CHAPTER VI.
MACHIAVEL entered the green-room, intending to wait for Mrs. Woffington,and carry out the second part of his plan.
He knew that weak minds cannot make head against ridicule, and with thispickax he proposed to clear the way, before he came to grave, sensible,business love with the lady. Machiavel was a man of talent. If he hasbeen a silent personage hitherto, it is merely because it was not hiscue to talk, but listen; otherwise, he was rather a master of the artof speech. He could be insinuating, eloquent, sensible, or satirical, atwill. This personage sat in the green-room. In one hand was his diamondsnuffbox, in the other a richly laced handkerchief; his clouded canereposed by his side.
There was an air of success about this personage. The gentle reader,however conceited a dog, could not see how he was to defeat Sir Charles,who was tall, stout, handsome, rich, witty, self-sufficient, cool,majestic, courageous, and in whom were united the advantages of a hardhead, a tough stomach, and no heart at all.
This great creature sat expecting Mrs. Woffington, like Olympian Joveawaiting Juno. But he was mortal, after all; for suddenly the serenityof that adamantine countenance was disturbed; his eye dilated; his graceand dignity were shaken. He huddled his handkerchief into one pocket,his snuff-box into another, and forgot his cane. He ran to the door inunaffected terror.
Where are all his fine airs before a real danger? Love, intrigue,diplomacy, were all driven from his mind; for he beheld thatapproaching, which is the greatest peril and disaster known to socialman. He saw a bore coming into the room!
In a wild thirst for novelty, Pomander had once penetrated to Goodman'sFields Theater; there he had unguardedly put a question to a carpenterbehind the scene; a seedy-black poet instantly pushed the carpenter away(down a trap, it is thought), and answered it in seven pages, and incontinuation was so vaguely communicative, that he drove Sir Charlesback into the far west.
Sir Charles knew him again in a moment, and at sight of him bolted. Theymet at the door. "Ah! Mr. Triplet!" said the fugitive, "enchanted--towish you good-morning!" and he plunged into the hiding-places of thetheater.
"That is a very polite gentleman!" thought Triplet. He was followedby the call-boy, to whom he was explaining that his avocations, thoughnumerous, would not prevent his paying Mr. Rich the compliment ofwaiting all day in his green-room, sooner than go without an answerto three important propositions, in which the town and the arts wereconcerned.
"What is your name?" said the boy of business to the man of words.
"Mr. Triplet," said Triplet.
"Triplet? There is something for you in the hall," said the urchin, andwent off to fetch it.
"I knew it," said Triplet to himself; "they are accepted. There's a notein the hall to fix the reading." He then derided his own absurdity inhaving ever for a moment desponded. "Master of three arts, by each ofwhich men grow fat, how was it possible he should starve all his days!"
He enjoyed a natural vanity for a few moments, and then came moregenerous feelings. What sparkling eyes there would be in Lambeth to-day!The butcher, at sight of Mr. Rich's handwriting, would give him credit.Jane should have a new gown.
But when his tragedies were played, and he paid! El Dorado! His childrenshould be the neatest in the street. Lysimachus and Roxalana shouldlearn the English language, cost what it might; sausages should bediurnal; and he himself would not be puffed up, fat, lazy. No! he wouldwork all the harder, be affable as ever, and, above all, never swampthe father, husband, and honest man in the poet and the blackguard ofsentiment.
Next his reflections took a business turn.
"These tragedies--the scenery? Oh, I shall have to paint it myself. Theheroes? Well, they have nobody who will play them as I should. (This wastrue!) It will be hard work, all this; but then I shall be paid forit. It cannot go on this way; I must and will be paid separately for mybranches."
Just as he came to this resolution, the boy returned with a brown-paperparcel, addressed to Mr. James Triplet. Triplet weighed it in his hand;it was heavy. "How is this?" cried he. "Oh, I see," said he, "theseare the tragedies. He sends them to me for some trifling alterations;managers always do." Triplet then determined to adopt these alterations,if judicious; for, argued he, sensibly enough: "Managers are practicalmen; and we, in the heat of composition, sometimes _(sic?)_ say morethan is necessary, and become tedious."
With that he opened the parcel, and looked for Mr. Rich's communication;it was not in sight. He had to look between the leaves of themanuscripts for it; it was not there. He shook them; it did not fallout. He shook them as a dog shakes a rabbit; nothing!
The tragedies were returned without a word. It took him some time torealize the full weight of the blow; but at last he saw that the managerof the Theater Royal, Covent Garden, declined to take a tragedy byTriplet into consideration or bare examination.
