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 ben 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:
And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,
It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.
Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have found
their voices,
The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to
dye;
And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens
and rejoices,
And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason
why.
During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the
good-natured personage addressed as Mamma by the
singer, and whose large whiskers appeared under her cap,
seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternal affection
by embracing the innocent creature who performed the
daughter's part. Every caress was received with loud
acclamations of laughter by the sympathizing audience.
At its conclusion (while the music was performing a
symphony as if ever so many birds were warbling) the
whole house was unanimous for an encore: and applause
and bouquets without end were showered upon the
Nightingale of the evening. Lord Steyne's voice of
applause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale, took
the flowers which he threw to her and pressed them to
her heart with the air of a consummate comedian. Lord
Steyne was frantic with delight. His guests' enthusiasm
harmonized with his own. Where was the beautiful
black-eyed Houri whose appearance in the first charade had
caused such delight? She was twice as handsome as
Becky, but the brilliancy of the latter had quite eclipsed
her. All voices were for her. Stephens, Caradori, Ronzi
de Begnis, people compared her to one or the other, and
agreed with good reason, very likely, that had she been
an actress none on the stage could have surpassed her.
She had reached her culmination: her voice rose trilling
and bright over the storm of applause, and soared as
high and joyful as her triumph. There was a ball after
the dramatic entertainments, and everybody pressed
round Becky as the great point of attraction of the
evening. The Royal Personage declared with an oath that
she was perfection, and engaged her again and again in
conversation. Little Becky's soul swelled with pride and
delight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame, fashion
before her. Lord Steyne was her slave, followed her
everywhere, and scarcely spoke to any one in the room
beside, and paid her the most marked compliments and
attention. She still appeared in her Marquise costume
and danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny,
Monsieur Le Duc de la Jabotiere's attache; and the
Duke, who had all the traditions of the ancient court,
pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to have
been a pupil of Vestris, or to have figured at Versailles.
Only a feeling of dignity, the gout, and the strongest
sense of duty and personal sacrifice prevented his
Excellency from dancing with her himself, and he declared
in public that a lady who could talk and dance like Mrs.
Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at any court in
Europe. He was only consoled when he heard that she
was half a Frenchwoman by birth. "None but a
compatriot," his Excellency declared, "could have performed
that majestic dance in such a way."
Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de
