AT THE PARTHENIUM.
The Parthenium Theatre at the time I write of was a thing by itself.
Since then there have been a score of imitations of it, none of them
coming up to the great original, but sufficiently like to have dimmed
the halo surrounding the first attempt, and to have left the British
public undecided as to whom belonged the laurels due to those who
first attempted to transform a wretched, dirty, hot building into an
elegant, well-ventilated, comfortable _salon_. It was at the
Parthenium that stalls were first introduced. Up to that time they had
been only known at the Opera; and it was the triumph of the true
British playgoer,--the man who had seen Jack Bannister, sir, and
Munden and Dowton, and all those true performers who have never had
any successor, sir,--that he always sat in the front row of the pit,
the only place in the house whence the performance could be properly
seen. When Mr. Frank Likely undertook the lesseeship of the
Parthenium, he thought he saw his way to a very excellent improvement
founded on this basis. He hated the true British playgoer with all his
heart. In the style of entertainment about to be produced at the
Parthenium, he had not the smallest intention of pandering to, or even
propitiating, the great historic character; but he had perfect
readiness to see that the space immediately behind the orchestra was
the most valuable in the theatre; and so he set carpenters at once to
work, and uprooted the hard black deal pit-benches, and erected in
their stead rows of delicious _fauteuils_ in crimson velvet, broad
soft padded-backed lounges with seats which turned upon hinges, and
left a space underneath for your hat and coat; charming nests where
you could loll at your ease, and see and hear to perfection. The true
British playgoer was thus relegated to a dark and dismal space
underneath the dress-circle, where he could see little save the
parting of the back-hair of the swells in the stalls, and the legs,
from the knee downward, and feet of the people on the stage; where the
ceiling seemed momentarily descending on him, as on the prisoner
in the story of the "Iron Shroud;" and where the knees of the
orange-sellers dug him in the back, while their baskets banged him in
front. It is needless to say that on the Saturday after the opening of
the Parthenium under the new regime, the columns of the _Curtain_, the
_Thespian Waggoner_, and the _Scourge_ were found brimming over with
stinging letters from the true British playgoer, all complaining of
his treatment, and all commencing, "By what right, sir, I should like
to know." But Mr. Frank Likely cared little enough for this, or for
anything else indeed, so long as he could keep up his villa at
Roehampton, have his Sunday parties, let his wife dress like a
duchess, have two or three carriages, and never be compelled to pay
anybody anything. Not to pay was a perfect mania with him. Not that he
had not the money. Mr. Humphreys, the treasurer, used to come round
about half-past ten with bags of gold and silver, which were duly
deposited in Mr. Likely's dressing-room, and thence transferred to his
carriage by his dresser, a man whose pound-a-week wages had been due
for a month; but if ever he were to ask for a settlement Mr. Likely
would look at him with a comic surprise, give a short laugh, say,
"He, he! you don't mean it, Evans; I haven't a fourpenny-piece;" and
step into the brougham to be bowled away through the summer night to
lamb-cutlets and peas and Sillery Mousseux at the Rochampton villa,
with a prime cigar on the lawn or under the conservatory afterwards.
He took the money, though he never paid any one, and no one knew what
became of it; but when he went through the Court the Commissioner
complimented him publicly, as he gave him his certificate, and told
him in his private room that he, the Commissioner, had experienced
such pleasure from Mr. and Mrs. Likely's charming talent, that he, the
Commissioner, was really glad it lay in his power to make him, Mr.
Likely, some little return.
It is, however, only in his position as lessee of the Parthenium
Theatre that we have to do with Mr. Frank Likely, and therein he
certainly was admirable. A man of common-sense and education, he saw
plainly enough that if he wished to amuse the public, he must show
them something with which they were perfectly familiar. They yawned
over the rage of Lear, and slept through Belvidera's recital of her
woes; the mere fact of Captain Absolute's wearing powder and breeches
precluded their taking any interest in his love affairs; but as soon
as they were shown people such as they were accustomed to see, doing
things which they themselves were accustomed to do, ordinarily
dressed, and moving amongst ordinary surroundings, they were
delighted, and flocked in crowds to the Parthenium. Mr. Likely gave
such an entertainment as suited the taste of his special visitors. The
performances commenced at eight with some trifle, during the acting of
which the box-doors were perpetually banging, and early visitors to
the stalls were carefully stamped upon and ground against by the
club-diners steadily pushing their way to their seats. The piece of
the evening commenced about nine and lasted till half-past ten; and
then there came forty minutes of a brilliant burlesque, with crowds of
pretty coryphées, volleys of rattling puns and parodies, crackling
allusions to popular topics, and resplendent scenery by Mr.
