THE PALMY DAYS OF NANCE OLDFIELD
BY
EDWARD ROBINS
WITH PORTRAITS
1898
[Illustration: Mrs. Oldfield the celebrated Comedian]
CONTENTS
I. FROM TAVERN TO THEATRE
II. AN ENTRE-ACTE
III. A BELLE OF METTLE
IV. MANAGERIAL WICKEDNESS
V. A DEAD HERO
VI. IN TRAGIC PATHS
VII. NANCE AT HOME
VIII. THE MIMIC WORLD
IX. "GRIEF À LA MODE"
X. THE BARTON BOOTHS
XI. THE FADING OF A STAR
APPENDIX
PORTRAITS
Frontispiece: Mrs. Anne Oldfield
Title-page: Mrs. Oldfield in the Character of Fair Rosamond
Colley Cibber in the Character of Sir Novelty Fashion
Robert Wilks
William Congreve
Mrs. Anne Bracegirdle
Mrs. Bracegirdle as the "Sultaness"
Joseph Addison
Mrs. Anne Oldfield
Mr. Mills, Mrs. Porter, Mr. Cibber
Sir John Vanbrugh
Sir Richard Steele
Barton Booth
THE PALMY DAYS OF NANCE OLDFIELD
CHAPTER I
FROM TAVERN TO THEATRE
"Out of question, you were born in a merry hour," says Don Pedro to
the blithesome heroine of "Much Ado About Nothing."
"No, sure, my lord," answers Beatrice. "My mother cried; but then
there was a star danced, and under that was I born."
Surely a star, possibly Venus, must have danced gaily on a certain
night in the year of grace 1683, when the wife of Captain Oldfield,
gentleman by birth and Royal Guardsman by profession, brought into the
busy, unfeeling world of London a pretty mite of a girl. 'Twas a year
of grace indeed, for the little stranger happened to be none other
than Anne Oldfield, whose elegance of manner, charm of voice and
action and loveliness of face would in time make her the most
delightful comedienne of her day. Perhaps she found no instant
welcome, this diminutive maiden who came smiling into existence laden
with a message from the sunshine; her father was richer in ancestry
than guineas, and the arrival of another daughter may have seemed an
honour hardly worth the bestowal.[A] But Thalia laughed, as well she
might, and even the stern features of Melpomene relaxed a little in
witnessing the birth of one who would prove almost as wondrous in
tragedy, when she so minded, as she was fascinating in the gentler
phases of her art.
[Footnote A: According to Edmund Bellchambers, Anne Oldfield "would
have possessed a tolerable fortune, had not her father, a captain in
the army, expended it at a very early period."]
Yet the laughter of Thalia and the unbending of her sister Muse were
hardly likely to make much impression in the Oldfield household, where
money had more admirers than mythology, and so we are not surprised to
learn that, with the death of the gallant captain, this "incomparable
sweet girl," who would ere long reconcile even a supercilious
Frenchman to the English stage, had to seek her living as a
seamstress. How she sewed a bodice or hemmed a petticoat we know not,
nor do we care; it is far more interesting to be told that, though
only in her early teens, the toiler with the needle found her greatest
recreation in reading Beaumont and Fletcher's plays. The modern young
woman, be her station high or low, would take no pleasure in such a
literary occupation, but in the days of Nance Oldfield to con the
pages of Beaumont and Fletcher was considered a privilege rather than
a duty. Then, again, the little seamstress had a soul above threads
and thimbles; her heart was with the players, and we can imagine her
running off some idle afternoon to peep slyly into Drury Lane Theatre,
or perhaps walk over into Lincoln's Inn Fields, where the noble
Betterton and his companions had formed a rival company. The
performance over, she hurries to the Mitre Tavern, in St. James's
Market, and here she is sure of a warm welcome, as is but natural,
since the Mrs. Voss who rules the destinies of the hostelry is Anne's
elder sister[A]. Here the girl loves to spend those rare moments of
leisure, reading aloud the comedies of long ago and dreaming of the
future; and here, too, it is that dashing Captain Farquhar listens in
amazement as she recites the "Scornful Lady."
[Footnote A: According to one authority Mrs. Voss was Anne's aunt. We
adhere, however, to Dr. Doran's account of the relationship.]
