The describing of all these persons does not advance Morgiana's story
much. But, perhaps, some country readers are not acquainted with the
class of persons by whose printed opinions they are guided, and are
simple enough to imagine that mere merit will make a reputation on the
stage or elsewhere. The making of a theatrical success is a much more
complicated and curious thing than such persons fancy it to be. Immense
are the pains taken to get a good word from Mr. This of the Star, or Mr.
That of the Courier, to propitiate the favour of the critic of the day,
and get the editors of the metropolis into a good humour,--above all, to
have the name of the person to be puffed perpetually before the public.
Artists cannot be advertised like Macassar oil or blacking, and they
want it to the full as much; hence endless ingenuity must be practised
in order to keep the popular attention awake. Suppose a great actor
moves from London to Windsor, the Brentford Champion must state that
“Yesterday Mr. Blazes and suite passed rapidly through our city; the
celebrated comedian is engaged, we hear, at Windsor, to give some of his
inimitable readings of our great national bard to the MOST ILLUSTRIOUS
AUDIENCE in the realm.” This piece of intelligence the Hammersmith
Observer will question the next week, as thus:--“A contemporary, the
Brentford Champion, says that Blazes is engaged to give Shakspearian
readings at Windsor to “the most illustrious audience in the realm.” We
question this fact very much. We would, indeed, that it were true; but
the MOST ILLUSTRIOUS AUDIENCE in the realm prefer FOREIGN melodies to
THE NATIVE WOOD-NOTES WILD of the sweet song-bird of Avon. Mr. Blazes
is simply gone to Eton, where his son, Master Massinger Blazes, is
suffering, we regret to hear, under a severe attack of the chicken-pox.
This complaint (incident to youth) has raged, we understand, with
frightful virulence in Eton School.”
And if, after the above paragraphs, some London paper chooses to attack
the folly of the provincial press, which talks of Mr. Blazes, and
chronicles his movements, as if he were a crowned head, what harm is
done? Blazes can write in his own name to the London journal, and say
that it is not HIS fault if provincial journals choose to chronicle
his movements, and that he was far from wishing that the afflictions of
those who are dear to him should form the subject of public comment,
and be held up to public ridicule. “We had no intention of hurting the
feelings of an estimable public servant,” writes the editor; “and our
remarks on the chicken-pox were general, not personal. We sincerely
trust that Master Massinger Blazes has recovered from that complaint,
and that he may pass through the measles, the whooping-cough, the fourth
form, and all other diseases to which youth is subject, with comfort to
himself, and credit to his parents and teachers.” At his next appearance
on the stage after this controversy, a British public calls for Blazes
three times after the play; and somehow there is sure to be someone with
a laurel-wreath in a stage-box, who flings that chaplet at the inspired
artist's feet.
I don't know how it was, but before the debut of Morgiana, the English
press began to heave and throb in a convulsive manner, as if indicative
of the near birth of some great thing. For instance, you read in one
paper,--
“Anecdote of Karl Maria Von Weber.--When the author of 'Oberon' was in
England, he was invited by a noble duke to dinner, and some of the most
celebrated of our artists were assembled to meet him. The signal being
given to descend to the salle-a-manger, the German composer was invited
by his noble host (a bachelor) to lead the way. 'Is it not the fashion
in your country,' said he, simply, 'for the man of the first eminence to
take the first place? Here is one whose genius entitles him to be first
ANYWHERE.' And, so saying, he pointed to our admirable English composer,
Sir George Thrum. The two musicians were friends to the last, and Sir
George has still the identical piece of rosin which the author of the
'Freischutz' gave him.”--The Moon (morning paper), June 2.
“George III. a composer.--Sir George Thrum has in his possession the
score of an air, the words from 'Samson Agonistes,' an autograph of the
late revered monarch. We hear that that excellent composer has in store
for us not only an opera, but a pupil, with whose transcendent merits
the elite of our aristocracy are already familiar.”--Ibid., June 5.
“Music with a Vengeance.--The march to the sound of which the 49th and
75th regiments rushed up the breach of Badajoz was the celebrated air
from 'Britons Alarmed; or, The Siege of Bergen-op-Zoom,' by our famous
English composer, Sir George Thrum. Marshal Davoust said that the
French line never stood when that air was performed to the charge of the
bayonet. We hear the veteran musician has an opera now about to
appear, and have no doubt that Old England will now, as then, show its
superiority over ALL foreign opponents.”--Albion.
“We have been accused of preferring the produit of the etranger to the
talent of our own native shores; but those who speak so, little know
us. We are fanatici per la musica wherever it be, and welcome merit dans
chaque pays du monde. What do we say? Le merite n'a point de pays, as
Napoleon said; and Sir George Thrum (Chevalier de l'Ordre de l'Elephant
et Chateau de Kalbsbraten-Pumpernickel,) is a maestro whose fame
appartient a l'Europe.
“We have just heard the lovely eleve, whose rare qualities the Cavaliere
has brought to perfection,--we have heard THE RAVENSWING (pourquoi
cacher un nom que demain un monde va saluer?), and a creature more
beautiful and gifted never bloomed before dans nos climats. She sang
the delicious duet of the 'Nabucodonosore,' with Count Pizzicato, with
a bellezza, a grandezza, a raggio, that excited in the bosom of the
audience a corresponding furore: her scherzando was exquisite, though we
confess we thought the concluding fioritura in the passage in Y flat a
leetle, a very leetle sforzata. Surely the words,
'Giorno d'orrore,
Delire, dolore,
Nabucodonosore,'
should be given andante, and not con strepito: but this is a faute bien
legere in the midst of such unrivalled excellence, and only mentioned
here that we may have SOMETHING to criticise.
“We hear that the enterprising impresario of one of the royal theatres
has made an engagement with the Diva; and, if we have a regret, it is
that she should be compelled to sing in the unfortunate language of our
rude northern clime, which does not preter itself near so well to the
bocca of the cantatrice as do the mellifluous accents of the Lingua
Toscana, the langue par excellence of song.
“The Ravenswing's voice is a magnificent contra-basso of nine octaves,”
etc.--Flowers of Fashion, June 10.
“Old Thrum, the composer, is bringing out an opera and a pupil. The
opera is good, the pupil first-rate. The opera will do much more than
compete with the infernal twaddle and disgusting slip-slop of Donizetti,
and the milk-and-water fools who imitate him: it will (and we ask the
readers of the Tomahawk, were we EVER mistaken?) surpass all these; it
is GOOD, of downright English stuff. The airs are fresh and pleasing,
the choruses large and noble, the instrumentation solid and rich, the
music is carefully written. We wish old Thrum and his opera well.
“His pupil is a SURE CARD, a splendid woman, and a splendid singer. She
is so handsome that she might sing as much out of tune as Miss Ligonier,
and the public would forgive her; and sings so well, that were she as
ugly as the aforesaid Ligonier, the audience would listen to her. The
Ravenswing, that is her fantastical theatrical name (her real name is
the same with that of a notorious scoundrel in the Fleet, who invented
the Panama swindle, the Pontine Marshes' swindle, the Soap swindle--HOW
ARE YOU OFF FOR SOAP NOW, Mr. W-lk-r?)--the Ravenswing, we say, will do.
