THEATRICALS.
[Illustration: Lorrequer Practising Physic]
Our seance at the mess that night was a late one, for after we had
discussed some coopers of claret, there was a very general public
feeling in favour of a broiled bone and some devilled kidneys, followed
by a very ample bowl of bishop, over which simple condiments we talked
“green room” till near the break of day.
From having been so long away from the corps I had much to learn of
their doings and intentions to do, and heard with much pleasure that
they possessed an exceedingly handsome theatre, well stocked with
scenery, dresses, and decorations; that they were at the pinnacle of
public estimation, from what they had already accomplished, and
calculated on the result of my appearance to crown them with honour. I
had indeed very little choice left me in the matter; for not only had
they booked me for a particular part, but bills were already in
circulation, and sundry little three-cornered notes enveloping them,
were sent to the elite of the surrounding country, setting forth that
“on Friday evening the committee of the garrison theatricals, intending
to perform a dress rehearsal of the ‘Family Party,’ request the
pleasure of Mr. —— and Mrs. ——‘s company on the occasion. Mr. Lorrequer
will undertake the part of Captain Beauguarde. Supper at twelve. An
answer will oblige.”
The sight of one of these pleasant little epistles, of which the
foregoing is a true copy—was presented to me as a great favour that
evening, it having been agreed upon that I was to know nothing of their
high and mighty resolves till the following morning. It was to little
purpose that I assured them all, collectively and individually, that of
Captain Beauguarde I absolutely knew nothing—had never read the
piece—nor even seen it performed. I felt, too, that my last appearance
in character in a “Family Party,” was any thing but successful; and I
trembled lest, in the discussion of the subject, some confounded
allusion to my adventure at Cheltenham might come out. Happily they
seemed all ignorant of this; and fearing to bring conversation in any
way to the matter of my late travels, I fell in with their humour, and
agreed that if it were possible, in the limited time allowed me to
manage it—I had but four days—I should undertake the character. My
concurrence failed to give the full satisfaction I expected, and they
so habitually did what they pleased with me, that, like all men so
disposed, I never got the credit for concession which a man more
niggardly of his services may always command.
“To be sure you will do it, Harry,” said the Major, “why not? I could
learn the thing myself in a couple of hours, as for that.”
Now, be it known that the aforesaid Major was so incorrigibly slow of
study, and dull of comprehension, that he had been successively
degraded at our theatrical board from the delivering of a stage message
to the office of check-taker.
“He’s so devilish good in the love scene,” said the junior ensign, with
the white eyebrows. “I say, Curzon, you’ll be confoundedly jealous
though, for he is to play with Fanny.”
“I rather think not,” said Curzon, who was a little tipsy.
“Oh, yes,” said Frazer, “Hepton is right. Lorrequer has Fanny for his
‘Frou;’ and, upon my soul, I should feel tempted to take the part
myself upon the same terms; though I verily believe I should forget I
was acting, and make fierce love to her on the stage.”
“And who may la charmante Fanny be?” said I, with something of the air
of the “Dey of Algiers” in my tone.
“Let Curzon tell him,” said several voices together, “he is the only
man to do justice to such perfection.”
“Quiz away, my merry men,” said Cruzon, “all I know is, that you are a
confoundedly envious set of fellows; and if so lovely a girl had thrown
her eyes on one amongst you--”
“Hip! hip! hurrah!” said old Fitzgerald, “Curzon is a gone man. He’ll
be off to the palace for a license some fine morning, or I know nothing
of such matters.”
“Well, Bat,” said I, “if matters are really as you all say, why does
not Curzon take the part you destine for me?”
“We dare not trust him,” said the Major, “Lord bless you, when the
call-boy would sing out for Captain Beaugarde in the second act, we’d
find that he had Levanted with our best slashed trowsers, and a bird of
paradise feather in his cap.”
“Well,” thought I, “this is better at least than I anticipated, for if
nothing else offers, I shall have rare fun teasing my friend
Charley”—for it was evident that he had been caught by the lady in
question.
“And so you’ll stay with us; give me your hand—you are a real trump.”
These words, which proceeded from a voice at the lower end of the
table, were addressed to my friend Finucane.
“I’ll stay with ye, upon my conscience,” said Fin; “ye have a most
seductive way about ye; and a very superior taste in milk punch.”
“But, Doctor,” said I, “you must not be a drone in the hive; what will
ye do for us? You should be a capital Sir Lucius O’Trigger, if we could
get up the Rivals.”
“My forte is the drum—the big drum; put me among what the Greeks call
the ‘Mousikoi,’ and I’ll astonish ye.”
