Chapter LI: In Which a Charade Is Acted Which May or May Not Puzzle the Reader -

by William Makepeace Thackeray

　　After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's privateand select parties, the claims of that estimable womanas regards fashion were settled, and some of the verygreatest and tallest doors in the metropolis werespeedily opened to her--doors so great and tall that thebeloved reader and writer hereof may hope in vain toenter at them. Dear brethren, let us tremble beforethose august portals. I fancy them guarded by groomsof the chamber with flaming silver forks with which theyprong all those who have not the right of the entree.They say the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in thehall and takes down the names of the great ones whoare admitted to the feasts dies after a little time. Hecan't survive the glare of fashion long. It scorches himup, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted thatpoor imprudent Semele--a giddy moth of a creature whoruined herself by venturing out of her natural atmosphere.Her myth ought to be taken to heart amongst theTyburnians, the Belgravians--her story, and perhapsBecky's too. Ah, ladies!--ask the Reverend Mr. Thuriferif Belgravia is not a sounding brass and Tyburnia atinkling cymbal. These are vanities. Even these will passaway. And some day or other (but it will be after ourtime, thank goodness) Hyde Park Gardens will be nobetter known than the celebrated horticultural outskirtsof Babylon, and Belgrave Square will be as desolate asBaker Street, or Tadmor in the wilderness.

　　Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in BakerStreet? What would not your grandmothers have givento be asked to Lady Hester's parties in that nowdecayed mansion? I have dined in it--moi qui vous parle,I peopled the chamber with ghosts of the mighty dead.As we sat soberly drinking claret there with men ofto-day, the spirits of the departed came in and took theirplaces round the darksome board. The pilot whoweathered the storm tossed off great bumpers of spiritualport; the shade of Dundas did not leave the ghost of aheeltap. Addington sat bowing and smirking in a ghastlymanner, and would not be behindhand when thenoiseless bottle went round; Scott, from under bushy eyebrows,winked at the apparition of a beeswing; Wilberforce'seyes went up to the ceiling, so that he did not seem toknow how his glass went up full to his mouth and camedown empty; up to the ceiling which was above us onlyyesterday, and which the great of the past days have alllooked at. They let the house as a furnished lodgingnow. Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, andlies asleep in the wilderness. Eothen saw her there--not in Baker Street, but in the other solitude.

　　It is all vanity to be sure, but who will not own toliking a little of it? I should like to know what well-constituted mind, merely because it is transitory, dislikesroast beef? That is a vanity, but may every man whoreads this have a wholesome portion of it through life,I beg: aye, though my readers were five hundredthousand. Sit down, gentlemen, and fall to, with a good heartyappetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy, the horse-radishas you like it--don't spare it. Another glass of wine,Jones, my boy--a little bit of the Sunday side. Yes, letus eat our fill of the vain thing and be thankful therefor.And let us make the best of Becky's aristocraticpleasures likewise--for these too, like all other mortaldelights, were but transitory.

　　The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was that HisHighness the Prince of Peterwaradin took occasion torenew his acquaintance with Colonel Crawley, whenthey met on the next day at the Club, and to complimentMrs. Crawley in the Ring of Hyde Park with aprofound salute of the hat. She and her husband wereinvited immediately to one of the Prince's small partiesat Levant House, then occupied by His Highness duringthe temporary absence from England of its nobleproprietor. She sang after dinner to a very little comite.The Marquis of Steyne was present, paternallysuperintending the progress of his pupil.

　　At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemenand greatest ministers that Europe has produced--the Duc de la Jabotiere, then Ambassador from the MostChristian King, and subsequently Minister to thatmonarch. I declare I swell with pride as these august namesare transcribed by my pen, and I think in what brilliantcompany my dear Becky is moving. She became aconstant guest at the French Embassy, where no party wasconsidered to be complete without the presence of thecharming Madame Ravdonn Cravley.

　　Messieurs de Truffigny (of the Perigord family) andChampignac, both attaches of the Embassy, werestraightway smitten by the charms of the fair Colonel'swife, and both declared, according to the wont of theirnation (for who ever yet met a Frenchman, come out ofEngland, that has not left half a dozen families miserable,and brought away as many hearts in his pocket-book?),both, I say, declared that they were au mieux with thecharming Madame Ravdonn.

