IN WHICH MISS FOTHERINGAY MAKES A NEW ENGAGEMENT.
[Illustration]
Within a short period of the events above narrated, Mr. Manager Bingley
was performing his famous character of "Rolla," in "Pizarro," to a house
so exceedingly thin, that it would appear as if the part of Rolla was by
no means such a favorite with the people of Chatteries as it was with
the accomplished actor himself. Scarce any body was in the theater. Poor
Pen had the boxes almost all to himself, and sate there lonely, with
blood-shot eyes, leaning over the ledge, and gazing haggardly toward the
scene, when Cora came in. When she was not on the stage he saw nothing.
Spaniards and Peruvians, processions and battles, priests and virgins of
the sun, went in and out, and had their talk, but Arthur took no note of
any one of them; and only saw Cora whom his soul longed after. He said
afterward that he wondered he had not taken a pistol to shoot her, so
mad was he with love, and rage, and despair; and had it not been for his
mother at home, to whom he did not speak about his luckless condition,
but whose silent sympathy and watchfulness greatly comforted the simple
half heart-broken fellow, who knows but he might have done something
desperate, and have ended his days prematurely in front of Chatteries
jail? There he sate then, miserable, and gazing at her. And she took no
more notice of him than he did of the rest of the house.
The Fotheringay was uncommonly handsome, in a white raiment and leopard
skin, with a sun upon her breast, and fine tawdry bracelets on her
beautiful glancing arms. She spouted to admiration the few words of her
part, and looked it still better. The eyes, which had overthrown Pen's
soul, rolled and gleamed as lustrous as ever; but it was not to him that
they were directed that night. He did not know to whom, or remark a
couple of gentlemen, in the box next to him, upon whom Miss
Fotheringay's glances were perpetually shining.
Nor had Pen noticed the extraordinary change which had taken place on
the stage a short time after entry of these two gentleman into the
theater. There were so few people in the house, that the first act
of the play languished entirely, and there had been some question of
returning the money, as upon that other unfortunate night when poor Pen
had been driven away. The actors were perfectly careless about their
parts, and yawned through the dialogue, and talked loud to each other
in the intervals. Even Bingley was listless, and Mrs. B. in Elvira
spoke under her breath.
How came it that all of a sudden Mrs. Bingley began to raise her voice
and bellow like a bull of Bashan? Whence was it that Bingley, flinging
off his apathy, darted about the stage and yelled like Kean? Why did
Garbetts and Rowkins and Miss Rouncy try, each of them the force of
their charms or graces, and act and swagger and scowl and spout their
very loudest at the two gentlemen in box No. 3?
One was a quiet little man in black, with a gray head and a jolly
shrewd face--the other was in all respects a splendid and remarkable
individual. He was a tall and portly gentleman with a hooked nose and a
profusion of curling brown hair and whiskers; his coat was covered with
the richest frogs-braiding and velvet. He had under-waistcoats many
splendid rings, jeweled pins and neck-chains. When he took out his
yellow pocket-hankerchief with his hand that was cased in white kids,
a delightful odor of musk and bergamot was shaken through the house.
He was evidently a personage of rank, and it was at him that the little
Chatteries company was acting.
He was, in a word, no other than Mr. Dolphin, the great manager from
London, accompanied by his faithful friend and secretary Mr. William
Minns: without whom he never traveled. He had not been ten minutes in
the theater before his august presence there was perceived by Bingley
and the rest: and they all began to act their best and try to engage his
attention. Even Miss Fotheringay's dull heart, which was disturbed at
nothing, felt perhaps a flutter, when she came in presence of the famous
London Impresario. She had not much to do in her part, but to look
handsome, and stand in picturesque attitudes encircling her child: and
she did this work to admiration. In vain the various actors tried to win
the favor of the great stage sultan. Pizaro never got a hand from him.
Bingley yelled, and Mrs. Bingley bellowed, and the manager only took
snuff out of his great gold box. It was only in the last scene, when
Rolla comes in staggering with the infant (Bingley is not so strong as
he was, and his fourth son Master Talma Bingley is a monstrous large
child for his age)--when Rolla comes staggering with the child to Cora,
who rushes forward with a shriek, and says--"O God, there's blood upon
him!"--that the London manager clapped his hands, and broke out with an
enthusiastic bravo.
Then having concluded his applause, Mr. Dolphin gave his secretary a
slap on the shoulder, and said "By Jove, Billy, she'll do!"
"Who taught her that dodge?" said old Billy, who was a sardonic old
gentleman--"I remember her at the Olympic, and hang me if she could say
Bo to a goose."
It was little Mr. Bows in the orchestra who had taught her the 'dodge'
in question. All the company heard the applause, and, as the curtain
went down, came round her, and congratulated and hated Miss Fotheringay.
