0130
“You have so unnerved me, sir, that I vow I have no head for my lines,” said Miss Hoppner.
But when, by the aid of the prompter, the lines were recovered and she had repeated the scene, the result showed very little improvement. Garrick grumbled, and Miss Hoppner was tearful, as they went to the wardrobe room to see the dresses which had just been made for the principal ladies.
Miss Hoppner's tears quickly dried when she was brought face to face with the gorgeous fabric which she was to wear. It was a pink satin brocaded with white hawthorne, the stomacher trimmed with pearls. She saw that it was infinitely superior to the crimson stuff which had been assigned to Mrs. Woffington. She spoke rapturously of the brocade, and hurried with it in front of a mirror to see how it suited her style of beauty.
Mrs. Woffington watched her with a smile. A sudden thought seemed to strike her, and she gave a little laugh. After a moment's hesitation she went behind the other actress and said:
“I'm glad to see that you admire my dress, Miss Hoppner.”
“Your dress?” said Miss Hoppner. “Oh, yes, that crimson stuff—'t is very becoming to you, I'm sure, Mrs. Woffington; though, for that matter, you look well in everything.”
“'T is you who are to wear the crimson, my dear,” said Peggy. “I have made up my mind that the one you hold in your hand is the most suitable for me in the tragedy.”
“Nay, madam, Mr. Garrick assigned this one to me, and I think 't will suit me very well.”
“That is where Mr. Garrick made a mistake, child,” said Peggy. “And I mean to repair his error. The choice of dresses lies with me, Miss Hoppner.”
“I have yet to be made aware of that, madam.” said Miss Hoppner. Her voice had a note of shrillness in it, and Garrick, who was standing apart, noticed that her colour had risen with her voice. He became greatly interested in these manifestations of a spirit beyond that which she had displayed when rehearsing the tragedy.
“The sooner you are made aware of it, the better it will be for all concerned,” said Mrs. Woffington, with a deadly smile.
“I make bold to assure you, madam, that I shall be instructed on this point by Mr. Garrick and Mr. Garrick only,” said the other, raising her chin an inch or two higher than she was wont, except under great provocation.
“I care not whom you make your instructor, provided that you receive the instruction,” sneered Peggy.
“Mr. Garrick,” cried Miss Hoppner, “I beg that you will exercise your authority. You assigned to me the brocade, did you not, sir?”
“And I affirm that the brocade will be more suitably worn by me, sir,” said Peggy. “And I further affirm that I mean to wear it, Mr. Garrick.”
“I would fain hope that the caprice of a vain woman will not be permitted to have force against every reasonable consideration,” said Miss Hoppner, elevating her chin by another inch as she glanced out of the corners of her eyes in the direction of the other actress.
“That is all I ask for, madam; and as we are so agreed, I presume that you will hand me over the gown without demur.”
“Yours is the caprice, madam, let me tell you. I have right on my side.”
“And I shall have the brocade on mine by way of compensation, my dear lady.”
“Ladies!” cried Garrick, interposing, “I must beg of you not to embarrass me. 'T is a small matter—this of dress, and one that should not make a disagreement between ladies of talent. If one is a good actress, one can move an audience without so paltry an auxiliary as a yard or two of silk.”
“I will not pay Miss Hoppner so poor a compliment as would be implied by the suggestion that she needs the help of a silk brocade to eke out her resources as an actress,” said Peggy.
“I ask not for compliments from Mrs. Woffington. The brocade was assigned to me, and—”
“It would be ungenerous to take advantage of Mr. Garrick's error, madam.”
“It was no error, Mrs. Woffington.”
“What! you would let all the world know that Mr. Garrick's opinion was that you stood in need of a showy gown to conceal the defects of your art?”
“You are insolent, Mrs. Woffington!”
“Nay, nay, my dear ladies; let's have no more of this recrimination over a question of rags. It is unworthy of you,” said Garrick.
“I feel that, sir, and so I mean to wear the brocade,” said Mrs. Woffington. “Good lud, Mr. Garrick, what were you thinking of when you assigned to the poor victim of the murderess in the tragedy the crimson robe which was plainly meant to be in keeping with the gory intentions of her rival?”
“Surely I did not commit that mistake,” said Garrick. “Heavens! where can my thoughts have been? Miss Hoppner, madam, I am greatly vexed—”
“Let her take her brocade,” cried Miss Hoppner, looking with indignant eyes, first at the smiling Peggy, and then at Garrick, who was acting the part of a distracted man to perfection. “Let her wear it and see if it will hide the shortcomings of her complexion from the eyes of the playgoers.”