George Farquhar--how his name conjures up a vision of all that
is brilliant, rakish, and bibulous in the expiring days of the
seventeenth century! It is easy to picture him, as he stands near
the congenial bar of the tavern, entranced by the liquid tones and
marvellous expression of Nance's youthful voice. He has a whimsical,
good-humoured face, perhaps showing the rubicund effects of steady
drinking (as whose features did not in those halcyon times of merry
nights and tired mornings?), and a general air of loving the world and
its pleasures, despite a secret suspicion that a hard-hearted bailiff
may be lying in wait around the corner. His flowing wig may seem a
trifle old, the embroidery on his once resplendent vest look sadly
tarnished, and the cloth of his skirted coat exhibit the unmistakable
symptoms of age, but, for all that, Captain Farquhar stands forth an
honourable, high-spirited gentleman. And gentleman George Farquhar
is both by birth and bearing. Was he not the son of genteel parents
living in the North of Ireland, and did he not receive a polite
education at the University in Dublin? So polite, indeed, has his
training been that he is already the author of that wonderful "Love
and a Bottle," a comedy wherein he amusingly holds the mirror up to
English vices, including his own. And, speaking of vices, he can now
look back to those salad days when he wrote verses of unimpeachable
morality, setting forth, among other sentiments, that--
"The pliant Soul of erring Youth
Is, like soft Wax, or moisten'd Clay,
Apt to receive all heav'nly Truth,
Or yield to Tyrant Ill the Sway.
Shun Evil in your early Years,
And Manhood may to Virtue rise;
But he who, in his Youth, appears
A Fool, in Age will ne'er be wise."
Poor fellow! He never will be wise in the material sense; he will trip
gracefully through life with more brains and bonhomie than worldly
discretion, yet eclipsing many steadier companions by writing the
"Recruiting Officer" and other sparkling plays, not forgetting "The
Inconstant," which will last even unto the end of the nineteenth
century. At present--and 'tis the present rather than the past or
future that most concerns the captain--he holds a commission in the
army, which he is foolish enough to relinquish later on, and he has
come to the very sensible conclusion that he is far more at home in
the writing of comedies than the acting therein. For he has been
on the stage, and precipitately retired therefrom after accidently
wounding a fellow performer[A]. In the course of two or three years
Farquhar will make a desperate attempt to be mercenary by marrying a
girl whom he supposes to be wealthy; he will find out his mistake, and
then, like the thoroughbred that he is, will go on cherishing her as
though she had brought him a ton of rent-rolls. When he is dead and
gone, Chetwood, the veteran prompter of Drury Lane, will tell
us, quaintly enough, how "it was affirm'd, by some of his near
Acquaintance, his unfortunate Marriage shortened his Days; for his
Wife (by whom he had two Daughters), through the Reputation of a great
Fortune, trick'd him into Matrimony. This was chiefly the Fault of her
Love, which was so violent that she was resolved to use all Arts to
gain him. Tho' some Husbands, in such a Case, would have proved _mere
Husbands_, yet he was so much charm'd with her Love and Understanding,
that he liv'd very happy with her. Therefore when I say an unfortunate
Marriage, with other Circumstances, conducted to the shortening of his
Days; I only mean that his Fortune, being too slender to support a
Family, led him into a great many Cares and Inconveniences."
[Footnote A: Farquhar was playing in "The Indian Emperor" being cast
for Guyomar, a character whose pleasant duty it is to kill Vasquez,
the Spanish general. This particular Guyomar forgot to change his
sword for a theatre foil, and in the subsequent encounter gave Vasquez
too realistic a punishment].
No one would have appreciated the unconscious humour of Chetwood's
assertion about "some husbands" more than Farquhar himself. One
trembles to think, by the way what a "mere husband" must have been in
the reigns of William or Anne.
In the meantime we are almost forgetting young Mistress Oldfield, who
is still reading the "Scornful Lady," and putting new life and grace
into lines which nowadays seem a bit academic and musty. The captain
has not forgotten her, however; on the contrary, he is so charmed with
what he hears that he makes some flimsy excuse to get into that room
behind the bar whence the silvery voice proceeds. There he first meets
Nance, surrounded by what audience we know not, and is struck dumb at
the lovely figure standing out in bashful relief, as it were, against
a background of wine bottles and ale tankards. There is an awkward
pause, no doubt, and if the girl of fifteen comes to a sudden stop in
her recital, Farquhar is no less embarrassed on his part.