Slang has engaged her at thirty guineas per week, and she appears next
month in Thrum's opera, of which the words are written by a great ass
with some talent--we mean Mr. Mulligan.
“There is a foreign fool in the Flowers of Fashion who is doing his best
to disgust the public by his filthy flattery. It is enough to make
one sick. Why is the foreign beast not kicked out of the paper?”--The
Tomahawk, June 17.
The first three “anecdotes” were supplied by Mulligan to his paper,
with many others which need not here be repeated: he kept them up
with amazing energy and variety. Anecdotes of Sir George Thrum met you
unexpectedly in queer corners of country papers: puffs of the English
school of music appeared perpetually in “Notices to Correspondents” in
the Sunday prints, some of which Mr. Slang commanded, and in others over
which the indefatigable Mulligan had a control. This youth was the soul
of the little conspiracy for raising Morgiana into fame: and humble as
he is, and great and respectable as is Sir George Thrum, it is my belief
that the Ravenswing would never have been the Ravenswing she is but for
the ingenuity and energy of the honest Hibernian reporter.
It is only the business of the great man who writes the leading articles
which appear in the large type of the daily papers to compose those
astonishing pieces of eloquence; the other parts of the paper are
left to the ingenuity of the sub-editor, whose duty it is to select
paragraphs, reject or receive horrid accidents, police reports,
etc.; with which, occupied as he is in the exercise of his tremendous
functions, the editor himself cannot be expected to meddle. The fate
of Europe is his province; the rise and fall of empires, and the great
questions of State demand the editor's attention: the humble puff,
the paragraph about the last murder, or the state of the crops, or the
sewers in Chancery Lane, is confided to the care of the sub; and it
is curious to see what a prodigious number of Irishmen exist among the
sub-editors of London. When the Liberator enumerates the services of his
countrymen, how the battle of Fontenoy was won by the Irish Brigade, how
the battle of Waterloo would have been lost but for the Irish regiments,
and enumerates other acts for which we are indebted to Milesian heroism
and genius--he ought at least to mention the Irish brigade of the press,
and the amazing services they do to this country.
The truth is, the Irish reporters and soldiers appear to do their duty
right well; and my friend Mr. Mulligan is one of the former. Having the
interests of his opera and the Ravenswing strongly at heart, and being
amongst his brethren an exceedingly popular fellow, he managed matters
so that never a day passed but some paragraph appeared somewhere
regarding the new singer, in whom, for their countryman's sake, all his
brothers and sub-editors felt an interest.
These puffs, destined to make known to all the world the merits of
the Ravenswing, of course had an effect upon a gentleman very closely
connected with that lady, the respectable prisoner in the Fleet, Captain
Walker. As long as he received his weekly two guineas from Mr. Woolsey,
and the occasional half-crowns which his wife could spare in her almost
daily visits to him, he had never troubled himself to inquire what her
pursuits were, and had allowed her (though the worthy woman longed with
all her might to betray herself) to keep her secret. He was far from
thinking, indeed, that his wife would prove such a treasure to him.
But when the voice of fame and the columns of the public journals
brought him each day some new story regarding the merits, genius, and
beauty of the Ravenswing; when rumours reached him that she was the
favourite pupil of Sir George Thrum; when she brought him five guineas
after singing at the “Philharmonic” (other five the good soul had spent
in purchasing some smart new cockades, hats, cloaks, and laces, for her
little son); when, finally, it was said that Slang, the great manager,
offered her an engagement at thirty guineas per week, Mr. Walker became
exceedingly interested in his wife's proceedings, of which he demanded
from her the fullest explanation.
Using his marital authority, he absolutely forbade Mrs. Walker's
appearance on the public stage; he wrote to Sir George Thrum a letter
expressive of his highest indignation that negotiations so important
should ever have been commenced without his authorisation; and he wrote
to his dear Slang (for these gentlemen were very intimate, and in the
course of his transactions as an agent Mr. W. had had many dealings
with Mr. S.) asking his dear Slang whether the latter thought his friend
Walker would be so green as to allow his wife to appear on the stage,
and he remain in prison with all his debts on his head?
And it was a curious thing now to behold how eager those very creditors
who but yesterday (and with perfect correctness) had denounced Mr.
Walker as a swindler; who had refused to come to any composition with
him, and had sworn never to release him; how they on a sudden became
quite eager to come to an arrangement with him, and offered, nay, begged
and prayed him to go free,--only giving them his own and Mrs. Walker's
acknowledgment of their debt, with a promise that a part of the lady's
salary should be devoted to the payment of the claim.
“The lady's salary!” said Mr. Walker, indignantly, to these gentlemen
and their attorneys. “Do you suppose I will allow Mrs. Walker to go on
the stage?--do you suppose I am such a fool as to sign bills to the full
amount of these claims against me, when in a few months more I can walk
out of prison without paying a shilling? Gentlemen, you take Howard
Walker for an idiot. I like the Fleet, and rather than pay I'll stay
here for these ten years.”
In other words, it was the Captain's determination to make some
advantageous bargain for himself with his creditors and the gentlemen
who were interested in bringing forward Mrs. Walker on the stage. And
who can say that in so determining he did not act with laudable prudence
and justice?
“You do not, surely, consider, my very dear sir, that half the amount of
Mrs. Walker's salaries is too much for my immense trouble and pains in
teaching her?” cried Sir George Thrum (who, in reply to Walker's note,
thought it most prudent to wait personally on that gentleman). “Remember
that I am the first master in England; that I have the best interest in
England; that I can bring her out at the Palace, and at every concert
and musical festival in England; that I am obliged to teach her every
single note that she utters; and that without me she could no more sing
a song than her little baby could walk without its nurse.”
“I believe about half what you say,” said Mr. Walker.
“My dear Captain Walker! would you question my integrity? Who was it
that made Mrs. Millington's fortune,--the celebrated Mrs. Millington,
who has now got a hundred thousand pounds? Who was it that brought out
the finest tenor in Europe, Poppleton? Ask the musical world, ask
those great artists themselves, and they will tell you they owe their
reputation, their fortune, to Sir George Thrum.”
“It is very likely,” replied the Captain, coolly. “You ARE a good
master, I dare say, Sir George; but I am not going to article Mrs.
Walker to you for three years, and sign her articles in the Fleet. Mrs.
Walker shan't sing till I'm a free man, that's flat: if I stay here till
you're dead she shan't.”
“Gracious powers, sir!” exclaimed Sir George, “do you expect me to pay
your debts?”
“Yes, old boy,” answered the Captain, “and to give me something handsome
in hand, too; and that's my ultimatum: and so I wish you good morning,
for I'm engaged to play a match at tennis below.”
This little interview exceedingly frightened the worthy knight, who
went home to his lady in a delirious state of alarm occasioned by the
audacity of Captain Walker.
Mr. Slang's interview with him was scarcely more satisfactory. He
owed, he said, four thousand pounds. His creditors might be brought to
compound for five shillings in the pound. He would not consent to allow
his wife to make a single engagement until the creditors were satisfied,
and until he had a handsome sum in hand to begin the world with. “Unless
my wife comes out, you'll be in the Gazette yourself, you know you will.
So you may take her or leave her, as you think fit.”
“Let her sing one night as a trial,” said Mr. Slang.
