‘Shine out, appear, be found, my lovely Zara,’
in bridal white and silver. You know, ma’am, I am only supposing.”
“Well then, supposition for supposition,” replied Mrs. Falconer: “supposing I let your father hope that you are not so decided to abhor poor Petcalf—”
“Oh! dear mamma, I am so persecuted about that Petcalf! and compared with Count Altenberg, my father must be blind, or think me an idiot.”
“Oh! between him and the Count there is no comparison, to be sure; but I forgot to mention, that what your father builds upon is our poor old friend the general’s death — Clay here, in a postscript, you see, mentions the gout in his stomach — so I am afraid he is as good as gone, as your father says, and then The Lodge in Asia Minor is certainly a pretty place to sit down upon if one could do no better.”
“But, ma’am, the Count’s vast possessions and rank!”
“I grant you all that, my dear; but our present object is the play — Zara’s royal robes cannot be had for nothing, you know — you never listened to my infallible means of obtaining your wish: I think I can engage that the commissioner will not refuse us, if you will empower me to say to him, that by this time twelvemonth, if nothing better offers — mind my if — Petcalf shall be rewarded for his constancy.”
“If — Oh! dear me! But before this time twelvemonth the Count—”
“Or one of the Clays might offer, and in that case, my if brings you off safe with your father.”
“Well, then, mamma, upon condition that you will promise me, upon your word, you will lay a marked emphasis upon your if — I believe, for Zara’s sake, I must—”
“I knew you would behave at last like a sensible girl,” said Mrs. Falconer: “I’ll go and speak to your father directly.”
Mrs. Falconer thus fairly gained her point, by setting Georgiana’s passion for dress against her passion for Count Altenberg; and having, moreover, under false pretences, extorted from the young lady many promises to keep her temper prudently, and to be upon the best terms possible with her rival, the mother went away perfectly satisfied with her own address.
The father was brought to perform his part, not without difficulty — Carte blanche for Zara’s sentimental blue and bridal white robes was obtained, silver fringe and pearls inclusive: the triumphant Zara rang for the base confidante of her late distresses — Lydia Sharpe re-entered, with the four dresses upon sale; but she and her guineas, and the most honourable appraisers, all were treated with becoming scorn — and as Lydia obeyed her young lady’s orders to replace her clothes in her wardrobe, and never to think of them more, they suddenly rose in value in her estimation, and she repented that she had been quite so much of an extortioner. She knew the difference of her mistress’s tone when disappointed or successful, and guessed that supplies had been obtained by some means or other: “New dresses, I smell, are the order of the day,” said Lydia Sharpe to herself; “but I’ll engage she will want me presently to make them up: so I warrant I won’t come down off my high horse till I see why — Miss Georgiana Falconer, ma’am, I beg pardon — you are the mistress — I meant only to oblige and accommodate when called upon — but if I’m not wanted, I’m not wanted — and I hope ladies will find them that will be more abler and willinger to serve them.”
So saying, half flouncing, half pouting, she retired. Her young mistress, aware that Lydia’s talents and expeditious performance, as a mantua-maker and a milliner, were essential to the appearance of Zara, suppressed her own resentment, submitted to her maid’s insolence, and brought her into humour again that night, by a present of the famous white satin.
In due time, consequently, the Turkish dresses were in great forwardness. Lest we should never get to the play, we forbear to relate all the various frettings, jealousies, clashing vanities, and petty quarrels, which occurred between the actresses and their friends, during the getting up of this piece and its rehearsals. We need mention, only that the seeds of irreconcileable dislike were sown at this time, between the Miss Falconers and their dear friends, the Lady Arlingtons: there was some difficulty made by Lady Anne about lending her diamond crescent for Zara’s turban — Miss Georgiana could never forgive this; and Lady Frances, on her part, was provoked, beyond measure, by an order from the duke, her uncle, forbidding her to appear on the stage. She had some reason to suspect that this order came in consequence of a treacherous hint in a letter of Georgiana’s to Lady Trant, which went round, through Lady Jane Granville to the duke, who otherwise, as Lady Frances observed, “in the midst of his politics, might never have heard a word of the matter.”