　　But I doubt the correctness of the assertion. Champignacwas very fond of ecarte, and made many partieswith the Colonel of evenings, while Becky was singing toLord Steyne in the other room; and as for Truffigny, it isa well-known fact that he dared not go to the Travellers',where he owed money to the waiters, and if he had nothad the Embassy as a dining-place, the worthy younggentleman must have starved. I doubt, I say, that Beckywould have selected either of these young men as aperson on whom she would bestow her special regard. Theyran of her messages, purchased her gloves and flowers,went in debt for opera-boxes for her, and madethemselves amiable in a thousand ways. And they talkedEnglish with adorable simplicity, and to the constantamusement of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would mimicone or other to his face, and compliment him on hisadvance in the English language with a gravity which neverfailed to tickle the Marquis, her sardonic old patron.Truffigny gave Briggs a shawl by way of winning overBecky's confidante, and asked her to take charge of aletter which the simple spinster handed over in publicto the person to whom it was addressed, and thecomposition of which amused everybody who read it greatly.Lord Steyne read it, everybody but honest Rawdon, towhom it was not necessary to tell everything that passedin the little house in May Fair.

　　Here, before long, Becky received not only "the best"foreigners (as the phrase is in our noble and admirablesociety slang), but some of the best English people too.I don't mean the most virtuous, or indeed the leastvirtuous, or the cleverest, or the stupidest, or the richest, orthe best born, but "the best,"--in a word, people aboutwhom there is no question--such as the great Lady Fitz-Willis, that Patron Saint of Almack's, the great LadySlowbore, the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth (she wasLady G. Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry),and the like. When the Countess of Fitz-Willis (herLadyship is of the Kingstreet family, see Debrett andBurke) takes up a person, he or she is safe. There is noquestion about them any more. Not that my Lady Fitz-Willis is any better than anybody else, being, on thecontrary, a faded person, fifty-seven years of age, andneither handsome, nor wealthy, nor entertaining; but it isagreed on all sides that she is of the "best people."Those who go to her are of the best: and from an oldgrudge probably to Lady Steyne (for whose coronet herladyship, then the youthful Georgina Frederica, daughterof the Prince of Wales's favourite, the Earl of Portansherry,had once tried), this great and famous leader ofthe fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. RawdonCrawley; made her a most marked curtsey at the assemblyover which she presided; and not only encouraged herson, St. Kitts (his lordship got his place through LordSteyne's interest), to frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, butasked her to her own mansion and spoke to her twice inthe most public and condescending manner duringdinner. The important fact was known all over London thatnight. People who had been crying fie about Mrs.Crawley were silent. Wenham, the wit and lawyer, LordSteyne's right-hand man, went about everywhere praisingher: some who had hesitated, came forward at onceand welcomed her; little Tom Toady, who had warnedSouthdown about visiting such an abandoned woman,now besought to be introduced to her. In a word, shewas admitted to be among the "best" people. Ah, mybeloved readers and brethren, do not envy poor Beckyprematurely--glory like this is said to be fugitive. It iscurrently reported that even in the very inmost circles,they are no happier than the poor wanderers outside thezone; and Becky, who penetrated into the very centre offashion and saw the great George IV face to face, hasowned since that there too was Vanity.

　　We must be brief in descanting upon this part of hercareer. As I cannot describe the mysteries of freemasonry,although I have a shrewd idea that it is a humbug,so an uninitiated man cannot take upon himself toportray the great world accurately, and had best keep hisopinions to himself, whatever they are.

　　Becky has often spoken in subsequent years of thisseason of her life, when she moved among the verygreatest circles of the London fashion. Her successexcited, elated, and then bored her. At first no occupationwas more pleasant than to invent and procure (the lattera work of no small trouble and ingenuity, by the way, ina person of Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's very narrow means)--to procure, we say, the prettiest new dresses andornaments; to drive to fine dinner parties, where she waswelcomed by great people; and from the fine dinnerparties to fine assemblies, whither the same people camewith whom she had been dining, whom she had met thenight before, and would see on the morrow--the youngmen faultlessly appointed, handsomely cravatted, withthe neatest glossy boots and white gloves--the eldersportly, brass-buttoned, noble-looking, polite, and prosy--the young ladies blonde, timid, and in pink--themothers grand, beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and indiamonds. They talked in English, not in bad French, asthey do in the novels. They talked about each others'houses, and characters, and families--just as the Jonesesdo about the Smiths. Becky's former acquaintances hatedand envied her; the poor woman herself was yawning inspirit. "I wish I were out of it," she said to herself. "Iwould rather be a parson's wife and teach a Sundayschool than this; or a sergeant's lady and ride in theregimental waggon; or, oh, how much gayer it would beto wear spangles and trousers and dance before a boothat a fair."

