If only she had a heart she would be perfect,” said Mr. Garrick to his friend, Mrs. Woffington.
“Ay, as an actress, not as a woman,” said Mrs. Woffington. “'T is not the perfect women who have been most liberally supplied with that organ.”
“Faith, Madam Peggy, I, David Garrick, of Drury Lane Theatre, have good reason to set much more store upon the perfect actress than the perfect woman,” said Mr. Garrick. “If I had no rent to pay and no actors to pay, I might be led to spend a profitable hour or two over the consideration of so interesting a question as the relative merits of the perfect woman with no heart worth speaking of and the perfect actress with a dangerous superfluity of the same organ. Under existing conditions, however, I beg leave to—”
“Psha! Davy,” said Margaret; “try not your scholarship upon so poor a thing as myself! It seems to me that you have never quite recovered from the effects of your early training at the feet of our friend, Mr. Johnson.”
“Alas! Peggy,” said Garrick, “I have forgot all the better part of Mr. Johnson's instruction. He has no reason to be proud of me.”
“And yet he is proud of you, and, by my faith, he has some reason to be so. Was it not he made you an actor?”
“He! Mr. Johnson? oh, Lord, he never ceased to inculcate upon us a just hatred and contempt of all that appertains to the stage.”
“Ay, and that was the means of making you thoroughly interested in all that appertains to the stage, my friend. But I hold as I have always held, that Mr. Johnson gave you first chance.
“What sophistry is this that you have seized upon, my dear? My first chance?”
“Yes, sir; I hold that your first and, I doubt not, your greatest, success as an actor, was your imitation for the good of your schoolfellows, of the mighty love passages between your good preceptor and that painted piece of crockery who had led him to marry her, that was old enough—ay, and nearly plain enough—to be his mother. What did he call her?—his Tiffy?—his Taffy?”
“Nay, only his Tessy, The lady's name was Elizabeth, you must know.”
“Call her Saint Elizabeth, Davy—your patron saint, for, by the Lord Harry, you would never have thought of coming on the stage if it had not been for the applause you won when you returned to the schoolroom after peeping through the door of the room where your schoolmaster chased his Tessy into a corner for a kiss! Davy, 't is your finest part still. If you and I were to act it, with a prologue written by Mr. Johnson, it would draw all the town.”
“I doubt it not; but it would likewise draw down upon me the wrath of Mr. Johnson; and that is not to be lightly faced. But we have strayed from our text, Margaret.”
“Our text? I have forgotten that there was some preaching being done. But all texts are but pretexts for straying, uttered in the hearing of the strayed. What is your text, Davy?”
“The text is the actress without the heart, Margaret, and the evil that she doeth to the writer of the tragedy, to the man who hath a lease of the playhouse, and above all to her sister actress, Mistress Woffington.”
“The last of the three evils would imperil the soul's safety of as blameless a lady as Kitty Clive herself. But, if Mistress Woffington acts her part well in the new tragedy, I scarce see how she can be hurt by the bad acting of Miss Hoppner.”
“That is because you are a trifle superficial in your views of the drama, Mistress Woffington. What would you think of the painter who should declare that, if the lights in his picture were carefully put in, the shadows might be left to chance?”
“Where is the analogy, David?”
“It is apparent: the tragedy is the picture, Mrs. Woffington represents the lighting, and Miss Hoppner the shading. Heavens! Mrs. Woffington, madam, do you flatter yourself that the playgoers will be willing to accept the author's account of the fascinations of the woman whom you are representing, if you fail to rouse your rival to any point of jealousy? Miss Hoppner, for all the strong language the poet puts into her mouth, will not make the playgoers feel that the Lady Oriana bears you a grudge for having taken her lover from her; and when she stabs you with her dagger, she does so in such a halfhearted way that the whole house will perceive that she is not in earnest.”
“Then they will blame her, and she will deserve the blame. They cannot blame me.”
“Cannot they, indeed? Lord, my good woman, you little know the playgoers. You think that they are so nice in their discrimination? You should have learnt better since the days you hung on to Madame Violanti's feet on the tight rope. If you had wriggled so that Violanti had slipped off her rope, would her patrons have blamed aught but her? Nay, you know that they would only have sneered at her clumsiness, and thought nothing of the little devil who had upset her.”
“Ay; I begin to perceive your meaning. You apprehend that the playgoers will damn the play and all associated with it, because Miss Hoppner does not kill me with sufficient good-will?”
“I feel sure that they will say that if Mrs. Woffington had only acted with sufficient intensity she would have stirred her rival into so real a passion of jealousy that she would have stabbed you in a fury.”
“Look you here, friend Davy; if it be in your thoughts that Mairgaret Woffington is to be held accountable for the mistakes of all the other members of your company, you would do well to revise your salary list.”
“Nay, Peggy; I only said what the playgoers will, in their error, mind you, assume.”
