Madame Flirt A Romance of 'The Beggar's Opera' 12 – Pearce · Verses Across
Literature · Historical Fiction
Madame Flirt A Romance of 'The Beggar's Opera' 12Chapter 12
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Literature · Historical Fiction
Madame Flirt A Romance of 'The Beggar's Opera' 12
Chapter 12
PearceEnglish
"ARE WORDS THE ONLY SIGNS OF LOVE?"
Lavinia easily found her way to Pope's villa. The first man of whom she inquired knew the house well and guided her to it.
The house was somewhat squat and what we should now call double fronted. The back looked on to a garden bordering the river, the front faced a road on the other side of which was a high wall with a wooded garden beyond.
"That be Mr. Pope's house, young madam, an' that be his garden too, t'other side o' that wall. He be but a feeble shrivelled up whey-faced little gentleman, thin as a thread paper an' not much taller than you yourself. I'm told as he baint forty, but lor, he might be ninety by his looks. We folk in the village don't see much of him an' I doubt if he wants to see us."
"Gracious! Why is that? What makes him so unsociable?"
"He's always ailing, poor gentleman. Why, if ye went by his face he might have one foot in the grave. When he fust comed to live here he hated to have to cross the road to get to that there garden t'other side, so what do'e do but have a way dug under the road. It be a sort o' grotto, they say, with all kinds o' coloured stones and glasses stuck about an' must ha' cost a pile o' money. I s'pose rich folk must have their whims and vapours an' must gratify 'em too, or what be the good o' being rich, eh? Thank 'ee kindly young madam."
Lavinia, upon whom the good Hannah had pressed all the coins that were in her pocket, gave the man a few coppers and summoning her courage she grasped the bell-pull hanging by the door in the wall fronting the house. Her nerves were somewhat scattered and she could not say whether the clang encouraged or depressed her. May be the latter, for a sudden desire seized her to run away.
But before desire had become decision the door in the wall had opened and a soberly attired man-servant was staring at her inquiringly. Lavinia regained her courage.
"I want to see Mr. Gay please. I'm told he's staying with Mr. Pope."
"Aye. What's your business?"
"That's with Mr. Gay, not with you," rejoined Lavinia sharply.
The man either disdained to bandy words or had no retort ready. He admitted the visitor and conducted her into the house. Lavinia found herself in a small hall, stone paved, with a door on either side. The hall ran from the front to the back of the house and at the end a door opened into a wooden latticed porch. Beyond was a picturesque garden and further still the river shining in the sun. She heard men talking and apparently disputing. The shrill tones of one voice dominated the rest.
The servant bade her wait in the hall while he went to Mr. Gay. He did not trouble to ask her name.
While he was gone Lavinia advanced to the open door, drawn thither by curiosity. A garden grateful to the eye was before her. It had not the grotesque formality of the Dutch style which came over with William of Orange--the prim beds with here and there patches and narrow walks of red, flat bricks, the box trees cut and trimmed in the form of peacocks with outstretched tails, animals, anything absurd that the designer fancied. Close to the river bank drooped a willow, and a wide spreading cedar overspread a portion of the lawn.
Underneath the cedar four men were sitting round a table strewn with papers. Lavinia easily recognised the portly form of her patron, Gay. Next to him was a diminutive man, his face overspread by the pallor of ill-health. He was sitting stiff and bolt upright and upon his head in place of a fashionable flowing wig was a sort of loose cap.
"That must be Mr. Pope, the queer little gentleman the countryman told me of," thought Lavinia.
She saw the servant in a deferential attitude standing for some time between Mr. Pope and Mr. Gay waiting for an opportunity to announce his errand. For the moment the discussion was too absorbing for anyone of the four to pay attention to the man.
"Mr. Rich no high opinion has of either music or musicians," said one of the disputants, a lean, dried-up looking man who spoke with a strong guttural accent. This was Dr. Pepusch, musical director at John Rich's theatre, the "Duke's," Portugal Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields.
"Dr. Pepusch is right," rejoined Gay. "That is why I favoured Cibber. But from his reception of me I doubt if he'll take the risk of staging the play."
"Cibber likes not you, Mr. Gay, and he hates me," said Pope with his acid smile. "He's a poet--or thinks he's one--and poets love not one another. Nothing is so blinding to the merits of others as one's own vanity."
"Nay, Mr. Pope, is not that assumption too sweeping?" put in the fourth man, of cheerful, rubicund countenance and, like Gay, inclined to corpulency. "What about yourself and Mr. Gay? Is there anyone more conscious of his talents and has done more to foster and encourage them than you? Who spoke and wrote in higher praise of Will Congreve than John Dryden?"
"Your argument's just, Arbuthnot," rejoined Pope. "And that's why I rejoice that the King, his Consort and the Statesman who panders to her spite and lives only for his own ambition have insulted our friend. Their taste and their appreciation of letters found their level when they considered the author of the 'Trivia' and the 'Fables' was fittingly rewarded by the appointment of 'gentleman usher' to a princess--a footman's place, forsooth!"
