Death at the Beggar's Opera Page 2

  ‘There is certainly a bevy of quizzing glasses turned in your direction,’ the Apothecary answered, taking a quick look.

  ‘Yet I am no longer the mysterious Masked Lady I was when first you met me. Everyone knows my identity now.’

  ‘Ah, but you created a legend, Madam. The woman who took on the finest card and dice players in London and beat them at any game they chose to mention. Your fierce reputation will never leave you.’

  And momentarily John left behind him the buzz and excitement of the theatre and flashed into his vivid memory a picture of Serafina de Vignolles, when he had not even known her identity, seated in one of the great gaming rooms at Marybone, throwing dice with Sir Gabriel Kent. Every man in the place had been staring at her, some with hatred, some with envy, but mostly with pure, unbridled admiration. She had been one of the most exciting and arresting women John had ever encountered.

  ‘Have I grown boring?’ asked Serafina, as if she could read his mind.

  ‘You could never do that,’ the Apothecary whispered truthfully, and kissed her hand.

  ‘Well, well,’ said Samuel loudly, breaking in on their shared moment, ‘look at this! The part of Polly Peachum is being taken by Miss Coralie Clive.’

  ‘Is it?’ John exclaimed, and took the programme from his friend’s outstretched hand. There, sure enough, were written the words, WOMEN: Mrs Peachum – Mrs Martin, Polly Peachum – Miss C. Clive, Lucy Lockit – Mrs Delaney, together with a long list of other names.

  John’s curved smile appeared as he remembered the occasion when his path and that of the actress had crossed so dramatically. ‘It will be nice to see her again,’ he said.

  There was a spatter of applause, and turning towards the audience the Apothecary saw that the orchestra was making its way in, led by the harpsichord player, a Mr Martin, according to the programme.

  ‘Any relation to Mrs Peachum?’ Louis asked his wife, but she shrugged her shoulders that she did not know. And as neither John nor Samuel could give an answer they fell silent as the overture began.

  It was a spirited rendering of a rather long piece of music, during which the bulk of the audience conversed with or stared at one another. A masked woman, making a grand and late entrance in the loge immediately opposite, not only hit her footman with her fan but loudly called out to a blood sitting two boxes away, regardless of the fact that the musicians were giving it their all. This intensely annoyed Louis who got to his feet and told her to be quiet in no uncertain terms and a very Gallic manner. The blood took exception to such behaviour and was only restrained from jumping down onto the stage and drawing his sword by a friend slightly less drunk than he was. In view of all this it was a great relief when the curtains were finally drawn back and the performance began.

  The Beggar’s Opera was already a long established favourite with the audience, having been first performed at the Theatre Royal, Lincolns Inn Fields, in 1728. Conceived by the great John Gay, the work consisted of well known folk tunes with new and pithy words set to their familiar airs. Going one step further, Gay had presented his immortal comedy as a pastiche of the Italian opera styles and traditions of the day. Yet, popular though it immediately was, with its cast of thieves, whores, villains and rogues, led by the dashing highwayman Macheath, simultaneously trifling with the affections of two women, there were many who had raised their voices in criticism. The work was considered immoral for its glorification of the criminal, to say nothing of its political innuendoes. But none of these comments had affected the show’s acclaim amongst theatre goers. And now the great David Garrick himself was mounting this new and exciting production at Drury Lane.

  John, who had not seen the work since he was fifteen, found himself in that happy state of remembering much, yet still being delighted by the freshness and bite of the dialogue, to say nothing of the wicked wit of the songs. In company with the rest of the house, he laughed till he wept when Mr and Mrs Peachum, wonderfully well played by two extremely rotund people with splendid voices, flew into a passion to hear that their daughter Polly had actually married Macheath, rather than becoming his mistress. No wonder, he thought, that the opera is disapproved of when such unconventional sentiments are so volubly expressed.

  ‘Our Polly is a sad slut! Nor heeds what we have taught her.

  I wonder any man alive will ever rear a daughter!