He turned dizzy for a moment. Something between a sigh and a cry escapedhim, and he sank upon a covered bench that ran along the wall. His poortragedies fell here and there upon the ground, and his head went downupon his hands, which rested on Mrs. Woffington's picture. His anguishwas so sharp, it choked his breath; when he recovered it, his eye bentdown upon the picture. "Ah, Jane," he groaned, "you know this villainousworld better than I!" He placed the picture gently on the seat (thatpicture must now be turned into bread), and slowly stooped for histragedies; they had fallen hither and thither; he had to crawl about forthem; he was an emblem of all the humiliations letters endure.
As he went after them on all-fours, more than one tear pattered onthe dusty floor. Poor fellow! he was Triplet, and could not have diedwithout tingeing the death-rattle with some absurdity; but, after all,he was a father driven to despair; a castle-builder, with his workrudely scattered; an artist, brutally crushed and insulted by a greaterdunce than himself.
Faint, sick, and dark, he sat a moment on the seat before he could findstrength to go home and destroy all the hopes he had raised.
While Triplet sat collapsed on the bench, fate sent into the room allin one moment, as if to insult his sorrow, a creature that seemed thegoddess of gayety, impervious to a care. She swept in with a bold, freestep, for she was rehearsing a man's part, and thundered without rant,but with a spirit and fire, and pace, beyond the conception of our poortame actresses of 1852, these lines:
"Now, by the joys Which my soul still has uncontrolled pursued, I wouldnot turn aside from my least pleasure, Though all thy force were armedto bar my way; But, like the birds, great Nature's happy commoners,Rifle the sweets--"
"I beg--your par--don, sir!" holding the book on a level with her eye,she had nearly run over "two poets instead of one."
"Nay, madam," said Triplet, admiring, though sad, wretched, but polite,"pray continue. Happy the hearer, and still happier the author of versesso spoken. Ah!"
"Yes," replied the lady, "if you could persuade authors what we dofor them, when we coax good music to grow on barren words. Are you anauthor, sir?" added she, slyly.
"In a small way, madam. I have here three trifles--tragedies."
Mrs. Woffington looked askant at them, like a shy mare.
"Ah, madam!" said Triplet, in one of his insane fits, "if I might butsubmit them to such a judgment as yours?"
He laid his hand on them. It was as when a strange dog sees us go totake up a stone.
The actress recoiled.
"I am no judge of such things," cried she, hastily.
Triplet bit his lip. He could have killed her. It was provoking, peoplewould rather be hanged than read a manuscript. Yet what hopelesstrash they will read in crowds, which was manuscript a day ago. _Lesimbeciles!_
"No more is the manager of this theater a judge of such things," criedthe outraged quill-driver, bitterly.
"What! has he accepted them?" said needle-tongue.
"No, madam, he has had them six months, and see, madam, he has returnedthem me without a word."
Triplet's lip trembled.
"Patience, my good sir," was the
merry reply. "Tragic authors shouldpossess that, for they teach it to their audiences. Managers, sir, arelike Eastern monarchs, inaccessible but to slaves and sultanas. Do youknow I called upon Mr. Rich fifteen times before I could see him?"
"You, madam? Impossible!"
"Oh, it was years ago, and he has paid a hundred pounds for each ofthose little visits. Well, now, let me see, fifteen times; you mustwrite twelve more tragedies, and then he will read _one;_ and when hehas read it, he will favor you with his judgment upon it; and when youhave got that, you will have what all the world knows is not worth afarthing. He! he! he!
'And like the birds, gay Nature's happy commoners, Rifle the sweets'--mum--mum--mum."
Her high spirits made Triplet sadder. To think that one word from thislaughing lady would secure his work a hearing, and that he dared not askher. She was up in the world, he was down. She was great, he was nobody.He felt a sort of chill at this woman--all brains and no heart. He tookhis picture and his plays under his arms and crept sorrowfully away.
The actress's eye fell on him as he went off like a fifth act. His DonQuixote face struck her. She had seen it before.
"Sir," said she.
"Madam," said Triplet, at the door.
"We have met before. There, don't speak, I'll tell you who you are.Yours is a face that has been good to me, and I never forget them."
"Me, madam!" said Triplet, taken aback. "I trust I know what is due toyou better than to be good to you, madam," said he, in his confused way.
"To be sure!" cried she, "it is Mr. Triplet, good Mr. Triplet!" And thisvivacious dame, putting her book down, seized both Triplet's hands andshook them.
He shook hers warmly in return out of excess of timidity, and droppedtragedies, and kicked at them convulsively when they were down, for fearthey should be in her way, and his mouth opened, and his eyes glared.
"Mr. Triplet," said the lady, "do you remember an Irish orange-girl youused to give sixpence to at Goodman's Fields, and pat her on the headand give her good advice, like a good old soul as you were? She took thesixpence."
"Madam," said Trip, recovering a grain of pomp, "singular as it mayappear, I remember the young person; she was very engaging. I trustno harm hath befallen her, for methought I discovered, in spite of herbrogue, a beautiful nature in her."
