CHAPTER XIII

"I'M FIXED ON POLLY PEACHUM"

Lavinia saw she had nearly conquered and cried:--"Let me untie the knot.

I was sure you would not say no."

Gay was like wax in her hands. He permitted her to snatch the parcel and

attack the knot. Between her deft fingers and pearly teeth she had the

string off and the parcel open in a trice. She held the manuscript under

Gay's nose. He could not help seeing the title, writ large as it was.

"Love's Blindness: A Tragedy in Five Acts. By Lancelot Vane," he read

with a rueful look. "Mercy on me, Polly, you never told me it was a

tragedy. Oh, this is very--very sad."

"But Mr. Gay, aren't all tragedies sad?"

"Oh, I confess some are comic enough in all conscience. But that was not

in my mind. It was that any sane man should waste time in writing a

tragedy. The worst thing about a tragedy is that the playwright's

friends are pestered to read it and audiences tired by sitting it out.

Aren't there tragedies enough in real life without men inventing 'em?"

"Indeed, I can't say, sir."

"I suppose not. You're not old enough. Tragedy doesn't come to the young

and when it does they don't understand and perhaps 'tis as well. But

I'll have to humour you or I shall never hear the last of it. Put the

parcel up again and I'll look at the contents at my leisure. Now to a

much more entertaining matter--yourself. Have you practised your

singing? Have you attended to the instructions of your music master? I

doubt it. I'll vow you've often driven the poor man half frantic with

your airs and graces and teasing and that he hasn't had the heart to

chide you."

"Oh, indeed he has," cried Lavinia, pouting, "though really I haven't

given him cause and yet he was tiresome enough."

"I dare say. But you must let me hear. I want to be sure the good

duchess hasn't thrown her money away. My friends, too, are curious to

have a taste of your quality. I've told them much about thee. You

mustn't put discredit upon me."

"No sir, I wouldn't be so ungrateful. What would you have me do?"

"I want to hear one of your old ballads such as showered pennies and

shillings in your pocket when I've heard you sing in Clare Market and

St. Giles High Street. But first let us go back to Mr. Pope and the

others."

Lavinia looked a little frightened at the idea of singing before musical

judges who doubtless were accustomed to listen to the great singers at

the King's Theatre--Signor Senesino, Signor Farinalli, Signora Cuzzoni,

Signora Faustina, and may be the accomplished English singer Anastasia

Robinson, albeit she rarely sang in the theatre but mainly in the houses

of her father's noble friends among whom was the Earl of Peterborough,

her future husband.

Perhaps Gay saw her trepidation, for, said he laughingly:

"You needn't fear Mr. Pope. He hasn't the least idea what a tune is and

won't know whether you sing well or ill. Dr. Arbuthnot sitting next him

is the kindliest soul in the world, and will make excuses for you if you

squawl as vilely as a cat on the tiles. As for Dr. Pepusch--ah, that's a

different matter. Pepusch is an ugly man and you must do your best to

lessen his ugliness. He's all in all to Mr. Rich when Rich condescends

to let the fiddles and the flutes give the audience a little music. If

you capture Pepusch you may help me."

"Oh, I'd do that gladly Mr. Gay. Tell me how," cried Lavinia eagerly.

"Softly--softly, 'tis all in the clouds at present. Pepusch must hear

you sing. Then--but I dare not say more."

Lavinia surveyed the hard face and the double chin of the musical

director disapprovingly.

"I don't take to him," said she. "Is he an Englishman?"

"No--he comes from Germany. Like King George and Queen Caroline."

Lavinia frowned.

"Some of the people in St. Giles I've heard call the Royal Family

Hanoverian rats," she exclaimed indignantly, "and those German women who

pocketted everything they could lay their hands upon--the 'Maypole' and

the 'Elephant,' the one because she's so lean and the other because

she's so fat--they're rats too. Fancy the King making them into an

English duchess and countess. 'Tis monstrous. Why----"

"Hush--hush," interrupted Gay with mock solemnity and placing his finger

on her lips. "You're talking treason within earshot of the 'Maypole,'

otherwise her Grace the Duchess of Kendal. Don't you know that she is a

neighbour of Mr. Pope? Kendal House on the road to Isleworth is but an

easy walk from here."

"Then I'm sorry for Mr. Pope. I hate the Germans."

"Oh, then you're a Jacobite and a rebel. If you would retain your pretty

head on your shoulders keep your treason to yourself," laughed Gay. "But

I confess I like the Germans no more than you do. Yet there are

exceptions. Pepusch has made his home here--his country turned him

out--and there's clever Mr. Handel. The English know more about his

music than do his countrymen. I would love to see you, Polly, applauded

in the Duke's Theatre as heartily as was Mr. Handel's opera 'Rinaldo' at

the King's."

Something significant in Gay's voice and face sent the blood rushing to

Lavinia's cheeks.

"I applauded!--I at the Duke's! Oh, that will never be."

"May be not--may be not. But one never knows. A pretty face--a pretty

voice--an air--faith, such gifts may work wonders. But let us keep Mr.

