There came a new impulse over the Court
of Denmark.
Enrico looked a sad fool in his melancholy black. The doublet sat close,
making him stout and vulgar, the knee-breeches seemed to exaggerate the
commonness of his thick, rather short, strutting legs. And he carried a
long black rag, as a cloak, for histrionic purposes. And he had on his
face a portentous grimace of melancholy and philosophic importance. His
was the caricature of Hamlet's melancholy self-absorption.
I stooped to arrange my footstool and compose my countenance. I was
trying not to grin. For the first time, attired in philosophic
melancholy of black silk, Enrico looked a boor and a fool. His
close-cropped, rather animal head was common above the effeminate
doublet, his sturdy, ordinary figure looked absurd in a
melancholic droop.
All the actors alike were out of their element. Their Majesties of
Denmark were touching. The Queen, burly little peasant woman, was ill at
ease in her pink satin. Enrico had had no mercy. He knew she loved to be
the scolding servant or housekeeper, with her head tied up in a
handkerchief, shrill and vulgar.
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