Coverflats, the great scenic artist of the day. When it is recollected
that though only two or three of the actors were really first-rate,
yet that all were far above the average, being dressed under Mr.
Likely's eye, and taught every atom of their "business;" that the
theatre was thoroughly elegant, and unlike any other London house in
its light-blue-and-gold decorations and airy muslin curtains, and that
its _foyer_ and lobbies were happy meeting-grounds for wits and men of
fashion,-no wonder that "first-nights" at the Parthenium were looked
forward to with special delight.
On the occasion on which Colonel Alsager and Mr. Bertram were about to
be present, a more than ordinary amount of curiosity prevailed. For
some weeks it had been vaguely rumoured that the new comedy, _Tried in
the Furnace_, about to be produced, was written by Spofforth, that
marvellous fellow who combined the author with the man of fashion, who
was seen everywhere, at the Premieress's receptions, at the first
clubs, always associating with the best people, and who flavoured his
novels and his plays in the most piquante manner with reproductions of
characters and stories well known in the London world. It was rumoured
that in _Tried in the Furnace_ the plot strongly resembled the details
of a great scandal in high life, which had formed the _plat de
résistance_ of the gossips of the previous season; and it was also
said that the hero, an officer in the Guards, would be played by Dacre
Pontifex, who at that time had turned all women's heads who went
regularly into society, and who, to a handsome face and figure and a
thoroughly gentlemanly bearing, seemed to add great natural histrionic
genius.
All these reports, duly set afloat in the various theatrical journals,
and amongst the particular people who think and talk of nothing else
but the drama and its professors,--a set permeating every class of
society,--had whetted the public appetite to an unparalleled amount of
keenness; and long before its representation, all the retainable
stalls, boxes, and seats generally, for the first night of _Tried in,
the Furnace_ had been secured. The gallery-people were certain to come
in, because Mugger, the low comedian, had an exceedingly humorous
part, and the gallery worshipped Mugger; and the diminished area of
the pit would probably be thronged, as it had been whispered in the
columns of the _Scourge_ that the new play was reported to contain
several hits at the aristocracy, invariably a sure "draw" with the
pittites. It was only of the upper boxes that the manager felt
doubtful; and for this region he accordingly sent out several
sheaves of orders, which were duly presented on the night by wild
weird-looking women, with singular head-dresses of scraps of lace and
shells, dresses neither high nor low, grimy gloves too long in the
fingers, and bonnets to be left with the custodian.
It was a great night; there could be no doubt of that; Humphreys had
said so, and when Humphreys so far committed himself, he was generally
right. Humphreys was Mr. Likely's treasurer, confidential man,
factotum. He stood at the front of the theatre to receive the
important people,--notably the press,--to settle discord, to hint what
was the real strength of the forthcoming piece, to beg a little
indulgence for Miss Satterthwaite's hoarseness, or for the last scene
of the second act, which poor Coverflats, worn off his legs, had
scarcely had time to finish. He knew exactly to whom to bow, with whom
to shake hands. He knew exactly where to plant the different
representatives of the press, keeping up a proper graduation, yet
never permitting any critic to think that he was not sufficiently
honoured. He knew when to start the applause, when to hush the house
into silence. Better than all, he knew where to take Mr. Likely's
acceptances to get them discounted; kept an account of the dates, and
paid the renewal fees out of the previous night's receipts. An
invaluable man Humphreys; a really wonderful fellow!