The handsome, rosy face of a strapping tavern wench would not have
startled him, but he was not gazing upon a bouncing serving maid or
the hoydenish daughter of a prosperous innkeeper. He beheld a creature
in all the gentle bloom of highbred beauty--tall, well-formed, and
radiating a sort of natural elegance, with a fine-shaped, expressive
face, to which great speaking eyes and a mouth half pensive, half
smiling, lent an air of rare distinction. These were the eyes which
in after years Anne would half close in a roguish way, as when, for
instance, she meditated a brilliant stroke as Lady Betty Modish, and
then, opening them defiantly, would make them glisten with the spirit
of twinkling comedy. These were the eyes, too, which would shine forth
such unutterable love when she played Cleopatra that one might well
pardon the peccadilloes of poor Antony. But as yet there was no
thought of drooping eyelids or amorous glances; all was natural, and
nothing more so than the coyness of Nance upon seeing the author of
"Love and a Bottle."
Captain Farquhar had never before beheld this seamstress from King
Street, Westminster, but she must have been familiar with the handsome
figure of one who had drunk many a brimming glass at the Mitre Tavern.
Thus, when he made bold to praise her elocution, she was not offended,
and, although she ignored his request to continue the "Scornful Lady,"
Anne proved sufficiently mistress of the interruption to astonish the
intruder by her "discourse and sprightly wit." That innate breeding,
of which no amount of poverty could deprive her, came to the surface,
to show that a woman of quality is none the worse for a surprise.
Farquhar, bowing low with a grace that made his faded clothes seem the
pink of fashion, poured forth a torrent of flowery compliments, which
became all the stronger when he heard that the girl knew Beaumont and
Fletcher nearly by heart. She must have blushed, looking prettier than
ever, as the visitor went on; and how that young heart did leap as
he predicted for her a glorious future on the stage! The stage! the
_Ultima Thule_ of all her hopes! The very idea of acting filled her
head with a thousand bewildering fancies, and, as she told Chetwood in
after years, "I longed to be at it, and only wanted a little decent
intreaties."
The decent intreaties were forthcoming. Nance's mother, who evidently
rejoiced in a prophetic spirit not given to all parents, strongly
agreed with Farquhar's opinion that the young lady should try a
theatrical career, and the upshot of the whole episode was that
Captain Vanbrugh took an interest in the newly-found jewel. This was a
high honour. Vanbrugh had not yet made for himself a reputation as an
architect by building Blenheim Castle for the Marlboroughs, nor had
he changed his title of Captain for Sir John; but he was a great
man, nevertheless, a successful dramatist and a boon companion of
Christopher Rich, manager of Drury Lane. When the enthusiastic
Farquhar sounded the praises of Anne Oldfield the future Sir John
quickly repaired to the sign of the Mitre, with which, no doubt, he
was already familiar, and met the young enchantress of that historic
little room behind the bar. The arrival of this second and more
distinguished captain was evidently the signal for a family council.
We can see them all--Nance, glowing with excitement, her Brahmin-like,
aristocratic beauty heightened by a dash of natural colour, quite
different from the rouge she might use later; Mrs. Voss, sleepy,
comfortable, and well pleased; and Mrs. Oldfield, full of importance
and maternal solicitude. Vanbrugh, with his good-humoured smile and
military bearing, talks in a fatherly way to the daughter, is deeply
impressed with her many attractions, and is not sorry to learn that
her ambition is all for comedy. He promises to use his good offices
with Mr. Rich to have her enrolled as a member of the Drury Lane
company, keeps his word, too--something for a gentleman to do in the
year 1699--and soon has the satisfaction of seeing his new protégée
hobnobbing with Mrs. Verbruggen, Wilks, Cibber, and other players of
the house, while drawing fifteen shillings a week for the privilege.
To hobnob, receive a few shillings, and do next to nothing on the
stage does not seem a glorious beginning for our heroine, but think
of the inestimable luxury of brushing up against Colley Cibber. This
remarkable man, who would be in turn actor, manager, playwright, and a
pretty bad Poet Laureate before death would put an extinguisher on
his prolific muses, had at first no exalted opinion of the newcomer's
powers.
