Half Moon Street - Anne Perry [127]
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.
“ ‘This above all: to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.’ ”
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 Hamlet before,” she admitted. “I would never have thought anyone so young could have such a comprehension of—of betrayal. His rage with the queen was so raw . . . and so close to love as well. Disillusion can destroy you.” She thought of Mariah and Edmund Ellison. How does one go on when dreams are shattered so totally there is nothing left to rebuild? How does one continue living with things soiled beyond retrieval?
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