Chapter IV

She, ’midst the gay world’s hum,
Was the queen-bee--the glass of all that’s fair;
Whose charms made all men speak, and women dumb--
The last’s a miracle.
BYRON.

That strain again--It had a dying fall;
O it came o’er my ear like the sweet south
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour. Enough--no more--
’Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
SHAKSPEARE.

It so happened that the Italian Opera was the first scenic exhibition of any description at which Lucy had ever been present. If such amusements had been of easier attainment from Bankside Farm, Mrs. Darnell would have thought a play-bill only a synonymous term for a sure pass to perdition. Alice Darnell, it is true, through all her sorrows, had always retained a lingering partiality for a “metior,” in which she had during her short career been so eminently successful; and she often took pleasure in attempting to explain to her little niece, whilst reading parts of Shakspeare, the effect that might be produced by the impersonation of the characters by different actors; but still, no previous description can give to a person who has never witnessed it, any adequate idea of the power of perfect dramatic representation. Lucy would have been much astonished if taken for the first time to one of our great national theatres, where she would at least have understood the language, and made out the intentions of the performers. But Castleton was, except upon extraordinary occasions, a creature of habit. Winter was past--spring was already advanced. As Covent Garden market comes into season, Covent Garden Theatre goes out, and Lucy was taken for the first time, to the Italian Opera; and to the effect of novelty which any thing of the kind would have produced on her, were added the perfectly unintelligible incongruities of that style of performance.

Perhaps when given in perfection, there is no description of scenic representation which opens a more varied source of enjoyment to an habitual frequenter of theatres. But then the rudiments of dramatic representation must have been first understood. The merits of an accurate imitation of nature must not only first have been tasted, but the pleasure derived from that pure source, must in some measure have been exhausted, before the graft of song upon incident and character, could be relished.

There is, perhaps, nothing yet produced by the progress of civilization, so thoroughly artificial as an Italian opera; and to a child of nature like Lucy, it may be imagined, that much that night was perfectly incomprehensible. As long as deadly defiance is hurled in the most perfect concord--voices ringing in harmony, whilst swords are brandishing in enmity--the crisis of fate consumed in repeating, some hundred times, some Italian paraphrase of “I cannot stay, I must away,” which practical performance of an alleged impossibility, is probably encored--the most confidential communications of the most disordered despair given over the lamps in the most elaborate _roulades_, whilst four-and-twenty old maids all in a row, repeat together at stated intervals “Poor thing! Poor thing--how very much we all pity you!”--whilst thus upon every occasion sense is sacrificed to sound, it would appear that assumption of character must be a mere mockery. Yet this is far from being the case. In losing the verisimility of nature, the unity of effect as a whole is of course destroyed; yet so powerful is the additional impulse given to the excited senses, by the aid of appropriate music adapted to the action portrayed, that perhaps much the most brilliant movements of the mimic art have been of late years on the Italian boards. And the night in question was rich in examples of that description, for the opera was Semiramide, and the finest living actress of the world, the splendid Pasta, was the heroine.

Lady Gayland’s box was upon the pit tier, more upon the stage than over the orchestra. Lady Gayland, passionately fond of music as she was, had already arrived when Castleton and his wife entered. Lady Castleton sat in front next the stage, Lady Gayland on the opposite side, with her back to the audience, and Castleton beside her. Partly from the earliness of the hour, and partly from the interest of the performance of that opera, then new to this country, they remained long without any additional visitors. Every thing was a matter of bewilderment to Lucy, from the very first crash of the overture, which, except the war of the winter waves, was the loudest sound she had ever heard.

As subjects of astonishment and admiration accumulated in the opera, she became confused with their multitude, and ashamed to show the extent to which she was puzzled, by asking any questions. Lady Gayland’s good-natured attempt to explain the story as it proceeded, was not very successful, as Lucy could not retain either the real or assumed names of the persons described, so as to be able to identify them again; and the nature of the (to her) strange costumes, puzzled her even as to which were meant for men, and which for women. The choruses she could not at all understand. She longed to ask how so many people could think of singing exactly the same words all together, unless it had been a psalm. The finely executed elongation of a high note, to her ignorant simplicity, seemed only an unmeaning squall.

In the mean time, Castleton and Lady Gayland were in a state of ecstasy only known to the true “Fanatici,” an enjoyment certainly much enhanced to both of them by their being able mutually to communicate their sensations. It has been remarked, that the peculiar character of Castleton was the refinement of his taste, which was on some occasions much too fastidious for his happiness; but in nothing was his taste more perfect than in music, though he was often too much of an enthusiast to be a very captious critic.