It was at once agreed that Fin should follow the bent of his genius;
and after some other arrangements for the rest of the party, we
separated for the night, having previously toasted the “Fanny,” to
which Curzon attempted to reply, but sank, overpowered by punch and
feelings, and looked unutterable things, without the power to frame a
sentence.
During the time which intervened between the dinner and the night
appointed for our rehearsal, I had more business upon my hands than a
Chancellor of the Exchequer the week of the budget being produced. The
whole management of every department fell, as usual, to my share, and
all those who, previously to my arrival, had contributed their quota of
labour, did nothing whatever now but lounge about the stage, or sit
half the day in the orchestra, listening to some confounded story of
Finucane’s, who contrived to have an everlasting mob of actors,
scene-painters, fiddlers, and call-boys always about him, who, from
their uproarious mirth, and repeated shouts of merriment, nearly drove
me distracted, as I stood almost alone and unassisted in the whole
management. Of la belle Fanny, all I learned was, that she was a
professional actress of very considerable talent, and extremely pretty;
that Curzon had fallen desperately in love with her the only night she
had appeared on the boards there, and that to avoid his absurd
persecution of her, she had determined not to come into town until the
morning of the rehearsal, she being at that time on a visit to the
house of a country gentleman in the neighbourhood. Here was a new
difficulty I had to contend with—to go through my part alone was out of
the question to making it effective; and I felt so worried and harassed
that I often fairly resolved on taking the wings of the mail, and
flying away to the uttermost parts of the south of Ireland, till all
was tranquil again. By degrees, however, I got matters into better
train, and by getting our rehearsal early before Fin appeared, as he
usually slept somewhat later after his night at mess, I managed to have
things in something like order; he and his confounded drum, which,
whenever he was not story-telling, he was sure to be practising on,
being, in fact the greatest difficulties opposed to my managerial
functions. One property he possessed, so totally at variance with all
habits of order, that it completely baffled me. So numerous were his
narratives, that no occasion could possibly arise, no chance expression
be let fall on the stage, but Fin had something he deemed, apropos, and
which, sans facon, he at once related for the benefit of all whom it
might concern; that was usually the entire corps dramatique, who
eagerly turned from stage directions and groupings, to laugh at his
ridiculous jests. I shall give an instance of this habit of
interruption, and let the unhappy wight who has filled such an office
as mine pity my woes.
I was standing one morning on the stage drilling my “corps” as usual.
One most refractory spirit, to whom but a few words were entrusted, and
who bungled even those, I was endeavouring to train into something like
his part.
“Come now, Elsmore, try it again—just so. Yes, come forward in this
manner—take her hand tenderly—press it to your lips; retreat towards
the flat, and then bowing deferentially—thus, say ‘Good night, good
night’—that’s very simple, eh? Well, now that’s all you have to do, and
that brings you over here—so you make your exit at once.”
“Exactly so, Mr. Elsmore, always contrive to be near the door under
such circumstances. That was the way with my poor friend, Curran. Poor
Philpot, when he dined with the Guild of Merchant Tailors, they gave
him a gold box with their arms upon it—a goose proper, with needles
saltier wise, or something of that kind; and they made him free of
their ‘ancient and loyal corporation,’ and gave him a very grand
dinner. Well, Curran was mighty pleasant and agreeable, and kept them
laughing all night, till the moment he rose to go away, and then he
told them that he never spent so happy an evening, and all that. ‘But,
gentlemen,’ said he, ‘business has its calls, and I must tear myself
away; so wishing you now’—there were just eighteen of them—‘wishing you
now every happiness and prosperity, permit me to take my leave’—and
here he stole near the door—‘to take my leave, and bid you both good
night.’” With a running fire of such stories, it may be supposed how
difficult was my task in getting any thing done upon the stage.
Well, at last the long-expected Friday arrived, and I rose in the
morning with all that peculiar tourbillon of spirits that a man feels
when he is half pleased and whole frightened with the labour before
him. I had scarcely accomplished dressing when a servant tapped at my
door, and begged to know if I could spare a few moments to speak to
Miss Ersler, who was in the drawing-room. I replied, of course, in the
affirmative, and, rightly conjecturing that my fair friend must be the
lovely Fanny already alluded to, followed the servant down stairs.
“Mr. Lorrequer,” said the servant, and closing the door behind me, left
me in sole possession of the lady.
“Will you do me the favour to sit here, Mr. Lorrequer,” said one of the
sweetest voices in the world, as she made room for me on the sofa
beside her. “I am particularly short-sighted; so pray sit near me, as I
really cannot talk to any one I don’t see.”