Now Mr. Dolphin's appearance in the remote little Chatteries theater may
be accounted for in this manner. In spite of all his exertions, and the
perpetual blazes of triumph, coruscations of talent, victories of good
old English comedy, which his play bills advertised, his theater (which,
if you please, and to injure no present susceptibilities and vested
interests, we shall call the Museum Theater) by no means prospered, and
the famous Impresario found himself on the verge of ruin. The great
Hubbard had acted legitimate drama for twenty nights, and failed to
remunerate any body but himself: the celebrated Mr. and Mrs. Cawdor
had come out in Mr. Rawhead's tragedy, and in their favorite round
of pieces, and had not attracted the public. Herr Garbage's lions
and tigers had drawn for a little time, until one of the animals had
bitten a piece out of the Herr's shoulder; when the Lord Chamberlain
interfered, and put a stop to this species of performance: and the grand
Lyrical Drama, though brought out with unexampled splendor and success,
with Monsieur Poumons as first tenor, and an enormous orchestra, had
almost crushed poor Dolphin in its triumphant progress: so that great
as his genius and resources were, they seemed to be at an end. He was
dragging on his season wretchedly with half salaries, small operas,
feeble old comedies, and his ballet company; and every body was looking
out for the day when he should appear in the Gazette.
One of the illustrious patrons of the Museum Theater, and occupant of
the great proscenium-box, was a gentleman whose name has been mentioned
in a previous history; that refined patron of the arts, and enlightened
lover of music and the drama, the Most Noble the Marquis of Steyne. His
lordship's avocations as a statesman prevented him from attending the
playhouse very often, or coming very early. But he occasionally appeared
at the theater in time for the ballet, and was always received with the
greatest respect by the manager, from whom he sometimes condescended to
receive a visit in his box. It communicated with the stage, and when any
thing occurred there which particularly pleased him, when a new face
made its appearance among the coryphees, or a fair dancer executed a
_pas_ with especial grace or agility, Mr. Wenham, Mr. Wagg, or some
other aid-de-camp of the noble marquis, would be commissioned to go
behind the scenes, and express the great man's approbation, or make
the inquiries which were prompted by his lordship's curiosity, or his
interest in the dramatic art. He could not be seen by the audience, for
Lord Steyne sate modestly behind a curtain, and looked only toward the
stage--but you could know he was in the house, by the glances which all
the corps-de-ballet, and all the principal dancers, cast toward his box.
I have seen many scores of pairs of eyes (as in the Palm Dance in the
ballet of Cook at Otaheite, where no less than a hundred-and-twenty
lovely female savages in palm leaves and feather aprons, were made to
dance round Floridor as Captain Cook), ogling that box as they performed
before it, and have often wondered to remark the presence of mind of
Mademoiselle Sautarelle, or Mademoiselle de Bondi (known as la petite
Caoutchouc), who, when actually up in the air quivering like so many
shuttlecocks, always kept their lovely eyes winking at that box in which
the great Steyne sate. Now and then you would hear a harsh voice from
behind the curtain, cry, "Brava, Brava," or a pair of white gloves wave
from it, and begin to applaud. Bondi, or Sauterelle, when they came down
to earth, courtesied and smiled, especially to those hands, before they
walked up the stage again, panting and happy.
One night this great prince surrounded by a few choice friends was in
his box at the Museum, and they were making such a noise and laughter
that the pit was scandalized, and many indignant voices were bawling
out silence so loudly, that Wagg wondered the police did not interfere
to take the rascals out. Wenham was amusing the party in the box
with extracts from a private letter which he had received from Major
Pendennis, whose absence in the country at the full London season had
been remarked, and of course deplored, by his friends.
"The secret is out," said Mr. Wenham, "There's a woman in the case."
"Why d---- it, Wenham, he's your age," said the gentleman behind the
curtain.
"Pour les ames bien nees, l'amour ne compte pas le nombre des annees,"
said Mr. Wenham, with a gallant air. "For my part I hope to be a victim
till I die, and to break my heart every year of my life." The meaning of
which sentence was, "My lord, you need not talk; I'm three years younger
than you, and twice as well conserve."
"Wenham, you affect me," said the great man, with one of his usual
oaths. "By ---- you do. I like to see a fellow preserving all the
illusions of youth up to our time of life--and keeping his heart warm
as yours is. Hang it, sir--it's a comfort to meet with such a generous,
candid creature.--Who's that gal in the second row, with blue ribbons,
third from the stage?--fine gal. Yes, you and I are sentimentalists.
Wagg I don't think so much cares--it's the stomach rather more than the
heart with you, eh, Wagg, my boy?"
"I like every thing that's good," said Mr. Wagg, generously. "Beauty and
Burgundy, Venus and Venison. I don't say that Venus's turtles are to be
despised, because they don't cook them at the London Tavern: but--but
tell us about old Pendennis, Mr. Wenham," he abruptly concluded--for his
joke flagged just then, as he saw that his patron was not listening. In
fact, Steyne's glasses were up, and he was examining some object on the
stage.
"Yes, I've heard that joke about Venus's turtles and the London Tavern
before--you begin to fail, my poor Wagg. If you don't mind I shall be
obliged to have a new Jester," Lord Steyne said, laying down his glass.
"Go on, Wenham, about old Pendennis."