　　"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing.She used to tell the great man her ennuis andperplexities in her artless way--they amused him.

　　"Rawdon would make a very good Ecuyer--Master ofthe Ceremonies--what do you call him--the man in thelarge boots and the uniform, who goes round the ringcracking the whip? He is large, heavy, and of a militaryfigure. I recollect," Becky continued pensively, "myfather took me to see a show at Brookgreen Fair when Iwas a child, and when we came home, I made myself apair of stilts and danced in the studio to the wonder ofall the pupils."

　　"I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne.

　　"I should like to do it now," Becky continued. "HowLady Blinkey would open her eyes, and Lady GrizzelMacbeth would stare! Hush! silence! there is Pastabeginning to sing." Becky always made a point of beingconspicuously polite to the professional ladies andgentlemen who attended at these aristocratic parties--offollowing them into the corners where they sat in silence,and shaking hands with them, and smiling in the view ofall persons. She was an artist herself, as she said verytruly; there was a frankness and humility in the mannerin which she acknowledged her origin, which provoked,or disarmed, or amused lookers-on, as the case mightbe. "How cool that woman is," said one; "what airs ofindependence she assumes, where she ought to sit stilland be thankful if anybody speaks to her!" "What anhonest and good-natured soul she is!" said another."What an artful little minx" said a third. They were allright very likely, but Becky went her own way, and sofascinated the professional personages that they wouldleave off their sore throats in order to sing at her partiesand give her lessons for nothing.

　　Yes, she gave parties in the little house in CurzonStreet. Many scores of carriages, with blazing lamps,blocked up the street, to the disgust of No. 100, whocould not rest for the thunder of the knocking, and of102, who could not sleep for envy. The gigantic footmenwho accompanied the vehicles were too big to becontained in Becky's little hall, and were billeted off in theneighbouring public-houses, whence, when they werewanted, call-boys summoned them from their beer.Scores of the great dandies of London squeezed andtrod on each other on the little stairs, laughing to findthemselves there; and many spotless and severe ladies ofton were seated in the little drawing-room, listening tothe professional singers, who were singing according totheir wont, and as if they wished to blow the windowsdown. And the day after, there appeared among thefashionable reunions in the Morning Post a paragraphto the following effect:

　　"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained aselect party at dinner at their house in May Fair. TheirExcellencies the Prince and Princess of Peterwaradin,H. E. Papoosh Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador (attendedby Kibob Bey, dragoman of the mission), the Marquessof Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt and LadyJane Crawley, Mr. Wagg, &c. After dinner Mrs. Crawleyhad an assembly which was attended by the Duchess(Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyere, Marchionessof Cheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte deBrie, Baron Schapzuger, Chevalier Tosti, Countess ofSlingstone, and Lady F. Macadam, Major-General andLady G. Macbeth, and (2) Miss Macbeths; ViscountPaddington, Sir Horace Fogey, Hon. Sands Bedwin,Bobachy Bahawder," and an &c., which the reader may fillat his pleasure through a dozen close lines of small type.

　　And in her commerce with the great our dear friendshowed the same frankness which distinguished hertransactions with the lowly in station. On one occasion,when out at a very fine house, Rebecca was (perhapsrather ostentatiously) holding a conversation in theFrench language with a celebrated tenor singer of thatnation, while the Lady Grizzel Macbeth looked over hershoulder scowling at the pair.

　　"How very well you speak French," Lady Grizzel said,who herself spoke the tongue in an Edinburgh accentmost remarkable to hear.

　　"I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, castingdown her eyes. "I taught it in a school, and my motherwas a Frenchwoman."

　　Lady Grizzel was won by her humility and wasmollified towards the little woman. She deplored the fatallevelling tendencies of the age, which admitted personsof all classes into the society of their superiors, but herladyship owned that this one at least was well behavedand never forgot her place in life. She was a very goodwoman: good to the poor; stupid, blameless, unsuspicious.It is not her ladyship's fault that she fancies herselfbetter than you and me. The skirts of her ancestors'garments have been kissed for centuries; it is a thousandyears, they say, since the tartans of the head of thefamily were embraced by the defunct Duncan's lords andcouncillors, when the great ancestor of the Housebecame King of Scotland.