I blundered out some platitude of a compliment to her eyes—the fullest
and most lovely blue that ever man gazed into—at which she smiled as if
pleased, and continued, “Now, Mr. Lorrequer, I have really been longing
for your coming; for your friends of the 4—th are doubtless very
dashing, spirited young gentlemen, perfectly versed in war’s alarms;
but pardon me if I say that a more wretched company of strolling
wretches never graced a barn. Now, come, don’t be angry, but let me
proceed. Like all amateur people, they have the happy knack in
distributing the characters—to put every man in his most unsuitable
position—and then that poor dear thing Curzon—I hope he’s not a friend
of yours—by some dire fatality always plays the lover’s parts, ha! ha!
ha! True, I assure you, so that if you had not been announced as coming
this week, I should have left them and gone off to Bath.”
Here she rose and adjusted her brown ringlets at the glass, giving me
ample time to admire one of the most perfect figures I ever beheld. She
was most becomingly dressed, and betrayed a foot and ancle which for
symmetry and “chaussure,” might have challenged the Rue Rivoli itself
to match it.
My first thought was poor Curzon; my second, happy and trice fortunate
Harry Lorrequer. There was no time, however, for indulgence in such
very pardonable gratulation; so I at once proceeded “pour faire
l’aimable,” to profess my utter inability to do justice to her
undoubted talents, but slyly added, “that in the love making part of
the matter she should never be able to discover that I was not in
earnest.” We chatted then gaily for upwards of an hour, until the
arrival of her friend’s carriage was announced, when, tendering me most
graciously her hand, she smiled benignly and saying “au revoir, donc,”
drove off.
As I stood upon the steps of the hotel, viewing her “out of the visible
horizon,” I was joined by Curzon, who evidently, from his
self-satisfied air, and jaunty gait, little knew how he stood in the
fair Fanny’s estimation.
“Very pretty, very pretty, indeed, deeper and deeper still,” cried he,
alluding to my most courteous salutation as the carriage rounded the
corner, and its lovely occupant kissed her hand once more. “I say
Harry, my friend, you don’t think that was meant for you, I should
hope?”
“What! the kiss of the hand? Yes, faith, but I do.”
“Well, certainly that is good! why, man, she just saw me coming up that
instant. She and I—we understand each other—never mind, don’t be
cross—no fault of yours, you know.”
“Ah, so she is taken with you,” said I. “Eh, Charley?”
“Why, I believe that. I may confess to you the real state of matters.
She was devilishly struck with me the first time we rehearsed together.
We soon got up a little flirtation; but the other night when I played
Mirabel to her, it finished the affair. She was quite nervous, and
could scarcely go through with her part. I saw it, and upon my soul I
am sorry for it; she’s a prodigiously fine girl—such lips and such
teeth! Egad I was delighted when you came; for, you see, I was in a
manner obliged to take one line of character, and I saw pretty plainly
where it must end; and you know with you it’s quite different, she’ll
laugh and chat, and all that sort of thing, but she’ll not be carried
away by her feelings; you understand me?”
“Oh, perfectly; it’s quite different, as you observed.”
If I had not been supported internally during this short dialogue by
the recently expressed opinion of the dear Fanny herself upon my friend
Curzon’s merits, I think I should have been tempted to take the liberty
of wringing his neck off. However, the affair was much better as it
stood, as I had only to wait a little with proper patience, and I had
no fears but that my friend Charley would become the hero of a very
pretty episode for the mess.
“So I suppose you must feel considerably bored by this kind of thing,”
I said, endeavouring to draw him out.
“Why, I do,” replied he, “and I do not. The girl is very pretty. The
place is dull in the morning; and altogether it helps to fill up time.”
“Well,” said I, “you are always fortunate, Curzon. You have ever your
share of what floating luck the world affords.”
“It is not exactly all luck, my dear friend; for, as I shall explain to
you—”
“Not now,” replied I, “for I have not yet breakfasted.” So saying I
turned into the coffee-room, leaving the worthy adjutant to revel in
his fancied conquest, and pity such unfortunates as myself.
After an early dinner at the club-house, I hastened down to the
theatre, where numerous preparations for the night were going forward.
The green-room was devoted to the office of a supper-room, to which the
audience had been invited. The dressing-rooms were many of them filled
with the viands destined for the entertainment. Where, among the wooden
fowls and “impracticable” flagons, were to be seen very imposing
pasties and flasks of champaigne, littered together in most admirable
disorder. The confusion naturally incidental to all private
theatricals, was ten-fold increased by the circumstances of our
projected supper. Cooks and scene-shifters, fiddlers and waiters, were
most inextricably mingled; and as in all similar cases, the least
important functionaries took the greatest airs upon them, and
appropriated without hesitation whatever came to their hands—thus the
cook would not have scrupled to light a fire with the violoncello of
the orchestra; and I actually caught one of the “gens de cuisine”
making a “soufflet” in a brass helmet I had once worn when astonishing
the world as Coriolanus.
