Vanity Fair
Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern traveller, was
manager of the revels. An Eastern traveller was somebody in those
days, and the adventurous Bedwin, who had published his quarto and
passed some months under the tents in the desert, was a personage of no
small importance. In his volume there were several pictures of Sands
in various oriental costumes; and he travelled about with a black
attendant of most unprepossessing appearance, just like another Brian
de Bois Guilbert. Bedwin, his costumes, and black man, were hailed at
Gaunt House as very valuable acquisitions.
He led off the first charade. A Turkish officer with an immense plume
of feathers (the Janizaries were supposed to be still in existence, and
the tarboosh had not as yet displaced the ancient and majestic
head-dress of the true believers) was seen couched on a divan, and
making believe to puff at a narghile, in which, however, for the sake
of the ladies, only a fragrant pastille was allowed to smoke. The
Turkish dignitary yawns and expresses signs of weariness and idleness.
He claps his hands and Mesrour the Nubian appears, with bare arms,
bangles, yataghans, and every Eastern ornament--gaunt, tall, and
hideous. He makes a salaam before my lord the Aga.
A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly. The ladies
whisper to one another. The black slave was given to Bedwin Sands by
an Egyptian pasha in exchange for three dozen of Maraschino. He has
sewn up ever so many odalisques in sacks and tilted them into the Nile.
"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkish voluptuary with a wave
of his hand. Mesrour conducts the slave-merchant into my lord's
presence; he brings a veiled female with him. He removes the veil. A
thrill of applause bursts through the house. It is Mrs. Winkworth (she
was a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful eyes and hair. She is in a
gorgeous oriental costume; the black braided locks are twined with
innumerable jewels; her dress is covered over with gold piastres. The
odious Mahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty. She falls
down on her knees and entreats him to restore her to the mountains
where she was born, and where her Circassian lover is still deploring
the absence of his Zuleikah. No entreaties will move the obdurate
Hassan. He laughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom. Zuleikah
covers her face with her hands and drops down in an attitude of the
most beautiful despair. There seems to be no hope for her, when--when
the Kislar Aga appears.
The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan. Hassan receives and
places on his head the dread firman. A ghastly terror seizes him,
while on the Negro's face (it is Mesrour again in another costume)
appears a ghastly joy. "Mercy! mercy!" cries the Pasha: while the
Kislar Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out--a bow-string.
The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful weapon. Hassan
from within bawls out, "First two syllables"--and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,
who is going to act in the charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs.
Winkworth on the admirable taste and beauty of her costume.
The second part of the charade takes place. It is still an Eastern
scene. Hassan, in another dress, is in an attitude by Zuleikah, who is
perfectly reconciled to him. The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black
slave. It is sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads
eastwards and bow to the sand. As there are no dromedaries at hand,
the band facetiously plays "The Camels are coming." An enormous
Egyptian head figures in the scene. It is a musical one--and, to the
surprise of the oriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed by
Mr. Wagg. The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, like Papageno and the
Moorish King in The Magic Flute. "Last two syllables," roars the head.
The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. A tall and
stalwart man reposes on a couch there. Above him hang his helmet and
shield. There is no need for them now. Ilium is down. Iphigenia is
slain. Cassandra is a prisoner in his outer halls. The king of men (it
is Colonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion about the sack of Ilium
or the conquest of Cassandra), the anax andron is asleep in his chamber
at Argos. A lamp casts the broad shadow of the sleeping warrior
flickering on the wall--the sword and shield of Troy glitter in its
light. The band plays the awful music of Don Juan, before the statue
enters.
Aegisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe. What is that ghastly face
looking out balefully after him from behind the arras? He raises his
dagger to strike the sleeper, who turns in his bed, and opens his broad
chest as if for the blow. He cannot strike the noble slumbering
chieftain. Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like an
apparition--her arms are bare and white--her tawny hair floats down her
shoulders--her face is deadly pale--and her eyes are lighted up with a
smile so ghastly that people quake as they look at her.
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
bell 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: