CHAPTER XXVI

"POLLY IS TO BE MY NAME FOR EVER AFTER"

The new year brought the first rehearsal of "The Beggar's Opera."

Hippisley with his rich, unctuous humour was Peachum, and not less well

suited to Lockit was Jack Hall's quaint face and naive manner. James

Spiller, the favourite of the gods, was Mat o' the Mint, and the solemn

visaged Quin essayed Macheath. Lavinia as Polly was both excited and

nervous, and Lucy (Mrs. Egleton) not less so. The rest of the cast

comprised actors and actresses of experience, and they went through

their parts philosophically and without enthusiasm. The motive and the

plot and the many songs made up a play which was to them quite novel,

and they were somewhat bewildered to know what to do with it. Gay

hovered about unable to decide whether his opera was going to be a

thumping success or a dismal failure. The general impression was in the

direction of the latter, but no one save Quin gave vent to his or her

sentiments.

"Well, what d'ye think, Mr. Quin?" asked Gay anxiously when the

rehearsal was over.

Quin refreshed himself with a pinch of snuff before he answered.

"Humph--can't say--can't say. It'll be a riddle to the audience. Bad

thing to puzzle 'em, eh?"

"Surely it's plain enough. But if it's amusing, what else matters?"

"I won't put my opinion against yours, Mr. Gay and Mr. Pope's, but----"

Quin shrugged his shoulders and stalked away, and Lavinia, who was

watching the two from a distance, ran across the stage, her face a

little troubled. She had interpreted Quin's gesture correctly.

"Oh, Mr. Gay----" she stopped. Gay was looking so sad.

"Mr. Quin doesn't like the opera, Polly. What do you say?"

"Mr. Quin doesn't like it because he can't act the part," cried Lavinia

indignantly. "None of us like him in it any more than he does himself.

He's not my idea of a highwayman."

"Why, what do you know about highwaymen? But I forgot, of course. Wasn't

the coach that brought you to London from Mr. Pope's villa stopped by

one?"

"Yes," rejoined Lavinia hastily, "but he was a brutal ruffian. Not your

Captain Macheath at all. Mr. Quin chills me. I can't fancy myself in

love with him. Nor can Mrs. Egleton. She says she could no more quarrel

over him than she could over a stick. His singing and his voice give us

the 'creeps.'"

"Faith, both are bad enough, but Mr. Rich seems bound to him."

"Why doesn't he try Tom Walker? When Tom isn't drunk, he sings like an

angel."

"I know--I know. Well, we'll see."

But nothing was done, and at the second rehearsal Quin's Captain

Macheath was more droningly dismal than ever. A dead silence followed

the dance with which the last act concludes, and amid the stillness came

from somewhere behind the scenes the sound of a mellow tenor voice

trolling Macheath's lively melody, "When the heart of a man's depressed

with care."

"By the lord," quoth Quin, "that's the voice of Tom Walker. He's the man

for Macheath. Mr. Rich, I resign the part. It was never meant for me.

Give it to Walker."

John Rich grunted, but he made no objection. It so happened that Walker

could act as well as sing, and that made all the difference in Rich's

estimation. So one great obstacle to success was removed. But there were

others. The duets and the choruses sounded terribly thin without an

instrument to support them. The "tricky" duet between Polly and Lucy,

"I'm bubbled," broke down constantly, and both declared they would never

sing it properly. But Rich was not to be talked out of his whim to have

no accompaniments.

One morning in the midst of the rehearsal, who should walk on the stage

but the stately Duchess of Queensberry. Lavinia, in quite a flutter,

whispered to Walker the name of the distinguished visitor. John Rich

received her with great deference and conducted her to a seat.

"Go on, please, Mr. Rich, don't let me interrupt your business," said

the great lady affably.

The rehearsal went on and eyes of the company furtively wandered to the

face of the duchess, anxious to know what so powerful a personage and so

keen and outspoken a critic thought of the performance. But the serene

face of her grace never changed.

The rehearsing of one act was over, and there was an interval before

commencing the next one. The duchess turned to Gay.

"How is this, Mr. Gay? Where are the instruments? Don't you have them at

rehearsals?"

"Mr. Rich means to do without a band for the singing. He says it isn't

necessary."