"Go along wid yer blarney," answered a rich brogue; "an' is it thecomanther ye'd be putting on poor little Peggy?"
"Oh! oh gracious!" gasped Triplet.
"Yes," was the reply; but into that "yes" she threw a whole sentence ofmeaning. "Fine cha-ney oranges!" chanted she, to put the matter beyonddispute.
"Am I really so honored as to have patted you on that queen-like head!"and he glared at it.
"On the same head which now I wear," replied she, pompously. "I keptit for the convaynience hintirely, only there's more in it. Well, Mr.Triplet, you see what time has done for me; now tell me whether he hasbeen as kind to you. Are you going to speak to me, Mr. Triplet?"
As a decayed hunter stands lean and disconsolate, head poked forwardlike a goose's, but if hounds sweep by his paddock in full cry, followedby horses who are what he was not, he does, by reason of the good bloodthat is and will be in his heart, _dum spiritus hoss regit artus,_ cockhis ears, erect his tail, and trot fiery to his extremest hedge, andlook over it, nostril distended, mane flowing, and neigh the huntonward like a trumpet; so Triplet, who had manhood at bottom, instead ofwhining out his troubles in the ear of encouraging beauty, as a sneakingspirit would, perked up, and resolved to put the best face upon it allbefore so charming a creature of the other sex.
"Yes, madam," cried he, with the air of one who could have smackedhis lips, "Providence has blessed me with an excellent wife and fourcharming children. My wife was Miss Chatterton; you remember her?"
"Yes! Where is she playing now?"
"Why, madam, her health is too weak for it."
"Oh!--You were scene-painter. Do you still paint scenes?"
"With the pen, madam, not the brush. As the wags said, I transferredthe distemper from my canvas to my imagination." And Triplet laugheduproariously.
When he had done, Mrs. Woffington, who had joined the laugh, inquiredquietly whether his pieces had met with success.
"Eminent--in the closet; the stage is to come!" and he smiled absurdlyagain.
The lady smiled back.
"In short," said Triplet, recapitulating, "being blessed with health,and more tastes in the arts than most, and a cheerful spirit, I shouldbe wrong, madam, to repine; and this day, in particular, is a happyone," added the rose colorist, "since the great Mrs. Woffington hasdeigned to remember me, and call me friend."
Such was Triplet's summary.
Mrs. Woffington drew out her memorandum-book, and took down her summaryof the crafty Triplet's facts. So easy is it for us Triplets to draw thewool over the eyes of women and Woffingtons.
"Triplet, discharged from scene-painting; wife, no engagement; fourchildren supported by his pen--that is to say, starving; lose no time!"
She closed her book; and smiled, and said:
"I wish these things were comedies instead of trash-edies, as the Frenchcall them; we would cut one in half, and slice away the finest passages,and then I would act in it; and you would see how the stage-door wouldfly open at sight of the author."
"O Heaven!" said poor Trip, excited by this picture. "I'll go home, andwrite a comedy this moment."
"Stay!" said she; "you had better leave the tragedies with me."
"My dear madam! You will read them?"
"Ahem! I will make poor Rich read them."
"But, madam, he has rejected them."
"That is the first step. Reading them comes after, when it comes at all.What have you got in that green baize?"
"In this green baize?"
"Well, in this green baize, then."
"Oh madam! nothing--nothing! To tell the truth, it is an adventurousattempt from memory. I saw you play Silvia, madam; I was so charmed,that I came every night. I took your face home with me--forgive mypresumption, madam--and I produced this faint adumbration, which Iexpose with diffidence."
So then he took the green baize off.
The color rushed into her face; she was evidently gratified. Poor, sillyMrs. Triplet was doomed to be right about this portrait.
"I will give you a sitting," said she. "You will find painting dullfaces a better trade than writing dull tragedies. Work for otherpeople's vanity, not your own; that is the art of art. And now I wantMr. Triplet's address."
"On the fly-leaf of each work, madam," replied that florid author, "andalso at the foot of every page which contains a particularly brilliantpassage, I have been careful to insert the address of James Triplet,painter, actor, and dramatist, and Mrs. Woffington's humble, devotedservant." He bowed ridiculously low, and moved toward the door; butsomething gushed across his heart, and he returned with long strides toher. "Madam!" cried he, with a jaunty manner, "you have inspired a sonof Thespis with dreams of eloquence, you have tuned in a higher key apoet's lyre, you have tinged a painter's existence with brighter colors,and--and--" His mouth worked still, but no more artificial words wouldcome. He sobbed out, "and God in heaven bless you, Mrs. Woffington!" andran out of the room.