Mrs. Falconer had need of all her power over the muscles of her face, and all her address, in these delicate and difficult circumstances. Her daughter Arabella, too, was sullen — the young lady was subject to her brother John’s fits of obstinacy. For some time she could not be brought to undertake the part of Selima; and no other Selima was to be had. She did not see why she should condescend to play the confidante for Georgiana’s Zara — why she was to be sacrificed to her sister; and Sir Robert Percy, her admirer, not even to be invited, because the other Percys were to come.
Mrs. Falconer plied her well with flattery, through Colonel Spandrill; and at last Arabella was pacified by a promise that the following week “Love in a Village,” or “The Lord of the Manor,” should be acted, in which she should choose her part, and in which her voice and musical talents would be brought forward — and Sir Robert Percy and his friends should be the principal auditors.
Recovered, or partly recovered, from her fit of the sullens, she was prevailed upon to say she would try what she could do in Selima.
The parts were learnt by heart; the dresses, after innumerable alterations, finished to the satisfaction of the heroes and heroines of the drama.
Their quarrels, and the quarrels of their friends and of their servants, male and female, were at last hushed to temporary repose, and — the great, the important day arrived.
The preceding evening, Mrs. Falconer, as she sat quite exhausted in the green-room, was heard to declare, she was so tired, that she would not go through the same thing again, for one month, to be Queen of England.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The theatre at Falconer-court was not very spacious, but it was elegantly fitted up, extremely well lighted, and had a good effect. There was a brilliant audience, an excellent band of music, and the whole had a gay and festive appearance.
The Percy family, as they came from a great distance, were late. The house was crowded. Mrs. Falconer was obliged to seat Mrs. Percy and her daughters with the Lady Arlingtons on a bench upon the stage: a conspicuous situation, which had been reserved for their ladyships.
Every eye instantly turned upon the beautiful Caroline. She bore the gaze of public admiration with a blushing dignity, which interested every body in her favour. Count Altenberg, who had anxiously expected the moment of her arrival, was, however, upon his guard. Knowing that he was watched by Mrs. Falconer’s friends, he was determined that his secret thoughts should not be seen. One involuntary glance he gave, but immediately withdrew his eye, and continued his conversation with the gentleman next to him. After a few moments had elapsed, he could indulge himself in looking at Caroline unobserved, for the gaze of public admiration is as transient as it is eager. It is surprising how short a time any face, however beautiful, engages numbers who meet together to be seen.
The audience were now happily full of themselves, arranging their seats, and doing civilities to those of their friends who were worthy of notice.
“Lady Trant! won’t your ladyship sit in the front row?”
“I’m vastly well, thank you.”
“Lady Kew, I am afraid you won’t see over my head.”
“Oh! I assure you — perfectly — perfectly.”
“Colonel Spandrill, I’ll trouble you — my shawl.”
“Clay, lend me your opera-glass. — How did you leave all at Bath?”
“I’m
so glad that General Petcalf’s gout in his stomach did not carry him off — for young Petcalf could not have acted, you know, to-night. — Mrs. Harcourt is trying to catch your eye, Lady Kew.”
All those who were new to the theatre at Falconer-court, or who were not intimate with the family, were in great anxiety to inform themselves on one important point, before the prologue should begin. Stretching to those who were, or had the reputation of being, good authorities, they asked in whispers, “Do you know if there is to be any clapping of hands? — Can you tell me whether it is allowable to say any thing?”
It seems that at some private theatres loud demonstrations of applause were forbidden. It was thought more genteel to approve and admire in silence, — thus to draw the line between professional actors and actresses, and gentlemen and lady performers. Upon trial, however, in some instances, it had been found that the difference was sufficiently obvious, without marking it by any invidious distinction. Young and old amateurs have acknowledged, that the silence, however genteel, was so dreadfully awful, that they preferred even the noise of vulgar acclamations.
