Mrs. Waylett and Mr. Keeley were the lady and gentleman who were placed in
the peculiarly perplexing predicament of making a second-hand French
interlude supportable to an English Opera audience. In this they more than
succeeded--for they caused it to be amusing; they made the most of what
they had to do, which was not much, and of what they had to say, which was
a great deal too much; for the piece would be far more tolerable if
considerably shorn of its unfair proportions. The translator seems to have
followed the verbose text of his original with minute fidelity, except
where the idioms bothered him; and although the bills declare it is adapted
by Mr. Charles Selby to the English stage, the thing is as essentially
French as it is when performed at the _Palais Royal_, except where the
French language is introduced, when, in every instance, the labours of
correct transcription were evidently above the powers of the translator.
The best part of the adaptation is the exact fitness of the performers to
their parts; we mean as far as concerns their _personnel_.
Of course, all the readers of PUNCH know Mr. Keeley. Let them, then,
conceive him an uncle at five-and-thirty, but docking himself of six years'
age when asked impertinent questions. He has a head of fine auburn hair,
and dresses in a style that a _badaud_ would call "quiet;" that is to say,
he wears brass buttons to his coat, which is green, and adorned with a
velvet collar. In short, it is not nearly so fine as Lord Palmerston's, for
it has no velvet at the cuffs; and is not embroidered. Add white
unhintables, and you have an imaginative portrait of the hero. But the
heroine! Ah! she, dear reader, if you have a taste for full-blown beauty
and widows, she will coax the coin out of your pockets, and yourselves into
the English Opera House, when we have told you what she acts, and how she
acts. Imagine her, the syren, with the quiet, confiding smile, the tender
melting voice, the pleasing highly-bred manner; just picture her in the
character of a Parisian widow--the free, unshackled, fascinating Parisian
widow--the child of liberty--the mother of--no, not a mother; for the
instant a husband dies, the orphans are transferred to convent schools to
become nephews and nieces. Well, we say for the third time, conceive Mrs.
Waylett, dressed with modest elegance, a single rose in her
hair--sympathise with her as she rushes upon the stage (which is "set" for
the _chambre meublée_ of a country inn), escaping from the persecutions of
a persevering traveller who _will_ follow her charms, her modest elegance,
her single rose, wherever they make their appearance. She locks the door,
and orders supper, declaring she will leave the house immediately after it
is eaten and paid for. Alas! the danger increases, and with it her fears;
she will pay without eating; and as the diligence is going off, she will
resume her journey, but--a new misfortune--there is no place in it! She
will, then, hire a postchaise; and the landlady goes to strike the bargain,
having been duly paid for a bed which has not been lain in, and a supper
that has not been eaten. As the lady hastens away, with every prospect of
not returning, the piece would inevitably end here, if a gentleman did not
arrive by the very diligence which has just driven off full, and taken the
same chamber the lady has just vacated; but more particularly if the only
chaise in the place had not been hired by the lady's wicked persecutor on
purpose to detain her. She, of course, returns to the twice-let chamber,
and finds it occupied by a sentimental traveller.
Here we have the "peculiarly perplexing predicament"--a lady and gentleman,
and only one chamber between them! This is the plot; all that happens
afterwards is merely supplementary. To avoid the continued persecutions of
the unseen Adolphe, the lady agrees, after some becoming hesitation, to
pass to the hostess as the wife of the sentimental traveller. The landlady
is satisfied, for what so natural as that they _should_ have but one
bed-room between them? so she carefully locks them in, and the audience
have the pleasure of seeing them pass the night together--how we will not
say--let our readers go and see. Yet we must in justice add that the "lady
and gentleman" make at the end of the piece the _amende_ good morals
demand--they get married.
To the performers, and to them alone, are we indebted for any of the
amusement this trifle affords. Mr. Keeley and Mrs. Waylett were, so far as
acting goes, perfection; for never were parts better fitted to them. There
are only three characters in the piece; the third, the hostess of the
_"Cochon bleu,"_ is very well done by Mrs. Selby. The persecuting Adolphe
(who turns out to be the gentleman's nephew) never appears upon the stage,
for all his rude efforts to get into the lady's chamber are fruitless.
Such is the prying disposition of the British public, that the house was
crammed to the ceiling to see a lady and a gentleman placed in a peculiarly
perplexing predicament.
* * * * *
As _Romeo_, Kean, with awkward grace,
On velvet rests, 'tis said:
Ah! did he seek a softer place,
He'd rest upon his head.
* * * * *