Mrs. Woffington looked after him with interest, for this confirmed hersuspicions; but suddenly her expression changed, she wore a look we havenot yet seen upon her--it was a half-cunning, half-spiteful look; it wassuppressed in a moment, she gave herself to her book, and presently SirCharles Pomander sauntered into the room.
"Ah! what, Mrs. Woffington here?" said the diplomat.
"Sir Charles Pomander, I declare!" said the actress.
"I have just parted with an admirer of yours.
"I wish I could part with them all," was the reply.
"A pastoral youth, who means to win La Woffington by agriculturalcourtship--as shepherds woo in sylvan shades."
"With oaten pipe the rustic maids," quoth the Woffington, impr
ovising.
The diplomat laughed, the actress laughed, and said, laughingly: _"Tellme what he says word for word?"_
"It will only make you laugh."
"Well, and am I never to laugh, who provide so many laughs for you all?"
_"C'est juste._ You shall share the general merriment. Imagine aromantic soul, who adores you for _your simplicity!"_
"My simplicity! Am I so very simple?"
"No," said Sir Charles, monstrous dryly. "He says you are out of placeon the stage, and wants to take the star from its firmament, and put itin a cottage."
"I am not a star," replied the Woffington, "I am only a meteor. And whatdoes the man think I am to do without this (here she imitated applause)from my dear public's thousand hands?"
"You are to have this" (he mimicked a kiss) "from a single mouth,instead."
"He is mad! Tell me what more he says. Oh, don't stop to invent; Ishould detect you; and you would only spoil this man."
He laughed conceitedly. "I should spoil him! Well, then, he proposes tobe your friend rather than your lover, and keep you from being talkedof, he! he! instead of adding to your _eclat."_
"And if he is your friend, why don't you tell him my real character, andsend him into the country?"
She said this rapidly and with an appearance of earnest. The diplomatistfell into the trap.
"I do," said he; "but he snaps his fingers at me and common sense andthe world. I really think there is only one way to get rid of him, andwith him of every annoyance."
"Ah! that would be nice."
"Delicious! I had the honor, madam, of laying certain proposals at yourfeet."
"Oh! yes--your letter, Sir Charles. I have only just had time to run myeye down it. Let us examine it together."
She took out the letter with a wonderful appearance of interest, and thediplomat allowed himself to fall into the absurd position to which sheinvited him. They put their two heads together over the letter.
"'A coach, a country-house, pin-money'--and I'm so tired of houses andcoaches and pins. Oh! yes, here's something; what is this you offer me,up in this corner?"
Sir Charles inspected the place carefully, and announced that it was"his heart."
"And he can't even write it!" said she. "That word is 'earth.' Ah! well,you know best. There is your letter, Sir Charles."
She courtesied, returned him the letter, and resumed her study ofLothario.
"Favor me with your answer, madam," said her suitor.
"You have it," was the reply.
"Madam, I don't understand your answer," said Sir Charles, stiffly.
"I can't find you answers and understandings, too," was the lady-likereply. "You must beat my answer into your understanding while I beatthis man's verse into mine.
'And like the birds, etc.'"
Pomander recovered himself a little; he laughed with quiet insolence."Tell me," said he, "do you really refuse?"
"My good soul," said Mrs. Woffington, "why this surprise! Are you soignorant of the stage and the world as not to know that I refuse suchoffers as yours every week of my life?"
"I know better," was the cool reply. She left it unnoticed.
"I have so many of these," continued she, "that I have begun to forgetthey are insults."
At this word the button broke off Sir Charles's foil.
"Insults, madam! They are the highest compliments you have left it inour power to pay you."
The other took the button off her foil.
"Indeed!" cried she, with well-feigned surprise. "Oh! I understand.To be your mistress could be but a temporary disgrace; to be your wifewould be a lasting discredit," she continued. "And now, sir, havingplayed your rival's game, and showed me your whole hand" (a light brokein upon our diplomat), "do something to recover the reputation of a manof the world. A gentleman is somewhere about in whom you have interestedme by your lame satire; pray tell him I am in the green-room, with nobetter companion than this bad poet."
Sir Charles clinched his teeth.
"I accept the delicate commission," replied he, "that you may see howeasily the man of the world drops what the rustic is eager to pick up."
"That is better," said the actress, with a provoking appearance ofgood-humor. "You have a woman's tongue, if not her wit; but, my goodsoul," added she, with cool _hauteur,_ "remember you have something todo of more importance than anything you can say."
"I accept your courteous dismissal, madam," said Pomander, grinding histeeth. "I will send a carpenter for your swain. And I leave you."
He bowed to the ground.
"Thanks for the double favor, good Sir Charles."
She courtesied to the floor.
Feminine vengeance! He had come between her and her love. All veryclever, Mrs. Actress; but was it wise?
"I am revenged," thought Mrs. Woffington, with a little feminine smirk.
"I will be revenged," vowed Pomander, clinching his teeth.
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