It was a large room with six windows; these had been covered over with
red cloth, and the wall opposite was decorated with plates, flowers, and
wreaths woven out of branches of ilex and holly.
Chairs for the visitors had been arranged in a semicircle around the
Bishop's throne--a great square chair approached by steps, and rendered
still more imposing by the canopy, whose voluminous folds fell on either
side like those of a corpulent woman's dress. Opposite was the stage.
The footlights were turned down, but the blue mountains and brown
palm-trees of the drop-curtain, painted by one of the nuns, loomed
through the red obscurity of the room. Benches had been set along the
walls. Between them a strip of carpet, worked with roses and lilies,
down which the girls advanced when called to receive their prizes,
stretched its blue and slender length.
'His Grace is coming!' a nun cried, running in, and instantly the
babbling of voices ceased, and four girls hastened to the pianos placed
on either side of the stage, two left-hands struck a series of chords in
the bass, the treble notes replied, and, to the gallant measure of a
French polka, a stately prelate entered, smiling benediction as he
advanced, the soft clapping of feminine palms drowning, for a moment,
the slangy strains of the polka.
When the Bishop was seated on his high throne, the back of which
extended some feet above his head, and as soon as the crowd of visitors
had been accommodated with chairs around him, a nun made her way through
the room, seeking anxiously among the girls. She carried in her hand a
basket filled with programmes, all rolled and neatly tied with pieces of
different coloured ribbon. These she distributed to the ten tiniest
little children she could find, and, advancing five from either side,
they formed in a line and curtsied to the Bishop. One little dot, whose
hair hung about her head like a golden mist, nearly lost her balance;
she was, however, saved from falling by a companion, and then, like a
group of kittens, they tripped down the strip of blue carpet and handed
the programmes to the guests, who leaned forward as if anxious to touch
their hands, to stroke their shining hair.
The play was now ready to begin, and Alice felt she was going from hot
to cold, for when the announcement printed on the programme, that she
was the author of the comedy of _King Cophetua_ had been read, all eyes
were fixed upon her; the Bishop, after eyeing her intently, bent towards
the Reverend Mother and whispered to her. Cecilia clasped Alice's hand
and said: 'You must not be afraid, dear; I know it will be all right.'
And the little play was as charming as it was guileless. The old legend
had been arranged--as might have been expected from a schoolgirl--simply
and unaffectedly. The scene opened in a room in the palace of the King,
and when a chorus, supposed to be sung by the townspeople, was over, a
Minister entered hurriedly. The little children uttered a cry of
delight; they did not recognize their companion in her strange disguise.
A large wig, with brown curls hanging over the shoulders, almost hid the
face, that had been made to look quite aged by a few clever touches of
the pencil about the eyes and mouth. She was dressed in a long garment,
something between an ulster and a dressing-gown. It fell just below her
knees, for it had been decided by the Reverend Mother that it were
better that there should be a slight display of ankles than the least
suspicion of trousers. The subject was a delicate one, and for some
weeks past a look of alarm had not left the face of the nun in charge of
the wardrobe. But these considerations only amused the girls, and now,
delighted at the novelty of her garments, the Minister strutted about
the stage complaining of the temper of the Dowager Queen. 'Who could
help it if the King wouldn't marry? Who could make him leave his poetry
and music for a pretty face if he didn't care to do so? He had already
refused blue eyes, black eyes, brown eyes. However, the new Princess was
a very beautiful person, and ought, all things considered, to be
accepted by the King. She must be passing through the city at the
moment.'
