Madame Flirt
There was also danger in the political allusions contained in many of
the verses. Sir Robert Walpole, England's most powerful minister of
state, had taken a box and would be present with a party of his friends.
What would _he_ think? A riot was not beyond the bounds of possibility.
The play might be suppressed. A prosecution for seditious proceedings
might follow. Anything might happen.
Meanwhile the house was packed. Every seat on each side of the stage
reserved for the "quality" was occupied. There was just room for the
actors and no more. The gallery was crammed with a mob--a host of
footmen prone to unruly behaviour, butchers from Clare Market ready to
applaud their favourite Jemmy Spiller, Covent Garden salesmen and
porters--a miscellaneous rabble that might easily become turbulent.
In the pit were well to do tradesmen and their wives cheek by jowl with
well seasoned playgoers who had seen every stage celebrity and every
famous tragedy and comedy for the past quarter of a century, who were
well versed in all the traditional "business" of the boards, who in fact
were the real critics to be pleased--or offended. Into the second row
Lancelot Vane had squeezed himself all expectation, with eyes and ears
for no one but Polly Peachum.
Gay's friends filled a box next to that occupied by the Duke of Argyll,
an enthusiastic patron of the stage. Gay himself was there supported on
either side by Pope, Dr. Arbuthnot, Bolingbroke and others. Dean Swift,
who had had so much to do with the inception of the opera and who had
contributed to it some of the most stinging verse, would have been
present had he not been in Ireland at the death-bed of his beloved
Stella, and so also would have been Congreve but that he was blind and
in feeble health.
It was seen at the very commencement that the audience was not disposed
to accept the innovations of the "Beggar's Opera" without protest. To
begin with there was no time-honoured prologue, and worse, there was no
preliminary overture. They could not understand the dialogue between a
player and the beggar, introduced as the author, with which the opera
opens. They grumbled loudly. They thought they were to be defrauded of
their usual music and they wouldn't allow the dialogue to proceed. Jack
Hall who as a comedian was acceptable all round was sent on by the
troubled manager to explain.
Hall advanced to the edge of the stage. There were no footlights in
those days. Favourite though Jack Hall was not a hand nor a voice was
raised to greet him. Jack Hall lost his nerve--which, however, as it
turned out was the most fortunate thing which could have happened--and
this is what he stammered out:
"Ladies and gentlemen, we--we--beg you'll not call for first and second
music because you all know there is never any music at all at an opera!"
A roar of laughter followed this unique apology accentuated by the
unconsciously comical twist of Hall's face with which the audience were
so familiar; good humour was restored, the dialogue was permitted to be
finished and the grumblers were further appeased by the playing of Dr.
Pepusch's overture.
More pitfalls had to be got over safely. Every eye was turned on Sir
Robert's heavy rubicund, impassive face when Peachum sang the verse:
"The priest calls the lawyer a cheat,
The lawyer be-knaves the divine,
And the statesman because he's so great,
Thinks his trade as honest as mine!"
The statesman in the box, whatever he might have felt, was far too
astute to show any sign of ill temper. His eternal smile was as smug as
ever and so also was it over the duet in the second act:
"When you censure the age
Be cautious and sage
Lest the courtiers offended should be;
If you mention vice or bribe,
'Tis so pat to all the tribe,
Each cries 'That was levelled at me.'"
The audience were somewhat timid in applauding this, though all felt how
apt it was, until they saw Walpole actually clapping his hands, and then
they followed suit right heartily.
Still success was not assured. True Polly captivated her hearers with
her sweet natural delivery of "Can love be controlled by advice?" and
afterwards with the tender pathos of "Oh ponder well," and there were
roars of laughter and half suppressed chuckles from the men and titters
from the women at the witty talk and the cynical hits at love and
matrimonial felicity, but it was not until Spiller led the rousing
choruses, "Fill every glass," and "Let us take the road," the latter
adapted to the march from Handel's opera of "Rinaldo," then all the
rage, that they were won over. The experienced Duke of Argyll cried out
aloud enough for Pope in the next box to hear him, "It'll do--it must
do--I see it in the eyes of 'em." And the duke was right.
When all was said and done pretty Polly Peachum was the pivot around
which success revolved. Within twenty-four hours all the town was
talking of her bewitching face, her artless manner, her sweet voice. The
sordid surroundings of Newgate, its thieves, male and female, its thieve
takers, gave zest to her naturalness and simplicity. Moreover she was
not in a fashionable dress, she wore no hoops (and neither did Lucy) and
this in itself was a novelty and a contrast.
It was some time after the performance that Lavinia--whom everyone now
called Polly--left the theatre. The noblemen who had seats on the stage
crowded round her overwhelming her with compliments and looks of
admiration. One of their number, a man of portly presence at least twice
her age, whose face suggested good nature but little else, was assiduous
in his attentions. Lavinia accepted his flattery as a matter of course,
and thought nothing more about him. She was told he was the Duke of
Bolton, but duke or earl made no difference to her. Some of her titled
admirers offered to escort her home but she shook her head laughingly
and refused everyone. She knew very well that Lancelot Vane would be
waiting for her as usual at the stage door, and she did not intend
either to disappoint him or make him jealous.
