The Virginians

by William Makepeace Thackeray

  CHAPTER LIX. In which we are treated to a Play

  The real business of life, I fancy, can form but little portion of thenovelist's budget. When he is speaking of the profession of arms, inwhich men can show courage or the reverse, and in treating of which thewriter naturally has to deal with interesting circumstances, actions,and characters, introducing recitals of danger, devotedness, heroicdeaths, and the like, the novelist may perhaps venture to deal withactual affairs of life: but otherwise, they scarcely can enter into ourstories. The main part of Ficulnus's life, for instance, is spent inselling sugar, spices and cheese; of Causidicus's in poring over mustyvolumes of black-letter law; of Sartorius's in sitting, cross-legged,on a board after measuring gentlemen for coats and breeches. What can astory-teller say about the professional existence of these men? Would areal rustical history of hobnails and eighteenpence a day be endurable?In the days whereof we are writing, the poets of the time chose torepresent a shepherd in pink breeches and a chintz waistcoat, dancingbefore his flocks, and playing a flageolet tied up with a blue satinribbon. I say, in reply to some objections which have been urged bypotent and friendly critics, that of the actual affairs of life thenovelist cannot be expected to treat--with the almost single exceptionof war before named. But law, stockbroking, polemical theology,linen-drapery, apothecary-business, and the like, how can writers managefully to develop these in their stories? All authors can do, is todepict men out of their business--in their passions, loves, laughters,amusements, hatreds, and what not--and describe these as well as theycan, taking the business part for granted, and leaving it as it were forsubaudition.

  Thus, in talking of the present or the past world, I know I amonly dangling about the theatre-lobbies, coffee-houses, ridottos,pleasure-haunts, fair-booths, and feasting- and fiddling-rooms of life;that, meanwhile, the great serious past or present world is plodding inits chambers, toiling at its humdrum looms, or jogging on its accustomedlabours, and we are only seeing our characters away from their work.Corydon has to cart the litter and thresh the barley, as well as to makelove to Phillis; Ancillula has to dress and wash the nursery, to wait atbreakfast and on her misses, to take the children out, etc., beforeshe can have her brief sweet interview through the area-railings withBoopis, the policeman. All day long have his heels to beat the stalepavement before he has the opportunity to snatch the hasty kiss or thefurtive cold pie. It is only at moments, and away from these labours,that we can light upon one character or the other; and hence, thoughmost of the persons of whom we are writing have doubtless their graveemployments and avocations, it is only when they are disengaged andaway from their work, that we can bring them and the equally disengagedreader together.

  The macaronis and fine gentlemen at White's and Arthur's continued toshow poor Harry Warrington such a very cold shoulder, that he soughttheir society less and less, and the Ring and the Mall and thegaming-table knew him no more. Madame de Bernstein was for her nephew'sbraving the indifference of the world, and vowed that it would beconquered, if he would but have courage to face it; but the young manwas too honest to wear a smiling face when he was discontented; todisguise mortification or anger; to parry slights by adroit flatteriesor cunning impudence; as many gentlemen and gentlewomen must and do whowish to succeed in society.

  "You pull a long face, Harry, and complain of the world's treatment ofyou," the old lady said. "Fiddlededee, sir! Everybody has to put up withimpertinences: and if you get a box on the ear now you are poor and castdown, you must say nothing about it, bear it with a smile, and ifyou can, revenge it ten years after. Moi qui vous parle, sir!--do yousuppose I have had no humble-pie to eat? All of us in our turn arecalled upon to swallow it: and, now you are no longer the FortunateYouth, be the Clever Youth, and win back the place you have lost by yourill luck. Go about more than ever. Go to all the routs and parties towhich you are asked, and to more still. Be civil to everybody--to allwomen especially. Only of course take care to show your spirit, ofwhich you have plenty. With economy, and by your brother's, I must say,admirable generosity, you can still make a genteel figure. With yourhandsome person, sir, you can't fail to get a rich heiress. Tenez! Youshould go amongst the merchants in the City, and look out there. Theywon't know that you are out of fashion at the Court end of the town.With a little management, there is not the least reason, sir, why youshould not make a good position for yourself still. When did you go tosee my Lady Yarmouth, pray? Why did you not improve that connexion?She took a great fancy to you. I desire you will be constant at herladyship's evenings, and lose no opportunity of paying court to her."