“If she sings one night, the creditors will want their money in full,”
replied the Captain. “I shan't let her labour, poor thing, for the
profit of those scoundrels!” added the prisoner, with much feeling. And
Slang left him with a much greater respect for Walker than he had ever
before possessed. He was struck with the gallantry of the man who could
triumph over misfortunes, nay, make misfortune itself an engine of good
luck.
Mrs. Walker was instructed instantly to have a severe sore throat. The
journals in Mr. Slang's interest deplored this illness pathetically;
while the papers in the interest of the opposition theatre magnified it
with great malice. “The new singer,” said one, “the great wonder which
Slang promised us, is as hoarse as a RAVEN!” “Doctor Thorax pronounces,”
wrote another paper, “that the quinsy, which has suddenly prostrated
Mrs. Ravenswing, whose singing at the Philharmonic, previous to her
appearance at the 'T.R----,' excited so much applause, has destroyed the
lady's voice for ever. We luckily need no other prima donna, when that
place, as nightly thousands acknowledge, is held by Miss Ligonier.” The
Looker-on said, “That although some well-informed contemporaries had
declared Mrs. W. Ravenswing's complaint to be a quinsy, others, on
whose authority they could equally rely, had pronounced it to be a
consumption. At all events, she was in an exceedingly dangerous state;
from which, though we do not expect, we heartily trust she may recover.
Opinions differ as to the merits of this lady, some saying that she was
altogether inferior to Miss Ligonier, while other connoisseurs declare
the latter lady to be by no means so accomplished a person. This point,
we fear,” continued the Looker-on, “can never now be settled; unless,
which we fear is improbable, Mrs. Ravenswing should ever so far recover
as to be able to make her debut; and even then, the new singer will
not have a fair chance unless her voice and strength shall be fully
restored. This information, which we have from exclusive resources, may
be relied on,” concluded the Looker-on, “as authentic.”
It was Mr. Walker himself, that artful and audacious Fleet prisoner, who
concocted those very paragraphs against his wife's health which appeared
in the journals of the Ligonier party. The partisans of that lady were
delighted, the creditors of Mr. Walker astounded, at reading them.
Even Sir George Thrum was taken in, and came to the Fleet prison in
considerable alarm.
“Mum's the word, my good sir!” said Mr. Walker. “Now is the time to make
arrangements with the creditors.”
Well, these arrangements were finally made. It does not matter how many
shillings in the pound satisfied the rapacious creditors of Morgiana's
husband. But it is certain that her voice returned to her all of a
sudden upon the Captain's release. The papers of the Mulligan faction
again trumpeted her perfections; the agreement with Mr. Slang was
concluded; that with Sir George Thrum the great composer satisfactorily
arranged; and the new opera underlined in immense capitals in the
bills, and put in rehearsal with immense expenditure on the part of the
scene-painter and costumier.
Need we tell with what triumphant success the “Brigand's Bride” was
received? All the Irish sub-editors the next morning took care to have
such an account of it as made Miss Ligonier and Baroski die with envy.
All the reporters who could spare time were in the boxes to support
their friend's work. All the journeymen tailors of the establishment of
Linsey, Woolsey, and Co. had pit tickets given to them, and applauded
with all their might. All Mr. Walker's friends of the “Regent Club”
lined the side-boxes with white kid gloves; and in a little box by
themselves sat Mrs. Crump and Mr. Woolsey, a great deal too much
agitated to applaud--so agitated, that Woolsey even forgot to fling down
the bouquet he had brought for the Ravenswing.
But there was no lack of those horticultural ornaments. The theatre
servants wheeled away a wheelbarrow-full (which were flung on the stage
the next night over again); and Morgiana, blushing, panting, weeping,
was led off by Mr. Poppleton, the eminent tenor, who had crowned her
with one of the most conspicuous of the chaplets.
Here she flew to her husband, and flung her arms round his neck. He was
flirting behind the side-scenes with Mademoiselle Flicflac, who had
been dancing in the divertissement; and was probably the only man in
the theatre of those who witnessed the embrace that did not care for it.
Even Slang was affected, and said with perfect sincerity that he wished
he had been in Walker's place. The manager's fortune was made, at least
for the season. He acknowledged so much to Walker, who took a week's
salary for his wife in advance that very night.
There was, as usual, a grand supper in the green-room. The terrible Mr.
Bludyer appeared in a new coat of the well-known Woolsey cut, and the
little tailor himself and Mrs. Crump were not the least happy of the
party. But when the Ravenswing took Woolsey's hand, and said she never
would have been there but for him, Mr. Walker looked very grave,
and hinted to her that she must not, in her position, encourage the
attentions of persons in that rank of life. “I shall pay,” said he,
proudly, “every farthing that is owing to Mr. Woolsey, and shall employ
him for the future. But you understand, my love, that one cannot at
one's own table receive one's own tailor.”
Slang proposed Morgiana's health in a tremendous speech, which elicited
cheers, and laughter, and sobs, such as only managers have the art of
drawing from the theatrical gentlemen and ladies in their employ. It
was observed, especially among the chorus-singers at the bottom of the
table, that their emotion was intense. They had a meeting the next day
and voted a piece of plate to Adolphus Slang, Esquire, for his eminent
services in the cause of the drama.
Walker returned thanks for his lady. That was, he said, the proudest
moment of his life. He was proud to think that he had educated her for
the stage, happy to think that his sufferings had not been in vain, and
that his exertions in her behalf were crowned with full success. In her
name and his own he thanked the company, and sat down, and was once more
particularly attentive to Mademoiselle Flicflac.
Then came an oration from Sir George Thrum, in reply to Slang's toast
to HIM. It was very much to the same effect as the speech by Walker,
the two gentlemen attributing to themselves individually the merit of
bringing out Mrs. Walker. He concluded by stating that he should always
hold Mrs. Walker as the daughter of his heart, and to the last moment of
his life should love and cherish her. It is certain that Sir George was
exceedingly elated that night, and would have been scolded by his lady
on his return home, but for the triumph of the evening.
Mulligan's speech of thanks, as author of the “Brigand's Bride,” was, it
must be confessed, extremely tedious. It seemed there would be no end
to it; when he got upon the subject of Ireland especially, which somehow
was found to be intimately connected with the interests of music and the
theatre. Even the choristers pooh-poohed this speech, coming though it
did from the successful author, whose songs of wine, love, and battle,
they had been repeating that night.
The “Brigand's Bride” ran for many nights. Its choruses were tuned on
the organs of the day. Morgiana's airs, “The Rose upon my Balcony”
and the “Lightning on the Cataract” (recitative and scena) were on
everybody's lips, and brought so many guineas to Sir George Thrum that
he was encouraged to have his portrait engraved, which still may be
seen in the music-shops. Not many persons, I believe, bought proof
impressions of the plate, price two guineas; whereas, on the contrary,
all the young clerks in banks, and all the FAST young men of the
universities, had pictures of the Ravenswing in their apartments--as
Biondetta (the brigand's bride), as Zelyma (in the “Nuptials of
Benares”), as Barbareska (in the “Mine of Tobolsk”), and in all her
famous characters. In the latter she disguises herself as a Uhlan, in
order to save her father, who is in prison; and the Ravenswing looked so
fascinating in this costume in pantaloons and yellow boots, that Slang
was for having her instantly in Captain Macheath, whence arose their
quarrel.
