"This I concede; but more if thou attemptest,—
By all the gods!—Nay, if thou dost not take
Her image, though with smiling Cupids decked,
And pluck it from thy heart, there to receive
Rome and her glories in without a rival,
Thou art no son of mine, thou art no Roman!"
For the defective treatment of the theme of the love of Brutus for his son by the author the actor made the very best amends in
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his power by improving every opportunity to suggest the depth and fervor of the tie, in look and gesture and tone, in order to exalt the coming catastrophe. Seated calmly in the curule chair as Consul, robed with purple, the lictors with their uplifted axes before him, a messenger announces the seizure of a young man at the head of an insurgent band. Valerius whispers to Brutus,—
"Oh, my friend, horror invades my heart.
I know thy soul, and pray the gods to put
Thee to no trial beyond a mortal bearing."
Mastering his agitation by a mighty effort, Brutus responds,—
"No, they will not,—they cannot."
The unhappy Titus is brought in guarded. The father, all his convulsed soul visible in his countenance and motions, turns from him, rises, walks to his colleague, and says, with tremulous, sobbing voice,—
"That youth, my Titus, was my age's hope,—
I loved him more than language can express,—
I thought him born to dignify the world."
The culprit kneels to him, and begs for clemency:
"A word for pity's sake. Before thy feet,
Humbled in soul, thy son and prisoner kneels.
Love is my plea: a father is my judge;
Nature my advocate!—I can no more:
If these will not appease a parent's heart,
Strike through them all, and lodge thy vengeance here!"
Almost overpowered, Brutus hesitates a moment, rallies, straightens himself up, and exclaims, with lofty dignity,—
"Break off! I will not, cannot hear thee further!
The affliction nature hath imposed on Brutus,
Brutus will suffer as he may.—Enough!
Lictors, secure your prisoner. Point your axes.
To the Senate—On!"
The last scene shows the Senate in the temple of Mars, Brutus in the Consular seat. He speaks, beginning with solemn air and tones of ringing firmness:
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"Romans the blood which hath been shed this day
Hath been shed wisely. Traitors, who conspire
Against mature societies, may urge
Their acts as bold and daring; and though villains,
Yet they are manly villains. But to stab
The cradled innocent, as these have done,—
To strike their country in the mother-pangs
Of struggling childbirth, and direct the dagger
To freedom's infant throat,—is a deed so black
That my foiled tongue refuses it a name."
Here he pauses, falters a little, then slowly adds,—
"There is one criminal still left for judgment:
Let him approach."
Titus is led in by the lictors, with the edges of their axes turned towards him. He kneels.
"Oh, Brutus! Brutus! must I call you father,
Yet have no token of your tenderness?
Brutus. Think that I love thee by my present passion,
By these unmanly tears, these earthquakes here,
Let these convince you that no other cause
Could force a father thus to wrong his nature.
Romans, forgive this agony of grief,—
My heart is bursting,—Nature must have way.
I will perform all that a Roman should,—
I cannot feel less than a father ought!"
The piteous look and choking accents with which he said to his son, "Think that I love thee by my present passion," were irresistible. They seemed to betoken that his heart was breaking. The sound of weeping was usually audible in the audience, and hundreds might be seen wiping the tears from their cheeks.
Justice holds its course, and the Consul sentences the guilty citizen to the block:
"Brutus. The sovereign magistrate of injured Rome
Condemns
A crime, thy father's bleeding heart forgives.
Go,—meet thy death with a more manly courage
Than grief now suffers me to show in parting;
And, while she punishes, let Rome admire thee!
Farewell!
Titus. Farewell forever!
Brutus. Forever! Lictors, lead your prisoner forth.
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My hand shall wave the signal for the axe;
Then let the trumpet's sound proclaim its fall.
Poor youth! Thy pilgrimage is at an end!
A few sad steps have brought thee to the brink
Of that tremendous precipice, whose depth
No thought of man can fathom. Justice now
Demands her victim! A little moment,
And I am childless.—One effort, and 'tis past!—
Justice is satisfied, and Rome is free!"