"In the year 1699," he writes in that immortal biography of his,[A]
"Mrs. Oldfield was first taken into the house, where she remain'd
about a twelvemonth, almost a mute and unheeded, 'till Sir John
Vanbrugh, who first recommended her, gave her the part of Alinda in
the 'Pilgrim' revis'd. This gentle character happily became that want
of confidence which is inseparable from young beginners, who, without
it, seldom arrive to any excellence. Notwithstanding, I own I was then
so far deceiv'd in my opinion of her, that I thought she had little
more in her person that appeared necessary to the forming a good
actress; for she set out with so extraordinary a diffidence, that it
kept her too despondingly down to a formal, plain, (not to say)flat
manner of speaking."
[Footnote A: "An Apology for the Life of Mr. Colley Cibber."]
How strange it seems, as we peer back behind the scenes of history,
to think of a theatrical _débutante_ rejoicing in an extraordinary
diffidence. "Rather a cynical remark, isn't it?" the reader may ask.
Well, perhaps it is, but these are piping times of advertising, when
even genius has been known to employ a press agent.
Nance Oldfield may have been almost mute for a twelvemonth, yet more
than a few feminine novices, Anno Domino 1898, would never be
content to remain silent; not only must they make a noise behind the
footlights, but they feel it incumbent to be heard in the newspapers
as well. Any dramatic editor could tell a weary tale of the
importunities of a progressive young lady who wants to enlighten
an aching public at least six times a week as to the number of her
dresses, the colour of her hair, and the attention of her admirers.
There is a blessed consolation in all this: the female with the
trousseau, the champagned locks and the notoriety lasts no longer
than the butterfly, and her place is soon taken by the girl who never
bothers about the paragraphs, because she is sure to get them.
To return to the more congenial subject of Oldfield, it is strange
that so shrewd a Thespian as Cibber (who seems to have been clever in
all things but poetry) was so long in coming to a real appreciation of
her genius. He is manly enough to confess that not even the silvery
tone of that honeyed voice could, "'till after some time incline my
ear to any hope in her favour." "But public approbation," he tells us,
"is the warm weather of a theatrical plant, which will soon bring it
forward to whatever perfection nature has design'd it. However, Mrs.
Oldfield (perhaps for want of fresh parts) seem'd to come but slowly
forward 'till the year 1703." So slowly had she come forward indeed,
that in 1702, Gildon, a now forgotten critic and dramatist, included
her among the "meer Rubbish that ought to be swept off the stage with
the Filth and Dust."[A] Time has avenged the actress for this slight;
who, excepting the student of theatrical history, remembers Gildon?
[Footnote A: From the "Comparison Between the Two Stages."]
What is more to the purpose, Nance was able to avenge herself in the
flesh, only a few months after these contemptuous lines had been
penned. It happened at Bath, in the summer of 1703, and the story of
her triumph, brief as it is, sounds quaint and pretty, as it comes
down to us laden with a thousand suggestions of fashionable life in
the reign of Queen Anne--a life made up of gossip and cards, drinking,
gaming, patches and powder, fine clothes, full perriwigs and empty
heads. What a picturesque lot of people there must have been at the
great English spa that season, all anxious to get a glimpse of her
plump majesty, who was staying there, and all willing enough to do
anything except to test the waters or the baths from which the place
first acquired fame. They were all there, the pretty maids and
wrinkled matrons, the young rakes of twenty, ready for a frolic, and
the old rakes of thirty too weary to do much more than go to the
theatre and cry out, "Damme, this is a damn'd play." Then the
children, who were always in the way, and the aged fathers of families
who liked to swear at the dandified airs and newly imported French
manners of their sons. And such sons as some of them were too--smart
fellows, of whom the beau described in "The Careless Husband," may be
taken as an example: one "that's just come to a small estate, and a
great perriwig--he that sings himself among the women--he won't speak
to a gentleman when a lord's in company. You always see him with a
cane dangling at his button, his breast open, no gloves, one eye
tuck'd under his hat, and a toothpick."