  Thus the old woman who had loved Harry so on his first appearance inEngland, who had been so eager for his company, and pleased with hisartless conversation, was taking the side of the world, and turningagainst him. Instead of the smiles and kisses with which the fickle oldcreature used once to greet him, she received him with coldness; shebecame peevish and patronising; she cast gibes and scorn at him beforeher guests, making his honest face flush with humiliation, and awakingthe keenest pangs of grief and amazement in his gentle, manly heart.Madame de Bernstein's servants, who used to treat him with sucheager respect, scarcely paid him now any attention. My lady was oftenindisposed or engaged when he called on her; her people did not presshim to wait; did not volunteer to ask whether he would stay and dine, asthey used in the days when he was the Fortunate Youth and companionof the wealthy and great. Harry carried his woes to Mrs. Lambert. In apassion of sorrow he told her of his aunt's cruel behaviour to him. Hewas stricken down and dismayed by the fickleness and heartlessness ofthe world in its treatment of him. While the good lady and her daughterswould move to and fro, and busy themselves with the cares of the house,our poor lad would sit glum in a window-seat, heart-sick and silent.

  "I know you are the best people alive," he would say to the ladies, "andthe kindest, and that I must be the dullest company in the world--yes,that I am."

  "Well, you are not very lively, Harry," says Miss Hetty, who began tocommand him, and perhaps to ask herself, "What? Is this the gentlemanwhom I took to be such a hero?"

  "If he is unhappy, why should he be lively?" asks Theo, gently. "He hasa good heart, and is pained at his friends' desertion of him. Sure thereis no harm in that?"

  "I would have too much spirit to show I was hurt, though," cries Hetty,clenching her little fists. "And I would smile, though that horribleold painted woman boxed my ears. She is horrible, mamma. You think soyourself, Theo! Own, now, you think so yourself! You said so lastnight, and acted her coming in on her crutch, and grinning round to thecompany."

  "I mayn't like her," said Theo, turning very red. "But there is noreason why I should call Harry's aunt names before Harry's face."

  "You provoking thing; you are always right!" cries Hetty, "and that'swhat makes me so angry. Indeed, Harry, it was very wrong of me to makerude remarks about any of your relations."

  "I don't care about the others, Hetty; but it seems hard that this oneshould turn upon me. I had got to be very fond of her; and you see, itmakes me mad, somehow, when people I'm very fond of turn away from me,or act unkind to me."

  "Suppose George were to do so?" asks Hetty. You see, it was George andHetty, and Theo and Harry, amongst them now.

  "You are very clever and very lively, and you may suppose a number ofthings; but not that, Hetty, if you please," cried Harry, standing upand looking very resolute and angry. "You don't know my brother asI know him--or you wouldn't take--such a--liberty as to suppose--mybrother George could do anything unkind or unworthy!" Mr. Harry wasquite in a flush as he spoke.

  Hetty turned very white. Then she looked up at Harry, and then she didnot say a single word.

  Then Harry said, in his simple way, before taking leave, "I'm verysorry, and I beg your pardon, Hetty, if I said anything rough, or thatseemed unkind; but I always fight up if anybody says anything againstGeorge."

  Hetty did not answer a word out of her pale lips, but gave him her hand,and dropped a prim little curtsey.
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br />   When she and Theo were together at night, making curl-paper confidences,"Oh!" said Hetty, "I thought it would be so happy to see him every day,and was so glad when papa said we were to stay in London! And now I dosee him, you see, I go on offending him. I can't help offending him;and I know he is not clever, Theo. But oh! isn't he good, and kind, andbrave? Didn't he look handsome when he was angry?"

  "You silly little thing, you are always trying to make him lookhandsome," Theo replied.