“Come, Mr. Garrick, tell me plainly what you want me to do for you in this business. What, sir, are we not on sufficiently friendly terms for plain speaking? Tell me all that is on your mind, sir?”
Garrick paused for some moments, and then laughed in a somewhat constrained way, before walking on by the side of his friend.
“Come, sir,” continued Mrs. Woffington. “Be as plain as you please. I am not prone to take offence.”
“We'll talk of that anon,” said Garrick. “Perhaps Mr. Macklin will be able to give us his helpful counsel in this business.”
“Psha!” said Peggy. “Mr. Macklin could never be brought to see with your eyes.”
“Then he will be all the better able to give us the result of Mr. Macklin's observation,” said Garrick.
“Ay, but that is not what you want, Davy,” said Mrs. Woffington, with a pretty loud laugh. “No one ever calls in a counsellor with the hope of obtaining an unprejudiced opinion; the only counsellor in whom we have confidence is he who corroborates our own views.”
II
T hey had reached their house. It was No. 6 Bow Street, and it was presided over by Macklin—Garrick and Mrs. Woffington doing the housekeeping on alternate months.
Visitors preferred calling during Peggy's month, as the visitor, who was now greeted by David Garrick in the parlour, testified in the presence of his biographer years after; for it was Samuel Johnson who awaited the return from rehearsal of his Lichfield pupil, David Garrick.
“You shall have a dish of tea, Mr. Johnson, if we have to go thirsty for the rest of the week,” cried the actress, when her hand had been kissed by her visitor. Johnson's kissing of her hand was strangely suggestive of an elephant's picking up a pin.
“Madam,” said he, “your offer is made in the true spirit of hospitality. Hospitality, let me tell you, consists not, as many suppose, in the sharing of one's last crust with a friend—for the sacrifice in parting with a modicum of so unappetising a comestible as a crust is not great—nay; hospitality, to become a virtue, involves a real sacrifice.”
“So in heaven's name let us have the tea,” said Garrick. “Make it not too strong,” he whispered to Peggy as he opened the door for her. “I have seen him drain his tenth cup at a sitting.”
The actress made a mocking gesture by way of reply. She did not share Garrick's parsimonious longings, and in the matter of tea brewing, she was especially liberal. When she returned to the room bearing aloft a large teapot, and had begun to pour out the contents, Garrick complained bitterly of the strength of the tea, as his guest years afterwards told Boswell.
“'T is as red as blood,” growled the actor.
“And how else should it be, sir?” cried Mrs. Woffington. “Is 't not the nature of good tea to be red?”
As Garrick continued growling, Peggy laughed the more heartily, and, with an air of coquettish defiance which suited her admirably, poured out a second brimming cup for their visitor—he had made very light of the first—taking no care to avoid spilling some into the saucer.
“Faith, sir, Mr. Garrick is right: 'tis as red as blood,” laughed Peggy, looking with mischievous eyes into Johnson's face.
“That were an indefinite statement, madam; its accuracy is wholly dependent on the disposition of the person from whom the blood is drawn,” said Johnson. “Now yours, I believe, madam, to be of a rich and generous hue, but Davy's, I doubt not, is a pale and meagre fluid—somewhat resembling the wine which he endeavored to sell, with, let us hope for the sake of the health of his customers, indifferent success for some years.”
Garrick laughed with some constraint, while Mrs. Woffington roared with delight.
“Nay, sir; you are too hard upon me,” cried the actor.
“What! would the rascal cry up his blood at the expense of his wine?” said Johnson. “That, sir, were to eulogise nature at the expense of art—an ill proceeding for an actor.”
“And that brings us back to the question which we discussed on our way hither from the theatre,” said Peggy. “List, good Mr. Johnson, to the proposition of Mr. Garrick. He says that I should be held accountable for the tameness in the acting of the part of a jealous woman by Miss Hoppner, who is to appear in the tragedy on Tuesday week.”
“I do not doubt, madam, that you should be held accountable for the jealousy of many good women in the town,” said Johnson; “but it passes my knowledge by what sophistry your responsibility extends to any matter of art.”
“Mrs. Woffington has not told you all, sir,” said Garrick. “She is, as you may well suppose, the creature in the tragedy who is supposed to excite the bitter jealousy of another woman. Now, I submit that the play-goers will be ready to judge of the powers of Mrs. Woffington as exercised in the play, by its effect upon the other characters in the said play.”
“How so, sir?” said Johnson. “Why, sir,” replied Garrick, “I maintain that, when they perceive that the woman who is meant to be stung to a point of madness through her jealousy of a rival, is scarce moved at all, they will insensibly lay the blame upon her rival, saying that the powers of the actress were not equal to the task assigned to her by the poet.”
