Vanity Fair (89 page)

A tremor ran through the room. "Good God!" somebody said, "it's
Mrs. Rawdon Crawley."

Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus's hand and
advances to the bed. You see it shining over her head in the
glimmer of the lamp, and—and the lamp goes out, with a groan, and
all is dark.

The darkness and the scene frightened people. Rebecca performed her
part so well, and with such ghastly truth, that the spectators were
all dumb, until, with a burst, all the lamps of the hall blazed out
again, when everybody began to shout applause. "Brava! brava!" old
Steyne's strident voice was heard roaring over all the rest. "By—,
she'd do it too," he said between his teeth. The performers were
called by the whole house, which sounded with cries of "Manager!
Clytemnestra!" Agamemnon could not be got to show in his classical
tunic, but stood in the background with Aegisthus and others of the
performers of the little play. Mr. Bedwin Sands led on Zuleikah and
Clytemnestra. A great personage insisted on being presented to the
charming Clytemnestra. "Heigh ha? Run him through the body. Marry
somebody else, hay?" was the apposite remark made by His Royal
Highness.

"Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part," said Lord
Steyne. Becky laughed, gay and saucy looking, and swept the
prettiest little curtsey ever seen.

Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous cool dainties, and
the performers disappeared to get ready for the second charade-
tableau.

The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted in
pantomime, and the performance took place in the following wise:

First syllable. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with a slouched hat
and a staff, a great-coat, and a lantern borrowed from the stables,
passed across the stage bawling out, as if warning the inhabitants
of the hour. In the lower window are seen two bagmen playing
apparently at the game of cribbage, over which they yawn much. To
them enters one looking like Boots (the Honourable G. Ringwood),
which character the young gentleman performed to perfection, and
divests them of their lower coverings; and presently Chambermaid
(the Right Honourable Lord Southdown) with two candlesticks, and a
warming-pan. She ascends to the upper apartment and warms the bed.
She uses the warming-pan as a weapon wherewith she wards off the
attention of the bagmen. She exits. They put on their night-caps
and pull down the blinds. Boots comes out and closes the shutters
of the ground-floor chamber. You hear him bolting and chaining the
door within. All the lights go out. The music plays Dormez,
dormez, chers Amours. A voice from behind the curtain says, "First
syllable."

Second syllable. The lamps are lighted up all of a sudden. The
music plays the old air from John of Paris, Ah quel plaisir d'etre
en voyage. It is the same scene. Between the first and second
floors of the house represented, you behold a sign on which the
Steyne arms are painted. All the bells are ringing all over the
house. In the lower apartment you see a man with a long slip of
paper presenting it to another, who shakes his fists, threatens and
vows that it is monstrous. "Ostler, bring round my gig," cries
another at the door. He chucks Chambermaid (the Right Honourable
Lord Southdown) under the chin; she seems to deplore his absence, as
Calypso did that of that other eminent traveller Ulysses. Boots (the
Honourable G. Ringwood) passes with a wooden box, containing silver
flagons, and cries "Pots" with such exquisite humour and naturalness
that the whole house rings with applause, and a bouquet is thrown to
him. Crack, crack, crack, go the whips. Landlord, chambermaid,
waiter rush to the door, but just as some distinguished guest is
arriving, the curtains close, and the invisible theatrical manager
cries out "Second syllable."

"I think it must be 'Hotel,'" says Captain Grigg of the Life Guards;
there is a general laugh at the Captain's cleverness. He is not
very far from the mark.

While the third syllable is in preparation, the band begins a
nautical medley—"All in the Downs," "Cease Rude Boreas," "Rule
Britannia," "In the Bay of Biscay O!"—some maritime event is about
to take place. A ben is heard ringing as the curtain draws aside.
"Now, gents, for the shore!" a voice exclaims. People take leave of
each other. They point anxiously as if towards the clouds, which
are represented by a dark curtain, and they nod their heads in fear.
Lady Squeams (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her
bags, reticules, and husband sit down, and cling hold of some ropes.
It is evidently a ship.

The Captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked hat and a
telescope, comes in, holding his hat on his head, and looks out; his
coat tails fly about as if in the wind. When he leaves go of his
hat to use his telescope, his hat flies off, with immense applause.
It is blowing fresh. The music rises and whistles louder and
louder; the mariners go across the stage staggering, as if the ship
was in severe motion. The Steward (the Honourable G. Ringwood)
passes reeling by, holding six basins. He puts one rapidly by Lord
Squeams—Lady Squeams, giving a pinch to her dog, which begins to
howl piteously, puts her pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes
away as for the cabin. The music rises up to the wildest pitch of
stormy excitement, and the third syllable is concluded.

There was a little ballet, "Le Rossignol," in which Montessu and
Noblet used to be famous in those days, and which Mr. Wagg
transferred to the English stage as an opera, putting his verse, of
which he was a skilful writer, to the pretty airs of the ballet. It
was dressed in old French costume, and little Lord Southdown now
appeared admirably attired in the disguise of an old woman hobbling
about the stage with a faultless crooked stick.

Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and gurgling from a
sweet pasteboard cottage covered with roses and trellis work.
"Philomele, Philomele," cries the old woman, and Philomele comes
out.

More applause—it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder and patches, the
most ravissante little Marquise in the world.

She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the stage with all
the innocence of theatrical youth—she makes a curtsey. Mamma says
"Why, child, you are always laughing and singing," and away she
goes, with—

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY

The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming
Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring;
You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming,
It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing,
Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen:
And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,
It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have found their voices,
The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye;
And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices,
And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.

