only advantage in this state of things is, that actors are not spoiled by that indulgence which is so ruinous to them in Germany.
The Freischütz was performed the same evening—after Macbeth. Weber, like Mozart, must be content to be ‘travaillé’ by Mr. Bishop, with his abridgments and additions. It is a positive affliction and misery to hear them: and not only the music, but the fable, is robbed of all its character. It is not Agatha’s lover, but the successful marksman, who comes to the wolf’s glen and sings Caspar’s favourite song. The Devil, in long red drapery, dances a regular shawl-dance before he carries off Caspar to hell, which is very pleasingly represented by cascades of fire, scarlet ‘coulisses,’ and heaps of skeletons.
Here then the comparison with Germany is as much to our advantage as it is the contrary in tragedy. I wish, however, the matter were reversed.
Dec. 2nd.
I wrote you word lately, that I was better; since that time I have been almost constantly unwell. One ought never to boast of anything, as the old women say; for, adds Walter Scott, “it is unlucky to announce things which are not yet certain.” This indeed I have often experienced. As to my health, it is as unintelligible as all the rest of me.
You doubtless wonder that I remain in London in this thankless season; but I have still friends here—besides, I have settled into this quiet life, which is only interrupted by the noise and clatter of the little troop of ‘couturières’ in the house; the theatre too has begun to interest me, and the serenity of this seclusion refreshes me after the former tumult. It is indeed so quiet and solitary, that, like the celebrated prisoner in the Bastille, I have formed a ‘liaison’ with a mouse,—a darling little creature, and doubtless an enchanted ‘lady:’ when I am at work, she glides timidly out of her hole, looks at me from a distance with her little eyes twinkling like stars, becomes tamer every day; and enticed by bits of cake which I regularly deposit six inches from her residence, in the right corner of my room.—At this moment she is eating one with great grace—and now she frisks about the room quite at her ease. But what do I hear? an incessant loud cry in the street! Mousey has fled in terror to her corner.
“What is the matter?” said I; “what an infernal noise!” “War is proclaimed—a second edition of The Times is cried about the streets.” “War, with whom?” ‘I don’t know.’ This is one branch of trade among the poor devils in London: when they can contrive nothing else, they cry some ‘great news,’ and sell an old paper to the curious for sixpence; you seize it in a hurry, you understand nothing clearly, you look at the date, and laugh at finding you have been taken in.