Chapter 4

Such, in the most exalted sense of the term, is Miss Adelaide Kemble. Unlike nearly every other English singer, she has not set up with the small stock-in-trade of a good voice, and learned singing on the stage; making the public pay for her tuition. On the contrary, nature has manifestly not been bountiful to her in this respect. Her voice--the mere organ--may have been in her earlier years exceeded in quality by many other vocalists. But what is it now? Perfect in intonation; its lower tones forcible; the middle voice firm and full; the upper interval sweet and rich beyond comparison.

But how comes this? How has this moderately-good organ been brought to such perfection? By a process not very prevalent amongst English singers--practice the most constant, study the most unwearied. Punch will bet a wager with any sporting dilettante that Miss Kemble has sung _more_ while learning her art, than many old stagers while professing and practising it.

She seems, then,--as far as one may judge of that kind of perfection--a perfect mistress of her voice; she can do what she likes with it, she can sustain a note in any part of the soprano compass--swell, diminish, and keep it exactly to the same pitch for an incredible space of time. She can burst forth a torrent of sound expressive of our strongest passions, without losing an atom of tone, and she can diminish it to a whisper, in _sotto voce_, as distinct as it is thrilling and true intonation.

Having obtained this vocal mastery, she has unfettered energies to devote to her acting; which, in _Norma_, has all the elements of tragic dignity--all the tenderness of natural feeling. In one word, Miss Kemble is a mistress of every branch of her art; and we can now say, what we have so seldom had an opportunity to boast of, that our English stage possesses a singer who is also an actress and musician!

The opera is excellently put upon the stage. Miss Kemble, or somebody else, electrified the choruses; for, wonderful to relate, they condescended to act--to perform--to pretend to be what they are meant for! Never was so efficient, so well-disciplined, so unanimous a chorus heard or seen before on the English stage. The chorus-master deserves everybody's, and has our own, especial commendations.

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NINA SFORZA.

A new melo-drama in five acts, by a gentleman who rejoices in exactly the same number of titles--namely, "R. Zouch S. Troughton, Esquire"--made its appearance for Miss H. Fancit's benefit on Monday last, at the Haymarket.

The old-fashioned recipe for cooking up a melo-dramatic hero has been strictly followed in "Nina Sforza." _Raphael Doria_, the heir-apparent to the dukedom of Genoa, is a man about town in Venice--is accompanied, on most occasions, by a faithful friend and a false one--saves the heroine from drowning, and, of course, falls in love with her on the spot, or rather on the water. She, of course, returns the passion; but is, as usual, loved by the villain--a regular thorough-paced Mephistopheles of the Surrey or Sadler's Wells genus. These ingredients, having been carefully compounded in the first act, are--quite _selon les règles_--allowed to simmer till the end of the fourth, and to boil over in the fifth. Thus we have a tragedy after the manner of those lively productions that flourished in the time of Garrick; when Young, Murphy, and Francklin were Melpomene's head-cooks.

Modern innovation has, however, added a sprinkle of spice to the hashes of the above-named school. This is most commonly thrown in, by giving to the stock-villain a dash of humour or sarcasm, so as to bring out his savagery in bolder relief. He is also invested with an unaccountable influence over the hero, who can on no account be made to see his bare and open treachery till about the middle of the fifth act, when the dupe's eyes must be opened in time for the catastrophe.

These improvements have been carefully introduced into the present old new tragedy. _Ugone Spinola_ is the presiding genius of _Doria's_ woes: and dogs him about for the pleasure of making him miserable. He is a finished epicure in revenge; picking little tit-bits of it with the most savage _gôut_ all through; but particularly towards the end of the play. This taste was, it seems, first acquired in consequence of a feud that formerly existed between _Doria's_ family and his own, in which his side came off so decidedly second-best, that he only remains of his race; all the rest having been murdered by _Doria_ and his father's faction. From such deadly foes, it may be observed, that tragic heroes always select their most trusted friends.

_Doria's_ father dies, and _Nina's_ consents to his marriage; so that we see them, at the opening of the third act, the picture of connubial bliss, in a garden belonging to the Duke's palace at Genoa, exchanging sentiments which would be doubtless extremely tender if they were quite intelligible. A great deal is said about genius being like love; which gives rise to a simile touching a rose-bud in a poor poet's window, and other incoherencies quite natural for persons to utter who are supposed to be in love. This peaceful scene is interrupted by an alarm of war; and the Prince goes to fight the Florentines.

The battle takes place between the acts; and we next see the Genoese halting near their city after a victory. _Doria_, who in the first act has been represented to us as an exceedingly gay young fellow, is here described as indulging, in his tent, his old propensities; having brought away, with other trophies, a fair Florentine, who is diverting him with her guitar at that moment. This is excellent news for _Spinola_; the more so as we are soon made to understand that _Nina_, being impatient of her husband's return, has fled to his tent to meet him, and discovers the fair Florentine in the very act of guitar-playing, and her spouse in the midst of his raptures thereat.