When Laurence Alsager flung away the end of his cigarette under the
Parthenium portico, and strolled leisurely into the house, he found
Humphreys standing in exactly the same position in which he had last
seen him two years since; and he almost quailed as, delivering up his
ticket, he returned the treasurer's bow, and thanked him for his
welcome. "Glad to see you back, Colonel. Something worth showing to
you to-night!" and then Laurence laughed outright. He had been away
for two years; he had seen the Sphinx and the Pyramids, and all the
wonders of the East, to say nothing of the European continent; and
here was a man congratulating himself that in a three-act tinpot play
they had something worthy of his observation. So he nodded and
laughed, and passed on into the theatre. Well, if there were no change
in Humphreys, there was little enough in any one else. There they
were, all the old set: half-a-dozen newspaper critics dotted over the
front rows of the stalls; two or three attached to the more important
journals in private boxes; celebrated author surrounded by his family
in private box; other celebrated author scowling by himself in
orchestra stall; two celebrated artists who always came to
first-nights amusing themselves by talking about art before the
curtain goes up; fat man with vulgar wife with wreath of roses in her
head,--alderman, wholesale stationer, said to be Mr. Frank Likely's
backer, in best stage-box; opposite stage-box being reserved by Jewish
old party, landlord of the theatre, and now occupied by the same,
asleep and choking. Lady Ospringe of course, with (equally of course)
the latest lion of the day by her side--on this occasion a very little
man, with long fair hair, who, as Laurence afterwards learned, had
written a poem all about blood and slaughter. The Duke and Duchess of
Tantallan, who are mad about private theatricals, who have turned the
old northern feudal castle into an uncomfortable theatre, and whose
most constant guests are little Hyams (the costumier) and Jubber
('heavy old man') of the Cracksideum Theatre, who 'gets up' the duke's
plays. Sir Gerald Spoonbill and Lord Otho Faulconbridge, jolly old
boys, flushed with hastily-eaten dinner at Foodle's, but delighting in
the drama; the latter especially having inherited taste for it, his
mother having been--well, you know all about that. That white
waistcoat which glistens in the stalls could belong to no one but Mr.
Marshall Moss, next to whom sit on either side Mr. Gompertz, the
stockjobber, and Mr. Sergeant Orson, the last-named having entertained
the other gentlemen at a very snug little dinner at the Haresfoot
Club. Nor was pipe-clay wanting. The story of the plot, the intended
character to be assumed by Mr. Pontifex, had been talked over at
Woolwich, at Brompton,--where the sucking Indian heroes, men whose
names long afterwards were household words during the Mutiny
campaigns, were learning soldiering,--at the Senior and the Junior,
and at the Rag, the members of which, awaiting the completion of their
present palatial residence, then occupied a modest tenement in St.
James's Square. There was a boxful of Plungers, big, solemn, heavy
men, with huge curling moustaches, conspicuous among whom were Algy
Forrester and Cis Hetherington of the Blues; Markham Bowers of the
Life Guards, who shot the militia-surgeon behind the windmill at
Wimbledon; and Dick Edie of the 4th Dragoon Guards--Dick Edie, the
solicitor's son, who afterwards ran away with Lady Florence Ormolu,
third daughter of the house of Porphyry; and on being reconciled and
introduced to whom on a future occasion, the Dowager Countess of
Porphyry was good enough to make the remark that she "had no idea the
lower orders were so clean."
Where are ye now, lustrous counts, envied dandies of that bygone time?
Algy Forrester, thirty-four inches round the girth, has a son at
Oxford, breeds fat sheep, and is only seen in London at cattle-show
time. Cis Hetherington, duly heralded at every outlawry proclamation,
lies _perdu_ in some one of the barren islands forming the Hebrides
cluster. Markham Bowers fell in the Balaklava charge, pierced through
and through by Cossack spearmen; and Major-general Richard Edie, M.P.,
is the chief adviser and the trusted agent of his mother-in-law, the
Dowager Countess of Porphyry. In the next box, hiding behind the
muslin curtains, and endeavouring to hide her convulsions of laughter
behind her fan, sat little Pauline Désirée, _première danseuse_ at the
Opera Comique, with Harry Lindon of the Coldstreams, and Prothero of
the Foreign Office, and Tom Hodgson the comic writer; none of them one
atom changed, all of them wonder-struck at the man in the big beard,
all of them delighted at suddenly recognizing in him an old friend,
not much thought of perhaps during his absence, as is the way of the
world, but certainly to be welcomed now that he was once more among
them.