On this the Queen entered. The first words she spoke were inaudible,
but, gathering courage, she trailed her white satin, with its large
brocaded pattern, in true queenly fashion, and questioned the Minister
as to his opinion of the looks of the new Princess. But she gave no
point to her words. The scene was, fortunately, a short one, and no
sooner had they disappeared than a young man entered. He held a lute in
his left hand, and with his right he twanged the strings idly. He was
King Cophetua, and many times during rehearsal Alice had warned May that
her reading of the character was not right; but May did not seem able to
accommodate herself to the author's view of the character, and, after a
few minutes, fell back into her old swagger; and now, excited by the
presence of an audience, by the footlights, by the long coat under which
she knew her large, well-shaped legs could be seen, she forgot her
promises, and strolled about like a man, as she had seen young Scully
saunter about the stable-yard at home. She looked, no doubt, very
handsome, and, conscious of the fact, she addressed her speeches to a
group of young men, who, for no ostensible reason except to get as far
away as possible from the Bishop, had crowded into the left-hand corner
of the hall.
And so great was May's misreading of the character, that Alice could
hardly realize that she was listening to her own play. Instead of
speaking the sentence, 'My dear mother, I could not marry anyone I did
not love; besides, am I not already wedded to music and poetry?' slowly,
dreamily, May emphasized the words so jauntily, that they seemed to be
poetic equivalents for wine and tobacco. There was no doubt that things
were going too far; the Reverend Mother frowned, and shifted her
position in her chair uneasily; the Bishop crossed his legs and took
snuff methodically.
But at this moment the attention of the audience was diverted by the
entrance of the Princess. May's misbehaviour was forgotten, and a murmur
of admiration rose through the red twilight. Dressed in a tight-fitting
gown of pale blue, opening in front, and finishing in a train held up by
the smallest child in the school, Olive moved across the stage like a
beautiful bird. Taking a wreath of white roses from her hair, she
presented them to the King. He had then to kiss her hand, and lead her
to a chair. In the scene that followed, Alice had striven to be
intensely pathetic. She had intended that the King, by a series of
kindly put questions, should gradually win the Princess's confidence,
and induce her to tell the truth--that her affections had already been
won by a knight at her father's Court; that she could love none other.
KING. But if this knight did not exist; if you had never seen him, you
would, I suppose, have accepted my hand?
PRINCESS. You will not be offended if I tell you the truth?
KING. No; my word on it.
PRINCESS. I could never have listened to your love.
KING (_rising hastily_). Am I then so ugly, so horrible, so vile, that
even if your heart were not engaged elsewhere you could not have
listened to me?
PRINCESS. You are neither horrible nor vile, King Cophetua; but again
promise me secrecy, and I will tell you the whole truth.
KING. I promise.
PRINCESS. You are loved by a maiden far more beautiful than I; she is
dying of love for your sake! She has suffered much for her love; she is
suffering still.
KING. Who is this maiden?
PRINCESS. Ah! She is but a beggar-maid; she lives on charity, the songs
she sings, and the flowers she sells in the streets. And now she is
poorer than ever, for your royal mother has caused her to be driven out
of the city.
Here the King weeps--he is supposed to be deeply touched by the
Princess's account of the wrongs done to the beggar-maid--and it is
finally arranged between him and the Princess that they shall pretend to
have come to some violent misunderstanding, and that, in their war of
words, they shall insult each other's parents so grossly that all
possibilities of a marriage will be for ever at an end. Throwing aside a
chair so as to bring the Queen within ear-shot, the King declares that
his royal neighbour is an old dunce, and that there is not enough money
in his treasury to pay the Court boot-maker; the Princess retaliates by
saying that the royal mother of the crowned head she is addressing is an
old cat, who paints her face and beats her maids-of-honour.
The play that up to this point had been considered a little tedious now
engaged the attention of the audience, and when the Queen entered she
was greeted with roars of laughter. The applause was deafening. Olive
played her part better than had been expected, and all the white frocks
trembled with excitement. The youths in the left-hand corner craned
their heads forward so as not to lose a syllable of what was coming; the
Bishop recrossed his legs in a manner that betokened his entire
satisfaction; and, delighted, the mammas and papas whispered together.
But the faces of the nuns betrayed the anxiety they felt. Inquiring
glances passed beneath the black hoods; all the sleek faces grew alive
and alarmed. May was now alone on the stage, and there was no saying
what indiscretion she might not be guilty of.
