Читать книгу Garrick's Pupil - Filon Augustin - Страница 6

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The company assembled in the Reynolds's drawing-room when the artist entered, leading Miss Woodville by the hand, made such a palaver over the young actress that it was quite enough to turn her head, had she not already become accustomed to clamorous triumphs. She found herself in the arms of three women at once, who emulously cajoled her, while the men vied with them in paying flattering court. Despite her aplomb, spoiled child that she was, she was becoming quite embarrassed in responding to all the hand-pressures, the smiling eyes, the gracious questions, when, fortunately for her, a footman announced supper; and forthwith the company passed into the dining-room.

It was just five o'clock, and, being well aware of the rules of the house, Sir Joshua's guests were all present, even in greater number than was expected, as was frequently the case. On this account some little confusion prevailed about the table, where each one seated himself according to his fancy. There were not enough plates; one person possessed a fork but no knife, while another was furnished with a knife minus a fork: but at these gay, free-and-easy reunions such trifles were passed over with a laugh. The master of the house, whose special delight it was to chat with his guests, fluttered from one to the other, ear-trumpet in hand, giving the entertainment not the slightest heed. Miss Reynolds alone was in despair.

In point of fact, Miss Reynolds never appeared in any other attitude. A genuine martyr was Miss Reynolds. Martyr to whom or what? It would be difficult to explain. Following the example of her brother, she painted, but, although she was the sister of a great artist, to her profound surprise her pictures were detestable. Sir Joshua owned a great gilded coach, upon the panels of which Hayman had painted the Seasons, but he rarely availed himself of its comforts; instead, he obliged his sister to drive out in it, and used to send her to the park "for the good of her health." And the passers-by were astonished to see, shrinking in a corner of the resplendent equipage, a woman who wept scalding tears. It was Miss Reynolds, the everlasting martyr. Upon this particular occasion she exerted herself to the last degree without producing the slightest effect either upon her guests or her domestics.

In the midst of the excitement a woman of perhaps thirty years, arrayed in a peach-bloom gown and a head-dress of lace, quickly approached Esther. She was beautiful, of slender elegance, with eyes full of fire, and cheeks of a violent tint; she spoke in a high-pitched key, and altogether exhibited the assurance of a high-born lady. She promptly pounced upon the girl and dragged her away with her.

"Miss Woodville, dear Miss Woodville! I want to be your friend! Sit here, close to me."

And she murmured, with a singular mixture of affectation and passion,—

"How lovely she is! Do you know, little one, that we shall positively be obliged to institute a body-guard, like my friends, Lady Coventry and Lady Waldegrave, who go about everywhere escorted by two officers and a dozen halberdiers to keep the crowd of their admirers at a distance?"

Esther leaned towards her neighbor, a man of middle age, whose extraordinary plainness of feature rendered him in a way sympathetic and assuring. Of him she inquired the name of the lady who so burned to be her intimate friend. She learned that it was Lady Vereker, one of the most pronounced women of the world of the period. In her turn Lady Vereker hastened to inform Esther in a whisper that her neighbor was Mr. Gibbon, quite an obscure member of Parliament and a commissioner of trade.

"It is said that he has written a great work upon the Romans," added Lady Vereker maliciously, "but to my thinking he does not look capable of it."

In fact, Mr. Gibbon was paying his fair neighbor too assiduous court to please her ladyship.

As no introductions were offered at Reynolds's house, in order to avoid ceremonies of which fashionable persons were more weary than the rest of the world, Esther knew none of the guests, and would have continued in ignorance had not Mr. Gibbon named them; and he accompanied each name with some neat, incisive, mocking little phrase, the secret of which he had learned during his sojourn in France.

"That great solemn figure is Mr. Burke," he explained. "He is vastly eloquent; a huge merit in Parliament, but a sad fault at supper. He shares his solicitude between Miss Burney and his son Richard. He idolizes the boy and never loses sight of him; notice that at this moment his arm is about his neck. He makes it his constant boast that this boy will be a genius. For my part I doubt it. The Phœnix never repeats himself!"

"But who is that strange personage seated on the other side of Miss Burney,—the man with the monstrous head that keeps rolling from shoulder to shoulder, with the twisted and seamed lips, and with eyes both of which are never open at the same moment? Why, his face is a positive grimace! He only succeeds in putting into his mouth half the contents of his plate; and he does not drink, he precipitates the liquid into his throat, and the descending nourishment is in a constant struggle with the ascending words. He disgusts and frightens me, while at the same time he attracts and interests. I am almost tempted to fall in love with him!"