Pope waiting no longer."

They approached the table beneath the cedar tree.

"Sir," said Gay with a bow to Pope, "I've prevailed upon my young madam

here to give us a taste of her quality. I trust your twittering birds

won't be provoked to rivalry. Happily their season of song is past."

"I warn you Mr. Gay, the age of miracles is _not_ past. What if the work

you're toiling at sends the present taste of the town into a

summersault? Would not that be a miracle?"

"You think then that my 'Beggar's Opera' won't do," broke in Gay, his

face losing a little of its colour.

"You know my views. It is something unlike anything ever written

before--a leap in the dark. But for Miss's ditty. We're all attention."

"What shall I sing, sir?" Lavinia whispered to Gay.

"Anything you like, my child, so long as you acquit yourself to Dr.

Pepusch's satisfaction."

"But I would love to have your choice too. What of 'My Lodging is on the

Cold Ground?' My music master told me this was the song that made King

Charles fall in love with Mistress Moll Davies. So I learned it."

"Odso. Of course you did. Then let old Pepusch look out. Nothing could

be better. Aye, it is indeed a sweet tune."

Lavinia retired a few paces on to the lawn, dropped naturally into a

simple pose and for a minute or two imagined herself back in the streets

where she sang without effort and without any desire to create effect.

She sang the pathetic old air--much better fitted to the words than the

so-called Irish melody of a later date--with delightful artlessness.

"What think you, doctor?" whispered Gay to Pepusch. "Can you see her as

Polly--not Peggy mind ye--I'm fixed on Polly Peachum."

"De girl ver goot voice has. But dat one song--it tell me noting. Can

she Haendel sing?"

"That I know not, but I'll warrant she'll not be a dunce with Purcell.

And you must admit, doctor, that your George Frederick Handel is much

beholden to our Henry Purcell."

"Vat?" cried Pepusch a little angrily. "Nein--nein. Haendel the greatest

composer of music in de vorld is."

"I grant you his genius but he comes after Purcell. Have you heard

Purcell's setting of 'Arise, ye subterranean winds?' If not, I'll get

Leveridge to sing it. Has not your Handel helped himself to that? Not

note for note, but in style, in dignity, in expression? Ah, I have you

there. But we mustn't quarrel. You must hear the girl again. Look 'ee

here. Have we not agreed that 'Virgins are like the Fair Flower' in the

first act shall be set to Purcell's 'What shall I do to show how much I

love her?' I would have you play the air and Polly shall sing it."

"Sing dat air? But it most difficult is. It haf de trills--de

appogiaturas. Has she dem been taught?"

"You will soon see. For myself I hold not with the Italian style and its

eternal ornament and repetitions."

"Aha--ha Mistare Gay, I haf _you_ now," chuckled Pepusch. "Your Purcell

Engleesh is. He copy de Italian den."

"Oh, may be--may be in his own style," rejoined Gay hastily. "But here

is my verse. Oblige me with the music."

During the discussion Gay had been turning over a pile of manuscript on

the table. This manuscript was a rough draft of the "Beggar's Opera."

Pepusch had before him the music of a number of tunes, most of them

well known, selected by Gay and himself as suitable for the songs in the

opera. Poet and musician had had repeated differences as to the choice

of melodies but things had now fairly settled down.

Lavinia meanwhile was watching the proceedings with no little interest

and with not less nervousness. She had heard the talk and saw quite well

that she was about to be put to a severe test. She was to sing something

she had never sung before and possibly written in a style with which she

was unfamiliar. Gay approached her with a sheet of manuscript which he

put into her hand.

"You did very well, child," said he encouragingly. "But I want you to do

better. Dr. Pepusch will play the music for these verses on the

harpsichord. You must listen closely to the melody and take particular

note of the way he plays it. Then you will sing it. Here are the words

and the music. Study them while the doctor plays."

Lavinia looked at both in something like dismay. The music being

engraved was plainer than Gay's cramped handwriting. She knew she had

imitative gifts and that most tunes she heard for the first time she

could reproduce exactly. But that was for her own pleasure. She at such

times abandoned herself to the power of music. But for the pleasure of

others and to know that she was being criticised was a different matter.

Already she felt distracted. Could she fix her attention on the music

and think of nothing else?

There was no time for reflection. Dr. Pepusch had gone into the house

and the thin but sweet tones of a harpsichord were floating through the

open window. He was striking a few preliminary chords and indulging in

an extemporised prelude. A pause, and then he commenced Purcell's song.

The plaintive melody with its well balanced phrasing took Lavinia's

fancy, and absorbed in the music she forgot her audience. She saw how

the words were wedded to the notes and watched where the trills and

graces came in. Pepusch played the air right through; waited a minute or

so and recommenced.

Lavinia began. She sang like one inspired. Her pure and limpid tones

gave fresh charm to the melody. She never had had any difficulty with

the trill, so flexible was her voice naturally, and the graces which

Purcell had introduced after the fashion of the day were given with

perfect ease. As the final cadence died away the little audience loudly

applauded. Pepusch came out of the house and wagged his head as he

crossed the lawn. His somewhat sour look had vanished. He went up to

Lavinia and patted her shoulder.