　　Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed beforeBecky, and perhaps was not disinclined to her. Theyounger ladies of the house of Gaunt were alsocompelled into submission. Once or twice they set people ather, but they failed. The brilliant Lady Stunnington trieda passage of arms with her, but was routed with greatslaughter by the intrepid little Becky. When attackedsometimes, Becky had a knack of adopting a demureingenue air, under which she was most dangerous. Shesaid the wickedest things with the most simple unaffectedair when in this mood, and would take care artlessly toapologize for her blunders, so that all the world shouldknow that she had made them.

　　Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, and a led captain andtrencher-man of my Lord Steyne, was caused by theladies to charge her; and the worthy fellow, leering at hispatronesses and giving them a wink, as much as to say,"Now look out for sport," one evening began an assaultupon Becky, who was unsuspiciously eating her dinner.The little woman, attacked on a sudden, but neverwithout arms, lighted up in an instant, parried and ripostedwith a home-thrust, which made Wagg's face tingle withshame; then she returned to her soup with the mostperfect calm and a quiet smile on her face. Wagg's greatpatron, who gave him dinners and lent him a little moneysometimes, and whose election, newspaper, and otherjobs Wagg did, gave the luckless fellow such a savageglance with the eyes as almost made him sink under thetable and burst into tears. He looked piteously at mylord, who never spoke to him during dinner, and at theladies, who disowned him. At last Becky herself tookcompassion upon him and tried to engage him in talk.He was not asked to dinner again for six weeks; andFiche, my lord's confidential man, to whom Waggnaturally paid a good deal of court, was instructed to tellhim that if he ever dared to say a rude thing to Mrs.Crawley again, or make her the butt of his stupid jokes,Milor would put every one of his notes of hand into hislawyer's hands and sell him up without mercy. Waggwept before Fiche and implored his dear friend to intercedefor him. He wrote a poem in favour of Mrs. R. C.,which appeared in the very next number of the Harum-scarum Magazine, which he conducted. He implored hergood-will at parties where he met her. He cringed andcoaxed Rawdon at the club. He was allowed to come backto Gaunt House after a while. Becky was always good tohim, always amused, never angry.

　　His lordship's vizier and chief confidential servant(with a seat in parliament and at the dinner table), Mr.Wenham, was much more prudent in his behaviour andopinions than Mr. Wagg. However much he might bedisposed to hate all parvenus (Mr. Wenham himself was astaunch old True Blue Tory, and his father a small coal-merchant in the north of England), this aide-de-camp ofthe Marquis never showed any sort of hostility to thenew favourite, but pursued her with stealthy kindnessesand a sly and deferential politeness which somehowmade Becky more uneasy than other people's overthostilities.

　　How the Crawleys got the money which was spentupon the entertainments with which they treated thepolite world was a mystery which gave rise to someconversation at the time, and probably added zest to theselittle festivities. Some persons averred that Sir Pitt Crawleygave his brother a handsome allowance; if he did,Becky's power over the Baronet must have beenextraordinary indeed, and his character greatly changed in hisadvanced age. Other parties hinted that it was Becky'shabit to levy contributions on all her husband's friends:going to this one in tears with an account that there wasan execution in the house; falling on her knees to thatone and declaring that the whole family must go to gaolor commit suicide unless such and such a bill could bepaid. Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced togive many hundreds through these pathetic representations.Young Feltham, of the --th Dragoons (and son of the firm ofTiler and Feltham, hatters and army accoutrement makers),and whom the Crawleys introduced into fashionablelife, was also cited as one of Becky's victims in thepecuniary way. People declared that she got moneyfrom various simply disposed persons, under pretence ofgetting them confidential appointments under Government.Who knows what stories were or were not told ofour dear and innocent friend? Certain it is that if she hadhad all the money which she was said to have begged orborrowed or stolen, she might have capitalized and beenhonest for life, whereas,--but this is advancing matters.