The cup of flattery was found so sweet, that objections were no longer made to swallowing it in public.
The overture finished, the prologue, which was written by Mr. Seebright, was received with merited applause. And, after a buzz of requests and promises for copies, the house was silent — the curtain drew up, and the first appearance of Zara, in the delicate sentimental blue satin, was hailed with plaudits, long and loud — plaudits which were reiterated at the end of her first speech, which was, indeed, extremely well recited. Count Altenberg leaned forward, and seemed to listen with delight; then stood up, and several times renewed his plaudits; at first, with an appearance of timidity, afterwards, with decision and energy. Miss Georgiana Falconer really acted uncommonly well, so that he could without flattery applaud; and if he did exaggerate a little in the expression of his admiration, he deemed it allowable. He had another object: he was absolutely determined to see whether or not Caroline was capable of the mean passions which had disgusted him in her rival. He reflected that he had seen her only when she was triumphant; and he was anxious to know how she would appear in different circumstances. Of her high intellectual endowments he could not doubt; but temper is not always a blessing given to the fair, or even to the wise. It may seem strange that a gallant man should think of a beauty’s temper; and, probably, if Count Altenberg had considered Caroline only as a beauty, he would not have troubled himself to make, on this point, any severe and dangerous scrutiny.
The play went on — Zara sustaining the interest of the scene. She was but feebly supported by the sulky Selima, and the other parts were but ill performed. The faults common to unpractised actors occurred: one of Osman’s arms never moved, and the other sawed the air perpetually, as if in pure despite of Hamlet’s prohibition. Then, in crossing over, Osman was continually entangled in Zara’s robe; or, when standing still, she was obliged to twitch her train thrice before she could get it from beneath his leaden feet. When confident that he could repeat a speech fluently, he was apt to turn his back upon his mistress; or, when he felt himself called upon to listen to his mistress, he would regularly turn his back upon the audience. But all these are defects permitted by the licence of a private theatre, allowable by courtesy to gentlemen-actors; and things went on as well as could be expected. Osman had not his part by heart, but still Zara covered all deficiencies: and Osman did no worse than other Osmans had done before him, till he came to the long speech, beginning with,
“The sultans, my great ancestors, bequeath’d
Their empire to me, but their tastes they gave not.”
Powerful prompting got him through the first six lines decently enough, till he came to
—”wasting tenderness in wild profusion,
I might look down to my surrounded feet,
And bless contending beauties,”
At this he bungled sadly — his hearing suddenly failing as well as his memory, there was a dead stop. In vain the prompter, the scene-shifter, the candle-snuffer, as loud as they could, and much louder than they ought, reiterated the next sentence,
“I might speak,
Serenely slothful.”
It was plain that Osman could not speak, nor was he “serene.” He had begun, as in dangers great he was wont, to kick his left ankle-bone rapidly with his right heel; and through the pomp of Osman’s oriental robes and turban young Petcalf stood confessed. He threw back an angry look at the prompter — Zara terrified, gave up all for lost — the two Lady Arlingtons retreated behind the scenes to laugh — the polite audience struggled not to smile. Count Altenberg at this moment looked at Caroline, who, instead of joining in the laugh, showed by her countenance and manner the most good-natured sympathy.
Zara, recovering her presence of mind, swept across the stage in such a manner as to hide from view her kicking sultan; and as she passed, she whispered the line to him so distinctly, that he caught the sound, left off kicking, went on with his speech, and all was well again. Count Altenberg forgot to join in the cheering plaudits, he was so much charmed at that instant by Caroline’s smile.
Fortunately for Zara, and for the audience, in the next scenes the part of Lusignan was performed by a gentleman who had been well used to acting — though he was not a man of any extraordinary capacity, yet, from his habit of the boards, and his being perfect in his part, he now seemed quite a superior person. It was found unaccountably easier to act with this son of labour than with any other of the gentlemen-performers, though they were all natural geniuses.