"Dat vas goot, young laty--ver goot," he growled.

"What did I tell you doctor?" cried Gay exultantly. "Why, she can sing

everything set down for Polly--I pray you don't forget it is to be

Polly--Peachum. She _is_ Polly Peachum. What do you think, Mr. Pope?"

"Polly Peachum by all means since you will have it so. If an author has

a right to anything it is surely the right to name his offspring as he

will. He need not even consult his wife--if he have one. But though you

call your work an opera Mr. Gay, it is also a play. The songs are not

everything--indeed, Mr. Rich would say they're nothing. Can the girl

act?"

"She can be taught and I'll swear she'll prove an apt pupil. 'Twill, I

fear, be many months before it is staged. Rich has not made up his mind.

I hear Mr. Huddy who was dispossessed of the Duke's Theatre contemplates

the New Theatre in the Haymarket. I must talk to him. He hasn't yet

found his new company. An indifferent lot of strolling players I'm told

was his old one. Polly probably won't have a singing part but that's of

no great matter just now."

"You're bound to build castles in the air Mr. Gay," said Dr. Arbuthnot,

taking his churchwarden from his lips. "Suppose you come down to _terra

firma_ for a brief space. The girl is a singer--that cannot be gainsaid.

She may become an actress--good. But now--who is she? Her father--her

mother----"

"They can hardly be said to exist," broke in Gay. "I will tell you the

story later on. 'Twould but embarrass her to relate it now. The duchess

has been good enough to charge herself with the cost of her keeping--her

schooling and the rest."

"Oh, that alters the case. If she is a protégée of her grace I need not

say more. Her future is provided for."

"Why, yes," but Gay spoke in anything but a confident tone. Inwardly he

was troubled at what view Mat Prior's "Kitty" might take of Polly's

escapade. The Duchess might be as wayward as she pleased, but it did not

follow that she would excuse waywardness in another woman.

Gay turned to Pepusch and the two conversed for some little time, the

upshot of the talk being that Pepusch promised, when the proper time

came, to say to John Rich all he could in favour of Lavinia, always

supposing she had acquired sufficient stage experience.

This settled, the poet drew near Lavinia who all this time was waiting

and wondering what this new adventure of hers would end in.

"Now Polly, my dear," said Gay, "if you behave yourself and don't have

any more love affairs----"

"But did I not tell you, sir, I'd had none," interrupted Lavinia.

"Yes--yes, I remember quite well. We won't go into the subject again or

we shall never finish. The varieties and nice distinctions of love are

endless. A much more pressing question is nearer to hand--where are you

going to live?"

"Hannah, my mother's servant--a dear good kind creature--it was through

her I was able to come here--will find me a lodging. I can trust her

but--but----"

She stopped and much embarrassed, twisted her fingers nervously.

"I understand. You've but little money."

"I have none, sir, unfortunately."

"Well--well--never mind. Here's a guinea."

"Oh, you're too generous, sir. But I shall pay you back."

"Don't worry about that. Now go into the house. I will ask Mr. Pope to

tell his housekeeper to give you a dish of tea or a cup of cocoa.

Good-bye. You must let me know where you are living. I may have good

news for you within a few days."

Lavinia between smiles and tears hurried off after curtseying to the

gentlemen under the cedar tree and on her way across the lawn was met by

the man-servant who took her to the housekeeper's room. The woman had

heard the singing and was full of admiration. She wanted to hear more,

she said, so while the tea was being got ready Lavinia sent her into

thrills of delight by warbling the universal favourite "Cold and Raw."

After a time came the question of returning to London and how. Lavinia

could have crossed the ferry and so to Richmond and Mortlake, but that

would not help her on the journey unless Giles was going to market,

which was hardly likely. Besides she did not wish to burden him. And

then--there was Lancelot Vane.

Lancelot, she thought, must be anxious to know the result of her

mission. That result was not so encouraging as she had hoped. True, Mr.

Gay had the precious tragedy in his pocket and had promised to read it,

but his opinion of dramatists generally and his hints concerning

Lancelot Vane's weakness had considerably damped her ardour. In spite of

this, she determined to get to London as quickly as possible and to

hasten to Grub Street that same night.

"You can catch the Bath coach at Hounslow," said the housekeeper. "It's

but just gone five and the coach be timed to stop at the 'George' at

six, but it's late more often than not."

"And how far is it to Hounslow?"

"May be a couple o' miles or so, but it's a bit of a cross road--say two

mile an' a half. Stephen'll put you in the right way."

"Oh thank you--thank you kindly," cried Lavinia. "But it will be giving

Stephen a deal of trouble. I dare say I can find my way by myself."

"Oh, you may do that. I should think you were sharp enough, but there

are no end of beggars and rapscallions of all sorts on the Bath road and

some of 'em are bound to wander into the by-ways on the look out for

what they can steal. No, Stephen must see you through the lonely parts."