Six o’clock struck. In another short hour and we begin, thought I, with
a sinking heart, as I looked upon the littered stage crowded with hosts
of fellows that had nothing to do there. Figaro himself never wished
for ubiquity more than I did, as I hastened from place to place,
entreating, cursing, begging, scolding, execrating, and imploring by
turns. To mend the matter, the devils in the orchestra had begun to
tune their instruments, and I had to bawl like a boatswain of a
man-of-war, to be heard by the person beside me.
As seven o’clock struck, I peeped through the small aperture in the
curtain, and saw, to my satisfaction, mingled, I confess, with fear,
that the house was nearly filled—the lower tier of boxes entirely so.
There were a great many ladies handsomely dressed, chatting gaily with
their chaperons, and I recognised some of my acquaintances on every
side; in fact, there was scarcely a family of rank in the county that
had not at least some member of it present. As the orchestra struck up
the overture to Don Giovanni, I retired from my place to inspect the
arrangements behind.
Before the performance of the “Family Party,” we were to have a little
one-act piece called “a day in Madrid,” written by myself—the principal
characters being expressly composed for “Miss Ersler and Mr.
Lorrequer.”
The story of this trifle, it is not necessary to allude to; indeed, if
it were, I should scarcely have patience to do so, so connected is my
recollection of it with the distressing incident which followed.
In the first scene of the piece, the curtain rising displays la belle
Fanny sitting at her embroidery in the midst of a beautiful garden,
surrounded with statues, fountains, &c. At the back is seen a pavillion
in the ancient Moorish style of architecture, over which hang the
branches of some large and shady trees—she comes forward, expressing
her impatience at the delay of her lover, whose absence she tortures
herself to account for by a hundred different suppositions, and after a
very sufficient exposè of her feelings, and some little explanatory
details of her private history, conveying a very clear intimation of
her own amiability, and her guardian’s cruelty, she proceeds, after the
fashion of other young ladies similarly situated, to give utterance to
her feelings by a song; after, therefore, a suitable prelude from the
orchestra, for which, considering the impassioned state of her mind,
she waits patiently, she comes forward and begins a melody—
“Oh why is he far from the heart that adores him?”
in which, for two verses, she proceeds with sundry sol feggio’s, to
account for the circumstances, and show her disbelief of the
explanation in a very satisfactory manner,—meanwhile, for I must not
expose my reader to an anxiety on my account, similar to what the dear
Fanny here laboured under, I was making the necessary preparations for
flying to her presence, and clasping her to my heart—that is to say, I
had already gummed on a pair of mustachios, had corked and arched a
ferocious pair of eyebrows, which, with my rouged cheeks, gave me a
look half Whiskerando, half Grimaldi; these operations were performed,
from the stress of circumstances, sufficiently near the object of my
affections, to afford me the pleasing satisfaction of hearing from her
own sweet lips, her solicitude about me—in a word, all the
dressing-rooms but two were filled with hampers of provisions, glass,
china, and crockery, and from absolute necessity, I had no other spot
where I could attire myself unseen, except in the identical pavillion
already alluded to—here, however, I was quite secure, and had abundant
time also, for I was not to appear till scene the second, when I was to
come forward in full Spanish costume, “every inch a Hidalgo.” Meantime,
Fanny had been singing—
“Oh why is he far,” &c. &c.
At the conclusion of the last verse, just as she repeats the words
“why, why, why,” in a very distracted and melting cadence, a voice
behind startles her—she turns and beholds her guardian—so at least run
the course of events in the real drama—that it should follow thus now
however, “Dus aliter visum”—for just as she came to the very moving
apostrophe alluded to, and called out, “why comes he not?”—a gruff
voice from behind answered in a strong Cork brogue—“ah! would ye have
him come in a state of nature?” at the instant a loud whistle rang
through the house, and the pavillion scene slowly drew up, discovering
me, Harry Lorrequer, seated on a small stool before a cracked
looking-glass, my only habiliments, as I am an honest man, being a pair
of long white silk stockings, and a very richly embroidered shirt with
point lace collar. The shouts of laughter are yet in my ears, the loud
roar of inextinguishable mirth, which after the first brief pause of
astonishment gave way, shook the entire building—my recollection may
well have been confused at such a moment of unutterable shame and
misery; yet, I clearly remember seeing Fanny, the sweet Fanny herself,
fall into an arm-chair nearly suffocated with convulsions of laughter.
I cannot go on; what I did I know not. I suppose my exit was
additionally ludicrous, for a new eclat de rire followed me out. I
rushed out of the theatre, and wrapping only my cloak round me, ran
without stopping to the barracks. But I must cease; these are woes too
sacred for even confessions like mine, so let me close the curtain of
my room and my chapter together, and say, adieu for a season.