A scene follows, in which _Spinola_, as a new edition of Iago, and _Nina_, in the form of a female Othello, get scope for a great variety of that kind of acting which performers call "effective." The wife--in this scene really well-drawn--will not believe Doria's falsehood, in spite of strong circumstantial evidence. _Spinola_ offers to strengthen it; and the last scene of this act--the fourth--presents a highly melo-dramatic situation. It is a street scene; and _Spinola_ has brought _Nina_ to watch her husband into her rival's house. She sees him approach it--he wavers--she hopes he will pass the door. Alas, he does not, and actually goes in! Of course she swoons and falls. So does the act drop.

The entire business of the last act is to bring about the catastrophe; and, as not one step towards it has been previously taken, there is no time to lose. _Spinola_, therefore, is made not to mince the matter, but to come boldly on at once, with a bottle of poison! This he blandly insinuates to _Nina_ might be used with great effect upon her husband, so as effectually to put a stop to future intrigues with any forthcoming fair Florentines. She, however, declines putting the poison to any such use; but, nevertheless, honours _Spinola_'s draught, by accepting it. The villain expresses himself extremely grateful for her condescension, and exits, to make way for _Doria_.

Directly he appears, you at once perceive that he has done something exceedingly naughty, for his countenance is covered with remorse and a certain white powder which is the stage specific for pallor. The lady complains of being unwell, and her husband kindly advises her to go to bed. She replies, that she has a cordial within which will soon restore her, and entreats her beloved lord to administer the potion with his own dear hand; he consents--and they both retire, and the audience shudders, because they pretty well guess that she is going to toss off the dose, of which _Spinola_ has been the dispensing chemist.

And here we may be forgiven for a short digression on the subject of the dramatic _Materia Medica_, and _poison-ology_. The sleeping draughts of the stage are, for example, generally speaking, uncommon specimens of chemical perfection. When taken--even if the patient be ever so well shaken--nothing on earth, or on the stage, can wake him after the cue for his going to sleep, and before the cue for his getting up, have been given; while it never allows him to dose an instant longer than the plot of the piece requires. Then as to poisons; there are some which kill the taker dead on the spot, like a fly in a bottle of prussic acid; others, which--swallowed with a sort of time-bargain--are warranted to do the business within a few seconds of so many hours hence; others again there are (particularly adapted for villains) that cause the most incessant torment, which nothing can relieve but death; a fourth compound (always administered to such characters as _Nina Sforza_) are peculiarly mild in their operation--no stomach-ache--no contortions--but still effectual.

The contents of the phial given to _Nina_ by _Spinola_ are compounded of the second and fourth of these _formulæ_. The drink, though deadly, is guaranteed to be a mild, rather-pleasant-than-otherwise poison, warranted to operate at a given hour; one calculated to allow the heroine plenty of time to die, and to make her go off in great physical comfort.

_Nina_ has taken the poison; but, having a peculiar desire to die at home, orders a "trusty page" to provide horses for herself and attendant secretly, at the northern gate, that she may return to her native Venice. With this determination we lose sight of her.

_Doria_ is aroused by a hunting-party who have risen so early that they seem to have forgotten to take off their nightcaps, to which the Italian hood, as worn by the Haymarket hunters, bears an obstinate resemblance. The Prince discovers his wife has fled, and orders his _chasseurs_ to divert their attention from the game they had purposed to ride to cover for, and to hunt up the missing _Nina_.

"In the deep recesses of a wood" _Spinola_ and _Doria_ meet, the latter having, by some instinct, found out his _pseudo_-friend's treachery; of course they fight: _Doria_ falls; but _Spinola_ is too great a glutton in revenge to kill him till he knows of his wife's death, so, after gloating over his prostrate enemy, and poking him about with his rapier for several minutes, all he does is to steal his sword; this being found upon him by some of the hunters, who meet him quite by accident, they suppose he has killed _Doria_, and so kill him. Thus, _Spinola_ being disposed of, there are only two more that are left to die.

In her flight _Nina_ has been taken unwell--with the poison--just in that part of the forest where her spouse is left, by his enemy, in a swoon. They meet, and she dies in his arms. Two being now defunct, only one remains; but there is some difficulty in getting rid of _Doria_, for he is (as is always the case when a stage _felo-de-se_ impends) unprovided with a weapon. Going up to his trusty friend _D'Estala_, he engages him in talk, and, with the dexterity of a footpad, steals his dagger, and stabs himself. All the principal characters being now dead, the piece cannot go on, and the curtain drops.

