MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
Slowly the curtain rose. In the great hall of the palace the good Lord
Leonato, sovereign of a fantastic country which only Shakespeare knew,
having at his two sides his daughter Hero and his niece Beatrice, with
all his court about him, receives the messenger who comes to announce
the victory of his troops and their imminent return.
Such is the spectacle from the auditorium; but the spectacle of the
auditorium, seen from the stage, is otherwise curious; to modern eyes it
would seem like a glimpse of fairyland.
A myriad candles shed from on high upon four thousand spectators a flood
of soft, white light. The snowy wainscoting relieved with gold, the
toilets of the men and women, the naked shoulders, the diamonds, the
orders,--all seemed to stand forth in relief against the pervading
brilliance. Soft pink, pearl-gray, pigeon-breast, sea-green, pale blue,
violet, faint gold, the clear white of silk, the dull white of satin,
the cream white of old laces, every shade which could reflect the light,
are mingled in one delicious harmony. Through the silence which falls
upon the audience the soft _frou-frou_ of silk and the flutter of fans
are alone audible. Every face is turned towards the stage, attentive,
smiling, already charmed. In that age of extreme sociability one did not
go to the theatre to enjoy individual, egotistical comfort in a corner,
but to share in common a pleasure which increased by the fact that it
was shared. Those were looked for at Drury Lane whom one had met at
Almack's, at the Pantheon, at Ranelagh, those whom one had seen thirty
years earlier at Vauxhall and Marylebone Gardens.
From a box Prince Orloff displays his gigantic figure, his diamonds, and
his handsome face, which had vanquished a Czarina. It was here that an
adroit pickpocket, only two years before, had failed to relieve him of
his famous snuff-box, valued at a million francs.
Not far from him Lord Sandwich, the Jemmy Twitcher of the popular song
and the _bete noir_ of all London, appears quite consoled for the tragic
death of his lady-love, Miss Reay, who had been assassinated within the
year by an amorous clergyman. The grim figure of Charles James Fox looms
in the back of another box, the front of which is occupied by the
Duchess of Rutland and the Duchess of Devonshire, the irresistible
Georgiana, who will soon become his election broker and buy up votes for
him (_Honi soit qui mal y pense!_) at the price of a kiss.
A little farther away, following the circular rank of columns, sit the
inseparable trio, Lady Archer, Lady Buckinghamshire and Mrs. Hobart, the
three wild faro-players whom the Lord Chief Justice menaced with the
pillory, and whom the caricaturist Gillray nailed there for all time.
Lady Vereker has also come to applaud her little friend. In the second
tier of boxes is enthroned Mrs. Robinson, fresh from teaching the Prince
of Wales his first lesson in love. That man, whose fund of small-talk
seems inexhaustible and insolent, but whose intelligent face catches
every eye, is Sheridan, who has become director of Drury Lane by buying
up Garrick's share. At his side lounges the exquisitely languid figure
of a young woman, of late Miss Linley, the singer, now Mrs. Sheridan;
for he has acquired her, thanks to his audacity, having run away with
her in the face and eyes of her family and no end of suitors, while upon
the adventure he has founded a comedy, the success of which is his
wife's dowry.
In the gallery are seen more _beaux_ than women, the _elegantes_ and
coxcombs, who are still termed _macaronis_, although the word is
beginning to pass out of vogue. Rings, frills, and ruffles, the cut of
coat and waistcoat, the latest suggestion in breeches,--all is with them
a matter of profound meditation, from the buckle upon their shoes to the
tip of their curled heads. Their hair is a mass of snow, conical in
shape, about which floats the odor of iris and bergamot. Sellwyn,
forever dreaming of his little marchioness, sits beside Reynolds, who
holds his silver ear-trumpet towards the stage. Near them is Burgoyne,
who consoles himself for his great military disaster at Saratoga by
writing comedies. He has chosen the better part of the vanquished, which
is to cry louder than anybody else and accuse everybody. For the one
hundredth time he is explaining to Capt. Vancouver that the true author
of the capitulation in America was not he, Burgoyne, who signed it, but
that infernal Lord North, who gave the commands to the Liberal officers
at Westminster in order to be rid of them, and then laughed in his
sleeve at their reverses.