　　The truth is, that by economy and good management--by a sparing use of ready money and by paying scarcelyanybody--people can manage, for a time at least, tomake a great show with very little means: and it is ourbelief that Becky's much-talked-of parties, which werenot, after all was said, very numerous, cost this lady verylittle more than the wax candles which lighted the walls.Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley supplied her with gameand fruit in abundance. Lord Steyne's cellars were at herdisposal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cookspresided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord'sorder the rarest delicacies from their own. I protest it isquite shameful in the world to abuse a simple creature,as people of her time abuse Becky, and I warn thepublic against believing one-tenth of the stories against her.If every person is to be banished from society who runsinto debt and cannot pay--if we are to be peering intoeverybody's private life, speculating upon their income,and cutting them if we don't approve of their expenditure--why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable dwellingVanity Fair would be! Every man's hand would beagainst his neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and thebenefits of civilization would be done away with. Weshould be quarrelling, abusing, avoiding one another. Ourhouses would become caverns, and we should go in ragsbecause we cared for nobody. Rents would go down.Parties wouldn't be given any more. All the tradesmenof the town would be bankrupt. Wine, wax-lights,comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs,Louis-Quatorze gimcracks, and old china, park hacks, andsplendid high-stepping carriage horses--all the delightsof life, I say,--would go to the deuce, if people did butact upon their silly principles and avoid those whom theydislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charity and mutualforbearance, things are made to go on pleasantlyenough: we may abuse a man as much as we like, andcall him the greatest rascal unhanged--but do we wishto hang him therefore? No. We shake hands when wemeet. If his cook is good we forgive him and go and dinewith him, and we expect he will do the same by us. Thustrade flourishes--civilization advances; peace is kept;new dresses are wanted for new assemblies every week;and the last year's vintage of Lafitte will remunerate thehonest proprietor who reared it.

　　At the time whereof we are writing, though the GreatGeorge was on the throne and ladies wore gigots andlarge combs like tortoise-shell shovels in their hair,instead of the simple sleeves and lovely wreaths which areactually in fashion, the manners of the very polite worldwere not, I take it, essentially different from those of thepresent day: and their amusements pretty similar. To us,from the outside, gazing over the policeman's shouldersat the bewildering beauties as they pass into Court orball, they may seem beings of unearthly splendour and inthe enjoyment of an exquisite happiness by us unattainable.It is to console some of these dissatisfied beingsthat we are narrating our dear Becky's struggles, andtriumphs, and disappointments, of all of which, indeed,as is the case with all persons of merit, she had her share.

　　At this time the amiable amusement of acting charadeshad come among us from France, and was considerablyin vogue in this country, enabling the many ladiesamongst us who had beauty to display their charms, andthe fewer number who had cleverness to exhibit their wit.My Lord Steyne was incited by Becky, who perhapsbelieved herself endowed with both the above qualifications,to give an entertainment at Gaunt House, which shouldinclude some of these little dramas--and we must takeleave to introduce the reader to this brilliant reunion,and, with a melancholy welcome too, for it will be amongthe very last of the fashionable entertainments to whichit will be our fortune to conduct him.

　　A portion of that splendid room, the picture gallery ofGaunt House, was arranged as the charade theatre. Ithad been so used when George III was king; and apicture of the Marquis of Gaunt is still extant, with his hairin powder and a pink ribbon, in a Roman shape, as itwas called, enacting the part of Cato in Mr. Addison'stragedy of that name, performed before their RoyalHighnesses the Prince of Wales, the Bishop of Osnaburgh,and Prince William Henry, then children like the actor.One or two of the old properties were drawn out of thegarrets, where they had lain ever since, and furbished upanew for the present festivities.

　　Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Easterntraveller, was manager of the revels. An Eastern travellerwas somebody in those days, and the adventurousBedwin, who had published his quarto and passed somemonths under the tents in the desert, was a personage ofno small importance. In his volume there were severalpictures of Sands in various oriental costumes; and hetravelled about with a black attendant of mostunprepossessing appearance, just like another Brian de BoisGuilbert. Bedwin, his costumes, and black man, werehailed at Gaunt House as very valuable acquisitions.

　　He led off the first charade. A Turkish officer with animmense plume of feathers (the Janizaries weresupposed to be still in existence, and the tarboosh had notas yet displaced the ancient and majestic head-dress ofthe true believers) was seen couched on a divan, andmaking believe to puff at a narghile, in which, however,for the sake of the ladies, only a fragrant pastille wasallowed to smoke. The Turkish dignitary yawns andexpresses signs of weariness and idleness. He claps his handsand Mesrour the Nubian appears, with bare arms,bangles, yataghans, and every Eastern ornament--gaunt,tall, and hideous. He makes a salaam before my lord theAga.

　　A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly.The ladies whisper to one another. The black slavewas given to Bedwin Sands by an Egyptian pasha inexchange for three dozen of Maraschino. He has sewn upever so many odalisques in sacks and tilted them intothe Nile.