She was replaced at Slang's theatre by Snooks, the rhinoceros-tamer,
with his breed of wild buffaloes. Their success was immense. Slang gave
a supper, at which all the company burst into tears; and assembling
in the green-room next day, they, as usual, voted a piece of plate to
Adolphus Slang, Esquire, for his eminent services to the drama.
In the Captain Macheath dispute Mr. Walker would have had his wife
yield; but on this point, and for once, she disobeyed her husband and
left the theatre. And when Walker cursed her (according to his wont) for
her abominable selfishness and disregard of his property, she burst
into tears and said she had spent but twenty guineas on herself and baby
during the year, that her theatrical dressmaker's bills were yet unpaid,
and that she had never asked him how much he spent on that odious French
figurante.
All this was true, except about the French figurante. Walker, as the
lord and master, received all Morgiana's earnings, and spent them as
a gentleman should. He gave very neat dinners at a cottage in Regent's
Park (Mr. and Mrs. Walker lived at Green Street, Grosvenor Square), he
played a good deal at the “Regent;” but as to the French figurante, it
must be confessed, that Mrs. Walker was in a sad error: THAT lady and
the Captain had parted long ago; it was Madame Dolores de Tras-os-Montes
who inhabited the cottage in St. John's Wood now.
But if some little errors of this kind might be attributable to the
Captain, on the other hand, when his wife was in the provinces, he was
the most attentive of husbands; made all her bargains, and received
every shilling before he would permit her to sing a note. Thus he
prevented her from being cheated, as a person of her easy temper
doubtless would have been, by designing managers and needy
concert-givers. They always travelled with four horses; and Walker was
adored in every one of the principal hotels in England. The waiters flew
at his bell. The chambermaids were afraid he was a sad naughty man, and
thought his wife no such great beauty; the landlords preferred him to
any duke. HE never looked at their bills, not he! In fact his income was
at least four thousand a year for some years of his life.
Master Woolsey Walker was put to Doctor Wapshot's seminary, whence,
after many disputes on the Doctor's part as to getting his half-year's
accounts paid, and after much complaint of ill-treatment on the little
boy's side, he was withdrawn, and placed under the care of the Reverend
Mr. Swishtail, at Turnham Green; where all his bills are paid by his
godfather, now the head of the firm of Woolsey and Co.
As a gentleman, Mr. Walker still declines to see him; but he has not,
as far as I have heard, paid the sums of money which he threatened to
refund; and, as he is seldom at home the worthy tailor can come to Green
Street at his leisure. He and Mrs. Crump, and Mrs. Walker often take the
omnibus to Brentford, and a cake with them to little Woolsey at school;
to whom the tailor says he will leave every shilling of his property.
The Walkers have no other children; but when she takes her airing in the
Park she always turns away at the sight of a low phaeton, in which sits
a woman with rouged cheeks, and a great number of overdressed children
and a French bonne, whose name, I am given to understand, is Madame
Dolores de Tras-os-Montes. Madame de Tras-os-Montes always puts a great
gold glass to her eye as the Ravenswing's carriage passes, and looks
into it with a sneer. The two coachmen used always to exchange queer
winks at each other in the ring, until Madame de Tras-os-Montes lately
adopted a tremendous chasseur, with huge whiskers and a green and gold
livery; since which time the formerly named gentlemen do not recognise
each other.
The Ravenswing's life is one of perpetual triumph on the stage; and, as
every one of the fashionable men about town have been in love with her,
you may fancy what a pretty character she has. Lady Thrum would die
sooner than speak to that unhappy young woman; and, in fact, the Thrums
have a new pupil, who is a siren without the dangerous qualities of one,
who has the person of Venus, and the mind of a Muse, and who is coming
out at one of the theatres immediately. Baroski says, “De liddle
Rafenschwing is just as font of me as effer!” People are very shy about
receiving her in society; and when she goes to sing at a concert, Miss
Prim starts up and skurries off in a state of the greatest alarm, lest
“that person” should speak to her.
Walker is voted a good, easy, rattling, gentlemanly fellow, and nobody's
enemy but his own. His wife, they say, is dreadfully extravagant: and,
indeed, since his marriage, and in spite of his wife's large income,
he has been in the Bench several times; but she signs some bills and
he comes out again, and is as gay and genial as ever. All mercantile
speculations he has wisely long since given up; he likes to throw a
main of an evening, as I have said, and to take his couple of bottles at
dinner. On Friday he attends at the theatre for his wife's salary, and
transacts no other business during the week. He grows exceedingly stout,
dyes his hair, and has a bloated purple look about the nose and cheeks,
very different from that which first charmed the heart of Morgiana.
By the way, Eglantine has been turned out of the Bower of Bloom, and now
keeps a shop at Tunbridge Wells. Going down thither last year without a
razor, I asked a fat seedy man lolling in a faded nankeen jacket at the
door of a tawdry little shop in the Pantiles, to shave me. He said in
reply, “Sir, I do not practise in that branch of the profession!” and
turned back into the little shop. It was Archibald Eglantine. But in the
wreck of his fortunes he still has his captain's uniform, and his grand
cross of the order of the Castle and Falcon of Panama.
*****
POSTSCRIPT.
G. Fitz-Boodle, Esq., to O. Yorke, Esq.
ZUM TRIERISCHEN HOP, COBLENZ: July 10, 1843.
MY DEAR YORKE,--The story of the Ravenswing was written a long time
since, and I never could account for the bad taste of the publishers of
the metropolis who refused it an insertion in their various magazines.
This fact would never have been alluded to but for the following
circumstance:--
Only yesterday, as I was dining at this excellent hotel, I remarked a
bald-headed gentleman in a blue coat and brass buttons, who looked
like a colonel on half-pay, and by his side a lady and a little boy
of twelve, whom the gentleman was cramming with an amazing quantity of
cherries and cakes. A stout old dame in a wonderful cap and ribands was
seated by the lady's side, and it was easy to see they were English, and
I thought I had already made their acquaintance elsewhere.
The younger of the ladies at last made a bow with an accompanying blush.
“Surely,” said I, “I have the honour of speaking to Mrs. Ravenswing?”
“Mrs. Woolsey, sir,” said the gentleman; “my wife has long since left
the stage:” and at this the old lady in the wonderful cap trod on my
toes very severely, and nodded her head and all her ribands in a most
mysterious way. Presently the two ladies rose and left the table, the
elder declaring that she heard the baby crying.
“Woolsey, my dear, go with your mamma,” said Mr. Woolsey, patting the
boy on the head. The young gentleman obeyed the command, carrying off a
plate of macaroons with him.
“Your son is a fine boy, sir,” said I.
“My step-son, sir,” answered Mr. Woolsey; and added, in a louder voice,
“I knew you, Mr. Fitz-Boodle, at once, but did not mention your name
for fear of agitating my wife. She don't like to have the memory of old
times renewed, sir; her former husband, whom you know, Captain Walker,
made her very unhappy. He died in America, sir, of this, I fear”
(pointing to the bottle), “and Mrs. W. quitted the stage a year before I
quitted business. Are you going on to Wiesbaden?”
They went off in their carriage that evening, the boy on the box making
great efforts to blow out of the postilion's tasselled horn.
I am glad that poor Morgiana is happy at last, and hasten to inform
you of the fact. I am going to visit the old haunts of my youth at
Pumpernickel. Adieu.
