THE FIGURANTE.
The wonders performed by the Professor of Mesmerism produced an immense
sensation. The persons who had been admitted to the "private
exhibition," did not fail to proclaim far and wide the particulars of
all that they had witnessed; and, as a tale never loses by repetition,
the narrative of those marvels became in a very few days a perfect
romance. The reporters of the press, who had attended the exhibition,
dressed up a magnificent account of the entire proceedings, for the
journals with which they were connected; and the fame of the Professor,
like that of one of the knights of the olden time, was soon "bruited
abroad through the length and breadth of the land."
At length a public lecture was given, and attended with the most
complete success. Ellen had an excellent memory; and her part was
enacted to admiration. She recollected the most minute particulars
detailed to her by the Mesmerist, relative to the interior of the houses
of his friends, the contents of letters to be read through envelopes,
the subjects of prints, and the lines of poetry or passages of prose in
the books to be read when placed behind her. Never was a deception
better contrived: the most wary were deluded by it; and the purse of
the Professor was well filled with the gold of his dupes.
But all things have an end: and the deceit of the Mesmerist was not an
exception to the rule.
One evening, a gentleman--a friend of the Professor--was examining
Ellen, who of course was in a perfect state of _coma_, respecting the
interior of his library. The patient had gone through the process of
questioning uncommonly well, until at length the gentleman said to her,
"Whereabouts does the stuffed owl stand in the room you are describing?"
In the abstract there was nothing ludicrous in this query: but, when
associated with the absurdity of the part which Ellen was playing, and
entering as a link into the chain of curious ideas that occupied her
mind at the moment, it assumed a shape so truly ridiculous that her
gravity was completely overcome. She burst into an immoderate fit of
laughter: her eyes opened wide--the perfect state of coma vanished in a
moment--the _clairvoyance_ was forgotten--the catalepsy disappeared--and
the patient became unmesmerised in a moment, in total defiance of all
the prescribed rules and regulations of Animal Magnetism!
Laughter is catching. The audience began to titter--then to indulge in a
half-suppressed cachinnation;--and at length a chorus of hilarity
succeeded the congenial symphony which emanated from the lips of the
patient.
The Professor was astounded.
He was, however, a man of great presence of mind: and he instantaneously
pronounced Ellen's conduct to be a phenomenon in Mesmerism, which was
certainly rarely illustrated, but for which he was by no means
unprepared.
But all his eloquence was useless. The risible inclination which now
animated the great majority of his audience, triumphed over the previous
prejudice in favour of Mesmerism; the charm was dissolved--the spell was
annihilated--"the pitcher had gone so often to the well that it got
broken at last"--the voice of the Professor had lost its power.
No sooner did the hilarity subside a little, when it was renewed again;
and even the friends and most staunch adherents of the Professor looked
at each other with suspicion depicted upon their countenances.
What reason could not do, was effected by ridicule: Mesmerism, like the
heathen mythology, ceased to be a worship.
The Professor grew distracted. Confusion ensued; the audience rose from
their seats; groups were formed; and the proceedings of the evening were
freely discussed by the various different parties into which the company
thus split.
Ellen took advantage of the confusion to slip out of the room; and in a
few moments she left the house.
Her occupation was now once more gone; and she resolved to pay another
visit to the old hag.
Accordingly, in a few days she again sought the miserable court in
Golden Lane.
It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, when the young lady entered
the apartment in which the old hag dwelt. The wrinkled wretch was seated
at the table, working. She had bought herself a new gown with a portion
of the money which she had received from Ellen on the occasion of
recommending the latter to the Mesmerist; and the old woman's looks were
joyful--as joyful as so hideous an expression of countenance would allow
them to be--for she thought of being smart once more, even in her old
age. Vanity only ceases with the extinction of life itself.
"Well, my child," said the old woman, gaily; "you have come back to me
again. Surely you have not already finished with your Mesmerist?"
"Yes," replied Ellen. "The bubble has burst; and I am once more in
search of employment."
"And in such search, miss, will you ever be, until you choose to settle
yourself in a manner suitable to your beauty, your accomplishments, and
your merits," said the old woman.
"In what way could I thus settle myself?"
"Do you ask me so simple a question? May you not have a handsome house,
a carriage, servants, money, rich garments, jewels, and a box at the
Opera, for the mere asking?"