　　"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkishvoluptuary with a wave of his hand. Mesrour conducts theslave-merchant into my lord's presence; he brings aveiled female with him. He removes the veil. A thrill ofapplause bursts through the house. It is Mrs. Winkworth(she was a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful eyes andhair. She is in a gorgeous oriental costume; the blackbraided locks are twined with innumerable jewels; herdress is covered over with gold piastres. The odiousMahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty. Shefalls down on her knees and entreats him to restore herto the mountains where she was born, and where herCircassian lover is still deploring the absence of his Zuleikah.No entreaties will move the obdurate Hassan. Helaughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom.Zuleikah covers her face with her hands and drops down inan attitude of the most beautiful despair. There seems tobe no hope for her, when--when the Kislar Aga appears.

　　The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan. Hassanreceives and places on his head the dread firman. Aghastly terror seizes him, while on the Negro's face (it isMesrour again in another costume) appears a ghastlyjoy. "Mercy! mercy!" cries the Pasha: while the KislarAga, grinning horribly, pulls out--a bow-string.

　　The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awfulweapon. Hassan from within bawls out, "First twosyllables"--and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who is going to act inthe charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs.Winkworth on the admirable taste and beauty of hercostume.

　　The second part of the charade takes place. It is stillan Eastern scene. Hassan, in another dress, is in anattitude by Zuleikah, who is perfectly reconciled to him.The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black slave. It issunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their headseastwards and bow to the sand. As there are no dromedariesat hand, the band facetiously plays "The Camelsare coming." An enormous Egyptian head figures in thescene. It is a musical one--and, to the surprise of theoriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed by Mr.Wagg. The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, likePapageno and the Moorish King in The Magic Flute. "Lasttwo syllables," roars the head.

　　The last act opens. It is a Grecian tent this time. Atall and stalwart man reposes on a couch there. Abovehim hang his helmet and shield. There is no need forthem now. Ilium is down. Iphigenia is slain. Cassandra isa prisoner in his outer halls. The king of men (it isColonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion about the sackof Ilium or the conquest of Cassandra), the anax andronis asleep in his chamber at Argos. A lamp casts thebroad shadow of the sleeping warrior flickering on thewall--the sword and shield of Troy glitter in its light.The band plays the awful music of Don Juan, before thestatue enters.

　　Aegisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe. What is thatghastly face looking out balefully after him from behindthe arras? He raises his dagger to strike the sleeper, whoturns in his bed, and opens his broad chest as if for theblow. He cannot strike the noble slumbering chieftain.Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like anapparition--her arms are bare and white--her tawny hairfloats down her shoulders--her face is deadly pale--andher eyes are lighted up with a smile so ghastly thatpeople quake as they look at her.

　　A tremor ran through the room. "Good God!" somebodysaid, "it's Mrs. Rawdon Crawley."

　　Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus'shand and advances to the bed. You see it shining overher head in the glimmer of the lamp, and--and the lampgoes out, with a groan, and all is dark.

　　The darkness and the scene frightened people. Rebeccaperformed her part so well, and with such ghastlytruth, that the spectators were all dumb, until, with aburst, all the lamps of the hall blazed out again, wheneverybody began to shout applause. "Brava! brava!" oldSteyne's strident voice was heard roaring over all therest. "By--, she'd do it too," he said between his teeth.The performers were called by the whole house, whichsounded with cries of "Manager! Clytemnestra!"Agamemnon could not be got to show in his classicaltunic, but stood in the background with Aegisthus andothers of the performers of the little play. Mr. BedwinSands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra. A greatpersonage insisted on being presented to the charmingClytemnestra. "Heigh ha? Run him through the body.Marry somebody else, hay?" was the apposite remarkmade 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 cooldainties, and the performers disappeared to get readyfor the second charade-tableau.

　　The three syllables of this charade were to be depictedin pantomime, and the performance took place in thefollowing wise:

　　First syllable. Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with aslouched hat and a staff, a great-coat, and a lanternborrowed from the stables, passed across the stage bawlingout, as if warning the inhabitants of the hour. In thelower window are seen two bagmen playing apparentlyat the game of cribbage, over which they yawn much.To them enters one looking like Boots (the HonourableG. Ringwood), which character the young gentlemanperformed to perfection, and divests them of their lowercoverings; and presently Chambermaid (the RightHonourable Lord Southdown) with two candlesticks, and awarming-pan. She ascends to the upper apartment andwarms the bed. She uses the warming-pan as a weaponwherewith she wards off the attention of the bagmen.She exits. They put on their night-caps and pull downthe blinds. Boots comes out and closes the shutters ofthe ground-floor chamber. You hear him bolting andchaining the door within. All the lights go out. The musicplays Dormez, dormez, chers Amours. A voice frombehind the curtain says, "First syllable."