"Brava! There is a portrait which would do credit to our amphitryon. The man is the one whom Chesterfield dubbed the respectable Hottentot; he is the dictator of the republic of letters; in a word, it is Dr. Johnson. That poor man whom you see, with straining eyes and ear bent towards the Doctor, gathering the lightest word which falls from his lips, and who will hand him down to posterity some day, is Boswell, his friend, his fag, and his disciple. The man who is a disciple—a genuine one, I mean—alone has sounded the depths of human folly. Perhaps it is Boswell who has taught Johnson to despise men, and it is Boswell who will teach men to admire Johnson. Now, just beyond Lady Vereker sits Mr. Hanway, whose profile only is visible."

"And who is Mr. Hanway?"

"Very much of a fool in a good sense,—no rare virtue in this isle of ours. He has written upon finance, peace, war, music, ventilation, the poor, Canada; upon military diet, the police, prisons, chimney-sweeps, and God Almighty."

"Is that all?" asked Esther with a laugh.

"I believe so, though he is capable of discovering no end of topics, since his device is, Never despair. He has imported from Persia, where he encountered infinite dangers, a certain very curious machine,—a little roof of colored silk extended upon ribs of whalebone, secured in turn to a rod of iron, and which is carried about at the end of a long handle as a protection against the rain. It is called an umbrella."

"What an odd idea!"

"In order to habituate people to the sight and usage of his instrument, Hanway selects rainy days for his perambulations, when he can spread his portable tent. The children throw mud at him and the serving maids laugh. It is free sport to try to crush his umbrella. They make all manner of fun of him, but perhaps it is wrong, since the folly of to-day is the wisdom of to-morrow."

At last Esther knew all the guests. Mr. Gibbon had named them all, except one whose name she did not inquire.

Seated at the extremity of the room, Frank every now and then allowed his sad, unfathomable eyes to wander towards the girl. Indifferent to all that was uttered about him, his melancholy contrasted powerfully with the joyous air which every face wore. Even though she smiled at Mr. Gibbon's quips and responded to the lively, caressing words of Lady Vereker, Miss Woodville was conscious of the espionage, and the sentiment it evoked was not displeasing to her.

The conversation became general, often rising far above whispered particularities. War became the topic, and the latest news from America. It was said that the savages who were fighting with the English had killed and eaten some American colonists, and not one of the European generals had raised a hand to stay the barbarity. A caricature, exposed at Humphrey's, depicted George III. taking part in the frightful orgy and disputing possession of a bone with an Indian chief.

"It is horrible!" cried Miss Burney; "our poor king has nothing whatever to do with it, but how can English gentlemen ally themselves with these cannibals?"

The casual mention of Cape Breton in the conversation reminded Mr. Burke of an anecdote. Every one present lapsed into silence to hear it.

"Indolent as may be our masters of to-day," he said, "they will never equal the sloth and ignorance of the late Duke of Newcastle. You cannot imagine his astonishment when one day some one informed him that Cape Breton was an island. 'A cape an island!' he exclaimed; 'I am amazed. I really must tell the king. He will be vastly diverted!' This man would have sacrificed cities and provinces without so much as a thought. But what mattered it to him, so long as he was minister!"

"Our own are not much better than he," remarked one of the guests; "they have disgraced Admiral Keppel, the only man to-day who is able to sweep the seas of the French and Spaniards."

"Bah! Rodney is worth twenty Keppels."

"Rodney! a blusterer! Have you heard of his adventure with Maréchal de Biron?"

"No; what is it?"

"He had taken refuge from his creditors in France and was dining at the Marshal's table. 'Ah,' he remarked, 'were it not for my debts I would return and would destroy your fleet until not one of your vessels remained.'—'Monsieur,' replied the Maréchal, 'pray do not let that deter you. Your debts are paid. Go and fight us—if you can!' That was three years ago; Rodney commands our fleet, thanks to the friendship of Lord Sandwich, and the naval power of our enemies is still intact!"

From this grand topic the conversation suddenly changed to the discussion of worldly amusements upon which the war had had no effect. They spoke of the last success of Siddons. Upon the queen of tragedy, as upon Admiral Rodney, there was, although the political question had amounted to nothing, a confused mixture of opinions which clashed and provoked comment.

"She is adorable!"

"A leaden idol, your Siddons!"