She joined him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with excitement.
Vane looked eagerly and anxiously into her face and gave a little sigh.
"Well," said she, "are you disappointed with me?"
"Disappointed! Good heavens, no. Why Lavinia--"
"Lavinia," she cried tossing her head coquettishly. "Polly if you
please. Polly is to be my name for ever after. Everybody knows me now as
Polly, though dear Mr. Gay called me so long and long ago. Isn't it
wonderful how his words have come true?"
"Mr. Gay is a clever man--a great man. I wish--"
"Yes, and what do you wish? Something nice I hope."
"I don't know about that. My wish was that I had been born a real poet
and dramatist and had written 'The Beggar's Opera' for you. But my wits
are dull--like myself."
"Please don't be foolish. I want you to tell me how I sang--how I acted.
You didn't mind Tom Walker making love to me?"
"No, I wished my arm had been round you instead of his, that was all."
"Wishing again! Can't you do something beyond wishing?"
She flashed a swift look at him and then the dark silky lashes drooped.
He must have been dull indeed not to have understood. His arm was about
her. He drew her closer to him passionately. It was the first time,
though he had over and over again longed to do so.
"I love you--don't you know I do?" he whispered.
"I've sometimes thought as much but you've been very slow in telling
me," she murmured lightly.
"Ah, I was afraid what your answer might be. Ridicule and a reproof for
my impertinence. Even now I don't realise my happiness."
"Then you _must_," she cried imperiously. "How do you know I shan't be
whirled away from you unless you hold me very tight? Oh, Lance, I've a
misgiving--"
She stopped. She shivered slightly and he drew her cloak tightly about
her and kissed the cherry lips within the hood.
"You're cold, dearest. Let us hurry. I ought not to have lingered," said
he.
"No, no. I'm not a bit cold. I only had a sort of feeling that--kiss me
again."
He was quick to obey and her kisses were as fervent as his.
"See me to my door and go quickly," she murmured.
"To-morrow, dear love, we shall meet each other again," was his reply.
"Why yes--yes."
"Many times more."
She nodded. Something seemed to choke her utterance. One more kiss and
she vanished into the house.
Vane remained for a minute or two gazing at the dwelling that enshrined
his divinity and lost in rapture. Then he slowly wandered to his
lodgings marvelling at the glimpse of heaven which to his imagination
had been revealed to him.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE CURTAIN FALLS
Before the week was out the only topic in which the town took any
interest was "The Beggar's Opera," and the "all Conquering Polly," as an
advertisement setting forth the attractions of a miniature screen
designed as a memento of the opera, had it. In a score of ways
enterprising tradesmen adapted the scenes and the songs to their wares
and in all Polly was the principal feature. Polly became the fashion
everywhere. Amateur flautists played her songs, amateur vocalists
warbled them. Hardly a week passed without one daily journal or the
other burst into verse in her praise.
As for Polly herself she was inundated with love letters, some written
seriously, others purely out of admiration. Offers of marriage came both
personally and through the post. The world of gallants was at her feet.
She laughed at most of her would-be lovers and listened to none. The
good natured Duke of Bolton approached her constantly and was never
tired of going to the opera. Seated as he was on the stage it was easy
enough for him to express his adoration. He was also ever ready with
presents which he proffered with so respectful an air that she could
hardly refuse them. But what did the duke mean? Had he not a duchess
already? True, he was not on the best of terms with her. He had been
forced into marriage by his father and he and his wife had been
separated some six years. But this made no difference. The duchess was
still in the world.
Polly--henceforth she dropped the Lavinia--heard what his grace had to
say but gave him no encouragement beyond smiling bewitchingly now and
again. She did not dislike him, but she did not care for him. Lancelot
Vane was still the hero of her romance and that romance would never die.
Sometimes she amused herself and Lancelot too by telling him of the
offers of marriage she had received and how she had refused them, but
she never mentioned the Duke of Bolton.
One night--it was the twenty-second performance of the opera--Lancelot
Vane was in his accustomed place at the end of the second row in the
pit. There was a vacant seat on the other side of his, and half way
through the third act a late comer was heard growling and without saying
by your leave or with your leave attempted to force himself past Vane
into the empty seat.
Lance looked up angry at the rudeness of the fellow. He started. He
recognised Jeremy Rofflash-Rofflash very much the worse for the drink,
very much the worse in every way since Vane had last set eyes upon him.
Things had gone very badly with the swashbuckler. Archibald Dorrimore,
his old patron, was dead, killed by dicing, drinking and other vices.
Rofflash had had to take to the "road" more than ever and he'd had very
bad luck. A bullet from a coach passenger's pistol had struck his knee
and he now limped. He was nearly always drunk and when drunk all his old
hatreds were uppermost. Directly he saw Vane, his bleary eyes glistened
and his lips tightened over his uneven teeth and the ugly gaps between.
"Devil take me, if it isn't the cockerel whose feathers I've sworn to