“And I maintain, sir, that a more ridiculous contention than yours could not be entertained by the most ignorant of men—nay, the most ignorant of actors, and to say so much, sir, is to say a great deal,” cried Johnson. “I pray you, friend Davy, let no men know that I was once your teacher, if you formulate such foolishness as this; otherwise, it would go hard with me in the world.”
“Ah, sir, that last sentence shows that you are in perfect accord with the views which I have tried to express to you,” said Garrick. “You are ready to maintain that the world will hold you accountable for whatever foolishness I may exhibit. The playgoers will, on the same principle, pronounce on the force of Mrs. Woffington's fascinations by the effect they have, not upon the playgoers themselves, but upon Miss Hoppner.”
“Then the playgoers will show themselves to be the fools which I have always suspected them of being,” said Johnson, recovering somewhat ungracefully from the effects of swallowing a cup of tea; “Ay, but how are we to fool them?—that's the question, Mr. Johnson,” said Peggy. “I have no mind to get the blame which should fall on the shoulders of Miss Hoppner; I would fain have the luxury of qualifying for blame by my own act.”
“What! you mean, madam, that before receiving the punishment for sinning, you would fain enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season? That is, I fear, but indifferent morality,” said Johnson, shaking his head and his body as well with even more than his accustomed vehemence.
“Look you here, Mrs. Woffington,” said Garrick. “You are far too kind to Miss Hoppner. That would not be bad of itself, but when it induces her to be kindly disposed to you, it cannot be tolerated. She is a poor fool, and so is unable to stab with proper violence one who has shown herself her friend.”
“She cannot have lived in the world of fashion,” remarked Johnson.
“Lud! would you have me arouse the real passion in the good woman for the sake of the play?” cried Peggy.
“He would e'en degrade nature by making her the handmaid of art. Sir, let me tell you this will not do, and there's an end on't,” said Johnson.
“Then the play will be damned, sir,” said Garrick.
“Let the play be damned, sir, rather than a woman's soul,” shouted Johnson.
“Meantime you will have another cup of tea, Mr. Johnson,” said Peggy, smiling with a witchery of that type which, exercised in later years, caused her visitor to make a resolution never to frequent the green room of Drury Lane—a resolution which was possibly strengthened by the failure of his tragedy.
“Mrs. Woffington,” said he, passing on his empty cup, “let me tell you I count it a pity so excellent a brewer of tea should waste her time upon the stage. Any wench may learn to act, but the successful brewing of tea demands the exercise of such judgment as cannot be easily acquired. Briefly, the woman is effaced by the act of going on the stage; but the brewing of tea is a revelation of femininity.” He took three more cupfuls.
The tragedy of “Oriana,” from the rehearsal of which Garrick and Mrs. Woffington had returned to find Johnson at their house on Bow Street, was by an unknown poet, but Garrick had come to the conclusion, after reading it, that it possessed sufficient merit to justify his producing it at Drury Lane. It abounded in that form of sentiment which found favor with playgoers in an age of artificiality, and its blank verse was strictly correct and inexpressible. It contained an apostrophe to the Star of Love, and eulogies of Liberty, Virtue, Hope, and other abstractions, without which no eighteenth century tragedy was considered to be complete. Oriana was a Venetian lady of the early republican period. She was in love with one Orsino, a prince, and they exchanged sentiments in the first act, bearing generally upon the advantages of first love, without touching upon its economic aspects. Unhappily, however, Orsino allowed himself to be attracted by a lady named Francesca, who made up in worldly possessions for the absence of those cheerless sentiments which Oriana had at her fingers' ends, and the result was that Oriana ran her dagger into the heart of her rival, into the chest of her faithless lover, and into her own stays. The business was carried on by the sorrowing relations of the three, with the valuable assistance of the ghosts of the slain, who explained their relative positions with fluency and lucidity, and urged upon the survivors, with considerable argumentative skill, the advisability of foregoing the elaborate scheme of revenge which each side was hoping to carry out against the other from the date of the obsequies of the deceased.
The character of Oriana was being rehearsed by Miss Hoppner, an extremely handsome young woman, whom Garrick had met and engaged in the country, Mrs. Woffington being the fatally fascinating Francesca, and Garrick, himself, the Prince Orsino.
The tragedy had been in rehearsal for a fortnight, and it promised well, if the representative of the jealous woman could only be brought to “put a little life into the death scene”—the exhortation which the Irish actress of the part of Francesca offered to her daily, but ineffectually. Miss Hoppner neither looked the part of a tragically jealous woman, nor did the stabbing of her rival in anything like that whirlwind of passion with which Garrick, in spite of the limping of the blank verse of the poet, almost swept the rest of the company off the stage when endeavoring to explain to the actress what her representation lacked, on the day after his chat with Mrs. Woffington on the same subject.