　　Second syllable. The lamps are lighted up all of asudden. 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 houserepresented, you behold a sign on which the Steyne armsare painted. All the bells are ringing all over the house.In the lower apartment you see a man with a long slip ofpaper presenting it to another, who shakes his fists,threatens and vows that it is monstrous. "Ostler, bringround my gig," cries another at the door. He chucksChambermaid (the Right Honourable Lord Southdown)under the chin; she seems to deplore his absence, asCalypso did that of that other eminent traveller Ulysses.Boots (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes with awooden box, containing silver flagons, and cries "Pots"with such exquisite humour and naturalness that thewhole house rings with applause, and a bouquet is thrownto him. Crack, crack, crack, go the whips. Landlord,chambermaid, waiter rush to the door, but just as somedistinguished guest is arriving, the curtains close, and theinvisible theatrical manager cries out "Second syllable."

　　"I think it must be 'Hotel,' " says Captain Grigg of theLife Guards; there is a general laugh at the Captain'scleverness. He is not very far from the mark.

　　While the third syllable is in preparation, the bandbegins a nautical medley--"All in the Downs," "Cease RudeBoreas," "Rule Britannia," "In the Bay of Biscay O!"--some maritime event is about to take place. A ben isheard ringing as the curtain draws aside. "Now, gents,for the shore!" a voice exclaims. People take leave ofeach other. They point anxiously as if towards the clouds,which are represented by a dark curtain, and they nodtheir heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the Right HonourableLord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, andhusband sit down, and cling hold of some ropes. It isevidently a ship.

　　The Captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cockedhat and a telescope, comes in, holding his hat on hishead, and looks out; his coat tails fly about as if in thewind. When he leaves go of his hat to use his telescope,his hat flies off, with immense applause. It is blowingfresh. The music rises and whistles louder and louder;the mariners go across the stage staggering, as if the shipwas in severe motion. The Steward (the Honourable G.Ringwood) passes reeling by, holding six basins. He putsone rapidly by Lord Squeams--Lady Squeams, giving apinch to her dog, which begins to howl piteously, putsher pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away asfor the cabin. The music rises up to the wildest pitch ofstormy excitement, and the third syllable is concluded.

　　There was a little ballet, "Le Rossignol," in whichMontessu and Noblet used to be famous in those days,and which Mr. Wagg transferred to the English stage asan opera, putting his verse, of which he was a skilfulwriter, to the pretty airs of the ballet. It was dressed inold French costume, and little Lord Southdown nowappeared admirably attired in the disguise of an old womanhobbling about the stage with a faultless crooked stick.

　　Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, andgurgling from a sweet pasteboard cottage covered withroses and trellis work. "Philomele, Philomele," criesthe old woman, and Philomele comes out.

　　More applause--it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powderand patches, the most ravissante little Marquise in theworld.

　　She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about thestage with all the innocence of theatrical youth--shemakes a curtsey. Mamma says "Why, child, you arealways 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, thegood-natured personage addressed as Mamma by thesinger, and whose large whiskers appeared under her cap,seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternal affectionby embracing the innocent creature who performed thedaughter's part. Every caress was received with loudacclamations of laughter by the sympathizing audience.At its conclusion (while the music was performing asymphony as if ever so many birds were warbling) thewhole house was unanimous for an encore: and applauseand bouquets without end were showered upon theNightingale of the evening. Lord Steyne's voice ofapplause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale, tookthe flowers which he threw to her and pressed them toher heart with the air of a consummate comedian. LordSteyne was frantic with delight. His guests' enthusiasmharmonized with his own. Where was the beautifulblack-eyed Houri whose appearance in the first charade hadcaused such delight? She was twice as handsome asBecky, but the brilliancy of the latter had quite eclipsedher. All voices were for her. Stephens, Caradori, Ronzide Begnis, people compared her to one or the other, andagreed with good reason, very likely, that had she beenan actress none on the stage could have surpassed her.She had reached her culmination: her voice rose trillingand bright over the storm of applause, and soared ashigh and joyful as her triumph. There was a ball afterthe dramatic entertainments, and everybody pressedround Becky as the great point of attraction of theevening. The Royal Personage declared with an oath thatshe was perfection, and engaged her again and again inconversation. Little Becky's soul swelled with pride anddelight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame, fashionbefore her. Lord Steyne was her slave, followed hereverywhere, and scarcely spoke to any one in the roombeside, and paid her the most marked compliments andattention. She still appeared in her Marquise costumeand danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny,Monsieur Le Duc de la Jabotiere's attache; and theDuke, who had all the traditions of the ancient court,pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to havebeen a pupil of Vestris, or to have figured at Versailles.Only a feeling of dignity, the gout, and the strongestsense of duty and personal sacrifice prevented hisExcellency from dancing with her himself, and he declaredin public that a lady who could talk and dance like Mrs.Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at any court inEurope. He was only consoled when he heard that shewas half a Frenchwoman by birth. "None but acompatriot," his Excellency declared, "could have performedthat majestic dance in such a way."