It was too true. George the First was dead, George the Second had succeeded and with the change of government Gay hoped to obtain the "sinecure" which would have kept him in comfort to the end of his days. He was bitterly disappointed. The post bestowed upon him was a degradation.
"Say no more on that head," exclaimed Gay hastily, "I would forget that affront."
"But not forgive. We're all of us free to carry the battle into the enemy's camp and with the more vigour since you are fighting with us, John Gay. The 'Beggar's Opera'--'tis mainly the Dean's idea--the title alone is vastly fine--will give you all the chance in the world. Pray do not forget the Dean's verses he sent you 't'other day. They must be set to good music, though for my own part I know not one tune from another."
Snatching a sheet of paper from the table Pope, in his thin, piping voice, read with much gusto:--
"Through all the employments of life
Each neighbour abuses his brother,
Trull and rogue they call husband and wife,
All professions be-rogue one another.
"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."
"Aye; that should go home. Faith, I'd give my gold headed cane to see Sir Robert's face when he hears those lines," laughed the cheery physician. "Who will sing them, Mr. Gay?"
"I know not yet; we've settled upon very few things. Our good musician, Dr. Pepusch, is ready whenever I hand him the verses and the tunes to set them to. Why, I've not decided the names of the characters, and that let me tell you, doctor, is no easy matter. I call the first wench Peggy Peachum, but it doesn't please me. I----"
At that moment Pope caught sight of his man fidgetting first on one foot and then on the other.
"What d'ye want sirrah?" demanded the poet irritably.
"A young girl, sir, desires to see Mr. Gay. She couldn't tell me her business with him."
A roar of laughter was heard, in the midst of which Gay looked puzzled and a trifle foolish.
"Oh poor Gay, to think thy light damsels cannot let thee alone but must follow thee to my pure Eve-less abode," said Pope mockingly.
"Nay, 'tis nothing of the kind. You accuse me unjustly. I know no light o' love. To prove it your servant shall bring the girl here and you may see her for yourself. I've no love secrets."
"What if you had, man? No one would blame you. Not I for one. Get as much enjoyment as you can out of life, but not in excess. 'Tis excess that kills," said Arbuthnot laying his hand on Gay's.
There was a meaning in the contact which emphasised the doctor's words. Self indulgence was Gay's failing as all his friends knew.
"Well--well," rejoined Gay somewhat embarrassed. "Be it so, I--conduct the girl hither--have I your permission, Mr. Pope?"
"With all my heart--provided she's worth looking at."
"I know nothing of her looks. Quick, Stephen, your master and these gentlemen are impatient."
The man hastened away to the house and presently was seen crossing the lawn with Lavinia by his side.
"'Faith, you've good taste, Mr. Gay," said Arbuthnot with a chuckle. "A trim built wench, upon my word. And she knows how to walk. She hasn't the mincing gait of the city madams of the Exchange nor the flaunting strut of the dames of the Mall or the Piazza."
Gay made no reply. The girl's carriage and walk were indeed natural and there was something in both which was familiar to him. But he could not fix them. He would have to wait until the sheltering hood was raised and the face revealed.
This came about when Lavinia was a couple of yards or so from the man. Gay bent forward and rose slightly from his chair. An expression half startled, half puzzled stole over his face.
"Gad! Polly--or am I dreaming?"
"Lavinia sir," came the demure answer accompanied by a drooping of the long lashes and a low curtsey.
"Lavinia of course, but to me always Polly. Gentlemen, this is Miss Lavinia Fenton, the nightingale I once told you of."
"Aye," rejoined Pope, "I remember. She was flying wild in the fragrant groves of St. Giles and you limed her. Good. Now that she's here she must give us a sample of her powers. I pray that your nightingale, Mr. Gay, be not really a guinea fowl. Your good nature might easily make you imagine one to be the other."
"I protest. You are thinking of yourself. I'll swear you cannot tell the difference. You put all the music you have into your verse. I doubt if you could even whistle 'Lillibulero,' though there's not a snub nosed urchin in his Majesty's kingdom who can't bawl it."
"That may be, but I can neither whistle nor am I a snub-nosed urchin. I apologise for my defects," retorted the poet.
A general laugh followed at this and Gay, somewhat discomfited, turned to Lavinia.
"Now, Polly, what has brought you here, child? But looking at you I doubt if I ought to call you child. 'Tis months since I saw thee and I vow in that time you've become a young woman."
"I'm very sorry, sir. I could not help it," said Lavinia meekly.
"Help it! Faith, no! 'Tis very meritorious of you. But tell me. Has the admirable Miss Pinwell granted you a holiday, or is it your birthday and you've come for a present, or what?"
"Neither the one nor the other, sir. I--I rather think I've left school."
"Left school! And without apprising me who am, you know, in a way sponsor for you? But may be you've written the duchess?"
Lavinia shook her head and cast down her eyes.