"I do not require so much," answered Ellen, with a smile. "If I can earn
a guinea or two a week, I shall be contented."
"And do you not feel anxious to set off your charms to the greatest
advantage?" demanded the old woman. "How well would pearls become your
soft and shining hair! how dazzling would your polished arms appear when
clasped by costly bracelets! how lovely would be your little ears with
brilliant pendants! how elegant would be your figure when clad in
rustling silk or rich satin! how the whiteness of your bosom would
eclipse that of the finest lace! Ah! miss, you are your own enemy--you
are your own enemy!"
"You forget that I have a father," said Ellen,--"a father who loves me,
and whom I love,--a father who would die if he knew of his daughter's
disgrace."
"Fathers do not die so easily," cried the old hag. "They habituate
themselves to every thing, as well as other people. And then--think of
the luxuries and comforts with which you could surround the old man."
"We will not talk any more upon that subject," said Ellen firmly. "I
well understand your meaning; and I am not prudish nor false enough to
affect a virtue which I do not possess. But I have my interests to
consult; and it does not suit my ideas of happiness to accept the
proposal implied by your language. In a word, can you find me any more
employment?"
"I know no more Mesmerists," answered the old hag, in a surly tone.
"Then you can do nothing for me?"
"I did not say that--I did not say that," cried the hag. "It is true I
can get you upon the stage; but perhaps that pursuit will not please
you."
"Upon the stage!" ejaculated Ellen. "In what capacity?"
"As a _figurante_, or dancer in the ballet, at a great theatre," replied
the old woman.
"But I should be known--I should be recognised," said Ellen.
"There is no chance of that," returned the hag. "Dressed like a sylph,
with rouge upon your cheeks, and surrounded by a blaze of light, you
would be altogether a different being. Ah! it seems that I already
behold you upon the stage--the point of admiration for a thousand
looks--the object of envy and desire, and of every passion which can
possibly gratify female vanity."
For some moments Ellen remained lost in thought. The old woman's offer
pleased her: she was vain of her beauty and she contemplated with
delight the opportunity thus presented to her of displaying it with
brilliant effect. She already dreamt of success, applause, and showers
of nosegays; and her countenance gradually expended into a smile of
pleasure.
"I accept your proposal," she said; "but--"
"Why do you hesitate?" demanded the old woman.
"Oh! I was only thinking that the introduction would be better----"
"If it did not come from me?" added the old woman, her wrinkled face
becoming more wrinkled still with a sardonic grin. "Well, make yourself
easy upon that score. I am only aware that a celebrated manager has a
vacancy in his establishment for a figurante, and you may apply for it."
"But I am ignorant of the modes of dancing practised upon the stage,"
said Ellen.
"You will soon learn," answered the old woman. "Your beauty will prove
your principal recommendation."
"And what shall I give you for your suggestion?" asked Ellen, taking out
her purse.
When a bailiff makes a seizure in a house, he assures himself with a
glance around, whether there be sufficient property to pay at least
_his_ expenses;--when a debtor calls upon his creditor to ask for time,
the latter surveys the former for a moment, to ascertain by his
countenance if he can be trusted;--the wholesale dealer always "takes
stock," as it were, of the petty detailer who applies to him for
credit;--and thus was it that the old woman scrutinized with a single
look the capacity of Ellen's purse, so that she might thereby regulate
her demand. And all the while she appeared intent only on her work.
"You can give me a couple of guineas now," the old woman at length said;
"and if your engagement proves a good one, you can bring or send me
three more in the course of the month."
This arrangement was immediately complied with, and Ellen took leave of
the old hag, with the fervent hope that she should never require her aid
any more.
On the following day Miss Monroe called upon the manager of the great
national theatre where a figurante was required.
She was ushered into the presence of the theatrical monarch, who
received her with much urbanity and kindness; and he was evidently
pleased with her address, appearance, and manners, as she explained to
him the nature of her business.
"Dancing in a ball-room, and dancing upon the stage, are two very
different things," said the manager. "You will have to undergo a course
of training, the length of which will depend upon your skill and your
application. I have known young ladies become proficient in a
month--others in a year--many never, in spite of all their exertions.
Most of the figurantes have been brought up to their avocation from
childhood; but I see no reason why you should not learn to acquit
yourself well in a very short time."
