[CHAPTER IV.]
The banker's family, who were forever studying how to prove their friendship, pressed Corinne to see Mrs. Siddons perform Isabella, in the Fatal Marriage, one of the characters in which that great actress best displayed her admirable genius. Corinne refused for some time: at last, she remembered that Lord Nevil had often compared her manner of recitation with that of Mrs. Siddons: she was therefore anxious to see her, and thickly veiled, went to a small box, whence she could see all, herself unseen. She knew not if Oswald was in London, but feared to be recognized by any one who might have met her in Italy. The commanding beauty and deep sensibility of the heroine so riveted her attention, that, during the earliest acts, her eyes were never turned from the stage.
English declamation is better calculated than any other to touch the soul, especially when such fine talents give it all its power and originality. It is less artificial, less conventional than that of France. The impressions produced are more immediate—for thus would true despair express itself; the plots and versification of English dramas too are less remote from real life, and their effect more heart-rending. It requires far higher genius to become a great actor in France, so little liberty being left to individual manner, so much influence attached to general rules;[1] but in England you may risk anything, if inspired by nature. The long groans that appear ridiculous if described, make those shudder who hear them. Mrs. Siddons, the most nobly-mannered woman who ever adorned a theatre, lost none of her dignity by prostrating herself on the earth. There is no action but may become graceful, if prompted by an impulse which rises from the depths of the breast, and lords it over the mind which conceives it still more than over its witnesses. Various nations have their different styles of tragic acting, but the expression of grief is understood from one end of the world to the other; and, from the savage to the king, there is some similarity between all men while they are really suffering.
Between the fourth and fifth acts, Corinne observed that all eyes were turned towards a box, in which she beheld Lady Edgarmond and her daughter; she could not doubt that it was Lucy, much as the last seven years had embellish her form. The death of a rich relation had obliged Lady Edgarmond to visit London, and settle the succession of his fortune. Lucy was more dressed than usual;[2] and it was long since so beauteous a girl had been seen, even in England, where the women are so lovely. Corinne felt a melancholy surprise: she thought it impossible for Oswald to resist that countenance. On comparing herself with her sister, she was so conscious of her own inferiority, that she exaggerated (if such exaggeration be possible) the charm of that fair complexion, those golden curls, and innocent blue eyes—that image of life's spring! She felt almost degraded in setting her own mental acquirements in competition with gifts thus lavished by Heaven itself. Suddenly, in an opposite box, she perceived Lord Nevil, whose gaze was fixed on Lucy. What a moment for Corinne! She once more beheld that face, for which she had so long searched her memory every instant, as if the image could be effaced—she beheld it again—absorbed by the beauty of another. Oswald could not guess the presence of Corinne; but if his eye had even wandered towards her, she might, from such a chance, have drawn a happy omen.
Mrs. Siddons reappeared, and Lord Nevil looked but on her. Corinne breathed again, trusting that mere curiosity had drawn his glance towards Lucy. The tragedy became every moment more affecting; and the fair girl was bathed in tears, which she strove to conceal, by retiring to the back of her box. Nevil noticed this with increased interest. At last the dreadful instant came when Isabella, laughing at the fruitless efforts of those who would restrain her, stabs herself to the heart. That despairing laugh is the most difficult and powerful effect which tragic acting can produce; its bitter irony moves one to more than tears. How terrible must be the suffering that inspires so barbarous a joy, and in the sight of our own blood, feels the ferocious pleasure that one might experience when taking full revenge upon some savage foe. It was evident that Lucy's agitation had alarmed her mother, who turned anxiously towards her. Oswald rose, as if he would have flown to them; but he soon reseated himself, and Corinne felt some relief; yet she sighed; "My sister Lucy, once so dear to me, has a feeling heart; why should I then wish to deprive her of a blessing she may enjoy without impediment, without any sacrifice on Oswald's part?"
When the play concluded, Corinne stayed until the parties who were leaving the house had gone, that she might avoid recognition; she concealed herself near the door of her box, where she could see what passed near her. As soon as Lucy came out, a crowd assembled to look on her; and exclamations in praise of her beauty were heard from all sides, which greatly embarrassed her; the infirm Lady Edgarmond was ill able to brave the throng, despite the cares of her child, and the politeness shown them both; but they knew no one, therefore no gentleman dared accost them. Lord Nevil, seeing their situation, hastened to offer each an arm. Lucy, blushing and downcast, availed herself of this attention. They passed close by Corinne, whom Oswald little suspected of witnessing a sight so painful: he was proud of thus escorting one of the handsomest girls in England through the numerous admirers who followed her steps.[3]
[1] Talma, having passed some years in London, blended the charms of each country's tragic acting with admirable talent.
[2] If Englishwomen ever do go into public immediately after the death of a near relation, it must be in deep mourning. Corinne saw these wonders very plainly, considering that Lady Edgarmond and Lucy sat on the same side of the house with herself; which must have been the case, by her calling Oswald's an opposite box.—TR.