Next they discussed Pacchierotti, the famous Italian tenor, and his approaching début in a new rôle. Then they spoke of the new books. Some one at the table mentioned the word "bluestocking." The expression was a novelty at the time, and created a sensation.

"Don't allude to bluestockings in my presence!" cried the author of "Evelina," making a shield of her fan.

"You a bluestocking!" exclaimed Burke indignantly. "There is no bluestocking where there is no leaven of pedantry. Now, if it were a question of poor Mrs. Carpenter."

"Yes," interposed Gibbon, "the ill-starred lady has translated Epictetus!"

"And Mrs. Cholmondeley,—do you give her a place among the bluestockings?"

"She's too great a woman for that!"

"I was at her house yesterday," remarked Miss Burney; "I found her very affable."

"Affability," muttered Dr. Johnson, "is the first lieutenant of pride."

In hot haste Boswell produced his tablets from his pocket in order to note the aphorism which had fallen from the oracle's lips.

"I find Mrs. Thrale a worthy person," remarked Gibbon, "and an agreeable mistress of her house."

"The wife of a brewer?" inquired Lady Vereker, with just a hint of disdain in her tone.

"A most intelligent woman!" retorted Miss Burney; "she has saved her husband from ruin."

"But it appears that she has not preserved him from another accident," replied Lady Vereker languidly.

The guests were beginning to indulge in a smile, when suddenly Dr. Johnson's formidable head began to oscillate, while from his chair emanated a cracking sound of evil augury. Until this moment he had remained silent, breathing heavily between his closely set teeth as if trying to imitate the hiss of a saw, meanwhile enveloping his neighbor, Miss Burney, with a glance of grotesque tenderness in which paternal interest struggled with love; but at the sarcasm of Lady Vereker against his friend, Mrs. Thrale, he bridled and assumed his attitude of combat. "Madam!" he burst forth in a voice of thunder, and there he paused like Hercules with club poised in air.

"The bolt is about to fall," whispered Gibbon.

An atmosphere of apprehension prevailed about the table. Lady Vereker alone, with an intrepid though somewhat pallid smile, raised her pretty head with charming effrontery to brave the blow. But it was Fate's decree that the bolt should not fall, and that the Doctor should not be heard from that evening. Just at the moment that his lips parted to avenge the honor of Mrs. Thrale, the door opened to admit Ralph. With a fluttered air he hastened to his master and whispered a word or two in his ear.

Sir Joshua was upon his feet in an instant.

"Gentlemen," he cried, "great news! It appears that we have calumniated Rodney! He has completely routed the Spanish fleet under Admiral Langara. Five vessels are captured; one is blown up and the rest dispersed! Rodney has washed his hands of one half of his engagement to Maréchal de Biron. Permit me to propose the health of Admiral Rodney!"

Naturally Burke, like his friend Reynolds, would have preferred to drink to the health of Keppel; but patriotism proved more potent than party spirit. All the guests rose to drink the proposed toast, and the repast ended as it had begun,—in a sort of joyous tumult. Thereupon they left the table, and each one went his way in pursuit of pleasure or business,—Reynolds to the academy, Burke to Parliament; Johnson and Boswell wended their way to the "Turk's Head," that taproom where literary folk were wont to meet. Mr. Gibbon offered his arm to Miss Burney to escort her to her father's house, Dr. Burney, who lived near by at the head of St. Martin's Street; while Lady Vereker declared that she would permit no one but herself the pleasure of seeing Miss Woodville home to her aunt.

"I shall carry you away!" she said in a decided way which would not have been out of place upon the lips of a veritable cavalier.

Her ladyship's little black page, arrayed in a rich Oriental costume of crimson embroidered in gold, ran before them to lower the carriage steps. The majestic Hungarian chamberlain doffed his plumed hat and smote the pavement with his tall cane. The footmen, shaking their great epaulettes, quickly sprang to their posts and climbed to the back of the coach.

Upon entering the warmed and perfumed equipage, Esther descried two living forms moving about, two bundles of flesh and hair in ribbons, which sprang upon Lady Vereker.

"Wait a moment!" said she; "permit me to present you.—Bambino, my monkey; Spadillo, my favorite dog. The former comes from Barbadoes, the latter from Vigo. Pray notice that they wear my colors. I adore them both, and I would refuse to go anywhere, even to Paradise, without Bambino and Spadillo."

At that moment the horses started off with much pawing and champing, and simultaneously the eyes of the two women fell upon Francis Monday, who stood upon the threshold of the mansion, bowing to them with profound respect.