Forrest made the finale an artistic climax of superlative originality, finish, and power. He climbs the steps of the tribune to wave his hand, as agreed, in signal for the execution. His face grows pale. He struggles to lift his arm. Then, when the trumpet announces that the deed is done, he absently wraps his head up in his toga, as if it were something separate from his body which must not know what has taken place. Suddenly his whole form relaxes and sinks heavily on the stage.
VIRGINIUS.
The rôle of Virginius, as filled by Forrest, had, with many resemblances to that of Brutus, also many important differences. In the domestic pictures of the first part, the sacred innocence and artless ways of the motherless daughter and the overflowing fondness of the widowed father, an element of more varied and tender beauty is introduced. The play has a wider range of interest than that of Brutus, and, while more attractive in some portions, is quite as terrible in others. To the perfecting of his performance of it Forrest devoted as much study and labor as to any part he ever acted. It obtained a commensurate recognition and approval from the general public. In its outlines as a piece of physical realism his rendering of Virginius was as pronounced as that of his Brutus, and in its artistic finish as an example of imaginative portraiture it was unquestionably far superior. In addition to the exceptional power with which the central motives were presented, there were incidental features of extreme felicity. For instance, the vein of sarcasm which Virginius displays towards the Decemvirs and their party was worked with a master-hand, and the friendship for the crabbed but brave and good old Dentatus was exhibited with a careless and bluff cordiality direct from nature. As a complete picture of the antique passion and sublime
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strength of the Roman character, the whole performance stood forth in pre-eminent distinctness and vitality.
W. G. Jackman
EDWIN FORREST AS
VIRGINIUS.
Sometimes, as an artist is lifting the curtain to expose his picture to view, with the removal of the first corner of drapery the connoisseur catches a glimpse of an exquisite bit of drawing and color which convinces him that the entire work is a great and beautiful one. When Forrest made his entrance in Virginius, with an irritated and impetuous air, the earliest sound of his voice, so deep and resonant, coining and propelling its words in air with such easy and percussive precision, seized the attention of the auditory and gave assurance that something uncommon was to come. With a quick articulation and an expostulating tone he said, "Why did you make him Decemvir, and first Decemvir, too?" He refers to the shameless Appius Claudius, and the key-note of the play is struck by his inflection of the words.
He is not displeased on seeing reason for suspecting that his daughter—an only and idolized child left him by his dead wife—is in love with the noble young Lucius Icilius, for whom he has an excellent liking. He sends for Virginia, who is still a schoolgirl, that he may question her. She comes in, and sits upon his knee, saying, "Well, father, what is your will?" At the sight of her his face lights as if a sunbeam had suddenly fallen on it, and his voice has a sweet, low, half-smothered tone, as if the words were spoken in his heart, and only their softened echoes came forth:
"Virginius. I wished to see you,
To ask you of your tasks,—how they go on,—
And what your masters say of you,—what last
You did. I hope you never play
The truant?
Virginia. The truant! No, indeed, Virginius.
Virginius. I am sure you do not. Kiss me!
Virginia. Oh! my father,
I am so happy when you are kind to me!
Virginius. You are so happy when I'm kind to you!
Am I not always kind? I never spoke
An angry word to you in all my life,
Virginia! You are happy when I'm kind!
That's strange; and makes me think you have some reason
To fear I may be otherwise than kind."
The parental tenderness of his manner, his speech, his kiss, seemed to combine the love of a father and a mother in one. His
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hand meanwhile was playing with her tresses in a way suggestive of unpurposed instinctive fondness, exquisitely touching.
The transition was perfect when, meeting Icilius, after scrutinizing him earnestly, as though to read his very soul, the rough soldier and honest man succeeds to the adoring father:
"Icilius!
Thou seest this hand? It is a Roman's, boy;
'Tis sworn to liberty,—it is the friend,
Of honor. Dost thou think so?
Icilius. Do I think
Virginius owns that hand?
Virginius. Then you'll believe
It has an oath deadly to tyranny,
And is the foe of falsehood! By the gods,
Knew it the lurking-place of treason, though
It were a brother's heart, 'twould drag the caitiff
Forth. Dar'st thou take this hand?"