Yours,
G. F.-B.
MR. AND MRS. FRANK BERRY.
CHAPTER I. THE FIGHT AT SLAUGHTER HOUSE.
I am very fond of reading about battles, and have most of Marlborough's
and Wellington's at my fingers' ends; but the most tremendous combat I
ever saw, and one that interests me to think of more than Malplaquet or
Waterloo (which, by the way, has grown to be a downright nuisance, so
much do men talk of it after dinner, prating most disgustingly about
“the Prussians coming up,” and what not)--I say the most tremendous
combat ever known was that between Berry and Biggs the gown-boy, which
commenced in a certain place called Middle Briars, situated in the midst
of the cloisters that run along the side of the playground of Slaughter
House School, near Smithfield, London. It was there, madam, that your
humble servant had the honour of acquiring, after six years' labour,
that immense fund of classical knowledge which in after life has been so
exceedingly useful to him.
The circumstances of the quarrel were these:--Biggs, the gown-boy (a
man who, in those days, I thought was at least seven feet high, and was
quite thunderstruck to find in after life that he measured no more than
five feet four), was what we called “second cock” of the school; the
first cock was a great big, good-humoured, lazy, fair-haired fellow,
Old Hawkins by name, who, because he was large and good-humoured, hurt
nobody. Biggs, on the contrary, was a sad bully; he had half-a-dozen
fags, and beat them all unmercifully. Moreover, he had a little brother,
a boarder in Potky's house, whom, as a matter of course, he hated and
maltreated worse than anyone else.
Well, one day, because young Biggs had not brought his brother his
hoops, or had not caught a ball at cricket, or for some other equally
good reason, Biggs the elder so belaboured the poor little fellow, that
Berry, who was sauntering by, and saw the dreadful blows which the
elder brother was dealing to the younger with his hockey-stick, felt
a compassion for the little fellow (perhaps he had a jealousy against
Biggs, and wanted to try a few rounds with him, but that I can't vouch
for); however, Berry passing by, stopped and said, “Don't you think
you have thrashed the boy enough, Biggs?” He spoke this in a very civil
tone, for he never would have thought of interfering rudely with the
sacred privilege that an upper boy at a public school always has of
beating a junior, especially when they happen to be brothers.
The reply of Biggs, as might be expected, was to hit young Biggs with
the hockey-stick twice as hard as before, until the little wretch howled
with pain. “I suppose it's no business of yours, Berry,” said Biggs,
thumping away all the while, and laid on worse and worse.
Until Berry (and, indeed, little Biggs) could bear it no longer, and the
former, bouncing forward, wrenched the stick out of old Biggs's hands,
and sent it whirling out of the cloister window, to the great wonder of
a crowd of us small boys, who were looking on. Little boys always like
to see a little companion of their own soundly beaten.
“There!” said Berry, looking into Biggs's face, as much as to say, “I've
gone and done it;” and he added to the brother, “Scud away, you little
thief; I've saved you this time.”
“Stop, young Biggs!” roared out his brother after a pause; “or I'll
break every bone in your infernal scoundrelly skin!”
Young Biggs looked at Berry, then at his brother, then came at his
brother's order, as if back to be beaten again; but lost heart, and ran
away as fast as his little legs could carry him.
“I'll do for him another time,” said Biggs. “Here, under-boy, take my
coat;” and we all began to gather round and formed a ring.
“We had better wait till after school, Biggs,” cried Berry, quite cool,
but looking a little pale. “There are only five minutes now, and it will
take you more than that to thrash me.”
Biggs upon this committed a great error; for he struck Berry slightly
across the face with the back of his hand, saying, “You are in a funk.”
But this was a feeling which Frank Berry did not in the least entertain;
for, in reply to Biggs's back-hander, and as quick as thought, and with
all his might and main--pong! he delivered a blow upon old Biggs's nose
that made the claret spirt, and sent the second cock down to the ground
as if he had been shot.
He was up again, however, in a minute, his face white and gashed with
blood, his eyes glaring, a ghastly spectacle; and Berry, meanwhile,
had taken his coat off, and by this time there were gathered in the
cloisters, on all the windows, and upon each other's shoulders, one
hundred and twenty young gentlemen at the very least, for the news had
gone out through the playground of “a fight between Berry and Biggs.”
But Berry was quite right in his remark about the propriety of deferring
the business, for at this minute Mr. Chip, the second master, came down
the cloisters going into school, and grinned in his queer way as he saw
the state of Biggs's face. “Holloa, Mr. Biggs,” said he, “I suppose you
have run against a finger-post.” That was the regular joke with us at
school, and you may be sure we all laughed heartily: as we always did
when Mr. Chip made a joke, or anything like a joke. “You had better go
to the pump, sir, and get yourself washed, and not let Doctor Buckle see
you in that condition.” So saying, Mr. Chip disappeared to his duties in
the under-school, whither all we little boys followed him.
It was Wednesday, a half-holiday, as everybody knows, and boiled-beef
day at Slaughter House. I was in the same boarding-house with Berry,
and we all looked to see whether he ate a good dinner, just as one would
examine a man who was going to be hanged. I recollected, in after-life,
in Germany, seeing a friend who was going to fight a duel eat five larks
for his breakfast, and thought I had seldom witnessed greater courage.
Berry ate moderately of the boiled beef--BOILED CHILD we used to call it
at school, in our elegant jocular way; he knew a great deal better than
to load his stomach upon the eve of such a contest as was going to take
place.
Dinner was very soon over, and Mr. Chip, who had been all the while
joking Berry, and pressing him to eat, called him up into his study,
to the great disappointment of us all, for we thought he was going to
prevent the fight; but no such thing. The Reverend Edward Chip took
Berry into his study, and poured him out two glasses of port-wine, which
he made him take with a biscuit, and patted him on the back, and went
off. I have no doubt he was longing, like all of us, to see the battle;
but etiquette, you know, forbade.
When we went out into the green, Old Hawkins was there--the great
Hawkins, the cock of the school. I have never seen the man since, but
still think of him as of something awful, gigantic, mysterious: he who
could thrash everybody, who could beat all the masters; how we longed
for him to put in his hand and lick Buckle! He was a dull boy, not very
high in the school, and had all his exercises written for him. Buckle
knew this, but respected him; never called him up to read Greek plays;
passed over all his blunders, which were many; let him go out of
half-holidays into the town as he pleased: how should any man dare to
stop him--the great calm magnanimous silent Strength! They say he licked
a Life-Guardsman: I wonder whether it was Shaw, who killed all those
Frenchmen? No, it could not be Shaw, for he was dead au champ d'honneur;
but he WOULD have licked Shaw if he had been alive. A bargeman I know he
licked, at Jack Randall's in Slaughter House Lane. Old Hawkins was too
lazy to play at cricket; he sauntered all day in the sunshine about the
green, accompanied by little Tippins, who was in the sixth form, laughed
and joked at Hawkins eternally, and was the person who wrote all his
exercises.
Instead of going into town this afternoon, Hawkins remained at Slaughter
House, to see the great fight between the second and third cocks.