  It was Theo and Hetty, and Harry and George, among these young people,then; and I dare say the reason why General Lambert chose to apply themonosyllable "Bo" to the mother of his daughters, was as a rebuke tothat good woman for the inveterate love of sentiment and propensity tomatch-making which belonged to her (and every other woman in the worldwhose heart is worth a fig); and as a hint that Madam Lambert was agoose if she fancied the two Virginian lads were going to fall in lovewith the young women of the Lambert house. Little Het might have herfancy; little girls will; but they get it over: "and you know, Molly"(which dear, soft-hearted Mrs. Lambert could not deny), "you fanciedsomebody else before you fancied me," says the General; but Harry hadevidently not been smitten by Hetty; and now he was superseded, as itwere, by having an elder brother over him, and could not even call thecoat upon his back his own, Master Harry was no great catch.

  "Oh yes: now he is poor we will show him the door, as all the rest ofthe world does, I suppose," says Mrs. Lambert.

  "That is what I always do, isn't it, Molly? turn my back on my friendsin distress?" asks the General.

  "No, my dear! I am a goose, now, and that I own, Martin!" says the wife,having recourse to the usual pocket-handkerchief.

  "Let the poor boy come to us and welcome: ours is almost the only housein this selfish place where so much can be said for him. He is unhappy,and to be with us puts him at ease; in God's name let him be with us!"says the kind-hearted officer. Accordingly, whenever poor crestfallenHal wanted a dinner, or an evening's entertainment, Mr. Lambert's tablehad a corner for him. So was George welcome, too. He went among theLamberts, not at first with the cordiality which Harry felt for thesepeople, and inspired among them: for George was colder in his manner,and more mistrustful of himself and others than his twin-brother: butthere was a goodness and friendliness about the family which touchedalmost all people who came into frequent contact with them; and Georgesoon learned to love them for their own sake, as well as for theirconstant regard and kindness to his brother. He could not but seeand own how sad Harry was, and pity his brother's depression. In hissarcastic way, George would often take himself to task before hisbrother for coming to life again, and say, "Dear Harry, I am George theUnlucky, though you have ceased to be Harry the Fortunate. Florac wouldhave done much better not to pass his sword through that Indian's body,and to have left my scalp as an ornament for the fellow's belt. I say hewould, sir! At White's the people would have respected you. Our motherwould have wept over me, as a defunct angel, instead of being angrywith me for again supplanting her favourite--you are her favourite, youdeserve to be her favourite: everybody's favourite: only, if I had notcome back, your favourite, Maria, would have insisted on marrying you;and that is how the gods would have revenged themselves upon you foryour prosperity."

  "I never know whether you are laughing at me or yourself, George" saysthe brother. I never know whether you are serious or jesting.

  "Precisely my own case, Harry, my dear!" says George.

  "But this I know, that there never was a better brother in the world;and never better people than the Lamberts."

  "Never was truer word said!" cries George, taking his brother's hand.

  "And if I'm unhappy, 'tis not your fault--nor their fault--nor perhapsmine, George," continues the younger. 'Tis fate, you see, 'tis thehaving nothing to do. I must work; and how, George? that is thequestion."

  "We will see what our mother says. We must wait till we hear from her,"says George.

  "I say, George! Do you know, I don't think I should much like going backto Virginia?" says Harry, in a low, alarmed voice.

  "What! in love with one of the lasses here?"

  "Love 'em like sisters--with all my heart, of course, dearest, bestgirls! but, having come out of that business, thanks to you, I don'twant to go back, you know. No! no! It is not for that I fancy stayingin Europe better than going home. But, you see, I don't fancy hunting,duck-shooting, tobacco-planting, whist-playing, and going to sermon,over and over and over again, for all my life, George. And what else isthere to do at home? What on earth is there for me to do at all, I say?That's what makes me miserable. It would not matter for you to be ayounger son you are so clever you would make your way anywhere; but,for a poor fellow like me, what chance is there? Until I do something,George, I shall be miserable, that's what I shall!"

  "Have I not always said so? Art thou not coming round to my opinion?"

  "What opinion, George? You know pretty much whatever you think, I think,George!" says the dutiful junior.

  "That Florac had best have left the Indian to take my scalp, my dear!"

  At which Harry bursts away with an angry exclamation; and they continueto puff their pipes in friendly union.