She walked away with a sniff before Peggy could deliver any reply.
Pray what trick have you on your mind now? asked Garrick, when he was alone with Peggy. “What was that caprice of yours?”
“Caprice? You are a fool, Davy. You even forget your own precepts, which your friend Mr. Johnson, in his wisdom condemned so heartily yesterday.”
“Good Lord! You mean to—”
“I mean to make Miss Hoppner act the part of a jealous woman to perfection.” And she did so. The next day at the rehearsal, Garrick, as well as every member of the company, was amazed at the energy which Miss Hoppner contrived to impart to the scene in the play where, in the character of Oriana, she stabbed her successful rival. She acted with a force that had scarcely been surpassed by Garrick's reading of the scene for her instruction the previous day.
“Faith, Peggy, you have given her a weapon for your own undoing,” said Garrick, as he walked home with Mrs. Woffington. “She will eclipse you, if you do not mind.”
“I 'll e'en run the risk,” said Peggy.
Alas! the next day Miss Hoppner was as feeble as ever—nay, the stabbing scene had never been so feebly gone through by her; and Garrick grumbled loudly.
Miss Hoppner did not seem to mind. At the end of the rehearsal she sought Peggy and offered her her hand.
“Mrs. Woffington,” she said, “I am desirous of asking your pardon for my curtness in the matter of the dress. I owe so much to your kindness, madam, I feel that my attempt to fix a quarrel upon you was the more base. Pray, forgive an unhappy creature, who only seeks to retain the honour of your friendship.”
“Oh, you goose!” said Peggy. “Why are you so foolish as to desire to make friends with me? You should have hated me—been ready to kill me—anything for the sake of becoming an actress.”
“You will not refuse me the forgiveness which I implore?” said Miss Hoppner.
“Nay, nay; I was in the wrong; it was my caprice, but carried out solely on your behalf, child,” said Peggy.
“On my behalf? Oh, you are quite right; I was beginning to forget myself—to forget that I was but a provincial actress.”
“Oh, you good natured creature!” cried Peggy. “I'll have to begin all over again.”
They had reached the stage door by this time, and were standing together in the long passage when a tall and good-looking man was admitted, enquiring for Miss Hoppner. Peggy did not fail to notice the brightening of the color of her companion as the gentleman advanced and took off his hat with a low bow. It was with a certain proprietary air that Miss Hoppner presented him to Peggy, by the name of Captain Joycelyn, of the Royal Scots.
“Captain Joycelyn is one of your warmest admirers, Mrs. Woffington,” said Miss Hoppner.
“Sir, I am overwhelmed,” said Mrs. Woffington, with a deep courtesy.
“Nay, madam, I am your servant, I swear,” said the gentleman. “I have often longed for this honor, but it ever seemed out of my reach. We of the Royal Scots consider ourselves no mean judges of your art, and we agree that the playhouse without Mrs. Woffington would be lusterless.”
“Ah, sir, you would still have Mrs. Clive,” suggested Peggy.
“Mrs. Clive? You can afford to be generous, madam,” laughed Captain Joycelyn.
“She is the most generous woman alive,” said Miss Hoppner. “She will prove herself such if she converses with you here for five minutes. I was going away forgetting that I had to talk to the wardrobe mistress about my turban. I shall not be more than five minutes away.”
“I protest it makes no demand upon my generosity to remain to listen to so agreeable a critic, though I admit that I do so with a certain tremor, sir,” said Peggy, with a charming assumption of the fluttered miss.
“A certain tremor? Why should you have a tremor, dear madam?” said the officer.
“Ah, 't is the talk of the town that all hearts go down before the Royal Scots, as the King's enemies did in the Low Countries.”
“An idle rumour, madam, I do assure you.”
“I might have thought so up till now; but now I think I would do wisely to retreat in order, Captain, while there is yet time.”
She looked up at his face with a smile of matchless coquetry.
“Nay, madam, you shall not stir,” said he, laughing. “'T is not the conqueror that should retreat. I am too conscientious a soldier to permit so gross a violation of the art of war. Seriously, why should you fly?”
“I am a poor strategist, but I have a sense of danger. Is Miss Hoppner a special friend of yours, sir?”
“A special friend? Well, we have been acquaintances for nigh half a year.”
“I thought I had seen her by your side at Ranelagh. She looked very happy. I dare say I should be ashamed to confess it, but I envied her.”