Poor Miss Hoppner took a long breath, and passed her hand across her eyes as if to get rid of the effects of that horrible expression of deadly hate which Garrick's face had worn, as he had craned his head forward close to hers to show her how she should stab her rival—the slow movement of his body suggesting the stealth of the leopard approaching its victim, and his delivery of the lines through his teeth more than suggesting the hissing of a deadly snake in the act of springing.
“Ay, do it that way, my dear madam,” said Mrs. Woffington, “and the day after the tragedy is played, you will be as famous as Mr. Garrick. 'T is the simplest thing in the world.”
0130
“You have so unnerved me, sir, that I vow I have no head for my lines,” said Miss Hoppner.
But when, by the aid of the prompter, the lines were recovered and she had repeated the scene, the result showed very little improvement. Garrick grumbled, and Miss Hoppner was tearful, as they went to the wardrobe room to see the dresses which had just been made for the principal ladies.
Miss Hoppner's tears quickly dried when she was brought face to face with the gorgeous fabric which she was to wear. It was a pink satin brocaded with white hawthorne, the stomacher trimmed with pearls. She saw that it was infinitely superior to the crimson stuff which had been assigned to Mrs. Woffington. She spoke rapturously of the brocade, and hurried with it in front of a mirror to see how it suited her style of beauty.
Mrs. Woffington watched her with a smile. A sudden thought seemed to strike her, and she gave a little laugh. After a moment's hesitation she went behind the other actress and said:
“I'm glad to see that you admire my dress, Miss Hoppner.”
“Your dress?” said Miss Hoppner. “Oh, yes, that crimson stuff—'t is very becoming to you, I'm sure, Mrs. Woffington; though, for that matter, you look well in everything.”
“'T is you who are to wear the crimson, my dear,” said Peggy. “I have made up my mind that the one you hold in your hand is the most suitable for me in the tragedy.”
“Nay, madam, Mr. Garrick assigned this one to me, and I think 't will suit me very well.”
“That is where Mr. Garrick made a mistake, child,” said Peggy. “And I mean to repair his error. The choice of dresses lies with me, Miss Hoppner.”
“I have yet to be made aware of that, madam.” said Miss Hoppner. Her voice had a note of shrillness in it, and Garrick, who was standing apart, noticed that her colour had risen with her voice. He became greatly interested in these manifestations of a spirit beyond that which she had displayed when rehearsing the tragedy.
“The sooner you are made aware of it, the better it will be for all concerned,” said Mrs. Woffington, with a deadly smile.
“I make bold to assure you, madam, that I shall be instructed on this point by Mr. Garrick and Mr. Garrick only,” said the other, raising her chin an inch or two higher than she was wont, except under great provocation.
“I care not whom you make your instructor, provided that you receive the instruction,” sneered Peggy.
“Mr. Garrick,” cried Miss Hoppner, “I beg that you will exercise your authority. You assigned to me the brocade, did you not, sir?”
“And I affirm that the brocade will be more suitably worn by me, sir,” said Peggy. “And I further affirm that I mean to wear it, Mr. Garrick.”
“I would fain hope that the caprice of a vain woman will not be permitted to have force against every reasonable consideration,” said Miss Hoppner, elevating her chin by another inch as she glanced out of the corners of her eyes in the direction of the other actress.
“That is all I ask for, madam; and as we are so agreed, I presume that you will hand me over the gown without demur.”
“Yours is the caprice, madam, let me tell you. I have right on my side.”
“And I shall have the brocade on mine by way of compensation, my dear lady.”
“Ladies!” cried Garrick, interposing, “I must beg of you not to embarrass me. 'T is a small matter—this of dress, and one that should not make a disagreement between ladies of talent. If one is a good actress, one can move an audience without so paltry an auxiliary as a yard or two of silk.”
“I will not pay Miss Hoppner so poor a compliment as would be implied by the suggestion that she needs the help of a silk brocade to eke out her resources as an actress,” said Peggy.
“I ask not for compliments from Mrs. Woffington. The brocade was assigned to me, and—”
“It would be ungenerous to take advantage of Mr. Garrick's error, madam.”
“It was no error, Mrs. Woffington.”
“What! you would let all the world know that Mr. Garrick's opinion was that you stood in need of a showy gown to conceal the defects of your art?”
“You are insolent, Mrs. Woffington!”
“Nay, nay, my dear ladies; let's have no more of this recrimination over a question of rags. It is unworthy of you,” said Garrick.
“I feel that, sir, and so I mean to wear the brocade,” said Mrs. Woffington. “Good lud, Mr. Garrick, what were you thinking of when you assigned to the poor victim of the murderess in the tragedy the crimson robe which was plainly meant to be in keeping with the gory intentions of her rival?”
“Surely I did not commit that mistake,” said Garrick. “Heavens! where can my thoughts have been? Miss Hoppner, madam, I am greatly vexed—”
“Let her take her brocade,” cried Miss Hoppner, looking with indignant eyes, first at the smiling Peggy, and then at Garrick, who was acting the part of a distracted man to perfection. “Let her wear it and see if it will hide the shortcomings of her complexion from the eyes of the playgoers.”