Before the royal box stand two Guards, armed from head to foot,
immovable as statues. The king in his Windsor uniform, red with blue
facings, his hair bound by a simple black ribbon, toys with a
lorgnette, and leans his great awkward body forward with a curious and
amused air. "Farmer George," though frequently cross and disagreeable,
appears in excellent humor this evening. Undoubtedly his cabbage plants
are doing well, or perhaps he has succeeded in making a dozen buttons
during the day, since the manufacture of buttons and the culture of
vegetables, which he sells to the highest bidder, are his favorite
pastimes. Stiff and straight in her low-cut corsage, a true German in
matters of etiquette, which she imposes with pitiless rigor upon all
about her, little Queen Charlotte amply compensates for the free and
easy habits of her husband by the severity of her mien. With head erect,
though slightly thrown backward, squinting eyes, and pointed chin,
swaying her fan to and fro with a rapid, uncompromising movement, there
is no doubt that the worthy dwarf, who has already given the king
thirteen princes and princesses, is still a most energetic little
person.
On either side sit the Prince of Wales and Prince Frederick. The former
realizes to the eye the type of the genuine Prince Charming, exquisite
to a degree, but unsatisfactory with all his beauty, freshness and
grace. The delicious envelope lacks soul. Later history will write
against his name, "deceiver, perjurer and bigamist." But he is only
eighteen years of age now, every heart is his, and yonder his first
sweetheart regards him with ardent eyes. He takes no heed of it,
however; in fact, a slight pout of annoyance sullies his otherwise
delightful features. Prince Frederick is heir to the throne of Hanover,
and his father's favorite. The destiny of that blockhead is to be duped
by women, despised by his wife, and whipped by the French,--a fate
which, nevertheless, has not denied him a triumphal statue perched upon
the apex of a column, as though he had been a Trajan, a Nelson, or a
Bonaparte.
In the shadow of the queen's chair is the tabouret of Lady Harcourt, her
maid-of-honor and friend; while all in a row behind the princes stand
the gentlemen-in-waiting.
Every one was in his place, including our friend, Mr. O'Flannigan.
Installed in his hole, he held, spread out before him, a large portfolio
containing the precious manuscript of the play, bearing erasures and
corrections in Garrick's own hand.
A youthful voice, pure and vibrant, is heard, and the silence becomes
still more profound. It is Beatrice who speaks by the mocking lips of
Esther.
She requests news of Benedick from the messenger who has returned from
the battle, but in the way that one would ask tidings of an enemy. Soon
Benedick himself appears, whereupon begins a remarkable assault of
sarcasm. Both provoke each other and defy love.
"I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow," she says, "than a man swear
he loves me."
"God keep your ladyship still in that mind," retorts Benedick, "so some
gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate scratched face."
"Scratching could not make it worse, an' 'twere such a face as yours
were."
"Well, niece," says the uncle Leonato by and by, "I hope to see you one
day fitted with a husband."
"Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not
grieve a woman to be overmastered with a piece of valiant dust, to make
an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I'll none;
Adam's sons are my brethren, and truly I hold it a sin to match in my
kindred." And later when they press her she replies:--
"He that hath a beard is more than a youth; and he that hath no beard is
less than a man; and he that is more than a youth is not for me; and he
that is less than a man I am not for him."
Don Pedro, the Prince of Arragon, sportively offers himself.
"Will you have me, lady?"
"No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days; your grace
is too costly to wear every day."
But, fearing that she has been guilty of an impertinence, she gently
though still pertly excuses herself:--
"But I beseech your grace, pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth, and
no matter."
"Out of question you were born in a merry hour!"
"No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but, then, there was a star danced,
and under that was I born."
"By my troth!" exclaims the Prince, wholly charmed, "a pleasant-spirited
lady!"
Which was the opinion of all, both on the stage and off. Esther seemed
to have forgotten the danger she had run, the emotion she had
experienced; or, rather, this danger and emotion lent to her eyes and
voice a lively, incisive charm of gayety and extraordinary audacity. She
was the very embodiment of that wit "quick as the greyhound's mouth,"
which forms the motive of the play. The quips and cranks of the poet
seemed born upon her lips with the freedom and supreme grace of
improvisation, and if here and there there occur certain rather weak or
coarse sallies, she allowed the audience no time to perceive them. It
was a rain, a very hail-storm which fell upon the heads of Benedick,
Leonato, and Don Pedro, mixed with blinding lightning. With a glance of
the eye she addressed her most trenchant words to Mowbray, whom she
descried standing at the back of the Prince of Wales's chair. But it was
surely no longer against him that she defended herself, since she felt
herself assailed by every one in the theatre. She pitted herself against
the game with elation. She no longer played a part, but was herself; she
was no exceptional creature, but a young English girl of all times, who
accosts love with a mocking air, though with a beating heart, with
defiance upon her lips, backed by a pretty, mutinous insolence and a
belligerent effervescence of words. Upon this battlefield of love, like
her brothers in veritable combats, she had no wish to bite the dust.