Not one atom changed; all of them just the same. What were his two
years of absence, his wanderings in burning solitudes, or amongst
nomadic tribes? His sudden rushing away had been undertaken with a
purpose; and whether that purpose had been fulfilled was known to
himself alone. He rather thought it had, as, without an extra
heart-beat, he looked into a box on the pit-tier, and his grave face
flashed into a sardonic grin as his eyes lit on the bald forehead
and plaited shirt-frill of an elderly gentleman, instead of the
light-chestnut bands and brilliant bust which once reigned dominant
there on every "first night." But all the others were just the same;
even the people he did not know were exactly like those whom he had
left, and precisely answered to those whom he should have expected to
find there. No, not all. The door of a box on the grand tier next the
dress-circle opened with a clang, and a lady whom he had never seen
before, coming to the front, settled herself opposite the corner in
the stage. The noise of the door attracted the attention of the house;
and Ventus, then playing his celebrated cornet-solo in the overture,
cursed the interruption; a whisper ran round the stalls; the arrival
was telegraphed to the Guards' box: this must be some star that had
risen on the horizon since Laurence's absence. Ah, there is Blab
Bertram at the back of the box! This, then, must be Lady Mitford!
She was apparently about twenty, and, so far as could be judged from
her sitting position, tall and slight. Her complexion was red and
white, beautifully clear,--the white transparent, the red
scarlet,--and her features regular; small forehead, straight Grecian
nose, very short upper-lip, and mouth small, with lips rather thin
than pouting. Her dark-brown hair (fortunately at that time it was not
considered necessary for beauty to have a red head), taken off behind
the ears in two tight bands, showed the exquisite shape of her head,
which was very small, and admirably fitted on the neck, the only fault
of which was its excess in length. She was dressed entirely in white,
with a green necklace, and a tiny wreath of green ivy-leaves was
intertwined among the braids into which her hair was fastened at the
back of her head. She took her seat gracefully, but looked round, as
Laurence noticed, with a certain air of strangeness, as though
unaccustomed to such scenes; then immediately turned her eyes, not on
the other occupants of the theatre, not on the stage, nor on George
Bertram, who, after some apparent demur, took the front seat opposite
to her, but towards a tall man, who relieved her of her cloak, and
handed her a fan, and in whom Alsager recognized the Charles Mitford
of his Oxford days. A good realization of Tennyson's Sir Walter
Vivian,--
"No little lily-handed baronet he;
A stout broad-shouldered genial Englishman,"--
was Sir Charles Mitford, with strongly-marked, well-cut features,
bright blue eyes, curling reddish-brown hair, large light breezy
whiskers, and a large mouth gleaming with sound white teeth. The sort
of man who, you could tell at a glance, would have a very loud hearty
laugh, would grip your hand until your fingers ached, would be rather
awkward in a room, but who would never flinch across country, and
never grow tired among the turnips or over the stubble. An
unmistakable gentleman, but one to whom a shooting-coat and gaiters
would be more becoming than the evening-dress be then wore, and who
evidently felt the moral and physical restraint of his white choker,
from the way in which he occasionally tugged at that evidence of
civilization. Shortly after they had settled themselves, the curtain
went up, and all eyes were turned to the stage; but Laurence noticed
that Lady Mitford was seated so as to partly lean against her husband,
while his left hand, resting on her chair-back, occasionally touched
the braids of her hair. George Bertram seemed to be entirely
overlooked by his companions, and was able to enjoy his negative
pleasure of holding his tongue to the fullest extent.
They were right who had said that Spofforth had put forth all his
power in the new piece, and had been even more than usually personal.
The characters represented were, an old peer, wigged, rouged, and
snuff-box bearing, one of those wonderful creations which have never
been seen on the English stage since Farren left it; his young wife, a
dashing countess, more frequently in a riding-habit than anything
else, with a light jewel-handled whip, with which she cut her male
friends over the shoulders or poked them in the ribs,--as is, we know,
the way of countesses in real life; a dashing young cavalry-officer
very much smitten with the countess, excellently played by Dacre
Pontifex, who admirably contrived to do two things at the same
time--to satisfy the swells by his representation of one of their
class,--"Doosid good thing; not like usual dam cawickachaw," they
said,--and simultaneously to use certain words, phrases, and tones, to
fall into certain attitudes and use certain gestures, all of which
were considered by the pittites as a mockery of the aristocracy, and
were delighted in accordingly. It being an established fact that no
play at the Parthenium could go down without Mugger the low comedian,
and there being in the "scandal in high life," which Spofforth had
taken for his plot, no possible character which Mugger could have
portrayed, people were wondering what would be done for him. The
distribution of the other characters had been apparent to all ever
since it was known that Spofforth had the story in hand: of course
Farren would be the marquis, and Miss Amabel the marchioness
(Spofforth had lowered his characters one step in rank, and removed
the captain from the Guards to the cavalry--a great stroke of genius),
and Pontifex the military lover. But what could be done for Mugger?