A word or two on the merits of _Nina Sforza_. There are two classes of dramatists who are just now contending for fame--those who cannot get their plays acted because they are not dramatic, and those who can, because their pieces are _merely_ dramatic. Mr.--we beg pardon, R. Zouch S. Troughton, Esquire,--belongs to the latter class. He is evidently well acquainted with the mechanics of the stage; he knows all about "situation"--that is, sacrificing nature to startling effect. His language is essentially dramatic, and only fails where it aims at being poetical. His characters, too, are not drawn from life, from nature, but are copied--and cleverly copied--from other characters that strut about in the "stock" tragedies of Rowe _et hoc genus_. The fable, or plot, is deficient, from the absence of one sustaining, pervading incident to excite, and keep up a progressive interest. With every new act a new circumstance arises, which, though it is in some instances (especially in the fourth act) conducted with great skill, yet the interest it produces is not sustained, being made to give place to the author's succeeding effort to get up a new "situation" by a new incident. Though the tragedy possesses little originality, it will, from its melo-dramatic and exciting character, be most likely a very successful one. Besides, it is very well acted, by Miss Faucit, Wallack, and Macready, as _Spinola_; which, being a most unnatural character, is well calculated for so conventional an actor as Macready.

The author will doubtless become a successful dramatist, because he has taken the trouble to learn what is proper for, and effective on, the stage. Having gained that acquirement, if he will now study nature, and put men and women upon the stage that act and speak like real mortals, we may safely predict an honourable dramatic career for Mr. ----; but our space is limited, and we can't afford enough of it to print his names a third time.

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THE QUADROON SLAVE.

A new discussion of the Slave question seems to have been much wanted on the stage. It is, alas, the black truth that "The Slave" _par excellence_, in spite of the brothers _Sharpset_ and Bishop's music, ceases to interest. The woes of "Gambia" have been turned into ridicule by the capers of "Jim Crow," and the twin pleasantries of "Jim along Josey." Since the moral British public gave away twenty millions to emancipate the black population, and to raise the price of brown sugars, they are not nearly so sweet upon the niggers as formerly; for they discover that, now Cæsar being "massa-pated, him no work--dam if he do!"

To meet this dramatic exigency, the "Quadroon Slave" has been produced. It may be classed as an argumentative drama; carried on with that stage logic which always makes the heroine get the best of it. The emancipation side of the question is supported by _Julie_, ably backed by _Vincent St. George_, but opposed by _Alfred Pelham_; and the lingual combatants rush _in medias res_ at the very rising of the curtain--the "house," immediately taking sides, vehemently applauding the arguments of their respective favourites. _Vincent St. George_--ably entrusted to that interesting advocate Mr. J. Webster--opened the discussion by protesting against the flogging system, especially as applied to females. _Alfred Pelham_ answered him; the reply being taken up by the heroine _Julie_ in broken French, because she is personated by Madlle. Celeste. The state of parties as here developed turns out to be curious. The heroine, a quadroon, is on the point of matrimonial union with her antagonist, and openly resents the tender advances of her ally. "Call ye this backing of your friends?" _Vincent St. George_, disgusted at such gross tergiversation, flies entirely away from the point at issue, and applies those remarks to _Julie_ which all disappointed lovers seem to be bound to utter in such cases. Indeed, on the re-appearance of his rival, he challenges him--unblushingly forsaking every branch of the main point, by engaging in a long and not very lively discourse on the subject of duelling; amidst, however, impatient cries of "question!" "question!" from the audience.

This brings _Vincent_ back to the point, and with a vengeance! Like a great many other orators on the liberal side of the black question, he is a slave-owner himself, having--as his "attorney" _Vipper_ is careful to tell us--no fewer than two hundred and eight of those animals. Now, before he took upon himself to become an emancipationist, he might--one cannot help thinking--have had the decency--_like Saint Fowell Buxton_--to _sell_ his slaves to somebody else, and to come into court with clean hands. But so far from doing so, _Vipper_ having discovered that _Julie_ is a run-away slave from _Vincent's_ estate, just as she is ending the first act by going to be married, the latter takes the whole of the second act to claim her!

Though the argufiers change sides on account of the change of affairs--_Vincent_ insisting, as _liberals_ so often do, upon his vested rights in _Julie_ as opposed to _Pelham's_ matrimonial ones--though the heroine renders her pathetics affecting by a prostration or two before the rivals--though she rushes upon a parapet to commit suicide--though she is saved, and at length succeeds by force of mere argument to get her new-found master to give her up to her husband; yet this second act was somewhat dull; insomuch that the audience did not seem to regret when the curtain dropped the subject, and announced their own emancipation from the theatre.

Besides the parts we have named, Webster the elder played a _Telemachus Hearty_, who, further than skipping about the stage, talking very fast, and making himself not altogether disagreeable, had no more to do with the piece than his namesake, or Fénélon Archbishop of Cambray himself.

This attempt to discuss moot points upon the stage--to turn as it were the theatre into a debating society--will certainly not succeed. Audiences--especially Haymarket ones--have a taste for being amused rather than reasoned with; besides, those on that side of the question which the author chooses shall be the weaker, do not like to see the stage-orators get the upper hand, without having a chance of answering them. Even dancing is preferred by them to didactics, though it be

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