Castleton and Lady Gayland had often together heard and admired Pasta in the same opera in Italy; and whilst they therefore anticipated the brilliancy of each well-known passage, or subsequently discussed its comparative merit, now and the last time they had heard it, Lucy could not conceive how it was possible for any one to remember sounds so long.

Perhaps that sympathy which depends on sound is, of all others, the most independent of events, the most survives change, or despises distance. It may be, that when any similarity occurs, the points of difference are not so distinguishable by the ear as by the eye; but certainly in foreign lands the tone of a bell, or even the whistling of the wind, will sometimes recall a distant home more strongly than any likeness in the outline of the landscape. And amongst individuals the recollection of a loved and a lost one is sometimes casually revived by a well-known intonation, or even emphasis, in the mouth of an indifferent relative, when no family resemblance of feature would have been admitted. Be this as it may, the impression now made on Castleton and Lady Gayland, as the opera proceeded, and each well-remembered cadence recurred was, that here again were the same syren sounds which they had together heard, together admired. Even so had they then sat, side by side; yet how changed in every respect now was their relative position!

“I remember,” said Castleton, in answer to some remark of Lady Gayland’s, “you made a similar observation to me last time we heard it--it was the night before I left Naples.”

“Yes,” said Lady Gayland, “and Frank Melmoth was sitting, as it might be, where Lady Castleton now is--I have never seen him either, since that night.”

“You have never seen him since that night?”

“No; the pennyless treasurer passed on to his appropriate post in one of the colonies.”

“And after that night you _never_ saw him?” eagerly asked Castleton.

“Never,” replied Lady Gayland calmly, clearing her “_longnettes_,” and directing them towards the stage with a “_sang froid_” that seemed to convey the idea that the fact was one which neither had then made any impression on her, nor did she wish that its recital should now make any on her auditor.

It will not be necessary to inflict on the reader any speculation upon the nature of those mixed reflections which, during the next few minutes of silence, whilst they were apparently absorbed in attention to the performance, distracted the attention of the two musical amateurs. It will be sufficient to explain that this Frank Melmoth was rather a popular character, though what is commonly called a cool hand. It was impossible to deny that he was amusing; though not witty, he was funny,--a characteristic acquired by a mixture of impudence and humour, which forms a sort of chemical compound, often substituted for the real attic salt. There were moments when it rather suited Lady Gayland’s humour to be amused than interested, and of these Frank Melmoth availed himself during his stay at Naples, on his way to the distant sinecure which his necessities had obliged him to accept. A widow is said to be the reverse of a sinecure, but he thought that a jointure, even with its lively accompaniment, was better than being buried alive with a pension; and therefore did his best to win her favour: in which attempt he soon detected Castleton to be a formidable rival; and in his endeavours to overcome that obstacle, Frank Melmoth was up to a certain point successful. He had certainly most powerful weapons with which to work, in Lady Gayland’s keen relish for ridicule, and Castleton’s morbid sense of its slightest application to himself. Not only did he sometimes succeed in amusing Lady Gayland at Castleton’s expense, but in causing her demonstration of that amusement to be offensive to Castleton’s taste, as well as hurtful to his feelings. Lady Gayland was afraid that she had already shown herself too sensible of the partiality of her sensitive admirer, to render these playful ebullitions on her part of more than momentary impression; but Castleton, whose feelings were too irritable on this subject for his judgment to be very sound, thought that he perceived in her readiness, when in a merry mood, to seek amusement from the society of Frank Melmoth, another proof that (like the young lady whom he mentioned in his letter to his friend St. Clair,) if she hesitated between them, it was only the adventitious advantages of his position in the world which rendered her choice doubtful, otherwise her preference would have been decidedly accorded to the needy Frank Melmoth.

This was an opinion which Frank did every thing in his power to confirm. He had, indeed, induced Castleton by this means to hasten his departure from Naples, and as he was obliged himself to proceed soon, if not successful in his then pursuit, he had succeeded in driving Castleton from the box at San Carlo that night, _in dispetto_ with himself, and fancying that he was leaving behind a triumphant rival, who five minutes afterwards brought upon himself the sudden termination of all his hopes by an abrupt proposal, which was summarily and concisely rejected, and the next morning, which saw Castleton flying with foaming steeds in imaginary discomfiture over the Pontine Marshes, saw Frank Melmoth thoroughly defeated, paddling in a sulky steam-boat out of the bay of Naples. It may therefore be seen, that if in the reflections which the same opera, seen again together, mutually aroused, there was any food for regret--that regret could on neither side be entirely unmingled with self-reproach. Thoughtlessness had made Lady Gayland assume the appearance of what she was far from being--a coquette; and in Castleton’s case, distrust of himself had made him most unjust to another whom he had then no right to doubt.