The Reverend Mother, however, had anticipated the danger of the scene,
and had sent round word to the nun in charge of the back of the stage to
tell Miss Gould that she was to set the crown straight on her head, and
to take her hands out of her pockets. The effect of receiving such
instructions from the wings was that May forgot one-half her words, and
spoke the other half so incorrectly that the passage Alice had counted
on so much--'At last, thank Heaven, that tiresome trouble is over, and I
am free to return to music and poetry'--was rendered into nonsense, and
the attention of the audience lost. Nor were matters set straight until
a high soprano voice was heard singing:
'Buy, buy, who will buy roses of me?
Roses to weave in your hair.
A penny, only a penny for three,
Roses a queen might wear!
Roses! I gathered them far away
In gardens, white and red.
Roses! Make presents of roses to-day
And help me to earn my bread.'
The King divined that this must be the ballad-singer--the beggar-maid
who loved him, who, by some secret emissaries of the Queen, had been
driven away from the city, homeless and outcast; and, snatching his lute
from the wall, he sang a few plaintive verses in response. The strain
was instantly taken up, and then, on the current of a plain religious
melody, the two voices were united, and, as two perfumes, they seemed to
blend and become one.
Alice would have preferred something less ethereal, for the exigencies
of the situation demanded that the King should get out of the window and
claim the hand of the beggar-maid in the public street. But the nun who
had composed the music could not be brought to see this, and, after a
comic scene between the Queen and the Chancellor, the King, followed by
his Court and suite, entered, leading the beggar-maid by the hand. In a
short speech he told how her sweetness, her devotion, and, above all,
her beautiful voice, had won his heart, and that he intended to make her
his Queen. A back cloth went up, and it disclosed a double throne, and
as the young bride ascended the steps to take her place by the side of
her royal husband, a joyful chorus was sung, in which allusion was made
to a long reign and happy days.
Everyone was enchanted but Alice, who had wished to show how a man, in
the trouble and bitterness of life, must yearn for the consoling
sympathy of a woman, and how he may find the dove his heart is sighing
for in the lowliest bracken; and, having found her, and having
recognized that she is the one, he should place her in his bosom,
confident that her plumes are as fair and immaculate as those that
glitter in the sunlight about the steps and terraces of the palace.
Instead of this, she had seen a King who seemed to regard life as a
sensual gratification; and a beggar-maid, who looked upon her lover, not
timidly, as a new-born flower upon the sun, but as a clever huckstress
at a customer who had bought her goods at her valuing. But the audience
did not see below the surface, and, in answer to clapping of hands and
cries of _Encore_, the curtain was raised once more, and King Cophetua,
seated on his throne by the side of his beggar-maid, was shown to them
again.
The excitement did not begin to calm until the _tableaux vivants_ were
ready. For, notwithstanding the worldliness of the day, it was thought
that Heaven should not be forgotten. The convent being that of the Holy
Child, something illustrative of the birth of Christ naturally suggested
itself. No more touching or edifying subject than that of the
Annunciation could be found. Violet's thin, elegant face seemed
representative of an intelligent virginity, and in a long, white dress
she knelt at the _prie-dieu._ Olive, with a pair of wings obtained from
the local theatre, and her hair, blonde as an August harvesting, lying
along her back, took the part of the Angel. She wore a star on her
forehead, and after an interval that allowed the company to recover
their composure, and the carpenter to prepare the stage, the curtain was
again raised. This time the scene was a stable. At the back, in the
right-hand corner, there was a manger to which was attached a stuffed
donkey; Violet sat on a low stool and held the new-born Divinity in her
arms; May, who for the part of Joseph had been permitted to wear a false
beard, held a staff, and tried to assume the facial expression of a man
who had just been blessed with a son. In the foreground knelt the three
wise men from the East; with outstretched hands they held forth their
offerings of frankincense and myrrh. The picture of the world's
Redemption was depicted with such taste that a murmur of pious
admiration sighed throughout the hall.
Soon after a distribution of prizes began, and when the different awards
had been distributed, and the Bishop had made a speech, there was
benediction in the convent-church.