"I shall exert myself to the utmost, at all events," observed Ellen.
"How are you circumstanced?" inquired the manager. "Excuse the question;
but my object is to ascertain if you can support yourself during your
apprenticeship, as we may term the process of study and initiation?"
"I have a comfortable home, and am not without resources for my present
wants," answered Ellen.
"So far, so good," said the manager. "I do not seek to pry into your
secrets. You know best what motives induce you to adopt the stage: my
business is to secure the services of young, handsome, and elegant
ladies, to form my _corps de ballet_. It is no compliment to you to say
that you will answer my purpose, provided your studies are successful."
"With whom am I to study, sir?"
"My ballet-master will instruct you," replied the manager. "You can
attend his class. If you will come to the theatre to-morrow morning at
ten o'clock, you can take your first lesson."
Ellen assented to the proposal, and took leave of the manager. They were
mutually satisfied with this interview: the manager was pleased with the
idea of securing the services of a young lady of great beauty, perfect
figure, and exquisite grace;--and, on her side, Ellen was cheered with
the prospect of embracing an avocation which, she hoped, would render
her independent of the bounty of others.
And now her training commenced. In the first place her feet were placed
in a groove-box, heel to heel, so that they formed only one straight
line, and with the knees turned outwards. This process is called "_se
tourner_." At first the pain was excruciating--it was a perfect
martyrdom; but the fair student supported it without a murmur; and in a
very few days her feet accustomed themselves, as it were, to fall in
dancing parallel to each other.
The second lesson in the course of training consisted of resting the
right foot on a bar, which Ellen was compelled to hold in a horizontal
line with her left hand. Then the left foot was placed upon the bar,
which was in this case held up by the right hand. By these means the
stiffness of the feet was destroyed, and they were rendered as pliant
and elastic as if they had steel springs instead of bones. This process
is denominated "_se casser_."
Next, the student had to practise walking upon the extreme points of the
toes, so that the foot and the leg formed one straight line. Then Ellen
had to practise the flings, capers, caprioles, turns, whirls, leaps,
balances, borees, and all the various cuts, steps, positions, attitudes,
and movements of the dance. During the caprioles the student had to
train herself to perform four, six, and even eight steps in the air; and
the fatigue produced by these lessons was at times of the most
oppressive nature.[78]
When Ellen was perfected in these portions of her training, she had to
practise the tricks of the stage. At one time the was suspended to lines
of wires; at another she was seated on paste-board clouds; then she
learned to disappear through traps, or to make her exit by a window.
Some of these manoeuvres were of a very dangerous nature; indeed, in
some, the _danseuse_ actually risked her life--and all her limbs. The
awkwardness of an underling in shifting a trap-door at the precise
moment would have led her to dash her head against a plank with fearful
violence.
The art of theatrical dancing is divided into two schools, called
_Ballonné_ and _Tacqueté_. The former is the branch in which Taglioni
shines; the latter is that in which Fanny Ellsler excels. The style of
the _Ballonné_, takes its name from the airiness of the balloon; it
combines lightness with grace, and is principally characterized by a
breezy and floating appearance of the figure. The _Tacqueté_ is all
vivacity and rapidity, distinguished by sparkling steps and twinkling
measures, executed with wonderful quickness upon the point of the feet.
In both these schools was Ellen instructed.
So intense was the application of Miss Monroe--so unwearied was she in
her practice, so quick in comprehending the instructions of the
master--so resolute in surmounting all obstacles, that in the short
space of two months she was a beautiful dancer. The manager was
perfectly astonished at her progress; and he pronounced a most
favourable opinion upon her chance of achieving a grand triumph.
[Illustration]
Her form became all suppleness and lightness; her powers of relaxation
and abandonment of limb were prodigious. When attired in the delicate
drapery of the ballet, nothing could be more beautiful--nothing more
sylph-like, than the elastic airiness of her rich and rounded figure.
The grace of her attitudes--the charm of her dance--the arrangement of
that drapery, which revealed or exhibited the exquisite contours of her
form--the classic loveliness of her countenance--the admirable symmetry
of her limbs--and the brilliant whiteness of her skin, formed a whole so
attractive, so ravishing, that even the envy of her sister-figurantes
was subdued by a sentiment of uncontrollable admiration.