During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the good-natured
personage addressed as Mamma by the singer, and whose large whiskers
appeared under her cap, seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternal
affection by embracing the innocent creature who performed the
daughter's part. Every caress was received with loud acclamations
of laughter by the sympathizing audience. At its conclusion (while
the music was performing a symphony as if ever so many birds were
warbling) the whole house was unanimous for an encore: and applause
and bouquets without end were showered upon the Nightingale of the
evening. Lord Steyne's voice of applause was loudest of all.
Becky, the nightingale, took the flowers which he threw to her and
pressed them to her heart with the air of a consummate comedian.
Lord Steyne was frantic with delight. His guests' enthusiasm
harmonized with his own. Where was the beautiful black-eyed Houri
whose appearance in the first charade had caused such delight? She
was twice as handsome as Becky, but the brilliancy of the latter had
quite eclipsed her. All voices were for her. Stephens, Caradori,
Ronzi de Begnis, people compared her to one or the other, and agreed
with good reason, very likely, that had she been an actress none on
the stage could have surpassed her. She had reached her culmination:
her voice rose trilling and bright over the storm of applause, and
soared as high and joyful as her triumph. There was a ball after
the dramatic entertainments, and everybody pressed round Becky as
the great point of attraction of the evening. The Royal Personage
declared with an oath that she was perfection, and engaged her again
and again in conversation. Little Becky's soul swelled with pride
and delight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame, fashion before
her. Lord Steyne was her slave, followed her everywhere, and
scarcely spoke to any one in the room beside, and paid her the most
marked compliments and attention. She still appeared in her
Marquise costume and danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny,
Monsieur Le Duc de la Jabotiere's attache; and the Duke, who had all
the traditions of the ancient court, pronounced that Madame Crawley
was worthy to have been a pupil of Vestris, or to have figured at
Versailles. Only a feeling of dignity, the gout, and the strongest
sense of duty and personal sacrifice prevented his Excellency from
dancing with her himself, and he declared in public that a lady who
could talk and dance like Mrs. Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at
any court in Europe. He was only consoled when he heard that she
was half a Frenchwoman by birth. "None but a compatriot," his
Excellency declared, "could have performed that majestic dance in
such a way."

Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de Klingenspohr, the
Prince of Peterwaradin's cousin and attache. The delighted Prince,
having less retenue than his French diplomatic colleague, insisted
upon taking a turn with the charming creature, and twirled round the
ball-room with her, scattering the diamonds out of his boot-tassels
and hussar jacket until his Highness was fairly out of breath.
Papoosh Pasha himself would have liked to dance with her if that
amusement had been the custom of his country. The company made a
circle round her and applauded as wildly as if she had been a Noblet
or a Taglioni. Everybody was in ecstacy; and Becky too, you may be
sure. She passed by Lady Stunnington with a look of scorn. She
patronized Lady Gaunt and her astonished and mortified sister-in-
law—she ecrased all rival charmers. As for poor Mrs. Winkworth,
and her long hair and great eyes, which had made such an effect at
the commencement of the evening—where was she now? Nowhere in the
race. She might tear her long hair and cry her great eyes out, but
there was not a person to heed or to deplore the discomfiture.

The greatest triumph of all was at supper time. She was placed at
the grand exclusive table with his Royal Highness the exalted
personage before mentioned, and the rest of the great guests. She
was served on gold plate. She might have had pearls melted into her
champagne if she liked—another Cleopatra—and the potentate of
Peterwaradin would have given half the brilliants off his jacket for
a kind glance from those dazzling eyes. Jabotiere wrote home about
her to his government. The ladies at the other tables, who supped
off mere silver and marked Lord Steyne's constant attention to her,
vowed it was a monstrous infatuation, a gross insult to ladies of
rank. If sarcasm could have killed, Lady Stunnington would have
slain her on the spot.

Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. They seemed to
separate his wife farther than ever from him somehow. He thought
with a feeling very like pain how immeasurably she was his superior.

When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young men followed her
to her carriage, for which the people without bawled, the cry being
caught up by the link-men who were stationed outside the tall gates
of Gaunt House, congratulating each person who issued from the gate
and hoping his Lordship had enjoyed this noble party.

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to the gate after due
shouting, rattled into the illuminated court-yard and drove up to
the covered way. Rawdon put his wife into the carriage, which drove
off. Mr. Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and offered the
Colonel the refreshment of a cigar.

They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the many link-boys
outside, and Rawdon walked on with his friend Wenham. Two persons
separated from the crowd and followed the two gentlemen; and when
they had walked down Gaunt Square a few score of paces, one of the
men came up and, touching Rawdon on the shoulder, said, "Beg your
pardon, Colonel, I vish to speak to you most particular." This
gentleman's acquaintance gave a loud whistle as the latter spoke, at
which signal a cab came clattering up from those stationed at the
gate of Gaunt House—and the aide-de-camp ran round and placed
himself in front of Colonel Crawley.

That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen him. He was in
the hands of the bailiffs. He started back, falling against the man
who had first touched him.

"We're three on us—it's no use bolting," the man behind said.

"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared to know his
interlocutor. "How much is it?"

"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor Street,
Chancery Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex—
"One hundred and sixty-six, six and eight-pence, at the suit of Mr.
Nathan."

"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor Rawdon said—"I've
got seventy at home."

"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said poor Mr. Wenham—"Good
night, my dear fellow."