The Venetians by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Another Easter over, another season beginning, and with all the usual auguries of a season of exceptional splendour -- auguries to be exchanged later for dismal elegies upon a season of surpassing dulness and stagnation, which had disappointed everybody, and all but ruined the West End tradesmen. As this jubilant vaticination and these melancholy wailings are repeated year after year, they have come to be of little more significance than the chirping of the newly arriving swifts under the eaves, or the twittering of the swallows assembled for their autumnal flight. Seasons come and seasons go. People are hopeful before the fact, and disappointed after the fact; the great chorus of humanity goes on. Such is life. A season of hope and disillusion. Contemplate existence from the severest standpoint of the agnostic metaphysician, or from the most exalted platform of the Christian saint, and the ultimate fact is the same. We begin in hope to end in sorrow.

For Signora Vivanti the after-Easter season began under cheeriest conditions. Her success at the Apollo had been unbroken. The longer she acted a part, the more spirited her acting became. Ignorant and uncultured as she was, she possessed the gift of "gag," knew when and where to introduce a word or a look which delighted her audience; and the management and her brother and sister artists -- more especially the brothers -- gave her full scope. These little inspirations of hers became licensed liberties, and her _rôle_ grew and strengthened under her hands. She was the most popular actress who had appeared at the Apollo since the building of the theatre.