In obedience to a suggestion from the manager, Ellen agreed to adopt a
well-sounding name. She accordingly styled herself Miss Selina
Fitzherbert. She then learned that at least two-thirds of the gentlemen
and ladies constituting the theatrical company, had changed their
original patronymics into convenient pseudonyms. Thus Timothy Jones had
become Gerald Montgomery; William Wilkins was announced as William
Plantagenet; Simon Snuffles adopted the more aristocratic nomenclature
of Emeric Gordon; Benjamin Glasscock was changed into Horatio Mortimer;
Betsy Podkins was distinguished as Lucinda Hartington; Mary Smicks was
displaced by Clara Maberly; Jane Storks was commuted into Jacintha
Runnymede; and so on.
In her relations with the gentlemen and ladies of the corps, Ellen (for
we shall continue to call her by her real name) found herself in a new
world. Every thing with her present associates might be summed up in the
word--_egotism_. To hear them talk, one would have imagined that they
were so many princes and princesses in disguise, who had graciously
condescended to honour the public by appearing upon the stage. The
gentlemen were all descended (according to their own accounts) from the
best and most ancient families in the country; the ladies had all
brothers, or cousins, or uncles highly placed in the army or navy;--and
if any one ventured to express surprise that so many well-connected
individuals should be compelled to adopt the stage as a profession, the
answer was invariably the same--
"I entered on this career through preference, and have quarrelled with
all my friends in consequence. Oh! if I chose," would be added, with a
toss of the head, "I might have any thing done for me; I might ride in
my carriage; but I am determined to stick to the stage."
Poor creatures! this innocent little vanity was a species of reward, a
sort of set-off, for long hours of toil, the miseries of a precarious
existence, the moments of bitter anguish produced by the coldness of an
audience, and all the thousand causes of sorrow, vexation, and distress
which embitter the lives of the actor and actress.
With all their little faults, Ellen found the members of the theatrical
company good-natured creatures, ever ready to assist each other,
hospitable and generous to a fault. In their gay moments, they were
sprightly, full of anecdote, and remarkably entertaining. Many of them
were clever, and exhibited much sound judgment in their remarks and
critical observations upon new dramas and popular works.
At length the evening arrived when Ellen was to make her first
appearance upon the stage in public. The house was well attended; and
the audience was thrown into a remarkably good humour by the various
performances which preceded the ballet. Ellen was in excellent spirits,
and full of confidence. As she surveyed herself in the glass in her
little dressing-room a few moments before she appeared, a smile of
triumph played upon her lips, and lent fire to her eyes. She was indeed
ravishingly beautiful.
Her success was complete. The loveliness of her person at once produced
an impression in her favour; and when she executed some of the most
difficult measures of the Ballonné school, the enthusiasm of the
audience knew no bounds. The eyes of the ancient libertines, aided by
opera-glasses and _lorgnettes_, devoured the charms of that beautiful
girl;--the young men followed every motion, every gesture, with
rapturous attention;--the triumph of the _debutante_ was complete.
There was something so graceful and yet so voluptuous in her style of
dancing,--something so bewitching in her attitudes and so captivating in
her manner, that she could not have failed to please. And then she had
so well studied all those positions which set off her symmetrical form
to its best advantage,--she had paid such unwearied attention to those
measures that were chiefly calculated to invoke attention to her
well-rounded, and yet light and elastic limbs,--she had so particularly
practised those pauses which afforded her an opportunity of making the
most of her fine person, that her dancing excited pleasure in every
sense--delighting the eye, producing an effect as of a musical and
harmonious feeling in the mind, and exciting in the breasts of the male
portion of the spectators passions of rapture and desire.
She literally wantoned in the gay and voluptuous dance; at one moment
all rapidity, grace, and airiness; at another suddenly falling into a
pause expressive of a soft and languishing fatigue;--then again becoming
all energy, activity, and animation,--representing, in all its phases,
the soul--the spirit--the very poetry of the dance!
At length the toils of her first performance ended. There was not a
dissenting voice, when she was called for before the curtain. And then,
as she came forward, led by the manager, flowers fell around her--and
handkerchiefs were waved by fair hands--and a thousand enthusiastic
voices proclaimed her success. Her hopes were gratified--her aspirations
were fulfilled:--she had achieved a brilliant triumph!