others and conform to what they expected of her. There was no need to be offensive, too forceful; there was never excuse to be intentionally or carelessly unkind. But she could be true to her own values.
And she liked the red dress. It became her coloring and lent a certain glow.
And of course there were those young girls in pale colors, looking innocent and virginal, self-conscious, but fully intending to be looked at.
Almost everyone she saw was acting, in their own way, as much as most of the players would be. It was only that the story line was obscure. The onlooker saw only one scene.
The lights dimmed at last and there was a breathless expectation. The curtain rose on the battlements at Elsinore. Caroline found she was nervous for Orlando Antrim. This was by far the largest role he had ever played. But then Hamlet was surely the largest role anyone would play. Was it not every actor’s dream?
From the moment he entered in the second scene, she sat forward a little, willing him to succeed, to remember all his lines, to pour into them the passion and the grief and the confusion the role demanded.
At the very first he seemed hesitant. Her heart sank. Would he, as always, be overshadowed by his mother, who seemed to dominate every stage on which she stepped?
Then the others left, except Orlando. He stepped forward into the light. His face was pale, even haggard, although presumably it was from paint. But the gestures of his body no one else could have imposed upon him, nor the agony in his voice.
“ ‘O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!. .
Or that the Everlasting had not fix’d
His canon ’gainst self-slaughter!’ ”
He gave the whole speech without hesitation. It poured from him so naturally it sounded as if he must have been the first to say it, not as learned and rehearsed, not brilliant acting, but torn from a young man’s soul.
“ ‘But break, my heart-for I must hold my tongue!’ ”
For a moment after the curtain descended there was silence. The stalls forgot they were an audience; they had seemed more like unseen, individual intruders in someone else’s tragedy.
Then suddenly they remembered and the applause boomed like thunder roaring around the vast space, filling the high ceiling.
From then on there was an electricity in the air, a charge of emotion so high the entire performance was lifted. The tragedy unfolded relentlessly; the doomed relationships progressed from one step to the next as if no one had the power to prevent them. Hamlet’s pain seemed a palpable thing in the air; the king’s duplicity, Polonius’s wise counsel fell on deaf ears, but its words had become familiar down the ages, and Bellmaine’s marvelous voice filled the heart and the mind. For those moments he dominated the stage. Even Hamlet was forgotten.
Ophelia drifted helplessly into madness and death, an innocent sacrifice to others’ ambition, greed or obsession. Joshua tiptoed in and sat down silently, merely touching Caroline’s shoulder. Queen Gertrude wrought her own fate, still blind to it to the very last sip of the poisoned cup.
In spite of the skill and the personality of every actor on the stage, Hamlet towered above them all. It was his pain, and in the end his light extinguished, which left them in darkness when the last curtain came down.
As Caroline rose to her feet to applaud, Joshua beside her, there were tears running down her cheeks and she was too full of emotion even to think of speaking.
When at last the applause had faded, the house lights were blazing again, and people began to gather themselves to leave, Caroline turned to Joshua.
There was a mixture of joy and sorrow in his face. The joy was by far the greater, the excitement and the admiration, but she saw the faint shadow also, and knew in her heart how he would love to have played Hamlet himself, to have had a gift that far transcended mere talent and soared to genius. He knew that he had not. His art lay in wit and compassion, in making people laugh, often at themselves, and feel a new gentleness toward one another. In years to come he might play Polonius, but he would never be Hamlet.
She tried to think what to say that was honest and held no trace of condescension. That would be unbearable for him, just as it was for her.
The silence needed words, and she could not find them.
“I feel as if I’ve never really seen
She longed to share that with Joshua. She knew, looking at his face now, that he would feel only tenderness for Mrs. Ellison-no judgment, no revulsion.
But was it a breaking of trust to speak of it? The old lady would certainly know, because she would see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice. And she would be looking for it. She would be waiting for Caroline to betray her.
Then Caroline must keep silent. Maybe one day she would allow it, and then it would be all right.
“Are you going to speak to Cecily?” she said aloud.
His face broke into a smile. “Oh yes! I wouldn’t miss it. She was good-but he was better! This is the first time she has been eclipsed by anyone, except perhaps Bellmaine-long ago, when she was just beginning. She will be feeling. .” He lifted one shoulder very slightly. “A great mixture of pride in Orlando. . surely one has to be proud of one’s children. . ”
She remembered with a stab that he had no children, and he was far too young to regard either of her daughters in that light. He might have had children, if he had married someone younger. She forced that thought away. This was no time for pity of any sort, least of all self-pity, or for doubt where he had given her cause for none.
“It’s not always easy,” she replied frankly. “You can envy them their youth, and be exasperated by it. And you agonize for their mistakes, especially when you can see them even at the time. And of course you never cease to feel guilt for everything they do that turns out badly. Every flaw of character is directly attributable to something you did. . or failed to do, or did the wrong way, or at the wrong time.”
He put his arm around her. “Come! We’ll go and congratulate Cecily. . and commiserate with her-or whatever seems best.” But he was smiling as he said it, and the faint lines had eased out from around his mouth.
The dressing room was already crowded when they arrived, but this time Orlando was not there. He was the center now, not peripheral to his mother’s star.
Cecily stood with her back to the dressing table and the looking glass. She was still wearing the gorgeous gown from the last act. Her face was radiant, her fair hair spreading a halo around her. At first glance Caroline thought she was miscast as Hamlet’s mother; she looked too young, too vibrant. Then she remembered with a jolt that Cecily was in life Orlando’s mother, so she could not be wrong, except to the imagination.
Lord Warriner was not there this time. It was as if he had chosen deliberately to distance himself from the theatre for a while, or at least from Cecily. Two other minor players stood at the edge of the center looking tired and happy. A woman in a black gown and a magnificent diamond necklace was enthusiastic, and a middle-aged man with ribbons on his chest was agreeing with her.
Cecily saw Joshua almost immediately.
“Darling!” She came forward, arms wide to embrace him. “I’m so glad you could be here. Did you catch the end?” She allowed him to kiss her on both cheeks before she stepped back and acknowledged Caroline. “And Mrs. Fielding. . Caroline, isn’t it? How generous of you to come as well.”
“Generosity had nothing to do with it,” Caroline replied with a smile she hoped was warmer than she felt. “I came because I wished to. . for myself. . from the beginning. And I am delighted I did. It is by far the best
Cecily’s eyes widened. She hesitated only a moment. “Really? And have you seen so many?”
Caroline kept her smile sparklingly in place. “Certainly. From the schoolroom onward. Almost every actor who is remotely suitable has played him at one time or another, and some who are not. I daresay I have seen twenty or