The different masters of the school kept boarding-houses (such as
Potky's, Chip's, Wickens's, Pinney's, and so on), and the playground, or
“green” as it was called, although the only thing green about the place
was the broken glass on the walls that separate Slaughter House from
Wilderness Row and Goswell Street--(many a time have I seen Mr. Pickwick
look out of his window in that street, though we did not know him
then)--the playground, or green, was common to all. But if any stray
boy from Potky's was found, for instance, in, or entering into, Chip's
house, the most dreadful tortures were practised upon him: as I can
answer in my own case.
Fancy, then, our astonishment at seeing a little three-foot wretch, of
the name of Wills, one of Hawkins's fags (they were both in Potky's),
walk undismayed amongst us lions at Chip's house, as the “rich and rare”
young lady did in Ireland. We were going to set upon him and devour or
otherwise maltreat him, when he cried out in a little shrill impertinent
voice, “TELL BERRY I WANT HIM!”
We all roared with laughter. Berry was in the sixth form, and Wills or
any under-boy would as soon have thought of “wanting” him, as I should
of wanting the Duke of Wellington.
Little Wills looked round in an imperious kind of way. “Well,” says he,
stamping his foot, “do you hear? TELL BERRY THAT HAWKINS WANTS HIM!”
As for resisting the law of Hawkins, you might as soon think of
resisting immortal Jove. Berry and Tolmash, who was to be his
bottle-holder, made their appearance immediately, and walked out into
the green where Hawkins was waiting, and, with an irresistible audacity
that only belonged to himself, in the face of nature and all the
regulations of the place, was smoking a cigar. When Berry and Tolmash
found him, the three began slowly pacing up and down in the sunshine,
and we little boys watched them.
Hawkins moved his arms and hands every now and then, and was evidently
laying down the law about boxing. We saw his fists darting out every now
and then with mysterious swiftness, hitting one, two, quick as thought,
as if in the face of an adversary; now his left hand went up, as if
guarding his own head, now his immense right fist dreadfully flapped
the air, as if punishing his imaginary opponent's miserable ribs. The
conversation lasted for some ten minutes, about which time gown-boys'
dinner was over, and we saw these youths, in their black horned-button
jackets and knee-breeches, issuing from their door in the cloisters.
There were no hoops, no cricket-bats, as usual on a half-holiday. Who
would have thought of play in expectation of such tremendous sport as
was in store for us?
Towering among the gown-boys, of whom he was the head and the tyrant,
leaning upon Bushby's arm, and followed at a little distance by many
curious pale awe-stricken boys, dressed in his black silk stockings,
which he always sported, and with a crimson bandanna tied round his
waist, came BIGGS. His nose was swollen with the blow given before
school, but his eyes flashed fire. He was laughing and sneering with
Bushby, and evidently intended to make minced meat of Berry.
The betting began pretty freely: the bets were against poor Berry. Five
to three were offered--in ginger-beer. I took six to four in raspberry
open tarts. The upper boys carried the thing farther still: and I know
for a fact, that Swang's book amounted to four pound three (but he
hedged a good deal), and Tittery lost seventeen shillings in a single
bet to Pitts, who took the odds.
As Biggs and his party arrived, I heard Hawkins say to Berry, “For
heaven's sake, my boy, fib with your right, and MIND HIS LEFT HAND!”
Middle Briars was voted to be too confined a space for the combat, and
it was agreed that it should take place behind the under-school in
the shade, whither we all went. Hawkins, with his immense silver
hunting-watch, kept the time; and water was brought from the pump close
to Notley's the pastrycook's, who did not admire fisticuffs at all on
half-holidays, for the fights kept the boys away from his shop. Gutley
was the only fellow in the school who remained faithful to him, and
he sat on the counter--the great gormandising brute!--eating tarts the
whole day.
This famous fight, as every Slaughter House man knows, lasted for two
hours and twenty-nine minutes, by Hawkins's immense watch. All this time
the air resounded with cries of “Go it, Berry!” “Go it, Biggs!” “Pitch
into him!” “Give it him!” and so on. Shall I describe the hundred and
two rounds of the combat?--No!--It would occupy too much space, and the
taste for such descriptions has passed away. [3]
1st round. Both the combatants fresh, and in prime order. The weight
and inches somewhat on the gown-boy's side. Berry goes gallantly in,
and delivers a clinker on the gown-boy's jaw. Biggs makes play with his
left. Berry down.
*****
4th round. Claret drawn in profusion from the gown-boy's grogshop. (He
went down, and had his front tooth knocked out, but the blow cut Berry's
knuckles a great deal.)
*****
15th round. Chancery. Fibbing. Biggs makes dreadful work with his
left. Break away. Rally. Biggs down. Betting still six to four on the
gown-boy.
*****
20th round. The men both dreadfully punished. Berry somewhat shy of his
adversary's left hand.
*****
29th to 42nd round. The Chipsite all this while breaks away from the
gown-boy's left, and goes down on a knee. Six to four on the gown-boy,
until the fortieth round, when the bets became equal.
*****
102nd and last round. For half-an-hour the men had stood up to each
other, but were almost too weary to strike. The gown-boy's face hardly
to be recognised, swollen and streaming with blood. The Chipsite in
a similar condition, and still more punished about his side from his
enemy's left hand. Berry gives a blow at his adversary's face, and falls
over him as he falls.
The gown-boy can't come up to time. And thus ended the great fight of
Berry and Biggs.
And what, pray, has this horrid description of a battle and parcel of
schoolboys to do with Men's Wives?
What has it to do with Men's Wives?--A great deal more, madam, than you
think for. Only read Chapter II., and you shall hear.
CHAPTER II. THE COMBAT AT VERSAILLES.
I afterwards came to be Berry's fag, and, though beaten by him daily, he
allowed, of course, no one else to lay a hand upon me, and I got no more
thrashing than was good for me. Thus an intimacy grew up between us,
and after he left Slaughter House and went into the dragoons, the honest
fellow did not forget his old friend, but actually made his appearance
one day in the playground in moustaches and a braided coat, and gave
me a gold pencil-case and a couple of sovereigns. I blushed when I took
them, but take them I did; and I think the thing I almost best recollect
in my life, is the sight of Berry getting behind an immense bay
cab-horse, which was held by a correct little groom, and was waiting
near the school in Slaughter House Square. He proposed, too, to have me
to “Long's,” where he was lodging for the time; but this invitation
was refused on my behalf by Doctor Buckle, who said, and possibly with
correctness, that I should get little good by spending my holiday with
such a scapegrace.
Once afterwards he came to see me at Christ Church, and we made a show
of writing to one another, and didn't, and always had a hearty mutual
goodwill; and though we did not quite burst into tears on parting, were
yet quite happy when occasion threw us together, and so almost lost
sight of each other. I heard lately that Berry was married, and am
rather ashamed to say, that I was not so curious as even to ask the
maiden name of his lady.