The only other character in the real story, the man by whom the
intrigue was found out, and all the mischief accidentally caused, was
a simple old clergyman, vicar of the parish close by my lord's country
estate, and of course they could not have introduced a clergyman on to
the stage, even if Mugger could have played the part. This was a
poser. At first Mugger proposed that the clergyman should be turned
into a Quaker, when he could appear in broad-brim and drab, call
everybody "thee," and snuffle through his nose; but this was
overruled. At last Spofforth hit upon a happy idea: the simple old
clergyman should be turned into a garrulous mischief-making physician;
and when Mugger appeared at the back of the stage, wonderfully "made
up" in a fluffy white hat, and a large shirt-frill protruding from his
waistcoat, exactly like a celebrated London doctor of the day, whose
appearance was familiar to all, the shouts of delight rose from every
part of the house. This, with one exception, was the hit of the
evening; the exception was when the captain, in a letter to his
beloved, writes, "Fly, fly with me! These arms once locked round you,
no blacksmith shall break them asunder." Now this was an expression
which had actually been used by the lover in the "scandal in high
life," and had been made immense fun of by the counsel in the trial
which ensued, and by the Sunday newspapers in commenting on that
trial. When, therefore, the phrase was spoken by Pontifex in his most
telling manner, it created first a thrill of astonishment at the
author's daring, then a titter, then a tremendous roar of laughter and
applause. Mr. Frank Likely, who was standing at the wing when he heard
this, nodded comfortably at Spofforth, who was in the opposite
stage-box anxiously watching the effect of every line; and the latter
shut up his glass, like the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo, and felt
that the battle was won. "It was touch-and-go, my boy," Likely said to
the author afterwards; "one single hitch in that speech, and the whole
thing would have been goosed off the stage."
There were, however, a few people in the theatre who were not so
intensely delighted with Mr. Spofforth's ingenuity and boldness.
Laurence Alsager, whose absence from England had prevented his hearing
the original story, thought the whole play dreary enough, though he
appreciated the art of Pontifex and the buffoonery of Mugger; but the
great roar of delight caught him in the middle of a yawn, and he
looked round with astonishment to see how a very silly phrase could
occasion such an amount of laughter. Glancing round the house, his
eyes fell upon Lady Mitford, and he saw that her cheeks were flushed,
her looks downcast, and her lips compressed. She had been in the
greatest wonderment, poor child, during the whole of the piece: the
manners of the people represented were to her as strange as those of
the Ashantees; she heard her own language and did not understand it;
she saw men and women, apparently intended to be of her own nation and
station, conducting themselves towards each other in a manner she had
never heard of, much less seen; she fancied there had been a laxity of
speech and morals pervading the play, but she only knew it when the
roar of welcome to Mr. Pontifex's hint about the blacksmith fell upon
her ear. She had never heard the origin of the phrase, but her natural
instinct told her it was coarse and gross; she knew it from the manner
in which her husband, unable to restrain a loud guffaw, ended with
"Too bad, too bad, by Jove!" She knew it by the manner in which Mr.
Bertram studiously turned his face away from her to the stage; from
the manner in which the ladies all round endeavoured to hide their
laughter behind their fans, oblivious of the betrayal afforded by
their shaking shoulders; she knew it from the look of intense disgust
in the face of that curious-looking bearded man in the stalls, whose
glances her eyes met as she looked down.
