Beth Norvell - Page 9/177

Concealed within the gloomy shadows of the wings, he stood entranced

that night watching her depict the character of a wife whose previous

happy life had been irretrievably ruined by deceit; and the force, the

quiet originality of her depiction, together with its marvellous

clearness of detail and its intense realism, held him captive. The

plot of the play was ugly, melodramatic, and entirely untrue to nature;

against it Winston's cultivated taste instantly revolted; yet this

woman interpreted her own part with the rare instinct of a true artist,

picturing to the very life the particular character intrusted to her,

and holding the house to a breathless realization of what real artistic

portrayal meant. In voice, manner, action, in each minute detail of

face and figure, she was truly the very woman she represented. It was

an art so fine as to make the auditors forget the artist, forget even

themselves. Her perfect workmanship, clear-cut, rounded, complete,

stood forth like a delicate cameo beside the rude buffoonery of T.

Macready Lane, the coarse villany of Albrecht, and the stiff mannerisms

of the remainder of the cast. They were automatons as compared with a

figure instinct with life animated by intelligence. She seemed to

redeem the common clay of the coarse, unnatural story, and give to it

some vital excuse for existence, the howls of laughter greeting the

cheap wit of the comedian changed to a sudden hush of expectancy at her

mere entrance upon the stage, while her slightest word, or action,

riveted the attention. It was a triumph beyond applause, beyond any

mere outward demonstration of approval. Winston felt the spell deeply,

his entire body thrilling to her marvellous delineation of this common

thing, her uplifting of it out of the vile ruck of its surroundings and

giving unto it the abundant life of her own interpretation. Never once

did he question the real although untrained genius back of those

glowing eyes, that expressive face, those sincere, quiet tones which so

touched and swayed the heart. In other days he had seen the stage at

its best, and now he recognized in this woman that subtle power which

must conquer all things, and eventually "arrive."

Early the following morning, tossing uneasily upon a hard cot-bed in

the next town listed in their itinerary, he discovered himself totally

unable to divorce this memory from his thoughts. She even mingled with

his dreams,--a rounded, girlish figure, her young face glowing with the

emotions dominating her, her dark eyes grave with thoughtfulness,--and

he awoke, at last, facing another day of servile toil, actually

rejoicing to remember that he was part of the "Heart of the World."

That which he had first assumed from a mere spirit of play, the veriest

freak of boyish adventure, had suddenly developed into a real impulse

to which his heart gave complete surrender.