What of the belles of the Bath? They seem to have been much after the
fashion of their modern sisters, with their harmless little vanities,
their love of expensive finery, and their pretty eyes ever watching
for the main chance, or a chance man. Odsbodkins! but the world has
changed very little, for even then we hear of dashing specimens of the
New Woman, in the persons of ladies who affected men's hats, feathers,
coats, and perriwigs, to such an extent that our dear friend Addison
will gently rebuke them during the reign of the _Spectator_. He
doubts if this masculinity will "smite more effectually their male
beholders," for how would the sweet creatures themselves be affected
"should they meet a man on horseback, in his breeches and jack-boots,
and at the same time dressed up in a commode[A] and a night raile?"
[Footnote A: A cumbersome head-dress made of lace or muslin.]
How charming it would have been to watch the whole gay crew, just
as Addison and Steele must have done, and to feel, like these
two delightful philosophers, that you were a little above the
surroundings. Poor Dick Steele may not always have been above those
surroundings; we can fancy him taking things comfortably in some
tippling-house, red-faced, happy, and winey, but even the most
puritanical of us will forgive him. Read, by the way, what he says of
the Spa's morals[A]--"I found a sober, modest man was always looked
upon by both sexes as a precise, unfashioned fellow of no life or
spirit. It was ordinary for a man who had been drunk in good company,
or.... to speak of it next day before women for whom he had the
greatest respect. He was reproved, perhaps, with a blow of the fan,
or an 'Oh, fy!' but the angry lady still preserved an apparent
approbation in her countenance. He was called a strange, wicked
fellow, a sad wretch; he shrugs his shoulders, swears, receives
another blow, swears again he did not know he swore, and all was well.
You might often see men game in the presence of women, and throw at
once for more than they were worth, to recommend themselves as men of
spirit. I found by long experience that the loosest principles and
most abandoned behaviour carried all before them in pretentions to
women of fortune."
[Footnote A: _Spectator_, No. 154. Steele is writing as Simon
Honeycomb.]
Into this merry throng came Anne Oldfield during that
never-to-be-forgotten summer--not, however, as an equal, but as an
humble player of the troupe from Drury Lane. They had moved down from
London, these happy-go-lucky Bohemians, as they were wont to do each
season, among them being the ubiquitous Cibber, the gentlemanly Wilks,
and that very talented vagabond, George Powell. Powell it was who
liked his brandy not wisely but too well, and who made such passionate
love on the stage that Sir John Vanbrugh used to wax nervous for the
fate of the actresses. One great artiste was missing, however. Mrs.
Verbruggen was ill in London, and that shining exponent of light
comedy, who Cibber said was mistress of more variety of humour than
he ever knew in any one actress, would never more tread those boards
which were dearer to her than life.[A] Before she disappears for ever
from these "Palmy Days" let us read a page or two about her from the
graphic pictures in that famous "Apology for the Life of Mr. Colley
Cibber":--
* * * * *
"As she was naturally a pleasant mimick, she had the skill to make
that talent useful on the stage, a talent which may be surprising in
a conversation, and yet be lost when brought to the theatre.... But
where the elocution is round, distinct, voluble, and various, as Mrs.
Montfort's was, the mimick there is a great assistant to the actor."
[Footnote A: A brief memoir of Mrs. Verbruggen and her first husband,
handsome Will Mountford, will be found in "Echoes of the Playhouse."]
* * * * *
Which reminds one that more than a baker's dozen of modern comedians,
so called, are nothing less than mimics. However, this is digressing,
and so we continue:
"Nothing, tho' ever so barren, if within the bounds of nature, could
be flat in her hands. She gave many heightening touches to characters
but coldly written, and often made an author vain of his work that in
itself had but little merit. She was so fond of humour, in what low
part soever to be found, that she would make no scruple of defacing
her fair form to come heartily into it;[A] for when she was eminent
in several desirable characters of wit and humour in higher life, she
would be in as much fancy when descending into the antiquated Abigail
of Fletcher ('Scornful Lady') as when triumphing in all the airs and
vain graces of a fine lady, a merit that few actresses care for. In
a play of D'Urfey's, now forgotten, called the 'Western Lass,' which
part she acted, she transformed her whole being, body, shape, voice,
language, look, and features, into almost another animal, with a
strong Devonshire dialect, a broad, laughing voice, a poking head,
round shoulders, an unconceiving eye, and the most bediz'ning, dowdy
dress that ever cover'd the untrain'd limbs of a Joan Trot. To have
seen her here you would have thought it impossible the same creature
could ever have been recover'd to what was as easy to her, the gay,
the lively, and the desirable. Nor was her humour limited to her sex;
for, while her shape permitted, she was a more adroit pretty fellow
than is usually seen upon the stage. Her easy air, action, mien, and
gesture quite chang'd, from the quoif to the cock'd hat and cavalier
in fashion. People were so fond of seeing her a man, that when the
part of Bays in the 'Rehearsal' had for some time lain dormant, she
was desired to take it up, which I have seen her act with all the true
coxcombly spirit and humour that the sufficiency of the character
required."