Though vanquished, she knows it not.
There was a genuine sigh, a shudder throughout the auditorium, when
Beatrice, deceived by stratagem and thrown off her guard, bows her head
and gives vent to those charming words:--
"'Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!'"
Fate is a strange manipulator of effects! At the moment that she raised
her eyes her glance met that of a young man who stood at the back of the
_parterre_, pallid with emotion; it was Francis Monday! Then they saw
their Beatrice wholly transformed; moved, vibrant, saddened. How well
she understood the grief of her cousin Hero, unjustly suspected by her
bethrothed! Now that she loved, how swiftly her heart divined and
sympathized with the pangs of love! With what a burst of pity, sympathy,
and feminine heroism she cried:--
[Illustration]
"'Oh, that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be
a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into
compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he
is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie, and swears it.--I
cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with
grieving.'"
Then with a short sob she fell upon a chair. Suffering and joy,--she had
traversed the whole domain o'er which woman reigns. Those tears
consecrated the defeat of Beatrice, the triumph of Esther.
The audience burst into rapturous applause, and when the play was over
the young actress was informed that his Majesty desired to see her.
Thereupon she was conducted to the royal box, or, rather, to the
reception room which adjoined it. The gentlemen-in-waiting made way for
her, and in the space left vacant, the cynosure of every eye, the young
girl paused for a moment confused.
"Approach, Miss Woodville," said her Majesty with that German accent
which has been the butt of so many pleasantries.
Esther advanced a step or two, and then sank in a profound courtesy.
"Ah! ah! Miss Woodville. Charmed to see you and to congratulate you!"
It was the king who spoke. He came to her with that inimitable gait,
upon which the circus-clowns of the day wasted study and art in their
attempts to reproduce it, but which in his Majesty was natural. He held
his body bent like a half-moon, the back arched, the legs down to the
knees pressed close together, and the feet wide apart. Being upon the
point of leaving the theatre before the little piece which terminated
the performance, he already held his gloves in one hand, his cane in the
other, and his hat under his arm. Upon reaching the spot where Esther
stood he let fall his gloves. She stooped to pick them up, while he,
wishing to spare her the exertion, dropped his cane; quickly seizing
it, he lost his hold upon his hat. Thereupon ensued a moment of
confusion, which the queen, in an attempt to abridge, made use of by
addressing a compliment to the young artist.
"You are Garrick's last pupil, I believe," she said, "and perhaps his
best. He would have been happy indeed to have heard you this evening."
"Eh? what? Garrick?" gasped his Majesty. "Oh, certainly, certainly! She
plays remarkably well. I'm a judge myself: I too have played in
comedy--comedy and tragedy. I used to do Addison's 'Cato,' and not half
badly, they said. But of course one always says that to a prince. Have
you seen 'Cato,' Miss Woodville?"
"Never, sire."
"Ah, but it is a fine play! And the tirade, the famous tirade, you
know!"
And he began to declaim, floundering for words. Again her Majesty
interrupted him, although with every demonstration of respect.
"Does not your Majesty find that Miss Woodville speaks her Shakespeare
marvellously well?"
"Eh? what? Shakespeare? Of course!--You love Shakespeare, do you not?"
"Oh, yes, sire, with all my heart!"
"That's right; so do I. Nevertheless he has his stupid absurdities. Sad
rubbish, some of it. Persons generally would not venture to admit that
they thought so, but I say it because I say whatever comes into my mind.
I don't care particularly for the French, but I am forced to acknowledge
that their plays are the noblest, most decorous and normal extant. We
also have good authors, such as Coleman, for instance, or Mr. Home, who
wrote 'Douglass.' The whole action of the play passes in twenty-four
hours and in one and the same place. Certain scenes take place in the
castle, others before the castle, and still others behind the castle;
but, in a word, the castle is always there to preserve the unity. That
makes you laugh, young woman!"
In fact, the king himself laughed too.
"All the same," he concluded in a paternal tone, "you play like an
angel!"
"_Au revoir_, Miss Woodville," said the queen; "I take it your Majesty
wishes to be going."
The audience was at an end, and after a second courtesy Esther backed
herself out of the presence. Upon the threshold her glance met that of
Lord Mowbray, and she thought that upon his arm she might penetrate this
grand world, not as she had just done, for a few moments, but
forever,--forever to hold her place and rank in the charmed circle!