Last summer I was at Paris, and had gone over to Versailles to meet a
party, one of which was a young lady to whom I was tenderly--But, never
mind. The day was rainy, and the party did not keep its appointment;
and after yawning through the interminable Palace picture-galleries, and
then making an attempt to smoke a cigar in the Palace garden--for which
crime I was nearly run through the body by a rascally sentinel--I was
driven, perforce, into the great bleak lonely place before the Palace,
with its roads branching off to all the towns in the world, which Louis
and Napoleon once intended to conquer, and there enjoyed my favourite
pursuit at leisure, and was meditating whether I should go back to
“Vefour's” for dinner, or patronise my friend M. Duboux of the “Hotel
des Reservoirs” who gives not only a good dinner, but as dear a one as
heart can desire. I was, I say, meditating these things, when a carriage
passed by. It was a smart low calash, with a pair of bay horses and a
postilion in a drab jacket that twinkled with innumerable buttons, and
I was too much occupied in admiring the build of the machine, and
the extreme tightness of the fellow's inexpressibles, to look at the
personages within the carriage, when the gentleman roared out “Fitz!”
and the postilion pulled up, and the lady gave a shrill scream, and
a little black-muzzled spaniel began barking and yelling with all his
might, and a man with moustaches jumped out of the vehicle, and began
shaking me by the hand.
“Drive home, John,” said the gentleman: “I'll be with you, my love, in
an instant--it's an old friend. Fitz, let me present you to Mrs. Berry.”
The lady made an exceedingly gentle inclination of her black-velvet
bonnet, and said, “Pray, my love, remember that it is just dinner-time.
However, never mind ME.” And with another slight toss and a nod to the
postilion, that individual's white leather breeches began to jump up
and down again in the saddle, and the carriage disappeared, leaving me
shaking my old friend Berry by the hand.
He had long quitted the army, but still wore his military beard,
which gave to his fair pink face a fierce and lion-like look. He was
extraordinarily glad to see me, as only men are glad who live in a small
town, or in dull company. There is no destroyer of friendships like
London, where a man has no time to think of his neighbour, and has
far too many friends to care for them. He told me in a breath of his
marriage, and how happy he was, and straight insisted that I must
come home to dinner, and see more of Angelica, who had invited me
herself--didn't I hear her?
“Mrs. Berry asked YOU, Frank; but I certainly did not hear her ask ME!”
“She would not have mentioned the dinner but that she meant me to ask
you. I know she did,” cried Frank Berry. “And, besides--hang it--I'm
master of the house. So come you shall. No ceremony, old boy--one or two
friends--snug family party--and we'll talk of old times over a bottle of
claret.”
There did not seem to me to be the slightest objection to this
arrangement, except that my boots were muddy, and my coat of the morning
sort. But as it was quite impossible to go to Paris and back again in
a quarter of an hour, and as a man may dine with perfect comfort to
himself in a frock-coat, it did not occur to me to be particularly
squeamish, or to decline an old friend's invitation upon a pretext so
trivial.
Accordingly we walked to a small house in the Avenue de Paris, and were
admitted first into a small garden ornamented by a grotto, a fountain,
and several nymphs in plaster-of-Paris, then up a mouldy old steep stair
into a hall, where a statue of Cupid and another of Venus welcomed us
with their eternal simper; then through a salle-a-manger where covers
were laid for six; and finally to a little saloon, where Fido the dog
began to howl furiously according to his wont.
It was one of the old pavilions that had been built for a pleasure-house
in the gay days of Versailles, ornamented with abundance of damp Cupids
and cracked gilt cornices, and old mirrors let into the walls, and
gilded once, but now painted a dingy French white. The long low windows
looked into the court, where the fountain played its ceaseless dribble,
surrounded by numerous rank creepers and weedy flowers, but in the midst
of which the statues stood with their bases quite moist and green.
I hate fountains and statues in dark confined places: that cheerless,
endless plashing of water is the most inhospitable sound ever heard. The
stiff grin of those French statues, or ogling Canova Graces, is by no
means more happy, I think, than the smile of a skeleton, and not so
natural. Those little pavilions in which the old roues sported were
never meant to be seen by daylight, depend on't. They were lighted up
with a hundred wax-candles, and the little fountain yonder was meant
only to cool their claret. And so, my first impression of Berry's
place of abode was rather a dismal one. However, I heard him in the
salle-a-manger drawing the corks, which went off with a CLOOP, and that
consoled me.
As for the furniture of the rooms appertaining to the Berrys, there
was a harp in a leather case, and a piano, and a flute-box, and a huge
tambour with a Saracen's nose just begun, and likewise on the table
a multiplicity of those little gilt books, half sentimental and half
religious, which the wants of the age and of our young ladies have
produced in such numbers of late. I quarrel with no lady's taste in that
way; but heigho! I had rather that Mrs. Fitz-Boodle should read “Humphry
Clinker!”
Besides these works, there was a “Peerage,” of course. What genteel
family was ever without one?
I was making for the door to see Frank drawing the corks, and was
bounced at by the amiable little black-muzzled spaniel, who fastened his
teeth in my pantaloons, and received a polite kick in consequence, which
sent him howling to the other end of the room, and the animal was just
in the act of performing that feat of agility, when the door opened
and madame made her appearance. Frank came behind her, peering over her
shoulder with rather an anxious look.
Mrs. Berry is an exceedingly white and lean person. She has thick
eyebrows, which meet rather dangerously over her nose, which is Grecian,
and a small mouth with no lips--a sort of feeble pucker in the face as
it were. Under her eyebrows are a pair of enormous eyes, which she is
in the habit of turning constantly ceiling-wards. Her hair is rather
scarce, and worn in bandeaux, and she commonly mounts a sprig of laurel,
or a dark flower or two, which with the sham tour--I believe that is the
name of the knob of artificial hair that many ladies sport--gives her
a rigid and classical look. She is dressed in black, and has invariably
the neatest of silk stockings and shoes: for forsooth her foot is a fine
one, and she always sits with it before her, looking at it, stamping it,
and admiring it a great deal. “Fido,” she says to her spaniel, “you have
almost crushed my poor foot;” or, “Frank,” to her husband, “bring me a
footstool:” or, “I suffer so from cold in the feet,” and so forth; but
be the conversation what it will, she is always sure to put HER FOOT
into it.
She invariably wears on her neck the miniature of her late father, Sir
George Catacomb, apothecary to George III.; and she thinks those two men
the greatest the world ever saw. She was born in Baker Street, Portman
Square, and that is saying almost enough of her. She is as long, as
genteel, and as dreary, as that deadly-lively place, and sports, by
way of ornament, her papa's hatchment, as it were, as every tenth Baker
Street house has taught her.
What induced such a jolly fellow as Frank Berry to marry Miss Angelica
Catacomb no one can tell. He met her, he says, at a ball at Hampton
Court, where his regiment was quartered, and where, to this day, lives
“her aunt Lady Pash.” She alludes perpetually in conversation to that
celebrated lady; and if you look in the “Baronetage” to the pedigree
of the Pash family, you may see manuscript notes by Mrs. Frank Berry,
relative to them and herself. Thus, when you see in print that Sir John
Pash married Angelica, daughter of Graves Catacomb, Esquire, in a neat
hand you find written, AND SISTER OF THE LATE SIR GEORGE CATACOMB, OF
BAKER STREET, PORTMAN SQUARE: “A.B.” follows of course. It is a wonder
how fond ladies are of writing in books, and signing their charming
initials! Mrs. Berry's before-mentioned little gilt books are scored
with pencil-marks, or occasionally at the margin with a!--note of
interjection, or the words “TOO TRUE, A.B.” and so on. Much may be
learned with regard to lovely woman by a look at the books she reads in;
and I had gained no inconsiderable knowledge of Mrs. Berry by the ten
minutes spent in the drawing-room, while she was at her toilet in the
adjoining bedchamber.