Peggy's eyes were turned upon the ground with a demureness that represented the finest art of the coquette.
“You—you envied her?” cried the officer. “How humble must be your aspirations, sweet creature! If I should not be thought to be over-bold I would offer—ah! I fear that so brief an acquaintanceship as ours does not warrant my presumption—”
“And yet you do not look like one who would be likely to give offense by overpresumption, sir.”
“I should be sorry to do so, madam. Well, if you promise not to flout me, I will say that if you will accept my escort any night to the Gardens, you will do me a great honour.”
“Oh, sir, your graceful offer overwhelms me. But, alas! all my evenings are not my own. I am free but this evening and to-morrow evening.”
“Then why not come this evening, madam?”
“Why not, indeed? only—is 't not too sudden, Captain? Ah, the dash of Royal Scots cannot be resisted!”
At this moment Miss Hoppner returned, and Peggy cried to her, “My dear child, your friend is Mercury—the messenger of the Elysian Fields—he has invited us to accompany him to Ranelagh to-night.”
“Indeed! That is kind of him,” said Miss Hoppner, without any great show of enthusiasm. “And you have accepted his invitation?”
“Ah! who could refuse?” cried Peggy. She had not failed to notice Captain Joycelyn's little start at her assumption that Miss Hoppner was also to be of the party. “You will not mar our enjoyment by refusing to come, my dear?” she added.
“Nay; if 't is all settled, I will not hold aloof,” said Miss Hoppner, brightening up somewhat.
They went out together, and before Peggy had parted from the others, the manner and the hour of their going had been arranged.
They went up to the gardens by boat. Their party numbered four, for Miss Hoppner had, when alone with Captain Joycelyn, so pouted that he had promised to bring with him a brother officer to add symmetry to the party. But if she fancied that this gentleman, who was one Ensign Cardew, was to be the companion of Mrs. Woffington, she soon became sensible of her mistake. By some strange error, for which only Peggy could account the couples got parted in the crowd, Peggy and the Captain disappearing mysteriously, and only meeting the Ensign and his companion at supper time.
The merriment of Peggy, at the supper, and the high spirits of Captain Joycelyn, who allowed himself to be spoon-fed by her with minced chicken, were powerless to disperse the cloud which hung over Miss Hoppner. She pouted at the supper, and pouted in the boat, and made only sarcastic replies to the exclamations of enjoyment addressed to her by the volatile Peggy.
The next day, before the rehearsal of the tragedy, Miss Hoppner said to Peggy, who was renewing her protestations of the enjoyment she had had on the previous evening:
“I think it right that you should know, Mrs. Woffington, that Captain Joycelyn some time ago made a proposal of marriage to me, which I accepted.”
“Good creature, what has that to do with me?” asked Peggy. “Captain Joycelyn certainly said nothing to me on that particular subject last night, and why should you do so now?”
“I am desirous of playing a fair game, madam,” cried Miss Hoppner.
“And I am not desirous of playing any game, fair or otherwise,” said Peggy. “Lud, Miss Hoppner, do you fancy that 't is my duty to prevent the straying of the lovers of the ladies of Mr. Garrick's company? I vow, I took upon me no such responsibility; I should have no time for my meals.”
The woman whom she addressed looked at her with flashing eyes, her hands tightly clenched, and her teeth set, for some moments. Once her lips parted; she seemed about to speak; but with an evident struggle she restrained herself. Then the fierce light in her eyes flamed into scorn.
“Words were wasted on such a creature,” she said in a whisper, that had something of a hiss in its tone, as she walked away.
Peggy laughed somewhat stridently, and cried:
“Excellently spoke, beyond doubt. The woman will be an actress yet.”
Not a word of complaint had Garrick reason for uttering in regard to the rehearsal of the scene in the tragedy, this day, and on their way homewards, he remarked to Peggy, smilingly:
“Perhaps in the future, my dear Peggy, you will acknowledge that I know something of the art and methods of acting, though you did not hesitate to join with Mr. Johnson in calling my theories fantastic.”
“Perhaps I may,” said Peggy, quietly; “but just now I protest that I have some qualms.”
“Qualms? Qualms? An actress with qualms!” cried Garrick. “What a comedy could be written on that basis! 'The Actress with Qualms; or, Letting I Dare Not wait upon I Would!' Pray, madam, do your qualms arise from the reflection that you have contributed to the success of a sister actress?”
“The tragedy has not yet been played,” said Peggy. “It were best not to talk of the success of an actress in a play until the play has been acted.”