  For she must have both hoods and gowns, and hoops to swell her pride,

  With scarves and stays, and gloves and lace;

  and she will have men beside,’

  sang the large Mrs Martin, rolling her comely and expressive eyes at the audience, who guffawed all the more. And with that both actors set about their stage daughter, played by the gorgeous Coralie Clive, looking so appealing in her costume that John found himself leaning forward on the parapet to get a better view.

  ‘I’d swear she’s grown better looking,’ whispered Samuel enthusiastically.

  And John, raising his quizzing glass, as was every true male in the house, could only agree with him. For Miss Clive’s hair, dark and lustrous as midnight, glowed beneath her pretty white lace pinner. While the colour of her sparkling green eyes, something that John had remembered very clearly, was enhanced and beautified further by her ice blue costume.

  ‘Your mouth is open,’ murmured Serafina, with a smile in her voice.

  ‘Er, yes,’ answered John, and closed it.

  Yet lovely though Coralie was, and however warm the audience’s reaction to her, it was as nothing compared to the moment when Captain Macheath bounded on to the stage singing the words, ‘Pretty Polly say, when I was away, did your fancy never stray, to some newer lover?’

  It seemed to John that every woman in the theatre simultaneously stood up and cheered, for never had he heard such a rapturous greeting, so many sighs and moans and shouts, as when the handsome Jasper Harcross strode across the planking of the stage and posed for a moment, quite still, in the fullness of the lights. And this regardless of the fact that he was in the middle of his duet with Miss Clive, who took the situation very tolerantly, the Apothecary thought, and merely smiled at her fellow actor indulgently.

  ‘The man’s a posturing ass,’ commented the Comte succinctly.

  ‘Shush,’ said Serafina, and they concentrated on the show once more.

  As soon as the tumult died down, the duet continued but when, at the end of it, Mr Harcross swept Coralie into his arms and kissed her full-bloodedly upon the lips, another riot broke out. The more vulgar amongst the females present let forth a series of cat calls, whilst others offered to change places with Miss Clive and pay for the privilege. Meanwhile a susceptible virgin in one of the more prestigious boxes fainted clean away and had to be revived by her relatives. John and Samuel exchanged a glance of envious astonishment, wondering at the power of any one man to so move the fairer sex.

  Eventually, the hubbub faded and the opera continued. Polly and Macheath, as played by Coralie and Mr Harcross, decided that for safety’s sake they had better part company and the actors, wringing the emotions of the audience pitilessly, indulged in a sad duet and an extremely tender farewell. Then the curtains closed and those with the strength left to do so made their way to the theatre saloon, a somewhat dubious meeting place for the sexes with a reputation for resembling a brothel as much as it did a tavern. Unable to face the thought of such a noisesome crush as would gather there, the occupants of the box remained where they were, awaiting the arrival of the various vendors who walked about the theatre during the interval.

  ‘Well,’ said Serafina thoughtfully, ‘I am glad I’m not in Miss Clive’s shoes.’

  ‘Glad?’ repeated her husband, laughing. ‘I thought every woman in the place would like to fill them.’

  ‘Au contraire,’ the Comtesse answered, showing that she had lost none of her individualism. ‘He is a scene stealer, that pretty peacock. When he marries I am sure he will pick an ugly wife.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because he
could not possibly allow anyone to compete with him. Have you not noticed how Coralie is having to struggle to make an impact?’

  ‘I think she’s charming,’ put in John, leaping to the actress’s defence. ‘I can’t take my eyes off her.’

  Serafina’s glance glinted at him from behind her mask. ‘None the less, you will have spent quite a lot of time watching Macheath, now admit it.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘John, I know you of old, you are dissembling. The truth is that Mr Harcross is one of those people who, admire him or otherwise, commands attention. And you gave it, just like the rest of us.’

  ‘Do you think Coralie is aware that he upstages her?’

  ‘She must be, she’s no newcomer to the theatre.’

  ‘She showed no annoyance, none the less.’

  ‘Then she’s either very good tempered or a very good actress.’

  ‘Or both.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Comtesse, and turned her attention to her husband, who was buying fruit and wine from a vendor and wanted his wife’s advice.