"Rich is a fool," retorted her grace with much emphasis. "He knows

nothing about it. Send him to me."

Gay went about his errand half pleased, for he quite agreed with the

duchess, and half in trepidation. A quarrel between Rich and the lady

autocrat might cause the opera to end in disaster.

Rich dared not offend Queensberry's duchess whose opinion went for so

much among the aristocracy. The stage was practically dependent on its

noble patrons. Without them a "benefit," which every notable member of a

theatrical company looked forward to as making good the insufficiency of

their salaries, would be nothing without the support of the nobility,

who, when in the mood, would readily unloose their purse strings. Rich

therefore made but feeble resistance and the impetuous Kitty had her

way.

The band, small as it was, just half-a-dozen instruments, could not be

called together at a moment's notice. Rich accordingly invited his

visitor to come the following day, when all would be in readiness. He

was as good as his word, and the duchess was graciously pleased to

express her satisfaction. Polly and Lucy went back to their lodgings in

high spirits.

January 29th was fixed for the production of the opera, and the days

sped rapidly. Everybody concerned was on tenterhooks. Who could say how

the audience would take a play the like of which they had never seen?

There was also danger in the political allusions contained in many of

the verses. Sir Robert Walpole, England's most powerful minister of

state, had taken a box and would be present with a party of his friends.

What would _he_ think? A riot was not beyond the bounds of possibility.

The play might be suppressed. A prosecution for seditious proceedings

might follow. Anything might happen.

Meanwhile the house was packed. Every seat on each side of the stage

reserved for the "quality" was occupied. There was just room for the

actors and no more. The gallery was crammed with a mob--a host of

footmen prone to unruly behaviour, butchers from Clare Market ready to

applaud their favourite Jemmy Spiller, Covent Garden salesmen and

porters--a miscellaneous rabble that might easily become turbulent.

In the pit were well to do tradesmen and their wives cheek by jowl with

well seasoned playgoers who had seen every stage celebrity and every

famous tragedy and comedy for the past quarter of a century, who were

well versed in all the traditional "business" of the boards, who in fact

were the real critics to be pleased--or offended. Into the second row

Lancelot Vane had squeezed himself all expectation, with eyes and ears

for no one but Polly Peachum.

Gay's friends filled a box next to that occupied by the Duke of Argyll,

an enthusiastic patron of the stage. Gay himself was there supported on

either side by Pope, Dr. Arbuthnot, Bolingbroke and others. Dean Swift,

who had had so much to do with the inception of the opera and who had

contributed to it some of the most stinging verse, would have been

present had he not been in Ireland at the death-bed of his beloved

Stella, and so also would have been Congreve but that he was blind and

in feeble health.

It was seen at the very commencement that the audience was not disposed

to accept the innovations of the "Beggar's Opera" without protest. To

begin with there was no time-honoured prologue, and worse, there was no

preliminary overture. They could not understand the dialogue between a

player and the beggar, introduced as the author, with which the opera

opens. They grumbled loudly. They thought they were to be defrauded of

their usual music and they wouldn't allow the dialogue to proceed. Jack

Hall who as a comedian was acceptable all round was sent on by the

troubled manager to explain.

Hall advanced to the edge of the stage. There were no footlights in

those days. Favourite though Jack Hall was not a hand nor a voice was

raised to greet him. Jack Hall lost his nerve--which, however, as it

turned out was the most fortunate thing which could have happened--and

this is what he stammered out:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we--we--beg you'll not call for first and second

music because you all know there is never any music at all at an opera!"

A roar of laughter followed this unique apology accentuated by the

unconsciously comical twist of Hall's face with which the audience were

so familiar; good humour was restored, the dialogue was permitted to be

finished and the grumblers were further appeased by the playing of Dr.

Pepusch's overture.

More pitfalls had to be got over safely. Every eye was turned on Sir

Robert's heavy rubicund, impassive face when Peachum sang the verse:

"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!"

The statesman in the box, whatever he might have felt, was far too

astute to show any sign of ill temper. His eternal smile was as smug as

ever and so also was it over the duet in the second act:

"When you censure the age

Be cautious and sage

Lest the courtiers offended should be;

If you mention vice or bribe,

'Tis so pat to all the tribe,

Each cries 'That was levelled at me.'"