Yes, Laurence Alsager was as thoroughly disgusted as he looked, and
that was saving much; for he had the power of throwing great
savageness of expression into his bright eyes and thin lips. Here had
a sudden home-sickness, an indescribable longing, come upon him,
and he had hurried back after two years' absence; and now within
half-a-dozen hours of his arrival he had sickened at the change. He
hated the theatre, and the grinning fools who laughed at the immodest
rubbish, and the grinning fools who uttered it; he hated the
conventionality of dress and living; he could not stand going in with
a regular ruck of people again, and having to conform to all their
ways. He would cut it at once; go down to Knockholt to-morrow, and
stay a couple of days with Sir Peregrine just to see the old governor,
and then be off again to South America, to do prairies and bisons and
that sort of thing.
As he made this resolution, the curtain fell amidst a storm of
applause, and rose again to show the actors in a row, bowing
delightedly with their hands on their waistcoats; Spofforth "bowed his
acknowledgments from a private box," and kissed his hand to Alsager,
who returned the salute with a very curt nod, then rose and left the
theatre. In the lobby he met the Mitford party, and was quietly
slipping by when Sir Charles, after whispering to Bertram, touched his
shoulder, saying, "Colonel Alsager, let me renew our old
acquaintance." There was no escape from this big man's cheery
manner and outstretched hand, so Laurence, after an instant's
admirably-feigned forgetfulness, returned the grasp, saying, "Ah,
Mitford, I think? of Brasenose in the old days?"
"Yes, yes, to be sure! All sorts of things happened since then, you
know."
"O yes, of course; though I've only been in England six hours, I've
heard of your luck and the baronetcy. George Bertram here is such a
terrific talker, he couldn't rest until he had told me all the news."
This set Sir Charles Mitford off into one of his great roars again, at
the finish of which he said, "Let me introduce you to my wife; she's
just here with Bertram.--Here, Georgie darling, this is Colonel
Alsager, an old acquaintance of mine."
Of any one else Mitford would have said "an old friend;" but as he
spoke he glanced at Laurence's stern, grave expression, and changed
the word. Perhaps the same feeling influenced Lady Mitford, as her bow
was constrained, and her spirits, already depressed by the
performance, were by no means raised by the introduction to this
sombre stranger.
Sir Charles tried to rally. "Hope we shall see something of you,
Alsager, now you're back. You'll find us in Eaton Place, and--"
"You're very good; but I shall leave town to-morrow, and probably
England next week."
Probably no man had ever been more astonished than was George Bertram
as he stood by and heard this; but, true to his creed, he said never a
word.
"Leave England!" said Sir Charles. "Why, you've only just come back.
You're only just--All right; we're coming!" This last in answer to
roars of "Lady Mitford's carriage!" surging up the stairs. "Thank you
if you'll give my wife your arm."
Lady Mitford accepted this courtesy very frigidly, just touching
Laurence's arm with the tips of her fingers. After she had entered the
brougham, Alsager stood back for Sir Charles to follow; but the latter
shut the door, saying, "Goodnight, Georgie dear; I shan't be late."
"Oh, Charley, are you not coming with me?" she said.
"No, dear, not just yet. Don't put on such a frightened face, Georgie,
or Colonel Alsager will think I'm a perfect Blue-beard. I'm going to
sup with Bligh and Winton; to be introduced to that fellow who acted
so well,--Pontifex, you know. Shan't be late, dear.--Home, Daniell's."
And as the carriage drove off, Sir Charles Mitford, forgetting to
finish his civil speeches to Laurence, shook hands with him and
Bertram, and wishing them goodnight, walked off with his companions.
"Chaff or earnest," said Mr. Bertram, when they were left alone,
"going away again?"
"I don't know yet; I can't tell; I've half a mind to--How horribly
disappointed that little woman looked when that lout said he was going
out to supper! He is a lout, your friend, George."
"Cubbish; don't know things yet; wants training," jerked out Mr.
Bertram.
"Wants training, does he? He'll get it soon enough if be consorts much
with Bligh and Winton, and that set. They'll sharpen him."
"Like Lady Mitford?" said Bertram, interrogatively.
"I think not; I don't know. She seems a little rustic and missish at
present. Let's come to the Club; I want a smoke."
But as they walked along, Laurence wrung some further particulars
about Lady Mitford from his friend; and as they ascended the
club-steps, he said, "I don't think, if I had a pretty wife like that,
I should leave her for the sake of passing my evening with Winton and
Bligh, or even of being introduced to Mr. Pontifex. Would you,
George?"
"Can't say. Never had one," was Mr. Bertram's succinct reply.