That night, Mrs. Woffington occupied a box in the theater, and by her side was Captain Joycelyn. Miss Hoppner was in a box opposite, and by her side was her mother.
On Monday, Peggy greeted her quite pleasantly as she came upon the stage to rehearse the tragedy; but she returned the greeting with a glance of scorn, far more fierce than any which, in the character of Oriana, she had yet cast at her rival in the scenes of the play. Peggy's mocking face and the merry laugh in which she indulged did not cause the other to abate any of her fierceness; but when the great scene was rehearsed for the last time previous to the performance, Mrs. Woffington became aware of the fact that, not only was Miss Hoppner's representation of the passionate jealousy of the one woman real, but her own expression of fear, on the part of the other woman when she saw the flash of the dagger, was also real. With an involuntary cry she shrank back before the wild eyes of the actress, who approached her with the stealthy movement of a panther measuring its distance for a spring at the throat of its victim.
Garrick complimented both ladies at the close of the scene, but they both seemed too overcome to acknowledge his compliments.
“By my soul, Peggy,” said Garrick, when they met at the house in Bow street, “you have profited as much by your teaching of that woman as she has. The expression upon your face to-day as she approached you gave even me a thrill. The climax needed such a cry as you uttered, though that fool of a poet did not provide for it.”
She did not respond until some moments had passed, and then she merely said:
“Where are we to end, Davy, if we are to bring real and not simulated passion to our aid at the theater? Heavens, sir! we shall be in a pretty muddle presently. Are we to cultivate our hates and our jealousies and our affections for the sake of exhibiting them in turn?”
“'T would not be convenient to do so,” said Garrick. “Still, you have seen how much can be done by an exhibition of the real, and not the simulated passion.”
“Depend upon it, sir, if you introduce the real passions into the acting of a tragedy you will have a real and not a simulated tragedy on the stage.”
“Psha! that is the thought of—a woman,” said Garrick. “A woman seeks to carry an idea to its furthest limits; she will not be content to accept it within its reasonable limitations.”
“And, being a woman, 'tis my misfortune to think as a woman,” said Mrs. Woffington.
The theatre was crowded on the evening when “Oriana” appeared for the first time on the bills. Garrick had many friends, and so also had Margaret Woffington. The appearance of either in a new character was sufficient to fill the theatre, but in “Oriana” they were both appearing, and the interest of playgoers had been further stimulated by the rumors which had been circulated respecting the ability of the new actress whom Garrick had brought from the country.
When the company assembled in the green-room, Garrick gave all his attention to Miss Hoppner. He saw how terribly nervous she was. Not for a moment would she remain seated. She paced the room excitedly, every now and again casting a furtive glance in the direction of Mrs. Woffington, who was laughing with Macklin in a corner.
“You have no cause for trepidation, my dear lady,” said Garrick to Miss Hoppner.
0155
“Your charm of person will make you a speedy favorite with the playgoers, and if you act the stabbing scene as faithfully as you did at the last two rehearsals your success will be assured.”
“I can but do my best, sir,” said the actress. “I think you will find that I shall act the stabbing scene with great effect.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Garrick. “Your own friends in the boxes will be gratified.”
“I have no friends in the boxes, sir,” said the actress.
“Nay, surely I heard of at least one—a certain officer in the Royal Scots,” whispered Garrick.
“I know of none such, sir,” replied the actress, fixing her eyes, half closed, upon Peg Woffington, who was making a jest at Macklin's expense for the members of the company in the neighbourhood.
“Surely I heard—,” continued Garrick, but suddenly checked himself. “Ah, I recollect now what I heard,” he resumed, in a low tone. “Alas! Peggy is a sad coquette, but I doubt not that the story of your conquests will ring through the town after to-night.”
She did not seem to hear him. Her eyes were fixed upon Peggy Woffington, and in another moment the signal came that the curtain was ready to rise.
Garrick and Macklin went on the stage together, the former smiling in a self-satisfied way.
“I think I have made it certain that she will startle the house in at least one scene,” he whispered to Macklin.
“Ah, that is why Peggy is so boisterous,” said Macklin. “'Tis only when she is over-nervous that she becomes boisterous. Peggy is beginning to feel that she may have a rival.”
But if Peggy was nervous she certainly did not suggest it by her acting. She had not many opportunities for displaying her comedy powers in the play, but she contrived to impart a few touches of humour to the love scenes in the first act, which brightened up the gloom of the tragedy, and raised the spirits of the audience in some measure. Her mature style contrasted very effectively with the efforts of Miss Hoppner, who showed herself to be excessively nervous, and thereby secured at once the sympathies of the house. It was doubtful which of the two obtained the larger share of applause.