She walked away with a sniff before Peggy could deliver any reply.
III
Pray what trick have you on your mind now? asked Garrick, when he was alone with Peggy. “What was that caprice of yours?”
“Caprice? You are a fool, Davy. You even forget your own precepts, which your friend Mr. Johnson, in his wisdom condemned so heartily yesterday.”
“Good Lord! You mean to—”
“I mean to make Miss Hoppner act the part of a jealous woman to perfection.” And she did so. The next day at the rehearsal, Garrick, as well as every member of the company, was amazed at the energy which Miss Hoppner contrived to impart to the scene in the play where, in the character of Oriana, she stabbed her successful rival. She acted with a force that had scarcely been surpassed by Garrick's reading of the scene for her instruction the previous day.
“Faith, Peggy, you have given her a weapon for your own undoing,” said Garrick, as he walked home with Mrs. Woffington. “She will eclipse you, if you do not mind.”
“I 'll e'en run the risk,” said Peggy.
Alas! the next day Miss Hoppner was as feeble as ever—nay, the stabbing scene had never been so feebly gone through by her; and Garrick grumbled loudly.
Miss Hoppner did not seem to mind. At the end of the rehearsal she sought Peggy and offered her her hand.
“Mrs. Woffington,” she said, “I am desirous of asking your pardon for my curtness in the matter of the dress. I owe so much to your kindness, madam, I feel that my attempt to fix a quarrel upon you was the more base. Pray, forgive an unhappy creature, who only seeks to retain the honour of your friendship.”
“Oh, you goose!” said Peggy. “Why are you so foolish as to desire to make friends with me? You should have hated me—been ready to kill me—anything for the sake of becoming an actress.”
“You will not refuse me the forgiveness which I implore?” said Miss Hoppner.
“Nay, nay; I was in the wrong; it was my caprice, but carried out solely on your behalf, child,” said Peggy.
“On my behalf? Oh, you are quite right; I was beginning to forget myself—to forget that I was but a provincial actress.”
“Oh, you good natured creature!” cried Peggy. “I'll have to begin all over again.”
They had reached the stage door by this time, and were standing together in the long passage when a tall and good-looking man was admitted, enquiring for Miss Hoppner. Peggy did not fail to notice the brightening of the color of her companion as the gentleman advanced and took off his hat with a low bow. It was with a certain proprietary air that Miss Hoppner presented him to Peggy, by the name of Captain Joycelyn, of the Royal Scots.
“Captain Joycelyn is one of your warmest admirers, Mrs. Woffington,” said Miss Hoppner.
“Sir, I am overwhelmed,” said Mrs. Woffington, with a deep courtesy.
“Nay, madam, I am your servant, I swear,” said the gentleman. “I have often longed for this honor, but it ever seemed out of my reach. We of the Royal Scots consider ourselves no mean judges of your art, and we agree that the playhouse without Mrs. Woffington would be lusterless.”
“Ah, sir, you would still have Mrs. Clive,” suggested Peggy.
“Mrs. Clive? You can afford to be generous, madam,” laughed Captain Joycelyn.
“She is the most generous woman alive,” said Miss Hoppner. “She will prove herself such if she converses with you here for five minutes. I was going away forgetting that I had to talk to the wardrobe mistress about my turban. I shall not be more than five minutes away.”
“I protest it makes no demand upon my generosity to remain to listen to so agreeable a critic, though I admit that I do so with a certain tremor, sir,” said Peggy, with a charming assumption of the fluttered miss.
“A certain tremor? Why should you have a tremor, dear madam?” said the officer.
“Ah, 't is the talk of the town that all hearts go down before the Royal Scots, as the King's enemies did in the Low Countries.”
“An idle rumour, madam, I do assure you.”
“I might have thought so up till now; but now I think I would do wisely to retreat in order, Captain, while there is yet time.”
She looked up at his face with a smile of matchless coquetry.
“Nay, madam, you shall not stir,” said he, laughing. “'T is not the conqueror that should retreat. I am too conscientious a soldier to permit so gross a violation of the art of war. Seriously, why should you fly?”
“I am a poor strategist, but I have a sense of danger. Is Miss Hoppner a special friend of yours, sir?”
“A special friend? Well, we have been acquaintances for nigh half a year.”
“I thought I had seen her by your side at Ranelagh. She looked very happy. I dare say I should be ashamed to confess it, but I envied her.”
Peggy's eyes were turned upon the ground with a demureness that represented the finest art of the coquette.
“You—you envied her?” cried the officer. “How humble must be your aspirations, sweet creature! If I should not be thought to be over-bold I would offer—ah! I fear that so brief an acquaintanceship as ours does not warrant my presumption—”
“And yet you do not look like one who would be likely to give offense by overpresumption, sir.”