[Footnote A: Davies, in his "Life of Garrick," says of Peg Woffington
that "in Mrs. Day, in the 'Committee,' she made no scruple to disguise
her beautiful countenance by drawing on it the lines of deformity and
the wrinkles of old age, and to put on the tawdry habilaments and
vulgar manners of an old hypocritical city vixen."]
Let us cry peace to her manes and then wander back to Mistress
Oldfield, whom we have a very ungallant way of leaving from time to
time.
Well, Verbruggen having been taken out of the dramatic lists "most of
her parts," as Colley chronicles, "were, of course, to be disposed of,
yet so earnest was the female scramble for them, that only one of them
fell to the share of Mrs. Oldfield, that of Leonora in 'Sir Courtly
Nice'; a character of good plain sense, but not over elegantly
written."
A "female scramble" it must have been with a vengeance, as any one who
knows aught of theatrical ambition will easily understand. The only
really distinguished actress of the Drury Lane coterie _hors de
combat_, and a bevy of feminine vultures of no particular pretension,
anxiously waiting to dispose of her histrionic remains! Think of it,
ye managers who have to subdue the passions and limit the extravagant
hopes of your players, and pity poor, unfortunate Mr. Rich. Do you
wonder that Nance only contrived to get the plain-spoken Leonora? The
wonder of it is that she obtained any rôle whatsoever.
Let Cibber continue the story, while he frankly confesses that even he
could form a false estimate of a colleague:
* * * * *
"It was in this part Mrs. Oldfield surpris'd me into an opinion of her
having all the innate powers of a good actress, though they were yet
but in the bloom of what they promis'd. Before she had acted this part
I had so cold an expectation from her abilities, that she could scarce
prevail with me to rehearse with her the scenes she was chiefly
concerned in with Sir Courtly, which I then acted. However, we
ran them over with a mutual inadvertency of one another. I seem'd
careless, as concluding that any assistance I could give her would be
to little or no purpose; and she mutter'd out her words in a sort of
mifty manner at my low opinion of her. But when the play came to be
acted, she had just occasion to triumph over the error of my judgment,
by the (almost) amazement that her unexpected performance awak'd me
to; so forward and sudden a step into nature I had never seen; and
what made her performance more valuable was that I knew it all
proceeded from her own understanding, untaught and unassisted by any
one more experienced actor."
* * * * *
In the original text, Cibber, in pursuance of that old-fashioned
method of capitalising every third or fourth word without any
particular rhyme or reason, has spelled occasion with a big O. Well
he might, for it was, perhaps, the most important occasion in all the
eventful life of Oldfield. She would win many a more popular triumph
in days to come, but what were all of them compared to the honour of
having compelled the writer to admit that he had blundered.
"Though this part of Leonora in itself was of so little value, that
when she got more into esteem it was one of the several she gave away
to inferior actresses; yet it was the first (as I have observed) that
corrected my judgment of her, and confirmed me in a strong belief
that she could not fail in very little time of being what she was
afterwards allow'd to be, the foremost ornament of our Theatre."
It takes but slight exercise of fancy to see inside the stuffy little
theatre of Bath, on that memorable summer afternoon, when "Sir Courtly
Nice"[A] is produced, with Cibber in the foppish title-rôle and the
fair unknown as Leonora, "Belguard's sister, in love with Farewell."
Her fat, peaceful, and phlegmatic Majesty, Anne Stuart, is in the
royal box, perhaps (although she is far from being a playgoer), and
with her retinue may be seen her dearest of friends, Sarah Churchill,
now Duchess of Marlborough, and the most brilliant political Amazon of
her time. How appropriate, by-the-way, that they should be together at
the comedy. The whole intimacy of the two, gentle Sovereign and fiery
subject, is nothing more or less than a curious play, wherein Anne
takes the rôle of Queen (unwillingly enough, poor thing, for she was
born to be bourgeoise) and the Duchess assumes the leading part.