  They lived together, each going his own gait; and not much intercourse,save that of affection, was carried on between them. Harry never wouldventure to meddle with George's books, and would sit as dumb as a mouseat the lodgings whilst his brother was studying. They removed presentlyfrom the Court end of the town, Madame de Bernstein pishing andpshaing at their change of residence. But George took a great fancy tofrequenting Sir Hans Sloane's new reading-room and museum, just setup in Montagu House, and he took cheerful lodgings in Southampton Row,Bloomsbury, looking over the delightful fields towards Hampstead, at theback of the Duke of Bedford's gardens. And Lord Wrotham's family comingto Mayfair, and Mr. Lambert having business which detained him inLondon, had to change his house, too, and engaged furnished apartmentsin Soho, not very far off from the dwelling of our young men; and itwas, as we have said, with the Lamberts that Harry, night after night,took refuge.

  George was with them often, too; and, as the acquaintance ripened, hefrequented their house with increasing assiduity, finding their companymore to his taste than that of Aunt Bernstein's polite circle ofgamblers, than Sir Miles Warrington's port and mutton, or the dailynoise and clatter of the coffee-houses. And as he and the Lambert ladieswere alike strangers in London, they partook of its pleasures together,and, no doubt, went to Vauxhall and Ranelagh, to Marybone Gardens, andthe play, and the Tower, and wherever else there was honest amusement tobe had in those days. Martin Lambert loved that his children shouldhave all the innocent pleasure which he could procure for them, and Mr.George, who was of a most generous, open-handed disposition, liked totreat his friends likewise, especially those who had been so admirablykind to his brother.

  With all the passion of his heart Mr. Warrington loved a play. He hadnever enjoyed this amusement in Virginia, and only once or twice atQuebec, when he visited Canada; and when he came to London, where thetwo houses were in their full glory, I believe he thought he never couldhave enough of the delightful entertainment. Anything he liked himself,he naturally wished to share amongst his companions. No wonder that hewas eager to take his friends to the theatre, and we may be sure ouryoung countryfolks were not unwilling. Shall it be Drury Lane or CoventGarden, ladies? There was Garrick and Shakspeare at Drury Lane. Well,will it be believed, the ladies wanted to hear the famous new authorwhose piece was being played at Covent Garden?

  At this time a star of genius had arisen, and was blazing with quite adazzling brilliancy. The great Mr. John Home, of Scotland, had produceda tragedy, than which, since the days of the ancients, there had beennothing more classic and elegant. What had Mr. Garrick meant by refusingsuch a masterpiece for his theatre? Say what you will about Shakspeare;in the works of that undoubted great poet (who had begun to grow vastlymore popular in England since Monsieur Voltaire attacked him) there weremany barbar
isms that could not but shock a polite auditory; whereas,Mr. Home, the modern author, knew how to be refined in the very midst ofgrief and passion; to represent death, not merely as awful, but gracefuland pathetic; and never condescended to degrade the majesty of theTragic Muse by the ludicrous apposition of buffoonery and familiarpunning, such as the elder playwright certainly had resort to. Besides,Mr. Home's performance had been admired in quarters so high, and bypersonages whose taste was known to be as elevated as their rank, thatall Britons could not but join in the plaudits for which august handshad given the signal. Such, it was said, was the opinion of the verybest company, in the coffee-houses, and amongst the wits about town.Why, the famous Mr. Gray, of Cambridge, said there had not been for ahundred years any dramatic dialogue of such a true style; and as for thepoet's native capital of Edinburgh, where the piece was first broughtout, it was even said that the triumphant Scots called out from the pit(in their dialect), "Where's Wully Shakspeare noo?"

  "I should like to see the man who could beat Willy Shakspeare?" says theGeneral, laughing.

  "Mere national prejudice," says Mr. Warrington.

  "Beat Shakspeare, indeed!" cries Mrs. Lambert.

  "Pooh, pooh! you have cried more over Mr. Sam Richardson than ever youdid over Mr. Shakspeare, Molly!" remarks the General. "I think few womenlove to read Shakspeare: they say they love it, but they don't."

  "Oh, papa!" cry three ladies, throwing up three pair of hands.

  "Well, then, why do you all three prefer Douglas? And you, boys, who aresuch Tories, will you go see a play which is wrote by a Whig Scotchman,who was actually made prisoner at Falkirk?"

  "Relicta non bene parmula," says Mr. Jack the scholar.