The moment Zara appeared with Lusignan, her powers shone forth — nothing spoiled the illusion, the attention of the audience was fixed, their interest was sustained, their feelings touched. The exercise of the fan ceased in the front rows, glasses of lemonade were held untasted, and nobody consulted the play-bill. Excited by success, sympathy, and applause the most flattering, Zara went on with increasing éclat.
Meanwhile the Percy family, who were quite intent upon the play, began to find their situation disagreeable from some noise behind the scenes. A party of ladies, among whom was Lady Frances Arlington, stood whispering so loud close to Caroline that their voices were heard by her more distinctly than those of the actors. Lady Frances stood half hid between the side scenes, holding a little white dog in her arms.
“Hush!” cried her ladyship, putting her fingers on her lips — her companions became silent instantly. The house was now in profound attention. Zara was in the midst of her favourite speech,
“Would you learn more, and open all my heart?
Know then that, spite of this renew’d injustice,
I do not — cannot — wish to love you less;
— That long before you look’d so low as Zara,
She gave her heart to Osman.”
At the name of Osman, the dog started and struggled — Lady Frances appeared to restrain him, but he ran on the stage — leaped up on Zara — and at the repetition of the name of Osman sat down on his hind legs, begged with his fore-paws, and began to whine in such a piteous manner that the whole audience were on the brink of laughter — Zara, and all her attendants and friends, lost their presence of mind.
Caroline sprang forward quite across the stage, caught the dog in her arms, and carried him off. Count Altenberg, no longer master of himself, clapped his hands, and the whole house resounded with applause.
Miss Georgiana Falconer misunderstood the cause of the plaudits, imagined that she was encored, cast down her eyes, and, as soon as there was silence, advanced and recommenced her speech, of which Count Altenberg did not hear one word.
This malicious trick had been contrived by Lady Frances Arlington, to revenge herself on Miss Georgiana Falconer for having prevented her from taking a part in the play. Her ladyship had, in the course of the rehearsals, privately drilled her dog to answer to the name of Osman, when that name was pronounced in Zara’s tragic tone. The dog had been kept out
of the way till Zara was in the midst of that speech in which she calls repeatedly on the name of Osman. This trick had been so well contrived, that all but those who were in the secret imagined that the appearance of the dog at this unlucky moment had been accidental. The truth began indeed to be soon whispered in confidence.
But to return to Count Altenberg. At the commencement of the play, when the idea of trying Caroline’s temper had occurred to him, he had felt some anxiety lest all the high expectations he had formed, all the bright enchantment, should vanish. In the first act, he had begun by joining timidly in the general applause of Zara, dreading lest Caroline should not be blessed with that temper which could bear the praises of a rival “with unwounded ear.” But the count applauded with more confidence in the second act; during the third was quite at his ease; and in the fifth could not forgive himself for having supposed it possible that Caroline could be liable to any of the foibles of her sex.
In the mean time Miss Georgiana Falconer, in high spirits, intoxicated with vanity, was persuaded that the Count had returned to his senses; and so little did she know of his character, or of the human heart, as to expect that a declaration of love would soon follow this public profession of admiration. Such was the confusion of her ideas, that she was confident Zara was on the point of becoming Countess of Altenberg.
After the play was over, and a thousand compliments had been paid and received, most of the company called for their carriages. The house emptied fast: there remained only a select party, who were to stay supper. They soon adjourned to the green-room to repeat their tribute of applause to the actors. High in the midst stood Miss Georgiana Falconer, receiving incense from & crowd of adorers. As Count Altenberg approached, she assumed a languishing air of softness and sensibility. The Count said all that could reasonably be expected, but his compliments did not seem quite to satisfy the lady. She was in hopes that he was going to say something more to her taste, when French Clay pressed forward, which he did with an air neither French nor English. He protested that he could not have conceived it possible for the powers of any actress upon earth to interest him for the English Zara; “but you, madam,” said he, “have done the impossible; and now I should die content, if I could see your genius do justice to Zaïre. How you would shine in the divine original, when you could do such wonders for a miserable translation!”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 137