University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.,
Which tells of the Entertainments at the Castle,
and of a Finale not Rehearsed.

It was within a few weeks of the
term of twenty-one years from the time
I was first placed in the hands of John
Guttenberg, when the events occurred
which I am about to relate.

There were always a large number
of visitors at Landys Castle during the
Christmas holidays, when the family
was there; but this year there were
even more than ever before, for the Countess,
an invalid, was in much better
health than usual, and sometimes
drove out to take an airing accompanied
by her little boy. I had frequently
seen her at the Castle, a pale, thin
young lady, who had been a blonde
beauty, but who was wrecked by ill-health.
Her ladyship had recently so
far recovered her strength as to occasion
great rejoicing among her friends;
and the Earl, who appeared to be a
fond husband, did his best to minister
to her amusement. Among other matters
devised to add to the pleasure of
the season, it was proposed to get up
an amateur dramatic performance, and
the manager of a circuit of provincial
theatres not far from London was sent
for to supervise the affair. It was
found, however, even after obtaining
the aid of the army officers in town,
that there was not available material
for casting a tragedy—a fortunate
thing for the tragedy and the audience
—so they settled upon the old comedy
of “The Poor Gentleman,” which they
fell to rehearsing with great earnestness.
The little programmes of the
play were printed at our establishment,
and I noted that Captain Berkeley,
a very clever amateur as I knew,
was set down for the part of Frederick
Bramble; the Honorable Mr. Wickham,
and M. P. for the county, as Doctor
Ollapod, and the Honorable Mrs. Leigh
for Emily Worthington. The Emily of
the occasion was a young, rich, and
fashionable widow, very popular in the
town, on account of her beauty and
affability, and the dextrous manner
in which she drove her own phaeton
through the streets on her visits. I
knew, as I said, that Berkeley was
clever, but I marvelled at his choice,
Dr. Ollapod being his specialty, as
Frederick had been mine, but I saw
that it was done to oblige his noble
host. I, of course, never expected to
witness, much less to partake in these
performances; for I would not stand
among lackeys, and though the proud
Earl of Landys might allow a printer's
boy the use of his library, to receive
him as a guest was another matter.

And yet I did participate, nevertheless.

The day before the evening set for
the performance, Captain Berkeley came
to the printing-room in company with
a stranger whom he introduced as Mr.
Haresfoot, the manager.

This new acquaintance was a man
about forty years old, tall and inclining
to stoutness, with a rubicund face,
a slightly pompous manner, and a
shuffling walk, as though he were moving
about in Turkish slippers. He

had a ridiculous habit of emphasizing
or rather punctuating his sentences, by
closing and opening first one eye and
then the other, like a sportsman taking
aim at his game from either shoulder
alternately—a curious feat, which I
tried afterwards to imitate by way of
amusement, but found it to be to me
physically impossible.

Mr. Hincks was absent and I was
managing the Chronicle in his stead—
having been sub-editor for some
time. I was knee-deep in a pile of
newspapers, from which I had been
clipping and arranging paragraphs;
but I gave my visitors seats when they
entered, and waited to hear what they
had to say, for their manner spoke of
business.

Captain Berkeley introduced his companion.

“Happy to make your acquaintance,
sir,” said Haresfoot, winking his left
eye. “I have come down here to act
as director to the amateur entertainment
at the castle, at Captain Berkely's
request”—here the right eye was
put through its exercise—“but we
find ourselves at the last moment in
some trouble, from which I am told you
can extricate us.” And then both eyes
opened and shut alternately.

I looked my astonishment.

“You must know, then, Ambrose,”
said the Captain, “we cast the `Poor
Gentleman' very nicely indeed, and
were getting along famously, when
Wickham receives news of his uncle's
alarming illness in Yorkshire—”

“The said uncle personating twenty
thousand a year,” interrupted Haresfoot,
“and valuable props.”

“And off he posts,” continued Berkeley.
“I am up in Ollapod”—

“And down on it,” again interrupted
the manager.

“Oh, be quiet, will you! We have
nobody to play Frederic, and reading
a part is a bore. You have played it
for us more cleverly than I should. I
mentioned that to the Earl and ladies,
and told them I thought you might be
induced to do it, under the circumstances.
So Haresfoot and myself
were commissioned to say they would
feel obliged if you would oblige them.”