The audience were somewhat timid in applauding this, though all felt how

apt it was, until they saw Walpole actually clapping his hands, and then

they followed suit right heartily.

Still success was not assured. True Polly captivated her hearers with

her sweet natural delivery of "Can love be controlled by advice?" and

afterwards with the tender pathos of "Oh ponder well," and there were

roars of laughter and half suppressed chuckles from the men and titters

from the women at the witty talk and the cynical hits at love and

matrimonial felicity, but it was not until Spiller led the rousing

choruses, "Fill every glass," and "Let us take the road," the latter

adapted to the march from Handel's opera of "Rinaldo," then all the

rage, that they were won over. The experienced Duke of Argyll cried out

aloud enough for Pope in the next box to hear him, "It'll do--it must

do--I see it in the eyes of 'em." And the duke was right.

When all was said and done pretty Polly Peachum was the pivot around

which success revolved. Within twenty-four hours all the town was

talking of her bewitching face, her artless manner, her sweet voice. The

sordid surroundings of Newgate, its thieves, male and female, its thieve

takers, gave zest to her naturalness and simplicity. Moreover she was

not in a fashionable dress, she wore no hoops (and neither did Lucy) and

this in itself was a novelty and a contrast.

It was some time after the performance that Lavinia--whom everyone now

called Polly--left the theatre. The noblemen who had seats on the stage

crowded round her overwhelming her with compliments and looks of

admiration. One of their number, a man of portly presence at least twice

her age, whose face suggested good nature but little else, was assiduous

in his attentions. Lavinia accepted his flattery as a matter of course,

and thought nothing more about him. She was told he was the Duke of

Bolton, but duke or earl made no difference to her. Some of her titled

admirers offered to escort her home but she shook her head laughingly

and refused everyone. She knew very well that Lancelot Vane would be

waiting for her as usual at the stage door, and she did not intend

either to disappoint him or make him jealous.

She joined him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining with excitement.

Vane looked eagerly and anxiously into her face and gave a little sigh.

"Well," said she, "are you disappointed with me?"

"Disappointed! Good heavens, no. Why Lavinia--"

"Lavinia," she cried tossing her head coquettishly. "Polly if you

please. Polly is to be my name for ever after. Everybody knows me now as

Polly, though dear Mr. Gay called me so long and long ago. Isn't it

wonderful how his words have come true?"

"Mr. Gay is a clever man--a great man. I wish--"

"Yes, and what do you wish? Something nice I hope."

"I don't know about that. My wish was that I had been born a real poet

and dramatist and had written 'The Beggar's Opera' for you. But my wits

are dull--like myself."

"Please don't be foolish. I want you to tell me how I sang--how I acted.

You didn't mind Tom Walker making love to me?"

"No, I wished my arm had been round you instead of his, that was all."

"Wishing again! Can't you do something beyond wishing?"

She flashed a swift look at him and then the dark silky lashes drooped.

He must have been dull indeed not to have understood. His arm was about

her. He drew her closer to him passionately. It was the first time,

though he had over and over again longed to do so.

"I love you--don't you know I do?" he whispered.

"I've sometimes thought as much but you've been very slow in telling

me," she murmured lightly.

"Ah, I was afraid what your answer might be. Ridicule and a reproof for

my impertinence. Even now I don't realise my happiness."

"Then you _must_," she cried imperiously. "How do you know I shan't be

whirled away from you unless you hold me very tight? Oh, Lance, I've a

misgiving--"

She stopped. She shivered slightly and he drew her cloak tightly about

her and kissed the cherry lips within the hood.

"You're cold, dearest. Let us hurry. I ought not to have lingered," said

he.

"No, no. I'm not a bit cold. I only had a sort of feeling that--kiss me

again."

He was quick to obey and her kisses were as fervent as his.

"See me to my door and go quickly," she murmured.

"To-morrow, dear love, we shall meet each other again," was his reply.

"Why yes--yes."

"Many times more."

She nodded. Something seemed to choke her utterance. One more kiss and

she vanished into the house.

Vane remained for a minute or two gazing at the dwelling that enshrined

his divinity and lost in rapture. Then he slowly wandered to his

lodgings marvelling at the glimpse of heaven which to his imagination

had been revealed to him.