  Samuel called across the space between himself and John, ‘What say we go and pay our respects to Miss Clive?’

  ‘A splendid idea,’ answered the Apothecary, getting to his feet. And leaving the box, the two friends sauntered towards the door that led behind the scenes, it being quite the done thing to go backstage between the acts and talk to the performers.

  Beyond the closed curtains the stage swarmed with shirtsleeved men, all in a fine muck sweat as they dragged scenery and furniture to and fro, changing the set for the next act. Of the actors there was no sign, but a straggle of determined women climbing a staircase that led to the right of the stage gave John the clue that above might lie the dressing rooms, and that these were the pilgrims heading for the Mecca of Mr Harcross.

  ‘This way,’ he said to Samuel, then wondered why he felt a sudden thrill of nervousness at the thought of seeing Coralie Clive again.

  But at that moment his mind was completely taken off any such emotion by the sound of raised voices coming from the landing. Looking upwards, John saw that the route was blocked, almost completely, by the actress playing Mrs Peachum, who was currently pouring scorn on the rivulet of eager females attempting to make their way to Jasper Harcross.

  ‘It’s no use, ladies. He ain’t receiving and that’s it. And it’s no good looking at me like that. Mr Harcross does not meet the public until after the performance. I thought every theatre-goer knew that.’

  ‘But I’m Lady Dukes,’ boomed one of them.

  Mrs Clarice Martin bobbed a curtsey that ill concealed her contempt.

  ‘I’m sorry, Madam, were you the Queen herself, Mr Harcross would not break his rule.’

  ‘And who are you to speak for him?’ commanded Lady Dukes, undaunted.

  ‘I am his colleague and friend. And now I’ll ask you kindly to step down and return to your seats. The performance is about to begin.’

  Her eyes, very large and blue and obviously once very lovely, froze the women admirers with a stare so icy that John caught himself thinking that he most certainly wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of her.

  ‘And you, Sir,’ Mrs Martin continued, not quite so coldly, ‘where might you be going?’

  John returned her gaze and beheld an extraordinary phenomenon that he had witnessed only once or twice before. The expression in the speaker’s eyes changed rapidly without her altering her facial muscles at all. First, came a look of calculation, followed almost immediately by a sparkling flirtatiousness. The actress was one of those women who reserved her contempt and dislike entirely for her own sex and warmed at once to a male.

  ‘I was going to see my friend, Miss Clive,’ the Apothecary answered, hoping he sounded as irritated as he felt, ‘but as you say the interval is nearly over …’

  He got no further. On the landing a door banged and there was the noise of booted feet in the corridor.

  ‘Clarrie,’ called a voice, ‘where the devil’s that wretched boy? Did he not get me some cordial? Go and find him, there’s my good girl.’

  There was a shriek from the women wending their way back downstairs and they turned in a body to peer upwards, as did John and Samuel. And there, resplendent in a scarlet coat, his black hair tied back in a queue by a matching satin bow, his beautiful eyes dancing at the extraordinary sight beneath him, his arm round the waist of Miss Coralie Clive, stood Jasper Harcross himself. Unreasonably annoyed, John attempted to turn away but not before the actress had seen him. A light of recognition slowly stirred in her eyes.

  ‘Gracious heavens,’ she called out, ‘is it not Mr Rawlings?’

  ‘It is,’ John answered grimly and, hemmed in as he was, made her a polite and very formal bow.

  Chapter Two

  Fortunately, Act Two of The Beggar’s Opera commenced with a rousing drinking song, given boisterous voice by the actors playing the various members of Macheath’s gang of thieves, all seated round a table loaded with bottles of wine and brandy, to say nothing of jars of tobacco, the scene realistically representing a tavern near Newgate. This merry sight and sound gave a lift to the spirits of those members of the audience who had become disgruntled during the interval, of whose number John Rawlings was most certainly one. Though he would have been loath to admit this fact to anyone other than Samuel, who fully shared John’s view that Jasper Harcross had an almost uncanny and quite unjustified hold over women.