Unfortunate "Mrs. Morley"![B] You have a weary time of it, trying to
act up to royalty when you would be so much happier as a middle-class
housewife, and, perhaps, you have never been more bored than you are
to-day in viewing "Sir Courtly Nice." Nor can the performance be as
delightful as it might otherwise prove to her of Marlborough; 'tis but
a few months since her son, the Marquis of Blandford, had ended in
small-pox a career which promised to carry on the greatness of his
house.
[Footnote A: "Sir Courtly Nice; or, It Cannot be," was from the pen of
John Crown. In dedicating it to the Duke of Ormond, as can be seen in
the original publication of the piece ("London, Printed by H.H. Jun.
for R. Bently, in Russell street, Covent Garden, and Jos. Hindmarsh,
at the Golden-Ball over against the Royal Exchange in Cornhill,
MDCLXXXV"). The author says: "This comedy was Written by the Sacred
Command of our late Most Excellent King, of ever blessed and beloved
Memory (Charles II.). I had the great good fortune to please Him often
at his Court in my Masque, on the Stage in Tragedies and Comedies, and
so to advance myself in His good opinion; an Honour may render a
wiser Man than I vain; for I believe he had more equals in extent of
Dominion than of Understanding. The greatest pleasure he had from the
Stage was in Comedy, and he often Commanded me to Write it, and lately
gave me a Spanish Play called 'No' Puedeser Or, It Cannot Be' out of
which I took part o' the Name and design o' this."]
[Footnote B: It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that in the
private correspondence between Anne and the Duchess of Marlborough,
the former signed herself "Mrs. Morley," while her friend masqueraded
as "Mrs. Freeman."]
The comedy is about to begin as a common-looking person makes his
appearance in the box. He is a dull, heavy fellow, who suggests
nothing more strongly than a fondness for brown October ale and a good
dinner into the bargain. Anne turns towards him with as affectionate
a glance as she thinks it seeming to bestow in public. Is he not her
husband, George of Denmark, and the father of all those children whom
she never has succeeded in rearing to man's, or woman's, estate? He is
a faithful consort, too, which is saying not a little in the days when
Royal constancy, on the male side, is the rarest of jewels. George
has vices, to be sure, but they belong to the stomach rather than the
heart--that obese heart which, such as it is, the good Queen can call
her own.
"Hath your Royal Highness ever seen this Cibber act?" asked the
Duchess, by way of making conversation. She never stands on ceremony
with soft-pated George, and does not wait to speak until she is spoken
to.
"Cibber--Cibber--who be Cibber?" queries the Prince, a beery look in
his eye, a foreign accent on his tongue.
"He's the son of the sculptor, Caius Gabriel Cibber, your Highness."
"I do not know--I do not know," mutters George drowsily. Then he falls
asleep in the box, and snores so deeply that Manager Rich, who has
been in the front of the house, pokes his inquisitive face into the
poorly-lighted auditorium, and quickly pokes it back again.
But hush! Wake up, Prince, and look at the stage. The play has begun,
and some member of the company, we know not who, has recited the
archaic prologue, which asks:
"What are the Charmes, by which these happy Isles
Hence gain'd Heaven's brightest and eternal smiles?
What Nation upon Earth besides our own
But by a loss like ours had been undone?
Ten Ages scarce such Royal worths display
As England lost, and found in one strange Day.
One hour in sorrow and confusion hurld,
And yet the next the envy of the World."
[Illustration: COLLEY CIBBER
In the character of "Sir Novelty Fashion, newly created Lord
Foppington," in Vanbrugh's play of "The Relapse, or, Virtue in
Danger."
_From the Painting by_ J. GRISONI, _the property of the Garrick Club_]
The King is dead! Long live the Queen! The prologue was written in
honour of his most Catholic Majesty James II. and his consort, Marie
Beatrice of Modena, but the opening lines are admirably adapted to
flatter Anne, and so they are retained, even though what follows
happens to be new.[A]
[Footnote A: The remainder of the original prologue, had it been
recited, would have raised a storm.]
