Some trifling changes–concessions to public opinion–were made in the play, notably in the scene where the duke, with ready hospitality, offers wine to the rustic Lopez. In Barnes’ expurgated, “Washingtonian” version (be not shocked, O spirit of good Master Tobin!) the countryman responded reprovingly: “Fie, my noble Duke! Have you no water from the well?” An answer diametrically opposed to the tendencies of the sack-guzzling, roistering, madcap playwrights of that early period!
On the whole the representation was well-balanced, with few weak spots in the acting for fault finding, even from a more captious gathering. In the costumes, it is true, the carping observer might have detected some flaws; notably in Adonis, a composite fashion plate, who strutted about in the large boots of the Low Countries, topped with English trunk hose of 1550; his hand upon the long rapier of Charles II, while a periwig and hat of William III crowned his empty pate!
Kate was Volante; not Tobin’s Volante, but one fashioned out of her own characteristics; supine, but shapely; heavy, but handsome; slow, but specious. Susan, with hair escaping in roguish curls beneath her little cap; her taper waist encompassed by a page’s tunic; the trim contour of her figure frankly revealed by her vestment, was truly a lad “dressed up to cozen” any lover who preferred his friend and his bottle to his mistress. Merry as a sand-boy she danced about in russet boots that came to the knee; lithe and lissome in the full swing of immunity from skirts, mantle and petticoats!
Conscious that his identity had been divined, and relishing, perhaps, the effect of its discovery, the young patroon gazed languidly at the players, until the entrance of Constance as Juliana, when he forgot the pleasing sensations of self-thought, in contemplation of the actress. He remarked a girlish form of much grace, attired in an attractive gown of white satin and silver, as became a bride, with train and low shimmering bodice, revealing the round arms and shoulders which arose ivory-like in whiteness. Instead of the customary feathers and other ornaments of the period, specified in the text of the play, roses alone softened the effect of her dark hair. Very different she appeared in this picturesque Spanish attire from the lady of the lane, with the coquettish cap of muslin and its “brides,” or strings.
The light that burned within shone from her eyes, proud yet gay; it lurked in the corners of her mouth, where gravity followed merriment, as silence follows laughter when the brook sweeps from the purling stones to the deeper pools. Her art was unconscious of itself and scene succeeded scene with a natural charm, revealing unexpected resources, from pathos to sorrow; from vanity to humility; from scorn to love awakened. And, when the transition did come, every pose spoke of the quickening heart; her movements proclaimed the golden fetters; passion shone in her glances, defiant though willing, lofty though humble, joyous though shy.
Was it the heat from the lamps?–but Mauville’s brow became flushed; his buoyancy seemed gross and brutal; desire lurked in his lively glances; Pan gleamed from the curls of Hyperion!
The play jogged on its blithesome course to its wonted end; the duke delivered the excellent homily,
“A gentle wife
Is still the sterling comfort of a man’s life,”
and the well-pleased audience were preparing to leave when Barnes, in a drab jacket and trunks, trimmed with green ribbon bows, came forward like the clown in the circus and addressed the “good people.”
“In the golden age,” said the father of Juliana, “great men treated actors like servants, and, if they offended, their ears were cut off. Are we, in brave America, returning to the days when they tossed an actor in a blanket or gave a poet a hiding? Shall we stifle an art which is the purest inspiration of Athenian genius? The law prohibits our performing and charging admission, but it does not debar us from taking a collection, if”–with a bow in which dignity and humility were admirably mingled–“you deem the laborer worthy of his hire?”
This novel epilogue was received with laughter and applause, but the audience, although good-natured, contained its proportion of timid souls who retreat before the passing plate. The rear guard began to show faint signs of demoralization, when Mauville sprang to his feet. Pan had disappeared behind his leafy covert; it was the careless, self-possessed man of the world who arose.
“I am not concerned about the ethics of art,” he said lightly, “but the ladies of the company may count me among their devout admirers. I am sure,” he added, bowing to the manager with ready grace, “if they were as charming in the old days, after the lords tossed the men, they made love to the women.”
“There were no actresses in those days, sir,” corrected Barnes, resenting the flippancy of his aristocratic auditor.
“No actresses?” retorted the heir. “Then why did people go to the theater? However, without further argument, let me be the first contributor.”
“The prodigal!” said the doctor in an aside to the landlord. “He’s holding up a piece of gold. It’s the first time ever patroon was a spendthrift!”
But Mauville’s words, on the whole, furthered the manager’s project, and the audience remained in its integrity, while Balthazar, a property helmet in hand, descended from his palace and trod the aisles in his drab trunk-hose and purple cloak, a royal mendicant, in whose pot soon jingled the pieces of silver. No one shirked his admission fee and some even gave in excess; the helmet teemed with riches; once it had saved broken heads, now it repaired broken fortunes, its properties magical, like the armor of Pallas.
“How did you like the play, Mr. Saint-Prosper?” said Barnes, as he approached that person.
“Much; and as for the players”–a gleam of humor stealing over his dark features–“‘peerless’ was not too strong.”
“‘Your approbation likes me most, my lord,’” quoted the manager, and passed quickly on with his tin pot, in a futile effort to evade the outstretched hand of his whilom helper.
Thanking the audience for their generosity and complimenting them on their intelligence, the self-constituted lord of the treasury vanished once more behind the curtain. The orchestra of two struck up a negro melody; the audience rose again, the women lingering to exchange their last innocent gossip about prayer-meeting, or about the minister who “knocked the theologic dust from the pulpit cushions in the good old orthodox way,” when some renegade exclaimed: “Clear the room for a dance!”
Jerusha’s shawl straightway fell from her shoulders; Hannah’s bonnet was whipped from her head; Nathaniel paused on his way to the stable yard to bring out the team and a score of willing hands obeyed the injunction amid laughing encouragement from the young women whose feet already were tapping the floor in anticipation of the Virginia Reel, Two Sisters, Hull’s Victory, or even the waltz, “lately imported from the Rhine.” A battered Cremona appeared like magic and while “’Twas Monnie Musk in busy feet and Monnie Musk by heart”–old-fashioned “Monnie Musk” with “first couple join right hands and swing,” “forward six” and “across the set”; an honest dance for country folk that only left regrets when it came to “Good Night for aye to Monnie Musk,” although followed by the singing of “Old Hundred” or “Come, ye Sinners, Poor and Needy,” on the homeward journey.
“In his shirt of check and tallowed hair
The fiddler sat in his bull-rush chair,”
In the parlor the younger lads and lasses were playing “snap and catch ’em” and similar games. The portly Dutch clock gazed down benignly on the scene, its face shining good-humoredly like the round visage of some comfortable burgher. “Green grow the rushes, O!” came from many merry-makers. “Kiss her quick and let her go” was followed by scampering of feet and laughter which implied a doubt whether the lad had obeyed the next injunction, “But don’t you muss her ruffle, O!” Forming a moving ring