“Captain,” said Haresfoot, “that
was very well done. If you sell out
and want employment come to me.
You shall announce all the new plays,
and make apologies to the audience
when my leading man has set too late
to dinner, and my leading woman has
a fit of the sulks.”

“Oh, bother!” cried the Captain.
“What do you say?”

“Well,” I replied, “I'd be very happy
to do so; but why couldn't Mr. Haresfoot
fill the gap?”

“Oh,” said the manager, winking
his left eye, “that would never do.”
Snap went the right eye. “I should
only mar the—well, the unity of the
performance.”

Berkeley laughed.

“That, translated into plain Enlish,”
said he, “means that he thinks
we are a set of muffs. Won't we show
him? But what do you say, my fine
fellah?”

“My time is not at my own disposal
quite. You must ask Mr. Guttenberg.”

“Oh, if that's all, we'll expect you
at rehearsal at twelve o'clock to-morrow—twelve
o'clock, sharp! Not your
friend of the money-bags, though.”

The chuckle that broke from Haresfoot
at this miserable attempt at pleasantry
by Berkeley, showed that the latter
had been talking to the former
about me, and served to embarass me

a little. After some little conversation
on indifferent subjects, they bid me
good-day, and with a nod to Tom
Brown, now our foreman, who had just
come in with some proof-slips, left the
room.

Tom had an enquiring look on his
face, so I told him their errand.

“Now there's luck!” cried he enviously.
“Here you, a prentice, get an
invitation to the castle among the
nobs; and I'm a journeyman, and a
ten times better actor than you, and
get none.”

And Tom went out again feeling
perfectly aggrieved at my good-fortune.
For my part I heartily wished he could
take my place. I felt myself to be in
no pleasant position. Not being
among my equals in rank, I expected
to be unnoticed except when wanted
on the stage; and not being a professional
actor I should not even have the
privilege of sneering at the bad
acting.

Of course, Mr. Guttenberg was only
“too happy to oblige his lordship,” and
thought “you ought to be keenly sensible
of the honor, Ambrose,” though
Ambrose was not. But when did a
true, manly and independent British
tradesman not feel delighted at a service
demanded by a peer of the realm?

That evening I saw Sharp, and mentioned
to him my proposed participation
in the performance at the castle.

“Umph!” he growled. “Don't let
them look down on you then. They're
no better than you, blood or no blood.
You owe no man anything, while
they're in debt, every one of them.”

“Not the Earl?”

“Yes; he too. That Mr. Wickham
owes me nearly ten thousand pounds,
spent in his last election. It's well se
cured, though—well secured, or he
wouldn't have had a ha'p'ny from
me. If his uncle dies there's a nice
windfall. Your Sir Robert Bramble—
Mr. Willoughby, Lord Willoughby,
D'Erncliffe's brother, is in my debt a
pretty penny. In fact, I've had dealings
with every one, ladies and all,
who are to play with you, except the
Honorable Mrs. Leigh and Captain
Berkeley.”

“Captain Berkeley is very prudent
about money-matters,” I said.

“No, he isn't. He's a wasteful dog
—buying all sorts of nick-nacks just
because the expense don't go beyond
his income. `Many a mickle makes a
muckle,' as the Scotch say, and he'll
want his money some day. But
you've no furred coat—you want a
furred coat in order to play Frederick.”

“Oh, I can trim an ordinary surtout
with a little plush. That will answer
very well.”

“No, it won't. Those fellows shan't
sneer at you. I have a furred robe
that has lain in tobacco these three
years. It is trimmed with the finest
sable—none of your catskin humbugs,
and belonged to a gay, young attache
of the Russian embassay. Mary Guttenberg
can take the fur off carefully,
and sew it on the edges of your coat.”

“I'm very much obliged to you, I'm
sure.”