At the end of the act, Captain Joycelyn was waiting at the back of the stage to compliment Peggy upon her acting. Miss Hoppner brushed past them on her way to her dressing-room, without deigning to recognise either.
Curiously enough, in the next act the position of the two actresses seemed to be reversed. It was Mrs. Woffington who was nervous, whereas Miss Hoppner was thoroughly self-possessed.
“What in the world has come over you, my dear?” asked Garrick, when Peggy had made an exit so rapidly as to cause the latter half of one of her lines to be quite inaudible.
“God knows what it is!” said Peggy. “I have felt all through the act as if I were going to break down—as if I wanted to run away from an impending calamity. By heaven, sir, I feel as if the tragedy were real and not simulated!”
“Psha! You are but a woman, after all,” said Garrick.
“I fear that is the truth,” said she. “Good God! that woman seems to have changed places with me. She is speaking her lines as if she had been acting in London for years. She is doing what she pleases with the house.”
Garrick had to leave her to go through his great scene with the Oriana of the play, and Mrs. Woffington watched, as if spell-bound, the marvellous variety of his emotional expression, as, in the character of the Prince Orsino, he confessed to Oriana that he no longer loved her, but that he had given his heart to Francesca. She saw the gleam in the eyes of the actress of the part of the jealous woman as she denounced the perfidy of her lover, and bade him leave her presence. Then came Oriana's long soliloquy, in which she swore that the Prince should never taste the happiness which he had sought at her expense.
“I have a heart for murder, murder, murder!
My blood now surges like an angry sea,
Eager to grapple with its struggling prey,
And strangle it, as I shall strangle her,
With these hands hungering for her shapely
throat,
The throat on which his kisses have been flung.
Give her to me, just God, give her to me,
But for the time it takes to close my hand
Thus, and if justice reign supreme above,
The traitress shall come hither to her doom.”
(Enter Francesca.)
(Aside) “My prayer is answered. It is Jove's decree.” So the passage ran, and it was delivered by the actress with a fervour that thrilled the house.
After her aside, Oriana turned, according to the stage directions, to Francesca with a smile. In Miss Hoppner's eyes there was a light of triumph—of gratified revenge—and before it Margaret Woffington quailed. She gave a frightened glance around, as if looking for a way of escape; there was a little pause, and then upon the silence of the house there fell the half-hissed words of Oriana as she craned her head forward facing her rival:
“Thou think'st to ride in triumph o'er my
corse—
The corse which his indecent feet have spurned
Into the dust. But there's a God above!
I tell thee, traitress, 't is not I shall lie
For vulture-beaks to rend—but thou—thou—
thou!
Traitress abhorred, this knife shall find thy
heart!”
“My God! the dagger—it is real!” shrieked Peggy; but before she could turn to fly, the other had sprung upon her, throwing her partly over a couch, and holding her down by the throat while she stabbed her twice.
A hoarse cry came from Peg Woffington, and then she rolled off the couch and fell limply to the stage, the backs of her hands rapping helplessly on the boards as she fell.
The other actress stood over her for a moment with a smile; then she looked strangely at the dagger which glistened in her hand. Then, with a hysterical cry, she flung the weapon from her and fell back.
The curtain went down upon the roar of applause that came from every part of the theatre. But though the applause was maintained, neither of the actresses responded to the call. Several minutes had passed before Garrick himself appeared and made a sign that he wished to speak. When the house became silent, he explained to his patrons that both actresses had swooned through the great demands which the scene had made upon them, and would be unable to appear for the rest of the evening. Under these melancholy circumstances, he hoped that no objection would be made to the bringing on of the burletta immediately.
The audience seemed satisfied to forego the enjoyment of the ghost scenes of the tragedy, and the burletta was proceeded with.
It was not thought advisable to let the audience know that Mrs. Woffington was lying on a couch in her dressing room, while a surgeon was binding up a wound made in her side by the dagger used by the other actress. It was not until Garrick had examined the weapon that he perceived it was not a stage blade, but a real one, which had been used by Miss Hoppner. Fortunately, however, the point had been turned aside by the steel in Peg Woffington's stays, so that it had only inflicted a flesh wound.
In the course of a couple of hours Peggy had recovered consciousness, and, though very weak, was still able to make an effort to captivate the surgeon with her witty allusions to the privileges incidental to his profession. She was so engaged, when Garrick entered the room and told her that Miss Hoppner was weeping outside the door, but that he had given orders that she was not to be admitted.
