GEORGINA.
WHO has not heard of Georgina? Ask Gounod, ask Monsieur Riviere, ask Mr.
Vaughan, ask me, ask yourself, indulgent reader. I made this lady’s
acquaintance some five years ago, about eleven P.M., outside Covent
Garden Theatre, when she was apparently being supported by her seconds
and spongeholders, after her third or fourth round (I forget which) with
the “Leicester Square Pet” or the “Regent Street Chicken,” or both. I
was not an eye-witness of this revival of the good old days of the ring,
so my statement as to details must not be implicitly accepted. I,
however, made one of an excited and surging mob, and gleaned that the
cause was the fair Georgina, who had lately been “removed” from inside
the theatre. In a thoughtless moment, and with an eye to business, and
with the hope of turning an honest penny by taking this amiable creature
into the provinces (for I dabbled in things theatrical in those days) I
entered into conversation with one of her satellites, which ripened into
an intimacy of the most deplorable and expensive nature, and ended in the
climax that procured me a most abusive and threatening letter whilst in
the House of Detention, and subsequently a visit from her on my second
appearance at Bow-street, where she occupied a prominent position in the
front row. Immediately, then, after this lady’s notoriety connected with
the above _contretemps_, it struck me that she could not fail to “draw”
in the provinces, if not on her merits as a vocalist, at least on account
of her other amiable accomplishments. A series of visits to her
residence ended in my securing the professional services of this
inestimable treasure; and though the terms and conditions with which she
hampered her agreement to accompany me on a six weeks’ tour were
sufficient to have made a more experienced man hesitate, I at length
consented to all she proposed, and our agreement was virtually completed.
Georgina is, I should say, an implacable foe; she is also, I should
fancy, a good friend until a row—an inevitable consequence—takes place.
This latter characteristic showed itself on this occasion; she made it a
_sine quâ non_, and refused to budge an inch unless I agreed to permit
her to be accompanied by a huge French woman whom she called her
companion, and a sickly youth whom she designated her secretary. I was
not only to cart this worthy couple about first-class, but to pay for
their board and lodgings. As the French person was as voracious as a
cormorant, and as the secretary was apparently suffering from some
complaint that impelled him to eat inordinately three or four times a
day, and as provincial hotels are proverbially expensive when the
ordinary routine is in the least deviated from, and as nothing but the
best and most _récherché menu_ was considered good enough for this worthy
trio, my bill and my feelings after a three days’ experience may be
easier imagined than described; added to all this, Georgina’s delicate
health precluded her from abstaining from food for any length of time,
and thus when we journeyed from one town to another a hamper of prog had
to be invariably made up for sustaining nature in the transit. Good
heavens! such appetites would have eaten one out of house and home, even
if any profits had been made; but when the takings were absolutely “nil,”
and the working expenses about £100 a week, it will not surprise the
reader to learn that I lost £400 in less than a fortnight, and returned
to London a sadder and a wiser man. I cannot omit one absurd feature in
this “starring” tour which occurred in a town very far north, and which
happily brought my disastrous tour to an abrupt and unexpected
conclusion. The hour that the concert was to commence was eight; the
audience had been respectfully solicited to be in their places by that
hour—a request, I am bound to admit, the entire audience present
considerately complied with—everything, in short, was done by visiting,
puffing, advertising, and personally canvassing, that ingenuity and
activity on my part could suggest; and at a quarter before eight I
awaited behind the curtain (seeing, but unseen), with throbbing heart,
the arrival of the vast crowds that I confidently expected. The fair and
amiable one was seated on a fauteuil, radiant with smiles, and attired in
a matchless robe of white water silk and ruffles—a kind of mixture
between the “Marie Antoinette” and the “Gorgonzola” styles, or what the
cross would be, if such styles do or ever have existed—(should any lady
read this description she will, I trust, pardon any imperfections of
detail.)
The female cormorant was administering some light stimulant, for Georgina
is subject to fits of nervousness, incredible as this may appear. The
emaciated one was in front assisting in looking after the money-taker;
and I feel thankful to Providence on his account, if not on my own, that
this was far from an arduous task, for the poor fellow was evidently
delicate and physically incapable of lifting a heavy cash-box, and so,
with all my faults, blood-guiltiness cannot be laid to my charge. Time
meanwhile was rapidly passing, and a huge clock pointed to three minutes
to eight, then two minutes, then one, and then eight o’clock struck, and,
oh horror of horrors! the _sole_ occupant of the enormous building was
the critic of the local paper. Decency forbade our opening the concert
to this solitary unhappy man; it appeared to me to be cowardly to attack
him alone, and to pit him single-handed against the invincible Georgina,
who had demolished a conductor and his manager a week previously, and who
now showed symptoms of “annoyance” that nothing but my soothing powers
prevented bursting into a flame. My plan of action was immediately
taken; to hesitate a moment was to be lost. I at once sent for the
“secretary,” and first thought of telling him to make a short speech from
the stage to our solitary audience; but reflection decided me in
approaching him myself. I apologised for the unusual occurrence (it had
in reality happened wherever we had been, though not to the extent of
less than seven or eight); I offered to return him his money, for I was
well aware his was a complimentary ticket, and verily believe that the
united purses of the entire company could not have scraped together five
shillings. He muttered something I tried not to hear, and next day
repaid my intended courtesy by a flaming smashing article that would
effectually have ruined us had we moved elsewhere. But events were
occurring at the same time which put it out of my power to continue this
disastrous tour. About eleven o’clock the landlord of the hotel
presented himself at my room, said the lady and her friends had left, and
politely but firmly intimated that he could not permit me to remove my
luggage till a little bill of £8 was settled. The rest is soon told. I
hurried back to London, remitted the £8, and abandoned the tour. I had
not, however, heard the last of my musical _bête noire_; she and the
“secretary” both dunned me for their railway fares, which I of course
ignored, and I heard no more of her till she dug me out at the House of
Detention, when she threatened me with legal proceedings for detaining,
as she alleged, her photographs—the real fact being that, after our last
stampede, her photographs that were displayed were seized by some
indignant creditor in expectation of a ransom. For my part I hope I have
really heard the last of this irrepressible creature.