And when, a little later, he led his daughter to her lover and formally betrothed them in these eloquent words, his whole frame betraying the struggle at composure, it was a consummate moral painting of humanity in one of its most sacred aspects:
"Didst thou but know, young man,
How fondly I have watched her, since the day
Her mother died, and left me to a charge
Of double duty bound,—how she hath been
My pondered thought by day, my dream by night,
My prayer, my vow, my offering, my praise,
My sweet companion, pupil, tutor, child!—
Thou wouldst not wonder that my drowning eye
And choking utterance upbraid my tongue
That tells thee she is thine!"
The plot progresses, and the air is thick with the clamor and strife of Rome, the hates of parties and the reverberation of war. Virginius is called to a distance with the army. His daughter is left under the guardianship of her uncle. One day the lustful Appius has a sight of her passing in the street.
"Her young beauty,
Trembling and blushing 'twixt the striving kisses
Of parting spring and meeting summer,"
inflames him. He charges one of his minions to seize her, under
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the pretext that she is the child of one of his slaves, sold to Virginius and falsely proclaimed his daughter. With details of cruel atrocity the deed is accomplished, in spite of the desperate interference of Icilius. Lucius is sent as a messenger to the camp to inform Virginius. Lucius tells him he is wanted immediately at Rome. With a start and a look of dread anxiety he demands to know wherefore. The messenger prevaricates and delays, but, on being chided and commanded to speak out, says, "Hear me, then, with patience." Virginius replies, while his restless fingers and the working of his toes, seen through the openings of his sandals, most effectually contradict the words, "Well, I am patient."
"Lucius. Your Virginia—
Virginius. Stop, my Lucius!
I am cold in every member of my frame!
If 'tis prophetic, Lucius, of thy news,
Give me such token as her tomb would,—silence.
I'll bear it better.
Lucius. You are still—
Virginius. I thank thee, Jupiter, I am still a father!"
The change of his countenance while uttering the word "father," from the expression it wore on the word "silence," was like an unexpected sunburst through a gloomy cloud. As Lucius went on in his narration, the breathing of the listener thickened with intensity of suspense, his heart beat with remittent throb, and he started at each point in the outrage like one receiving electric shocks.
He departed for Rome, where his poor daughter was guarded in the house of her uncle, Numitorius, in the deepest distress and terror. He entered; and such was his expression as he cried, "My child! my child!" and she rushed into his arms, that there were scarcely ever many dry eyes in the theatre at that moment. Then it was something divine to be seen, and never to be forgotten, to behold how he turned from his blistering and disdainful apostrophe to the villain who had dared set his panders after her, and, taking her precious head in his hands, gazed in her face, saying,—
"I never saw you look so like your mother
In all my life!
Virginia. You'll be advised, dear father?
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Virginius. It was her soul,—her soul, that played just then
About the features of her child, and lit them
Into the likeness of her own. When first
She placed thee in my arms,—I recollect it
As a thing of yesterday!—she wished, she said,
That it had been a man. I answered her,
It was the mother of a race of men.
And paid her for thee with a kiss. Her lips
Are cold now,—could they but be warmed again,
How they would clamor for thee!
Virginia. My dear father,
You do not answer me! Will you not be advised?
Virginius. I will not take him by the throat and strangle him!
But I COULD do it! I could DO IT!"
They go to the Forum, where Appius is seated on the tribunal, supported by the lictors and an armed troop. The acting of Forrest in the trial-scene that followed was as genuine and moving, set in as bold relief, as anything the American theatre has known. Who that saw him can ever forget the imperial front with which, bearing Virginia on his arm, he advanced before the judgment-seat,—the firm step, the indomitable face, the parental love that seemed to throw a thousand invisible tendrils around his child to hold her up! The tableau caused a silence that was absolute, and was maintained so long that the suspense had begun to be painful, when the kingly voice of Virginius broke the spell:
"Does no one speak? I am defendant here!
Is silence my opponent? Fit opponent
To plead a cause too foul for speech! What brow
Shameless, gives front to this most valiant cause,
That tries its prowess 'gainst the honor of
A girl, yet lacks the wit to know that they
Who cast off shame should likewise cast off fear!"