“Why should the poor girl not be admitted?” cried Peggy. “Should such an accident as that which happened be treated as though it were murder? Send her into the room, sir, and leave us alone together.”
Garrick protested, but Peggy insisted on having her own way, and the moment Miss Hoppner was permitted to enter, she flung herself on her knees at the side of the couch, weeping upon the hand that Peggy gave to her.
When Garrick entered with Captain Joycelyn, a short time afterwards, Peggy would not allow him to remain in the room. The Captain remained, however, for some minutes, and when he left, Miss Hoppner was on his arm. They crossed the stage together, and that was the last time she ever trod that or any other stage, for Captain Joycelyn married her within a month.
“Ah, friend Davy,” cried Peggy to Garrick, “there was, after all, some sense in what Mr. Johnson said. We actors are, doubtless, great folk; but 't were presumptuous to attempt to turn Nature into the handmaid of Art. I have tried it, sir, and was only saved from disaster by the excellence of the art of my stays-maker. Nay, the stage is not Nature—it is but Nature seen on the surface of a mirror; and even then, I protest, only when David Garrick is the actor, and Shakespeare's the poet.”
Madam,” said Mr. Daly, the manager, in his politest style, “no one could regret the occurrence more than myself”—he pronounced the word “meself”—“especially as you say it has hurt your feelings. Do n't I know what feelings are?”—he pronounced the word “failings,” which tended in some measure to alter the effect of the phrase, though his friends would have been inclined to assert that its accuracy was not thereby diminished.
“I have been grossly insulted, sir,” said Mrs. Siddons.
“Grossly insulted,” echoed Mr. Siddons. He played the part of echo to his stately wife very well indeed.
“And it took place under your roof, sir,” said the lady.
“Your roof,” echoed the husband.
“And there's no one in the world sorrier than myself for it,” said Mr. Daly. “But I do n't think that you should take a joke of the college gentlemen so seriously.”
“Joke?” cried Mrs. Siddons, with a passion that caused the manager, in the instinct of self-preservation to jump back. “Joke, sir!—a joke passed upon Sarah Siddons! My husband, sir, whose honour I have ever upheld as dearer to me than life itself, will tell you that I am not accustomed to be made the subject of ribald jests.”
“I do n't know the tragedy that that quotation is made from,” remarked Mr. Daly, taking out his snuff-box and tapping it, affecting a coolness which he certainly was far from possessing; “but if it's all written in that strain I'll bring it out at Smock Alley and give you an extra benefit. You never spoke anything better than that phrase. Pray let us have it again, madam—'my husband, sir,' and so forth.”
Mrs. Siddons rose slowly and majestically. Her eyes flashed as she pointed a shapely forefinger to the door of the greenroom, saying in her deepest tones:
“Sir! degrade the room no longer by your presence. You have yet to know Sarah Siddons.”
“Sarah Siddons,” murmured the husband very weakly. He would have liked to maintain the stand taken up by his wife, but he had his fears that to do so would jeopardise the success of his appearance at the manager's treasury, and Mr. Siddons now and again gave people to understand that he could not love his wife so well loved he not the treasury more.
Mr. Daly laughed.
“Faith, Mrs. Siddons,” said he, “'t is a new thing for a man to be ordered out of his own house by a guest. I happen to be the owner of this tenement in Smock Alley, in the city of Dublin, and you are my guest—my honoured guest, madam. How could I fail to honour a lady who, in spite of the fact of being the greatest actress in the world, is still a pattern wife and mother?”
Mrs. Siddons was visibly softening under the balmy brogue of the Irishman.
“It is because I am sensible of my duties to my husband and my children that I feel the insult the more, sir,” she said, in a tone that was still tragic.
“Sure I know that that's what makes the sting of it so bitter,” said Mr. Daly, shaking his head sadly. “It's only the truly virtuous, madam, that have feelings”—again he pronounced the word “failings.”
“Enough, madam,” he continued, after he had flourished his handkerchief and had wiped away an imaginary tear. “Enough! In the name of the citizens of Dublin I offer you the humblest apology in my power for the gross misconduct of that scoundrel in the pit who called out, 'Well done, Sally, my jewel!' after your finest soliloquy; and I promise you that if we can find the miscreant we shall have him brought to justice.”