“I should be sorry to do so, madam. Well, if you promise not to flout me, I will say that if you will accept my escort any night to the Gardens, you will do me a great honour.”
“Oh, sir, your graceful offer overwhelms me. But, alas! all my evenings are not my own. I am free but this evening and to-morrow evening.”
“Then why not come this evening, madam?”
“Why not, indeed? only—is 't not too sudden, Captain? Ah, the dash of Royal Scots cannot be resisted!”
At this moment Miss Hoppner returned, and Peggy cried to her, “My dear child, your friend is Mercury—the messenger of the Elysian Fields—he has invited us to accompany him to Ranelagh to-night.”
“Indeed! That is kind of him,” said Miss Hoppner, without any great show of enthusiasm. “And you have accepted his invitation?”
“Ah! who could refuse?” cried Peggy. She had not failed to notice Captain Joycelyn's little start at her assumption that Miss Hoppner was also to be of the party. “You will not mar our enjoyment by refusing to come, my dear?” she added.
“Nay; if 't is all settled, I will not hold aloof,” said Miss Hoppner, brightening up somewhat.
They went out together, and before Peggy had parted from the others, the manner and the hour of their going had been arranged.
IV
They went up to the gardens by boat. Their party numbered four, for Miss Hoppner had, when alone with Captain Joycelyn, so pouted that he had promised to bring with him a brother officer to add symmetry to the party. But if she fancied that this gentleman, who was one Ensign Cardew, was to be the companion of Mrs. Woffington, she soon became sensible of her mistake. By some strange error, for which only Peggy could account the couples got parted in the crowd, Peggy and the Captain disappearing mysteriously, and only meeting the Ensign and his companion at supper time.
The merriment of Peggy, at the supper, and the high spirits of Captain Joycelyn, who allowed himself to be spoon-fed by her with minced chicken, were powerless to disperse the cloud which hung over Miss Hoppner. She pouted at the supper, and pouted in the boat, and made only sarcastic replies to the exclamations of enjoyment addressed to her by the volatile Peggy.
The next day, before the rehearsal of the tragedy, Miss Hoppner said to Peggy, who was renewing her protestations of the enjoyment she had had on the previous evening:
“I think it right that you should know, Mrs. Woffington, that Captain Joycelyn some time ago made a proposal of marriage to me, which I accepted.”
“Good creature, what has that to do with me?” asked Peggy. “Captain Joycelyn certainly said nothing to me on that particular subject last night, and why should you do so now?”
“I am desirous of playing a fair game, madam,” cried Miss Hoppner.
“And I am not desirous of playing any game, fair or otherwise,” said Peggy. “Lud, Miss Hoppner, do you fancy that 't is my duty to prevent the straying of the lovers of the ladies of Mr. Garrick's company? I vow, I took upon me no such responsibility; I should have no time for my meals.”
The woman whom she addressed looked at her with flashing eyes, her hands tightly clenched, and her teeth set, for some moments. Once her lips parted; she seemed about to speak; but with an evident struggle she restrained herself. Then the fierce light in her eyes flamed into scorn.
“Words were wasted on such a creature,” she said in a whisper, that had something of a hiss in its tone, as she walked away.
Peggy laughed somewhat stridently, and cried:
“Excellently spoke, beyond doubt. The woman will be an actress yet.”
Not a word of complaint had Garrick reason for uttering in regard to the rehearsal of the scene in the tragedy, this day, and on their way homewards, he remarked to Peggy, smilingly:
“Perhaps in the future, my dear Peggy, you will acknowledge that I know something of the art and methods of acting, though you did not hesitate to join with Mr. Johnson in calling my theories fantastic.”
“Perhaps I may,” said Peggy, quietly; “but just now I protest that I have some qualms.”
“Qualms? Qualms? An actress with qualms!” cried Garrick. “What a comedy could be written on that basis! 'The Actress with Qualms; or, Letting I Dare Not wait upon I Would!' Pray, madam, do your qualms arise from the reflection that you have contributed to the success of a sister actress?”
“The tragedy has not yet been played,” said Peggy. “It were best not to talk of the success of an actress in a play until the play has been acted.”
That night, Mrs. Woffington occupied a box in the theater, and by her side was Captain Joycelyn. Miss Hoppner was in a box opposite, and by her side was her mother.
On Monday, Peggy greeted her quite pleasantly as she came upon the stage to rehearse the tragedy; but she returned the greeting with a glance of scorn, far more fierce than any which, in the character of Oriana, she had yet cast at her rival in the scenes of the play. Peggy's mocking face and the merry laugh in which she indulged did not cause the other to abate any of her fierceness; but when the great scene was rehearsed for the last time previous to the performance, Mrs. Woffington became aware of the fact that, not only was Miss Hoppner's representation of the passionate jealousy of the one woman real, but her own expression of fear, on the part of the other woman when she saw the flash of the dagger, was also real. With an involuntary cry she shrank back before the wild eyes of the actress, who approached her with the stealthy movement of a panther measuring its distance for a spring at the throat of its victim.