Towards the conclusion of the opera, these reflections were interrupted by the dropping in, in succession, of many “a young man about town,” _habitués_ of Lady Gayland’s box, whose nightly visit had this time a double motive, as they were all anxious to have a nearer view of the “new woman,” whom they had been admiring from a distance.

At the conclusion of the opera, this rotation proceeded rapidly; and Lucy was presented to an undistinguishable succession of young gentlemen, with black heads and neckcloths, who had each hardly time to mutter, “how divine Pasta had been!” when another and another still succeeded.

Through all this Castleton had kept his station by the side of Lady Gayland, by a sort of brevet rank, which the presence of his bride gave him. Latterly, the society had again become more stationary. Next to Castleton was his friend St. Clair, with whom he was soon engaged in an interesting conversation. Opposite to them was Lord Stayinmore, who had never more than a certain set of phrases to address to a lady. Having exhausted these to Lucy, he suffered himself to be engrossed by Sir North, on his other side, in a political discussion.

Lady Gayland, therefore, took the opportunity of inquiring of Lucy, “how the opera had amused her?” There was that unmistakable air of real interest in Lady Gayland’s manner, whenever she addressed Lucy, which made her always reply in a tone of confidence, different from that which she felt towards any other member of the society in which she moved.

“Why, to tell the honest truth,” said she, leaning forward towards her questioner, “I can’t say that I could the least understand what it all meant. It’s not likely that people should sing when they’re in such sorrow; and then I can’t guess why that young man should kill the queen that was so kind to him all along.”

“I don’t wonder that that should surprise you, my dear; but he was not aware of what he was doing. It was in the dark.”

“In the dark! But I could see very well who it was, though I did not know her so well as he did, and was so much farther off.”

“I am afraid you are in the dark, too, a little as yet,” said Lady Gayland, (tapping her gently with her fan.) “But, tell me, did you not admire the singing, though you could not understand the story?”

“Why, I should, perhaps, if I had known the language; but even then they seemed to me more like birds, than men and women singing words. I like a song that I can make out every word that’s said, just as cousin George used to sing.”

She rather dropped her voice at the last half sentence, but not so much as for it to escape the quick ear of Castleton, who turned sharply round, even before Lady Gayland asked, “And who, pray, is cousin George, my dear?”

“A relative of Lady Castleton’s, who is in the navy,” answered Castleton for her; and then turned round to St. Clair again, as if, though having heard it he had answered it, it was nevertheless a question of no moment.

The overture to the ballet, just then commencing with a crash, Lady Gayland took advantage of that moment to beckon Lucy towards her, and whisper, “At Hornscliff that day, was he not?” and on her assenting, Lady Gayland raised her finger to her lip in token of silence on the subject.

The curtain then rose for the ballet; at first, Lucy was delighted with the scenery and pageantry, for the spectacle was grand and imposing. But at length the resounding plaudits announced the _entrée_ of the perfect Taglioni. Lucy was a little astonished at her costume upon her first appearance. She was attired as a goddess, and goddesses’ gowns are somewhat of the shortest, and their legs rather _au naturel_; but when she came to elicit universal admiration by pointing her toe, and revolving in the slow _pirouette_, Lucy, from the situation in which she sat, was overpowered with shame at the effect; and whilst Lady Gayland, with her _longnette_ fixed on the stage, ejaculated, “Beautiful! inimitable!” the unpractised Lucy could not help exclaiming, “O that is too bad! I cannot stay to see that!” and she turned her head away, blushing deeply.

“Is your ladyship ill?” exclaimed Lord Stayinmore. “Castleton, I am afraid Lady Castleton feels herself indisposed.”

“Would you like to go?” kindly inquired Castleton.

“O so much!” she answered.

“Are you ill, my dear?” asked Lady Gayland.

“O no!” she said.

“Then you had better stay, it is so beautiful.”

“Thank you, Lord Castleton is kind enough to let me go.”

Which he did, still imagining that she had been suddenly taken ill. Therefore St. Clair volunteered to call her carriage--Lord Stayinmore bowed his lowest as she passed--Sir North reached his highest to help her on with her cloak--Lady Gayland took leave of her most kindly--and Castleton attending her with the greatest care, she was safely conveyed to the carriage; and it was not till then that he entreated an explanation of what had really been the cause of her sudden departure.