　　Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur deKlingenspohr, the Prince of Peterwaradin's cousin andattache. The delighted Prince, having less retenue thanhis French diplomatic colleague, insisted upon taking aturn with the charming creature, and twirled round theball-room with her, scattering the diamonds out of hisboot-tassels and hussar jacket until his Highness was fairlyout of breath. Papoosh Pasha himself would have likedto dance with her if that amusement had been the customof his country. The company made a circle round herand applauded as wildly as if she had been a Noblet ora Taglioni. Everybody was in ecstacy; and Becky too,you may be sure. She passed by Lady Stunnington witha look of scorn. She patronized Lady Gaunt and herastonished and mortified sister-in-law--she ecrased allrival charmers. As for poor Mrs. Winkworth, and herlong hair and great eyes, which had made such an effectat the commencement of the evening--where was shenow? Nowhere in the race. She might tear her long hairand cry her great eyes out, but there was not a personto heed or to deplore the discomfiture.

　　The greatest triumph of all was at supper time. Shewas placed at the grand exclusive table with his RoyalHighness the exalted personage before mentioned, andthe rest of the great guests. She was served on goldplate. She might have had pearls melted into herchampagne if she liked--another Cleopatra--and the potentateof Peterwaradin would have given half the brilliants offhis jacket for a kind glance from those dazzling eyes.Jabotiere wrote home about her to his government. Theladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver andmarked Lord Steyne's constant attention to her, vowedit was a monstrous infatuation, a gross insult to ladies ofrank. If sarcasm could have killed, Lady Stunningtonwould have slain her on the spot.

　　Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs. Theyseemed to separate his wife farther than ever from himsomehow. He thought with a feeling very like pain howimmeasurably she was his superior.

　　When the hour of departure came, a crowd of youngmen followed her to her carriage, for which the peoplewithout bawled, the cry being caught up by the link-menwho were stationed outside the tall gates of GauntHouse, congratulating each person who issued from thegate and hoping his Lordship had enjoyed this nobleparty.

　　Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to thegate after due shouting, rattled into the illuminatedcourt-yard and drove up to the covered way. Rawdonput his wife into the carriage, which drove off. Mr.Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and offeredthe Colonel the refreshment of a cigar.

　　They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of themany link-boys outside, and Rawdon walked on with hisfriend Wenham. Two persons separated from the crowdand followed the two gentlemen; and when they hadwalked down Gaunt Square a few score of paces, oneof the men came up and, touching Rawdon on the shoulder,said, "Beg your pardon, Colonel, I vish to speak toyou most particular." This gentleman's acquaintancegave a loud whistle as the latter spoke, at which signal acab came clattering up from those stationed at the gateof Gaunt House--and the aide-de-camp ran round andplaced himself in front of Colonel Crawley.

　　That gallant officer at once knew what had befallenhim. He was in the hands of the bailiffs. He started back,falling against the man who had first touched him.

　　"We're three on us--it's no use bolting," the manbehind said.

　　"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appearedto know his interlocutor. "How much is it?"

　　"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of CursitorStreet, Chancery Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriffof Middlesex--"One hundred and sixty-six, six and eight-pence, at the suit of Mr. Nathan."

　　"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poorRawdon said--"I've got seventy at home."

　　"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said poor Mr.Wenham--"Good night, my dear fellow."

　　"Good night," said Rawdon ruefully. And Wenhamwalked away--and Rawdon Crawley finished his cigaras the cab drove under Temple Bar.