Garrick complimented both ladies at the close of the scene, but they both seemed too overcome to acknowledge his compliments.
“By my soul, Peggy,” said Garrick, when they met at the house in Bow street, “you have profited as much by your teaching of that woman as she has. The expression upon your face to-day as she approached you gave even me a thrill. The climax needed such a cry as you uttered, though that fool of a poet did not provide for it.”
She did not respond until some moments had passed, and then she merely said:
“Where are we to end, Davy, if we are to bring real and not simulated passion to our aid at the theater? Heavens, sir! we shall be in a pretty muddle presently. Are we to cultivate our hates and our jealousies and our affections for the sake of exhibiting them in turn?”
“'T would not be convenient to do so,” said Garrick. “Still, you have seen how much can be done by an exhibition of the real, and not the simulated passion.”
“Depend upon it, sir, if you introduce the real passions into the acting of a tragedy you will have a real and not a simulated tragedy on the stage.”
“Psha! that is the thought of—a woman,” said Garrick. “A woman seeks to carry an idea to its furthest limits; she will not be content to accept it within its reasonable limitations.”
“And, being a woman, 'tis my misfortune to think as a woman,” said Mrs. Woffington.
The theatre was crowded on the evening when “Oriana” appeared for the first time on the bills. Garrick had many friends, and so also had Margaret Woffington. The appearance of either in a new character was sufficient to fill the theatre, but in “Oriana” they were both appearing, and the interest of playgoers had been further stimulated by the rumors which had been circulated respecting the ability of the new actress whom Garrick had brought from the country.
When the company assembled in the green-room, Garrick gave all his attention to Miss Hoppner. He saw how terribly nervous she was. Not for a moment would she remain seated. She paced the room excitedly, every now and again casting a furtive glance in the direction of Mrs. Woffington, who was laughing with Macklin in a corner.
“You have no cause for trepidation, my dear lady,” said Garrick to Miss Hoppner.
“Your charm of person will make you a speedy favorite with the playgoers, and if you act the stabbing scene as faithfully as you did at the last two rehearsals your success will be assured.”
“I can but do my best, sir,” said the actress. “I think you will find that I shall act the stabbing scene with great effect.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Garrick. “Your own friends in the boxes will be gratified.”
“I have no friends in the boxes, sir,” said the actress.
“Nay, surely I heard of at least one—a certain officer in the Royal Scots,” whispered Garrick.
“I know of none such, sir,” replied the actress, fixing her eyes, half closed, upon Peg Woffington, who was making a jest at Macklin's expense for the members of the company in the neighbourhood.
“Surely I heard—,” continued Garrick, but suddenly checked himself. “Ah, I recollect now what I heard,” he resumed, in a low tone. “Alas! Peggy is a sad coquette, but I doubt not that the story of your conquests will ring through the town after to-night.”
She did not seem to hear him. Her eyes were fixed upon Peggy Woffington, and in another moment the signal came that the curtain was ready to rise.
Garrick and Macklin went on the stage together, the former smiling in a self-satisfied way.
“I think I have made it certain that she will startle the house in at least one scene,” he whispered to Macklin.
“Ah, that is why Peggy is so boisterous,” said Macklin. “'Tis only when she is over-nervous that she becomes boisterous. Peggy is beginning to feel that she may have a rival.”
But if Peggy was nervous she certainly did not suggest it by her acting. She had not many opportunities for displaying her comedy powers in the play, but she contrived to impart a few touches of humour to the love scenes in the first act, which brightened up the gloom of the tragedy, and raised the spirits of the audience in some measure. Her mature style contrasted very effectively with the efforts of Miss Hoppner, who showed herself to be excessively nervous, and thereby secured at once the sympathies of the house. It was doubtful which of the two obtained the larger share of applause.
At the end of the act, Captain Joycelyn was waiting at the back of the stage to compliment Peggy upon her acting. Miss Hoppner brushed past them on her way to her dressing-room, without deigning to recognise either.
Curiously enough, in the next act the position of the two actresses seemed to be reversed. It was Mrs. Woffington who was nervous, whereas Miss Hoppner was thoroughly self-possessed.
“What in the world has come over you, my dear?” asked Garrick, when Peggy had made an exit so rapidly as to cause the latter half of one of her lines to be quite inaudible.
“God knows what it is!” said Peggy. “I have felt all through the act as if I were going to break down—as if I wanted to run away from an impending calamity. By heaven, sir, I feel as if the tragedy were real and not simulated!”
“Psha! You are but a woman, after all,” said Garrick.