  "Nay; it was relicta bene parmula," cried the General. "It was theHighlanders who flung their targes down, and made fierce work among usredcoats. If they had fought all their fields as well as that, and youngPerkin had not turned back from Derby----"

  "I know which side would be rebels, and who would be called the YoungPretender," interposed George.

  "Hush! you must please to remember my cloth, Mr. Warrington," said theGeneral, with some gravity; "and that the cockade I wear is a black, nota white one! Well, if you will not love Mr. Home for his politics, thereis, I think, another reason, George, why you should like him."

  "I may have Tory fancies, Mr. Lambert, but I think I know how to loveand honour a good Whig," said George, with a bow to the General: "butwhy should I like this Mr. Home, sir?"

  "Because, being a Presbyterian clergyman, he has committed the heinouscrime of writing a play, and his brother-parsons have barked out anexcommunication at him. They took the poor fellow's means of livelihoodaway from him for his performance; and he would have starved, but thatthe young Pretender on our side of the water has given him a pension."

  "If he has been persecuted by the parsons, there is hope for him," saidGeorge, smiling. "And henceforth I declare myself ready to hear hissermons."

  "Mrs. Woffington is divine in it, though not generally famous intragedy. Barry is drawing tears from all eyes; and Garrick is wildat having refused the piece. Girls, you must bring each half a dozenhandkerchiefs! As for mamma, I cannot trust her; and she positively mustbe left at home."

  But mamma persisted she would go; and, if need were to weep, she wouldsit and cry her eyes out in a corner. They all went to Covent Garden,then; the most of the party duly prepared to see one of the masterpiecesof the age and drama. Could they not all speak long pages of Congreve;had they not wept and kindled over Otway and Rowe? O ye past literaryglories, that were to be eternal, how long have you been dead? Who knowsmuch more now than where your graves are? Poor, neglected Muse of thebygone theatre! She pipes for us, and we will not dance; she tears herhair, and we will not weep. And the Immortals of our time, how soonshall they be dead and buried, think you? How many will survive? Howlong shall it be ere Nox et Domus Plutonia shall overtake them?

  So away went the pleased party to Covent Garden to see the tragedy ofthe immortal John Home. The ladies and the General were conveyed in aglass coach, and found the young men in waiting to receive them atthe theatre door. Hence they elbowed their way through a crowd oftorch-boys, and a whole regiment of footmen. Little Hetty fell toHarry's arm in this expedition, and the blushing Miss Theo was handedto the box by Mr. George. Gumbo had kept the places until his mastersarrived, when he retired, with many bows, to take his own seat in thefootman's gallery. They had good places in a front box, and there wasluckily a pillar behind which mamma could weep in comfort. And oppositethem they had the honour to see the august hope of the empire, his RoyalHighness George Prince of Wales, with the Princess Dowager his mother,whom the people greeted with loyal, but not very enthusiastic, plaudits.That handsome man standing behind his Royal Highness was my LordBute, the Prince's Groom of the Stole, the patron of the poet whoseperformance they had come to see, and over whose work the Royal partyhad already wept more than once.

  How can we help it, if during the course of the performance, Mr. Lambertwould make his jokes and mar the solemnity of the scene? At first, asthe reader of the tragedy well knows, the characters are occupied inmaking a number of explanations. Lady Randolph explains how it is thatshe is so melancholy. Married to Lord Randolph somewhat late in life,she owns, and his lordship perceives, that a dead lover yet occupiesall her heart; and her husband is fain to put up with this dismal,second-hand regard, which is all that my lady can bestow. Hence, aninvasion of Scotland by the Danes is rather a cause of excitementthan disgust to my lord, who rushes to meet the foe, and forgets thedreariness of his domestic circumstances. Welcome, Vikings and Norsemen!Blow, northern blasts, the invaders' keels to Scotland's shore! Randolphand other heroes will be on the beach to give the foemen a welcome! Hislordship has no sooner disappeared behind the trees of the forest, butLady Randolph begins to explain to her confidante the circumstances ofher early life. The fact was, she had made a private marriage, and whatwould the confidante say, if, in early youth, she, Lady Randolph, hadlost a husband? In the cold bosom of the earth was lodged the husband ofher youth, and in some cavern of the ocean lies her child and his!