But what care we for the prologue when the first scene is on and
Violante and Leonora are confessing their respective love affairs, as
women always do--on the stage. Leonora has a dragon of a brother who
would compel her to marry that pink of empty propriety, Sir Courtly,
but she rebels against the admirer selected for her, as all well-bred
young women should in plays, and sets her heart upon another. In
consequence there is trouble of the dear old romantic kind.
"I never stir out, but as they say the Devil does, with chains and
torments," Leonora tells Violante. "She that is my Hell at home is so
abroad."
"Vio. A New Woman?
"LEO. No, an old Woman, or rather an old Devil; nay, worse than an old
Devil, an old Maid.
"Vio. Oh, there's no Fiend so Envious.
"LEO. Right; she will no more let young People sin, than the Devil
will let 'em be sav'd, out of envy to their happiness.
"Vio. Who is she?
"LEO. One of my own blood, an Aunt.
"Vio. I know her. She of thy blood? She has not a drop of it these
twenty years; the Devil of envy sucked it all out, and let verjuice in
the roome."
These lines are decidedly unfeminine and coarse, as viewed from a
nineteenth century standard, and there is nothing in them to recommend
the two girls to the particular favour of the audience. Yet, in
the case of Leonora, they are given with such rare spirit, and the
speaker, with her almost sensuous charm and the melody of that
marvellous voice, is so fascinating, that the house is suddenly caught
in some entrancing spell. Oldfield has burst upon it in all the sudden
glory of a newly unfolded flower, and murmurs of admiration and
surprise are heard on every side. More than this, Queen Anne, whose
thoughts may have been far away with the dead Duke of Gloucester,
betrays a sudden interest in the performance, and thus sets the
fashion for all those around her, excepting his most sleepy Royal
Highness, the Prince of Denmark. He dozes on; twenty angels from
heaven would not disturb him.
As the play proceeds, the curiosity centres around the new Leonora,
so that even the scene where Sir Courtly is found making the most
elaborate of toilets, with the assistance of a bevy of vocalists, does
not exert the attraction to be found in the presence of Oldfield. The
episode is all very funny, of course, and there is an appreciative
titter when the fop defines the characteristics of a gentleman:
"Complaisance, fine hands, a mouth well furnished--
"SERVANT. With fine language?
"SIR COURTLY. Fine teeth, you sot; fine language belongs to pedants
and poor fellows that live by their wits. Men of quality are above
wit. 'Tis true, for our diversion, sometimes we write, but we ne'er
regard wit. I write, but I never write any wit.
"SERVANT. How then, sir?
"SIR COURTLY. I write like a gentleman, soft and easy."
It is only a titter, however, that Cibber can produce this afternoon,
or evening,[A] nor does the audience take the usual relish in that
touch-and-go rubbish of a duet sung by a supposed Indian and his love,
a duet in which the former declares:
"My other Females all Yellow, fair or Black,
To thy Charmes shall prostrate fall,
As every kind of elephant does
To the white Elephant Buitenacke.
And thou alone shall have from me
Jimminy, Gomminy, whee, whee, whee,
The Gomminy, Jimminy, whee."
To which the lovely maiden answers:
"The great Jaw-waw that rules our Land,
And pearly Indian sea
Has not so absolute Command
As thou hast over me,
With a Jimminy, Gomminy, Gomminy,
Jimminy, Jimminy, Gomminy, whee."
[Footnote A: Theatrical performances in this reign generally began at
5 p.m.]
When the play is over Nance can take a new part, that of a feminine
conqueror. She has overshadowed Colley Cibber, who is more dazed than
chagrined at the _dénouement_, and she has proved more potent for the
public amusement than all the beauties of "Jimminy, Gomminy," with its
elephants, its jaw-waw, and its pearly Indian Sea. As she sits in the
green-room, smiling in girlish triumph while she looks around at the
beaux and players who crowd about her, anxious to worship the rising
star, her eloquent glance falls on George Farquhar. There is a tear
in his eye, but a radiant expression about the face. What does the
Oldfield's success mean to the Captain? Perhaps Anne knows, as she
throws him a tender recognition; perhaps she thinks of that song in
"Sir Courtly Nice" which runs:
"Oh, be kind, my dear, be kind,
Whilst our Loves and we are Young;
We shall find, we shall find,
Time will change the face or mind,
Youth will not continue long.
Oh, be kind, my dear, be kind."