"'Dear Wenham,'--he begins," Mr. Wenham read,--"'as you have had my
character in your hands for the last three weeks, and no doubt have torn
me to shreds, according to your custom, I think you can afford to be
good-humored by way of variety, and to do me a service. It is a delicate
matter, _entre nous, une affaire de coeur_. There is a young friend of
mine who is gone wild about a certain Miss Fotheringay, an actress at
the theater here, and I must own to you, as handsome a woman, and, as
it appears to me, as good an actress as ever put on rouge. She does
Ophelia, Lady Teazle, Mrs. Haller--that sort of thing. Upon my word,
she is as splendid as Georges in her best days, and as far as I know,
utterly superior to any thing we have on our scene. _I want a London
engagement for her._ Can't you get your friend Dolphin to come and see
her--to engage her--to take her out of this place? A word from a noble
friend of ours (you understand) would be invaluable, and if you could
get the Gaunt House interest for me--I will promise _any thing_ I can
in return for your service--which I shall consider as one of the
greatest _that can be done to me_. Do, do this now as a good fellow,
which _I always said you were_: and, in return, command yours truly,
A. Pendennis.'"
"It's a clear case," said Mr. Wenham, having read this letter; "old
Pendennis is in love."
"And wants to get the woman up to London--evidently," continued Mr.
Wagg.
"I should like to see Pendennis on his knees, with the rheumatism," said
Mr. Wenham.
"Or accommodating the beloved object with a lock of his hair," said
Wagg.
"Stuff," said the great man. "He has relations in the country, hasn't
he? He said something about a nephew, whose interest could return
a member. It is the nephew's affair, depend on it. The young one is
in a scrape. I was myself--when I was in the fifth form at Eton--a
market-gardener's daughter--and swore I'd marry her. I was mad about
her--poor Polly!"--Here he made a pause, and perhaps the past rose
up to Lord Steyne, and George Gaunt was a boy again, not altogether
lost.--"But I say, she must be a fine woman from Pendennis's account.
Have in Dolphin, and let us hear if he knows any thing of her."
At this Wenham sprang out of the box, passed the servitor who waited at
the door communicating with the stage, and who saluted Mr. Wenham with
profound respect; and the latter emissary, pushing on, and familiar
with the place, had no difficulty in finding out the manager, who was
employed, as he not unfrequently was, in swearing and cursing the ladies
of the corps-de-ballet for not doing their duty.
[Illustration]
The oaths died away on Mr. Dolphin's lips, as soon as he saw Mr. Wenham:
and he drew off the hand which was clenched in the face of one of the
offending Coryphees, to grasp that of the new comer. "How do, Mr. Wenham?
How's his lordship to-night? Looks uncommonly well," said the manager
smiling, as if he had never been out of temper in his life; and he was
only too delighted to follow Lord Steyne's embassador, and pay his
personal respects to that great man.
The visit to Chatteries was the result of their conversation: and Mr.
Dolphin wrote to his lordship from that place, and did himself the honor
to inform the Marquess of Steyne, that he had seen the lady about whom
his lordship had spoken, that he was as much struck by her talents as he
was by her personal appearance, and that he had made an engagement with
Miss Fotheringay who would soon have the honor of appearing before a
London audience, and his noble and enlightened patron the Marquess of
Steyne.
Pen read the announcement of Miss Fotheringay's engagement in the
Chatteries paper, where he had so often praised her charms. The editor
made very handsome mention of her talent and beauty, and prophesied her
success in the metropolis. Bingley, the manager, began to advertise
"The last night of Miss Fotheringay's engagement." Poor Pen and Sir
Derby Oaks were very constant at the play: Sir Derby in the stage-box,
throwing bouquets and getting glances.--Pen in the almost deserted
boxes, haggard, wretched, and lonely. Nobody cared whether Miss
Fotheringay was going or staying except those two--and perhaps one
more, which was Mr. Bows of the orchestra.
He came out of his place one night, and went into the house to the box
where Pen was; and he held out his hand to him, and asked him to come
and walk. They walked down the street together: and went and sate upon
Chatteries bridge in the moonlight, and talked about _her_. "We may sit
on the same bridge," said he: "we have been in the same boat for a long
time. You are not the only man who has made a fool of himself about that
woman. And I have less excuse than you, because I'm older and know her
better. She has no more heart than the stone you are leaning on; and it
or you or I might fall into the water, and never come up again, and she
wouldn't care. Yes--she would care for me, because she wants me to teach
her; and she won't be able to get on without me, and will be forced to
send for me from London. But she wouldn't if she didn't want me. She has
no heart and no head, and no sense, and no feelings, and no griefs or
cares, whatever. I was going to say no pleasures--but the fact is, she
does like her dinner, and she is pleased when people admire her."
"And you do?" said Pen, interested out of himself, and wondering at the
crabbed, homely little old man.
"It's a habit, like taking snuff, or drinking drams," said the other,
"I've been taking her these five years, and can't do without, her. It
was I made her. If she doesn't send for me, I shall follow her: but I
know she'll send for me. She wants me. Same day she'll marry, and fling
me over, as I do the end of this cigar."
The little flaming spark dropped into the water below, and disappeared;
and Pen, as he rode home that night, actually thought about somebody but
himself.