“You have often heard me talk of George Fitz,” says Berry, with an
appealing look to madame.
“Very often,” answered his lady, in a tone which clearly meant “a great
deal too much.” “Pray, sir,” continued she, looking at my boots with all
her might, “are we to have your company at dinner?”
“Of course you are, my dear; what else do you think he came for? You
would not have the man go back to Paris to get his evening coat, would
you?”
“At least, my love, I hope you will go and put on YOURS, and change
those muddy boots. Lady Pash will be here in five minutes, and you know
Dobus is as punctual as clockwork.” Then turning to me with a sort of
apology that was as consoling as a box on the ear, “We have some friends
at dinner, sir, who are rather particular persons; but I am sure when
they hear that you only came on a sudden invitation, they will excuse
your morning dress.--Bah! what a smell of smoke!”
With this speech madame placed herself majestically on a sofa, put out
her foot, called Fido, and relapsed into an icy silence. Frank had long
since evacuated the premises, with a rueful look at his wife, but never
daring to cast a glance at me. I saw the whole business at once: here
was this lion of a fellow tamed down by a she Van Amburgh, and fetching
and carrying at her orders a great deal more obediently than her little
yowling black-muzzled darling of a Fido.
I am not, however, to be tamed so easily, and was determined in this
instance not to be in the least disconcerted, or to show the smallest
sign of ill-humour: so to renouer the conversation, I began about Lady
Pash.
“I heard you mention the name of Pash, I think?” said I. “I know a lady
of that name, and a very ugly one it is too.”
“It is most probably not the same person,” answered Mrs. Berry, with
a look which intimated that a fellow like me could never have had the
honour to know so exalted a person.
“I mean old Lady Pash of Hampton Court. Fat woman--fair, ain't she?--and
wears an amethyst in her forehead, has one eye, a blond wig, and dresses
in light green?”
“Lady Pash, sir, is MY AUNT,” answered Mrs. Berry (not altogether
displeased, although she expected money from the old lady; but you know
we love to hear our friends abused when it can be safely done).
“Oh, indeed! she was a daughter of old Catacomb's of Windsor, I
remember, the undertaker. They called her husband Callipash, and her
ladyship Pishpash. So you see, madam, that I know the whole family!”
“Mr. Fitz-Simons!” exclaimed Mrs. Berry, rising, “I am not accustomed to
hear nicknames applied to myself and my family; and must beg you,
when you honour us with your company, to spare our feelings as much as
possible. Mr. Catacomb had the confidence of his SOVEREIGN, sir, and Sir
John Pash was of Charles II.'s creation. The one was my uncle, sir; the
other my grandfather!”
“My dear madam, I am extremely sorry, and most sincerely apologise
for my inadvertence. But you owe me an apology too: my name is not
Fitz-Simons, but Fitz-Boodle.”
“What! of Boodle Hall--my husband's old friend; of Charles I.'s
creation? My dear sir, I beg you a thousand pardons, and am delighted
to welcome a person of whom I have heard Frank say so much. Frank!” (to
Berry, who soon entered in very glossy boots and a white waistcoat), “do
you know, darling, I mistook Mr. Fitz-Boodle for Mr. Fitz-Simons--that
horrid Irish horse-dealing person; and I never, never, never can pardon
myself for being so rude to him.”
The big eyes here assumed an expression that was intended to kill me
outright with kindness: from being calm, still, reserved, Angelica
suddenly became gay, smiling, confidential, and folatre. She told me she
had heard I was a sad creature, and that she intended to reform me, and
that I must come and see Frank a great deal.
Now, although Mr. Fitz-Simons, for whom I was mistaken, is as low
a fellow as ever came out of Dublin, and having been a captain in
somebody's army, is now a blackleg and horse-dealer by profession; yet,
if I had brought him home to Mrs. Fitz-Boodle to dinner, I should have
liked far better that that imaginary lady should have received him with
decent civility, and not insulted the stranger within her husband's
gates. And, although it was delightful to be received so cordially
when the mistake was discovered, yet I found that ALL Berry's old
acquaintances were by no means so warmly welcomed; for another old
school-chum presently made his appearance, who was treated in a very
different manner.
This was no other than poor Jack Butts, who is a sort of small artist
and picture-dealer by profession, and was a dayboy at Slaughter House
when we were there, and very serviceable in bringing in sausages,
pots of pickles, and other articles of merchandise, which we could not
otherwise procure. The poor fellow has been employed, seemingly, in the
same office of fetcher and carrier ever since; and occupied that post
for Mrs. Berry. It was, “Mr. Butts, have you finished that drawing for
Lady Pash's album?” and Butts produced it; and, “Did you match the silk
for me at Delille's?” and there was the silk, bought, no doubt, with the
poor fellow's last five francs; and, “Did you go to the furniture-man in
the Rue St. Jacques; and bring the canary-seed, and call about my
shawl at that odious dawdling Madame Fichet's; and have you brought the
guitar-strings?”
Butts hadn't brought the guitar-strings; and thereupon Mrs. Berry's
countenance assumed the same terrible expression which I had formerly
remarked in it, and which made me tremble for Berry.
“My dear Angelica,” though said he with some spirit, “Jack Butts isn't
a baggage-waggon, nor a Jack-of-all-trades; you make him paint pictures
for your women's albums, and look after your upholsterer, and your
canary-bird, and your milliners, and turn rusty because he forgets your
last message.”
“I did not turn RUSTY, Frank, as you call it elegantly. I'm very much
obliged to Mr. Butts for performing my commissions--very much obliged.
And as for not paying for the pictures to which you so kindly allude,
Frank, _I_ should never have thought of offering payment for so paltry a
service; but I'm sure I shall be happy to pay if Mr. Butts will send me
in his bill.”
“By Jove, Angelica, this is too much!” bounced out Berry; but the little
matrimonial squabble was abruptly ended, by Berry's French man flinging
open the door and announcing MILADI PASH and Doctor Dobus, which two
personages made their appearance.
The person of old Pash has been already parenthetically described. But
quite different from her dismal niece in temperament, she is as jolly an
old widow as ever wore weeds. She was attached somehow to the Court, and
has a multiplicity of stories about the princesses and the old King,
to which Mrs. Berry never fails to call your attention in her grave,
important way. Lady Pash has ridden many a time to the Windsor hounds;
she made her husband become a member of the Four-in-hand Club, and has
numberless stories about Sir Godfrey Webster, Sir John Lade, and the
old heroes of those times. She has lent a rouleau to Dick Sheridan,
and remembers Lord Byron when he was a sulky slim young lad. She says
Charles Fox was the pleasantest fellow she ever met with, and has not
the slightest objection to inform you that one of the princes was very
much in love with her. Yet somehow she is only fifty-two years old, and
I have never been able to understand her calculation. One day or other
before her eye went out, and before those pearly teeth of hers were
stuck to her gums by gold, she must have been a pretty-looking body
enough. Yet, in spite of the latter inconvenience, she eats and
drinks too much every day, and tosses off a glass of maraschino with a
trembling pudgy hand, every finger of which twinkles with a dozen, at
least, of old rings. She has a story about every one of those rings, and
a stupid one too. But there is always something pleasant, I think, in
stupid family stories: they are good-hearted people who tell them.