“Yes; you ought to be—the fur
might get injured. But I'm getting
extravagant—like a fool. I shouldn't
wonder if I came to want yet. To-day
I was silly enough to waste my
money. Yes; there was a little brat
spilt some milk from her pitcher—spilt
it all, in fact. She was crying. I
took hold of her pitcher to look at it.
As there was nobody looking I slipped

a sixpence in her pitcher, gave it back
to her, and went away. I watched
her from round the corner. She found
the money presently, and—well it was
right funny, I declare, to see her tears
dry up, and a grin get on her dirty
face, and then see the puzzled look
that followed. I was a fool.”

“I think not. The enjoyment was
certainly worth the sixpence.”

“Yes; but don't you see,” returned
Sharp, argumentatively, “she only lost
a pen'orth of milk. Now, if I'd put in
a penny she'd have been just as delighted,
and I threw away five pence.
Five pence at compound interest for
fifty years—”

“Mr. Sharp,” I interrupted, “you'll
allow me to say that it isn't Abner
Sharp whom I know, that is talking
now, but the Abner Sharp the public
know; and I prefer my own acquaintance
to the public's a good deal.”

“You're an impudent boy,” retorted
Sharp. “But let me get you the coat.”

I pass over the details of the rehearsal.
They were spiritless, of
course, as all such things are, whether
amateur or professional. Mr. Haresfoot
was nearly driven frantic by
people persisting in coming on at the
wrong cues, and going off by the
wrong exits. The ladies were even more
provokingly stupid than the gentlemen,
and every few minutes the voice
of Mr. Haresfoot, saying—“That is not
the entrance, my dear!” interrupted
the business.

“Pray, Mr. Fecit,” asked our Emily
Worthington, “what does the man
mean by `dearing' me so absurdly?”

I explained to her that it was a
technical term applied by all stage-managers
to all females, old or young,
during rehearsal, and that Mr. Hares
foot was merely following a professional
habit without reference to the
different position of the parties addressed.
“You will observe, madam,”
I said, “that the more he is vexed the
stronger grows the emphasis on the
term. If he should murmur `my dear,”
very tenderly, he is extremely put out;
and when he brings it out with unction,
`my d-e-a-r!' he is in a terrible
passion.”

Mrs. Leigh laughed heartily. “He
is a very singular person,” she said.
“What a ridiculous habit the man has
of winking both his eyes.”

“That, madam,” I observed, is the
the language of Nod, and means—
`Good characters are to be murdered
to-night.”'

“Pray, answer for yourself, sir,” she
cried, gaily. “I intend to play with
spirit; that is, if I have a Frederick
who will make love to me properly—
on the stage—as he is in duty bound
to do.”

At length it was all over, and I was
about to go, when a footman informed
me that the ladies wished to speak
with me in the drawing-room. I followed
him and he ushered me into the
presence of the Countess of Landys,
Mrs. Leigh and several others.

“Mr. Fecit,” said Mrs. Leigh, “we
have arranged some tableaux, to be
shown after the play. We are desirous
of adding another—Conrad and
Medora. You have such a charming
piratical look about you” (here she
laughed gaily and I bowed ironically)
“that I have ventured to request you
to be my Conrad for the occasion.”

“With great pleasure, madam. But
I am at a loss, on so short a notice, for
the costume.”

“We have discussed all that, sir.”

said Lady Landys. “Gifford, the
dowager's maid, to whom we mentioned
it, tells us that there are a number
of dresses in the lumber-room, and
among them one that will answer. I
have directed her to have it properly
aired, and sent to the dressing-room for
you this evening.”

I thanked her ladyship and bowed
myself out.

At night we assembled in one of
the drawing-rooms, used as a temporary
green-room, awaiting the call, and
I slipped out for a moment to get a
view of the theatre that had been improvised
for the occasion. The stage
had been arranged at one extremity of
the great hall, and the part reserved
for the spectators had been fitted up
with seats very neatly. The scenery
and appointments, which had been prepared
under Haresfoot's supervision,
were very complete. Peeping through
a hole in the curtain (however new it
may be every theatrical curtain has a
peep-hole) I saw the audience gradually
gather in, and presently they
were all seated. On the extreme right
sat the dowager Countess, attended by
Gifford; and in the centre were the
Earl and Countess of Landys, attended
by their intimate friends. In the background
stood the servants. Mr. Osborne,
whose position was intermediate
between servitude and equality,
stood a little apart leaning against the
wall. I took in this survey, and then
returned to the green-room.