  Up to this the General behaved with as great gravity as any of his youngcompanions to the play; but when Lady Randolph proceeded to say, "Alas!Hereditary evil was the cause of my misfortunes," he nudged GeorgeWarrington, and looked so droll, that the young man burst out laughing.

  The magic of the scene was destroyed after that. These two gentlemenwent on cracking jokes during the whole of the subsequent performance,to their own amusement, but the indignation of their company, andperhaps of the people in the adjacent boxes. Young Douglas, in thosedays, used to wear a white satin "shape" slashed at the legs and body,and when Mr. Barry appeared in this droll costume, the General vowed itwas the exact dress of the Highlanders in the late war. The Chevalier'sGuard, he declared, had all white satin slashed breeches, and redboots--"only they left them at home, my dear," adds this wag. Not onepennyworth of sublimity would he or George allow henceforth to Mr.Home's performance. As for Harry, he sate in very deep meditation overthe scene; and when Mrs. Lambert offered him a penny for his thoughts,he said, "That he thought, Young Norval, Douglas, What-d'ye-call-'em,the fellow in white satin--who looked as old as his mother--was verylucky to be able to distinguish himself so soon. I wish I could geta chance, Aunt Lambert," says he, drumming on his hat; on which mammasighed, and Theo, smiling, said, "We must wait, and perhaps the Daneswill land."

  "How do you mean?" asks simple Harry.

  "Oh, the Danes always land, pour qui scait attendre!" says kind Theo,who had hold of her sister's little hand, and, I dare say, felt itspressure.

  She did not behave unkindly--that was not in Miss Theo's nature--butsomewhat coldly to Mr. George, on whom she turned her back, addressingremarks, from time to time, to Harry. In spite of the gentlemen's scorn,the women chose to be affected. A mother and son, meeting in love andparting in tears, will always awaken emotion in female hearts.

  "Look, p
apa! there is an answer to all your jokes!" says Theo, pointingtowards the stage.

  At a part of the dialogue between Lady Randolph and her son, one of thegrenadiers on guard on each side of the stage, as the custom of thosedays was, could not restrain his tears, and was visibly weeping beforethe side-box.

  "You are right, my dear," says papa.

  "Didn't I tell you she always is?" interposes Hetty.

  "Yonder sentry is a better critic than we are, and a touch of naturemasters us all."

  "Tamen usque recurrit!" cries the young student from college.

  George felt abashed somehow, and interested too. He had been sneering,and Theo sympathising. Her kindness was better--nay, wiser--than hisscepticism, perhaps. Nevertheless, when, at the beginning of the fifthact of the play, young Douglas, drawing his sword and looking up at thegallery, bawled out--

  "Ye glorious stars! high heaven's resplendent host! To whom I oft have of my lot complained, Hear and record my soul's unaltered wish Living or dead, let me but be renowned! May Heaven inspire some fierce gigantic Dane To give a bold defiance to our host! Before he speaks it out, I will accept, Like Douglas conquer, or like Douglas die!"--

  The gods, to whom Mr. Barry appealed, saluted this heroic wish withimmense applause, and the General clapped his hands prodigiously. Hisdaughter was rather disconcerted.

  "This Douglas is not only brave, but he is modest!" says papa.

  "I own I think he need not have asked for a gigantic Dane," says Theo,smiling, as Lady Randolph entered in the midst of the gallery thunder.

  When the applause had subsided, Lady Randolph is made to say--

  "My son, I heard a voice!"

  "I think she did hear a voice!" cries papa. "Why, the fellow wasbellowing like a bull of Bashan." And the General would scarcely behavehimself from thenceforth to the end of the performance. He said hewas heartily glad that the young gentleman was put to death behindthe scenes. When Lady Randolph's friend described how her mistress had"flown like lightning up the hill, and plunged herself into the emptyair," Mr. Lambert said he was delighted to be rid of her. "And as forthat story of her early marriage," says he, "I have my very strongestdoubts about it."

  "Nonsense, Martin! Look, children! their Royal Highnesses are moving."

  The tragedy over, the Princess Dowager and the Prince were, in fact,retiring; though, I dare say, the latter, who was always fond of afarce, would have been far better pleased with that which followed thanhe had been with Mr. Home's dreary tragic masterpiece.