  ‘Did you see the arrogant creature preening at the sight of those eager females wanting to meet him?’ he said as they had walked back to the box.

  ‘Talk about the cock by hens attended,’ John answered irritably. ‘Why, the song could have been written about him.’

  ‘Do you think Miss Clive is enamoured of the fellow?’

  John had nodded glumly. ‘It would certainly appear so.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Samuel sighed. ‘Why do women always fall in love with rogues?’

  ‘I imagine,’ John had observed, ‘that the combination of a libertine’s charm and the desire to transform the wretch into a model husband might be the answer.’

  ‘You’re right, of course. Perhaps we should adopt a more profligate approach.’

  The Apothecary had chuckled audibly at the thought of so transparent and good-natured a creature as Samuel Swann doing any such thing.

  ‘I would stay exactly as you are if I were you. You have an appeal that is entirely your own. And to hell with Jasper Harcross.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ Samuel had responded as they re-entered the box.

  Serafina and Comte Louis had been exchanging a kiss as their guests returned, a sight which had warmed both their hearts. But instead of jumping apart guiltily, this splendid couple had welcomed their friends with enthusiasm, and embraced one another a second time before once more assuming their role of host and hostess. Then with their wine glasses charged they had all settled down to watch the performance, Serafina much amused by the faces of her husband and companions as Jasper Harcross made more than a meal of his scene with the ladies of the town, each purporting to rival the others for his affections so realistically that it was hard to believe they were only acting.

  ‘Mon Dieu, art mirrors life I believe,’ Louis muttered.

  ‘You’re not envious surely?’ she asked with apparent astonishment.

  ‘How could I be? I have you.’

  ‘Ah, gallant indeed.’

  They smiled at one another and continued to watch Mr Harcross, who kissed and fondled his leading ladies with great panache and enjoyment.

  ‘And to think he gets paid for it,’ said Samuel morosely, and there was a ripple of laughter from the box which the actor obviously heard, for his head, very briefly, moved in their direction.

  The Newgate prison scene began and with it the first glimpse of the amazing effects promised by Mr Garrick for this new production. In full view of the audience, the stagehands heaved off the furniture used in the tavern and then, lowered on ropes a
t some considerable speed, a barred window was flown down and settled on the stage to act as the backdrop. Simultaneously, two flats were pushed forward from either wing and these were hooked on to it, still in full public gaze, to form a gloomy gaol cell. There was a cheer from the gallery, which was taken up by the rest of the house, and during it Mr Harcross strode back on wearing his serious face.

  ‘Now we’re going to see some tearing tragedy,’ said John with a groan.

  ‘Yes, I truly believe he’ll spare us nothing,’ Serafina answered.

  Spirits were raised a few moments later, however, by the arrival of Lucy Lockit, played by Mrs Delaney, a mettlesome little redhead who buzzed round Jasper like an angry wasp.

  ‘You base man you,’ she shouted, obviously putting her heart and soul into her performance. ‘How can you look me in the face after what hath passed between us? See here, perfidious wretch, how I am forced to bear about the load of infamy you have laid upon me …’

  And Mrs Delaney placed her hand upon her body, neatly padded out, to make quite sure that the audience did not miss the point that the fearless highwayman had enjoyed his wicked way with Lucy and left her in an interesting condition. There was a roar of laughter at this, loudest of all from the gallery, slightly embarrassed from the tender young females. Samuel, never a one to disguise his feelings, guffawed, whilst John, running his professional eye over Mrs Delaney’s rounding, thought how genuine it looked.

  The opera proceeded with the inevitable meeting between Polly Peachum and Lucy Lockit, spitting like cats over Macheath, then singing a spirited duet in which one vied with the other as to who could produce the most trills and cadenzas. Here, John Gay had parodied the Italian opera to his heart’s content and the audience, understanding this yet appreciating the singing for all that, clapped wildly. Just as if it were a true vocal contest, as each girl stepped forward and sang they were rewarded with boisterous applause and, finally, cheers. Macheath, meanwhile, made quite sure that nobody forgot him by pulling the most amusing series of faces.