"Left school," repeated Gay lifting his wig slightly and rubbing his temple. "Surely--surely you haven't misbehaved and have been expelled. Miss Pinwell I know is the perfection of prim propriety, but----"
"Quite true, sir, so she is," burst out Lavinia impetuously, "and I've done nothing wicked--not really wicked--only silly, but I'm sure Miss Pinwell wouldn't take me back. You see, sir, I--oh well, I suppose I must confess I ran away--I meant to return and nobody would have been the wiser--but things happened that I didn't expect and--and oh, I do hope you'll forgive me."
Lavinia's pleading voice quivered. Her eyes were fixed imploringly on Gay. Tears were glistening in them, the pose of her figure suggested a delightful penitence. The susceptible poet felt his emotions stirred.
"Forgive you? But you haven't told me what I am to forgive. You ran away from school you say. What made you? Had you quarrelled with anyone?"
"Oh no--not then--the quarrel was after I left the school."
"After--hang me if I understand. Whom did you quarrel with?"
"The--the person I--I ran away with."
Lavinia's confession was uttered in the softest of whispers. It was inaudible to anyone save Gay. Her face had suddenly become scarlet.
"The per--oh, there's a mystery here. Mr. Pope--gentlemen," Gay went on turning to the others, "will you excuse me if I draw apart with our young madam. She has propounded to me an enigma which must be solved."
"And if you fail--as you will if the enigma is a woman's--call us to thine aid," said Arbuthnot laughingly.
Gay shook his head and he and Lavinia paced the lawn.
"It's no use asking you to tell me everything, Polly, because you can't do it. Your sex never do. You're like spendthrifts who are asked to disclose all their debts. They always keep the heaviest one back. Tell me as much or as little as you please or nothing at all, if it likes you better."
Lavinia hesitated, and at first her tale was a halting one enough, but seeing no sign of anger in Gay's amiable countenance, she became more courageous, and substantially she said all that was necessary to make her companion acquainted with her list of peccadilloes.
"Zooks, my young miss," quoth Gay after the solace of a pinch of snuff. "It seemeth to me that you've begun to flutter your pinions sufficiently early. Two love affairs on your hands within twenty-four hours. Mighty fine, upon my word."
"Oh, but they are not love affairs," protested Lavinia. "I didn't love Mr. Dorrimore a bit. I never want to see him again. And as for Mr. Vane, never a word of love has passed between us."
"Bless your innocence. Are words the only signs of love? Permit me to inform you, Polly, that I look upon your love adventure with Lancelot Vane as a much more serious business than your elopement with a profligate fop."
"Indeed, it is serious, Mr. Gay. It's worse than serious--it's tragic. If you could see the wretched place poor Mr. Vane lives in, if you knew how he is wanting for food----"
"And drink--is he wanting for that too?" interposed Gay sarcastically.
Lavinia made no answer. She thought of Lancelot at the Chapter Coffee House the night before and her face clouded.
"I'll give you a word of advice, Polly. If you're going to be a nice woman and want to keep your peace of mind, never fall in love with a poet, a playwright or indeed any man who takes his pen in hand for a living."
"But, sir--aren't you a poet and don't you write plays?"
"Exactly, and that's why I'm warning you. Ex uno disce omnes, which you may like to know means, we're all tarred with the same brush."
"And do you drink too much, sir?" inquired Lavinia with an engaging simplicity.
"Gad, not oftener than I can help. But we were talking about falling in love and that has nothing to do with my drinking habits. About Mr. Vane's--well, that's a different matter. You haven't fallen in love with me and you have with a clever young man who's going as fast as he can to the deuce."
"I don't know, sir, whether you're laughing at me or telling me the truth, but--Mr. Vane risked his life for me."
"And to reward him you're thinking of trusting him with yours. A pretty guardian--a man who can't take care of his own!"
"Oh, you're wrong, Mr. Gay--indeed, you are. Mr. Vane is nothing to me. I'm only sorry for him."
"Of course--of course. That's the first step. You begin by being sorry for your sweetheart and you end by being sorry for yourself. Well--well, a woman must go her own way or she wouldn't be a woman. What have you there?"
Lavinia was holding out a parcel.
"'Tis a play, sir, that Mr. Vane has written."
"And why did he write it? Who asked him? Who wants plays?"
"I--I don't know," Lavinia stammered dismally. She felt her ardour was being damped. "Mr. Vane begged me to bring it to you, sir, and I couldn't refuse, could I? It was this way. I told him you were my friend--and you are, aren't you?--and he was overjoyed."
"Overjoyed? What in the name of Heaven about?"
"Mr. Vane thought that if I took the play to you and asked you to read it you would be sure to say you would."
"Mr. Vane had no business to think anything of the kind. Doesn't he know that nothing in this world can be taken for granted? I've committed the folly myself too often not to know that placing faith in other people is vanity and vexation."
"Yes, sir. But you'll read Mr. Vane's play all the same, won't you?"
"What a wheedling baggage it is," muttered Gay.
And he held the parcel and resisted the impulse to give it back to Lavinia and to tell her that he had neither time nor inclination to read other men's plays. His own play was sufficient for him at that moment.
