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.