“If you believe that the citizens of Dublin are really conscious of the stigma which they shall bear for ages to come for having insulted one whose virtue has, I rejoice to say, been ever beyond reproach, I will accept your apology, sir,” said Mrs. Siddons with dignity.
“I 'll undertake to swear that the citizens feel the matter quite as deeply as I do, Mrs. Siddons,” cried Mr. Daly, with both his hands clasped over his waistcoat. “I dare swear that they do not even now know the enormity of your virtue, madam. It will be my pleasing duty to make them acquainted with it; and so, madam, I am your grateful, humble servant.”
With a low bow he made his escape from the green-room, leaving Mrs. Sid-dons seated on a high chair in precisely the attitude which she assumed when she sat for the Tragic Muse of Reynolds.
“Thank heavens that 's over!” muttered the manager, as he hurried down Smock Alley to the tavern at the corner kept by an old actor named Barney Rafferty, and much frequented by the Trinity College students, who in the year 1783 were quite as enthusiastic theatre-goers as their successors are in the present year.
“For the love of heaven, Barney, give us a jorum,” cried Daly, as he entered the bar parlor. “A jorum of punch, Barney, for I 'm as dry as a lime kiln, making speeches in King Cambyses' vein to that Queen of Tragedy.”
“It'll be at your hand in a minute, Mr. Daly, sir,” said Barney, hurrying off.
In the parlour were assembled a number of the “college boys,” as the students were always called in Dublin. They greeted the arrival of their friend Daly with acclamation, only they wanted to know what had occurred to detain him so long at the theatre.
“Delay and Daly have never been associated before now when there's a jorum of punch in view,” remarked young Mr. Blenerhassett of Limerick, who was reported to have a very pretty wit.
“It's lucky you see me among you at all, boys,” said the manager, wiping his brow. “By the powers, I might have remained in the green-room all night listening to homilies on the virtue of wives and the honour of husbands.”
“And 't is yourself that would be nothing the worse for listening to a homily or two on such topics,” remarked young Blake of Connaught. “And who was the preacher of the evening, Daly?”
“None else than the great Sarah herself, my boy,” replied the manager. “Saint Malachi! what did you mean by shouting out what you did, after that scene?” he added.
“What did I shout?” asked Jimmy Blake. “I only ventured humbly to cry, 'Well done, Sally, my jewel'—what offence is there in that?”
“Ay, by Saint Patrick, but there's much offence in 't,” cried Daly. “Mrs. Siddons sent for me to my dressing-room after the play, and there I found her pacing the green-room like a lioness in her cage, her husband, poor man, standing by as tame as the keeper of the royal beast.”
A series of interested exclamations passed round the room, and the circle of heads about the table became narrower. “Mother o' Moses! She objected to my civil words of encouragement?” said Mr. Blake.
“She declared that not only had she been insulted, but her husband's honour had been dragged in the mire, and her innocent children's names had been sullied.”
“Faith, that was a Sally for you, Mr. Daly,” said young Home, the Dublin painter to whom Mrs. Siddons had refused to sit, assuring him that she could only pay such a compliment to Sir Joshua Reynolds.
“Boys, may this be my poison if I ever put in a worse half hour,” cried Daly, as he raised a tumbler of punch and swallowed half the contents.
“I 'd give fifty pounds to have been there,” said Home. “Think what a picture it would make!—the indignant Sarah, the ever courteous manager Daly, and the humble husband in the corner. What would not posterity pay for such a picture!”
“A guinea in hand is worth a purse in the future,” said one of the college boys. “I wish I could draw a bill on posterity for the payment of the silversmith who made my buckles.”
“Daly,” said Blake, “you're after playing a joke on us. Sally never took you to task for what I shouted from the Pit.”
Mr. Daly became dignified—he had finished the tumbler of punch. He drew himself up, and, with one hand thrust into his waistcoat, he said: “Sir, I conceive that I understand as well as any gentleman present what constitutes the elements of a jest. I have just conveyed to you a statement of facts, sir. If you had seen Sarah Siddons as I left her—egad, she is a very fine woman—you would n't hint that there was much jest in the matter. Oh, lord, boys”—another jug of punch had just been brought in, and the manager was becoming genial once more—“Oh, lord, you should have heard the way she talked about the honour of her husband, as if there never had been a virtuous woman on the boards until Sarah Siddons arose!”
“And was there one, Daly?” asked young Murphy, a gentleman from whom great things were expected by his college and his creditors.
