THE MUMMERS.--GODOLPHIN IN LOVE.--THE EFFECT OF FANNY MILLINGER’S ACTING
UPON HIM.--THE TWO OFFERS.--GODOLPHIN QUITS THE PLAYERS.
Our travellers stopped at the first inn in the outskirts of the town.
Here they were shown into a large room on the ground-floor, sanded, with
a long table in the centre; and, before the supper was served, Percy
had leisure to examine all the companions with whom he had associated
himself.
In the first place, there was an old gentleman, of the age of
sixty-three, in a bob-wig, and inclined to be stout, who always played
the _lover_. He was equally excellent in the pensive Romeo and the
bustling Rapid. He had an ill way of talking off the stage, partly
because he had lost all his front teeth: a circumstance which made him
avoid, in general, those parts in which he had to force a great deal of
laughter. Next, there was a little girl, of about fourteen, who played
angels, fairies, and, at a pinch, was very effective as an old woman.
Thirdly, there was our free-and-easy cavalier, who, having a loud voice
and a manly presence, usually performed the tyrant. He was great in
Macbeth, greater in Bombastes Furioso. Fourthly, came this gentleman’s
wife, a pretty, slatternish woman, much painted. She usually performed
the second female--the confidante, the chambermaid--the Emilia to the
Desdemona. And fifthly, was Percy’s new inamorata,--a girl of about
one-and-twenty, fair, with a nez retrousse: beautiful auburn hair, that
was always a little dishevelled; the prettiest mouth, teeth, and dimple
imaginable; a natural colour; and a person that promised to incline
hereafter towards that roundness of proportion which is more dear to the
sensual than the romantic. This girl, whose name was Fanny Millinger,
was of so frank, good-humoured, and lively a turn, that she was the idol
of the whole company, and her superiority in acting was never made a
matter of jealousy. Actors may believe this, or not, as they please.
“But is this all your company?” said Percy.
“All? no!” replied Fanny, taking off her bonnet, and curling up her
tresses by the help of a dim glass. “The rest are provided at the
theatre along with the candle-snuffer and scene-shifters part of the
fixed property. Why won’t _you_ take to the stage? I wish you would! you
would make a very respectable--page.”
“Upon my word!” said Percy, exceedingly offended.
“Come, come!” cried the actress, clapping her hands, and perfectly
unheeding his displeasure--“why don’t you help me off with my
cloak?--why don’t you set me a chair?--why don’t you take this great box
out of my way?--why don’t you----Heaven help me!” and she stamped her
little foot quite seriously on the floor. “A pretty person for a lover
you are!”
“Oho! then I am a lover, you acknowledge?”
“Nonsense!--get a chair next me at supper.”
The young Godolphin was perfectly fascinated by the lively actress; and
it was with no small interest that he stationed himself the following
night in the stage-box of the little theatre at ----, to see how his
Fanny acted. The house was tolerably well filled, and the play was
_She Stoops to Conquer_. The male parts were, on the whole, respectably
managed; though Percy was somewhat surprised to observe that a man,
who had joined the corps that morning, blessed with the most solemn
countenance in the world--a fine Roman nose, and a forehead like a
sage’s--was now dressed in nankeen tights, and a coat without skirts,
splitting the sides of the gallery in the part of Tony Lumpkin. But into
the heroine, Fanny Millinger threw a grace, a sweetness, a simple, yet
dignified spirit of trite love that at once charmed and astonished all
present. The applause was unbounded; and Percy Godolphin felt proud of
himself for having admired one whom every one else seemed also resolved
upon admiring.
When the comedy was finished, he went behind the scenes, and for the
first time felt the rank which intellect bestows. This idle girl, with
whom he had before been so familiar; who had seemed to him, boy as he
was, only made for jesting and coquetry, and trifling, he now felt to be
raised to a sudden eminence that startled and abashed him. He became shy
and awkward, and stood at a distance stealing a glance towards her, but
without the courage to approach and compliment her.
The quick eye of the actress detected the effect she had produced. She
was naturally pleased at it, and coming up to Godolphin, she touched his
shoulder, and with a smile rendered still more brilliant by the rouge
yet unwashed from the dimpled cheeks, said--“Well, most awkward swain?
no flattery ready for me? Go to! you won’t suit me: get yourself another
empress.”
“You have pleased me into respecting you,” said Godolphin.
There was a delicacy in the expression that was very characteristic of
the real mind of the speaker, though that mind was not yet developed;
and the pretty actress was touched by it at the moment, though, despite
the grace of her acting, she was by nature far too volatile to think it
at all advantageous to be _respected_ in the long run. She did not act
in the afterpiece, and Godolphin escorted her home to the inn.
So long as his ten guineas lasted--which the reader will conceive was
not very long--Godolphin stayed with the gay troop, as the welcome lover
of its chief ornament. To her he confided his name and history:
she laughed heartily at the latter--for she was one of Venus’s true
children, fond of striking mirth out of all subjects. “But what,” said
she, patting his cheek affectionately, “what should hinder you from
joining us for a little while? I could teach you to be an actor in three
lessons. Come now, attend! It is but a mere series of tricks, this art
that seems to you so admirable.”
Godolphin grew embarrassed. There was in him a sort of hidden pride that
could never endure to subject itself to the censure of others. He had
no propensity to imitation, and he had a strong susceptibility to the
ridiculous. These traits of mind thus early developed--which in later
life prevented his ever finding fit scope for his natural powers, which
made him too proud to bustle, and too philosophical to shine--were of
service to him on this occasion, and preserved him from the danger into
which he might otherwise have fallen. He could not be persuaded to act:
the fair Fanny gave up the attempt in despair. “Yet stay with us,” said
she, tenderly, “and share my poor earnings.”
Godolphin started; and in the wonderful contradictions of the proud
human heart, this generous offer from the poor actress gave him a
distaste, a displeasure, that almost reconciled him to parting from
her. It seemed to open to him at once the equivocal mode of life he had
entered upon. “No, Fanny,” said he, after a pause, “I am here because I
resolved to be independent: I cannot, therefore, choose dependence.”
“Miss Millinger is wanted instantly for rehearsal,” said the little
girl who acted fairies and old women, putting her head suddenly into the
room.
“Bless me!” cried Fanny, starting up; “is it so late? Well, I must go
now. Good-bye! look in upon us--do!”
But Godolphin, moody and thoughtful, walked into the street; and lo! the
first thing that greeted his eyes was a handbill on the wall, describing
his own person, and offering twenty guineas reward for his detention.
“Let him return to his afflicted parent,” was the conclusion of the
bill, “and all shall be forgiven.”
Godolphin crept back to his apartment; wrote a long, affectionate letter
to Fanny; inclosed her his watch, as the only keepsake in his power;
gave her his address at Saville’s; and then, towards dusk, once more
sallied forth, and took a place in the mail for London. He had no money
for his passage, but his appearance was such that the coachman readily
trusted him; and the next morning at daybreak he was under Saville’s
roof.