“I fear that is the truth,” said she. “Good God! that woman seems to have changed places with me. She is speaking her lines as if she had been acting in London for years. She is doing what she pleases with the house.”
Garrick had to leave her to go through his great scene with the Oriana of the play, and Mrs. Woffington watched, as if spell-bound, the marvellous variety of his emotional expression, as, in the character of the Prince Orsino, he confessed to Oriana that he no longer loved her, but that he had given his heart to Francesca. She saw the gleam in the eyes of the actress of the part of the jealous woman as she denounced the perfidy of her lover, and bade him leave her presence. Then came Oriana's long soliloquy, in which she swore that the Prince should never taste the happiness which he had sought at her expense.
“I have a heart for murder, murder, murder!
My blood now surges like an angry sea,
Eager to grapple with its struggling prey,
And strangle it, as I shall strangle her,
With these hands hungering for her shapely
throat,
The throat on which his kisses have been flung.
Give her to me, just God, give her to me,
But for the time it takes to close my hand
Thus, and if justice reign supreme above,
The traitress shall come hither to her doom.”
(Enter Francesca.)
(Aside) “My prayer is answered. It is Jove's decree.” So the passage ran, and it was delivered by the actress with a fervour that thrilled the house.
After her aside, Oriana turned, according to the stage directions, to Francesca with a smile. In Miss Hoppner's eyes there was a light of triumph—of gratified revenge—and before it Margaret Woffington quailed. She gave a frightened glance around, as if looking for a way of escape; there was a little pause, and then upon the silence of the house there fell the half-hissed words of Oriana as she craned her head forward facing her rival:
“Thou think'st to ride in triumph o'er my
corse—
The corse which his indecent feet have spurned
Into the dust. But there's a God above!
I tell thee, traitress, 't is not I shall lie
For vulture-beaks to rend—but thou—thou—
thou!
Traitress abhorred, this knife shall find thy
heart!”
“My God! the dagger—it is real!” shrieked Peggy; but before she could turn to fly, the other had sprung upon her, throwing her partly over a couch, and holding her down by the throat while she stabbed her twice.
A hoarse cry came from Peg Woffington, and then she rolled off the couch and fell limply to the stage, the backs of her hands rapping helplessly on the boards as she fell.
The other actress stood over her for a moment with a smile; then she looked strangely at the dagger which glistened in her hand. Then, with a hysterical cry, she flung the weapon from her and fell back.
The curtain went down upon the roar of applause that came from every part of the theatre. But though the applause was maintained, neither of the actresses responded to the call. Several minutes had passed before Garrick himself appeared and made a sign that he wished to speak. When the house became silent, he explained to his patrons that both actresses had swooned through the great demands which the scene had made upon them, and would be unable to appear for the rest of the evening. Under these melancholy circumstances, he hoped that no objection would be made to the bringing on of the burletta immediately.
The audience seemed satisfied to forego the enjoyment of the ghost scenes of the tragedy, and the burletta was proceeded with.
It was not thought advisable to let the audience know that Mrs. Woffington was lying on a couch in her dressing room, while a surgeon was binding up a wound made in her side by the dagger used by the other actress. It was not until Garrick had examined the weapon that he perceived it was not a stage blade, but a real one, which had been used by Miss Hoppner. Fortunately, however, the point had been turned aside by the steel in Peg Woffington's stays, so that it had only inflicted a flesh wound.
In the course of a couple of hours Peggy had recovered consciousness, and, though very weak, was still able to make an effort to captivate the surgeon with her witty allusions to the privileges incidental to his profession. She was so engaged, when Garrick entered the room and told her that Miss Hoppner was weeping outside the door, but that he had given orders that she was not to be admitted.
“Why should the poor girl not be admitted?” cried Peggy. “Should such an accident as that which happened be treated as though it were murder? Send her into the room, sir, and leave us alone together.”
Garrick protested, but Peggy insisted on having her own way, and the moment Miss Hoppner was permitted to enter, she flung herself on her knees at the side of the couch, weeping upon the hand that Peggy gave to her.
When Garrick entered with Captain Joycelyn, a short time afterwards, Peggy would not allow him to remain in the room. The Captain remained, however, for some minutes, and when he left, Miss Hoppner was on his arm. They crossed the stage together, and that was the last time she ever trod that or any other stage, for Captain Joycelyn married her within a month.
“Ah, friend Davy,” cried Peggy to Garrick, “there was, after all, some sense in what Mr. Johnson said. We actors are, doubtless, great folk; but 't were presumptuous to attempt to turn Nature into the handmaid of Art. I have tried it, sir, and was only saved from disaster by the excellence of the art of my stays-maker. Nay, the stage is not Nature—it is but Nature seen on the surface of a mirror; and even then, I protest, only when David Garrick is the actor, and Shakespeare's the poet.”