“There was surely, my boy,” said Daly, “but I've forgot her name. The name's not to the point. I tell you, then, the Siddons stormed in the stateliest blank verse and periods, about how she had elevated the stage—how she had checked Brereton for clasping her as she thought too ardently—how she had family prayers every day, and looked forward to the day when she could afford a private chaplain.”
“Stop there,” shouted Blake. “You'll begin to exaggerate if you go beyond the chaplain, Daly.”
“It's the truth I've told so far, at any rate, barring the chaplain,” said Daly.
“And all because I saw she was a bit nervous and did my best to encourage her and give her confidence by shouting, 'Well done, Sally!'” said Blake. “Boys, it's not Sarah Siddons that has been insulted, it's Trinity College—it's the city of Dublin! by my soul, it's the Irish nation that she has insulted by supposing them capable of insulting a woman.”
“Faith, there 's something in that, Jimmy,” said half a dozen voices.
“Who is this Sarah Siddons, will ye tell me, for I 'd like to know?” resumed Blake, casting a look of almost painful enquiry round the room.
“Ay, that 's the question,” said Daly, in a tone that he invariably reserved for the soliloquy which flourished on the stage a century ago.
“We 're all gentlemen here,” resumed Mr. Blake.
“And that 's more than she is,” said young Blenerhassett of Limerick.
“Gentlemen,” said the manager, “I beg that you'll not forget that Mrs. Siddons and myself belong to the same profession. I cannot suffer anything derogatory”—the word gave him some trouble, but he mastered it after a few false starts—“to the stage to be uttered in this apartment.”
“You adorn the profession, sir,” said Blake. “But can the same be said of Mrs. Siddons? What could Garrick make of her, gentlemen?”
“Ahem! we know what he failed to make of her,” said Digges, the actor, who sat in the corner, and was supposed to have more Drury Lane scandal on his fingers' ends than Daly himself.
“Pooh!” sneered Daly. “Davy Garrick never made love to her, Digges. It was her vanity that tried to make out that he did.”
“He did not make her a London success—that's certain,” said Blake. “And though Dublin, with the assistance of the College, can pronounce a better judgment on an actor or actress than London, still we must admit that London is improving, and if there had been any merit in Sarah Siddons she would not have been forced to keep to the provinces as she does now. Gentlemen, she has insulted us and it's our duty to teach her a lesson.”
“And we're the boys to do it,” said one Moriarty.
“Gentlemen, I 'll take my leave of you,” said the manager, rising with a little assistance and bowing to the company. “It's not for me to dictate any course for you to pursue. I do n't presume to ask to be let into any of your secrets; I only beg that you will remember that Mrs. Siddons has three more nights to appear in my theatre, and she grasps so large a share of the receipts that, unless the house continues to be crowded, it's a loser I'll be at the end of the engagement. You'll not do anything that will jeopardise the pit or the gallery—the boxes are sure—for the rest of the week.”
“Trust to us, sir, trust to us,” said Jimmy Blake, as the manager withdrew. “Now, boys,” he continued in a low voice, bending over the table, “I've hit upon a way of convincing this fine lady that has taken the drama under her wing, so to speak, that she can't play any of her high tragedy tricks here, whatever she may do at Bath. She does n't understand us, boys; well, we'll teach her to.”
“Bravo, Jimmy!”
“The Blake's Country and the sky over it!”
“Give us your notions,” came several voices from around the table.
“She bragged of her respectability; of her armour of virtue, Daly told us. Well, suppose we put a decent coat on Dionysius Hogan and send him to propose an elopement to her to-morrow; how would that do for a joke when it gets around the town?”
“By the powers, boys, whether or not Dionysius gets kicked down the stairs, she'll be the laughing-stock of the town. It's a genius”—he pronounced it “jan-yus”—“that you are, Jimmy, and no mistake,” cried young Moriarty.
“We'll talk it over,” said Jimmy. And they did talk it over.
Dionysius Hogan was a celebrated character in Dublin during the last quarter of the eighteenth century. The Irish capital has always cherished curious characters, for pretty much the same reason that caused badgers to be preserved; any man, or, for that matter, any woman, who was only eccentric enough, could depend on the patronage of the people of Dublin. Dionysius Hogan afforded his fellow-citizens many a laugh on account of his numerous eccentricities. He was a man of about fifty years of age, but his great anxiety was to appear thirty years younger; and he fancied he accomplished this aim by wearing in 1783 the costume of 1750, only in an exaggerated form. His chief hallucination was that several of the best known ladies in society were in love with him, and that it was necessary for him to be very careful lest he should compromise himself by a correspondence with some of those who had husbands.