Mrs. Leigh chatted with me while I
was waiting for the call, and when she
was not on the stage herself. I readily
saw through her purpose. She had
noted that I felt isolated, and in the
kindness of her heart endeavored to
set me at ease. I knew that my histo
ry had been told to the guests, and
that I was the subject of observation
and curiosity, perhaps pity—a still
more galling position for me to take.
These reflections caused me a deal of
embarrassment at first, and when I
made my appearance in the third act,
I did little to justify the panegyric on
my histrionic ability which Berkeley,
as I learned by Mrs. Leigh, had given
to the party. This did not last long.
The excitement of the scene soon
roused me up, and I dashed out vigorously.
The part itself is not much;
but as Humphrey and Sir Robert were
but poorly represented, and as Emily
supported me well, the part stood out
strongly in relief. The audience began
to warm, Ollapod was very quaint
and funny, and the curtain fell on the
final scene amid the applause of the
noble and aristocratic spectators.
Everybody complimented me—even
Haresfoot condescended to say that it
was a very clever performance (sinister
eye winking) for an amateur, (dexter
eye snapping); and if I ever chose
to go on the stage he would find a
vacancy in his company for me; the
whole of which was emphasized by
at least three double winks fired off
with the utmost rapidity.

The stage was now cleared for the
tableaux, and I went into the dressing-room
to prepare for my share of the closing
scene. I found a bundle there with
a note sent by Sharp, the latter stating
that having heard that I was to appear
as Conrad in the closing tableau, he
had sent me something I might need.
I examined the bundle and found it to
contain a Turkish yataghan and pistols
and a dagger, which I recognized
as similar to the Malay krees
found in the old house, but longer, and

with the guard at one side, extremely
wide. The dress laid out for me was
not Turkish, however, nor could I tell
of what nation. It consisted of a red
cap, shaped like a brimless hat, a long
full embroidered robe, red trousers
trimmed like the cap, and a black,
gilt-edged belt. The hat, jacket and
trousers were very well, but I could
not arrange the robe to my satisfaction.
At length I girt it around me
with the belt, and let it fall to my feet.
When I had done so, I looked into the
mirror to try the effect, and started in
surprise.

I was made up to look exactly like
the portrait of the pirate in the gallery,
and the resemblance was certainly
striking. This was a trick of Gifford,
but I had no time to conjecture her
object, for the call-boy run his head in
the door and called out: “Mr. Fecit for
the last tableau!” and I ran down
stairs to take my place in the final
scene.

Mrs. Leigh looked at me and said:
“That is a very becoming dress, certainly,
Mr. Fecit; but it doesn't belong
to Conrad.”

I agreed with her, but what was I
to do?

The bell tinkled and the curtain rose.
Mrs. Leigh was seated at my feet,
lute in hand, and my head was turned
nearly full front to the audience. As
the curtain went up I could see the
Earl rise slowly, as though in perfect
amazement. The elder Countess
leaned forward with an expression of
wonder and dismay overspreading her
countenance. The next moment she
raised herself from her seat, and with
the words, shrieked rather than spoken:
“He is alive! Bugunda Jawa!”
fell back in violent hysterics.

All was confusion in an instant, the
tableau became alive at once; and the
guests were gathered in groups, wondering
at the circumstance, as they
bore the dowager Countess to her
apartment. I knew nothing of that
until afterwards, for when the curtain
had suddenly fallen I hastened up
stairs, resumed my Frederick dress,
which I had worn to the castle, and
taking the bundle containing the arms,
came down to leave. As I reached
the stair-foot I met Mr. Osborne.

“Youngster,” said he, “what did
you mean by putting on that dress?
Answer me that.”

“Mean!” I retorted, “What should I
mean, Mr. Osborne? It was the dress
left out for me and I put it on. What
do you mean, sir, by addressing me in
that tone?”

“Where did you get it?”

“Her ladyship had it sent to me;
Lady Landys.”

“How did she know of it?”

“Gifford pointed it out, I believe.”

He left me suddenly, coupling Gifford's
name with an expression too
profane to print.