Death at the Beggar's Opera (2 page)

Serafina touched her husband lightly on the arm. ‘Louis likes me to do so, in fact it amuses him enormously. Anyway, it is considered
de rigeur
at the theatre these days.’

‘A fashion started by yourself, no doubt.’

The Comtesse shrugged elegantly. ‘Perhaps.’

‘I’m certain of it,’ her husband put in. ‘Now, John, a glass of champagne?’ And he motioned a hovering footman to pour.

It was at that moment that there was a knock on the front door, which opened once more. The sound of another arrival could be heard in the hall below and John knew by the very stamp of the feet and exclamations about the inclemency of the night that his old friend Samuel Swann had come to join the party. The heavy running footsteps on the curving staircase confirmed this belief, and a second or so later the great windmill of a young man burst into the room and heartily pumped the Comtesse’s hand.

‘Delighted to see you again, Ma’am. And you too, Sir. What an excellent notion of yours to meet like this. John, my dear fellow, how are you? It’s been an age.’ And he clapped the Apothecary on the shoulder with an embrace that rocked him on his feet.

‘Leading a somewhat quieter life than when I last saw you,’ said John, readjusting his coat, which had slipped down his back at the enthusiasm of Samuel’s greeting.

‘I should hope so indeed. But for all that it was an exciting summer, wasn’t it?’

‘A little too exciting,’ answered Louis, with feeling. He slipped his arm round his wife’s waist. ‘Would you agree, my dear?’

She shook her head. ‘There can be no such thing. I love playing dangerous games.’

‘As we all know only too well. Now, Serafina, come back to earth and lead the gentlemen in to dinner.’

The Comtesse smiled at her husband. ‘I can certainly obey one of your commands, but as to the other …’

Louis shook his head. ‘I know. We shall have to wait and see.’

Much to the annoyance of the
beau monde
, the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket had recently announced its intention of opening at half past seven, an hour considered very late and uncivilised and generally unacceptable. Covent Garden and Drury Lane, however, were still in favour with polite society for starting their performances at seven o’clock. It being the done thing to view the audience just as much as the play, the secret of a successful evening was to send a footman on ahead in order to obtain a box upon the stage. From this much sought after vantage point one could clearly see everyone else present and at the same time have a close-up view of the actors. Furthermore, the eyes of the rest of the world were, quite naturally, drawn to those who sat, as it were, behind the scenes, and it was a splendid opportunity to show off one’s latest gown and jewellery. There were even those so vulgar as to allow their servants to remain in the box throughout the first two acts, before finally entering during the interval to display themselves and enact the pantomime of waving at and making curtseys to all their acquaintances, all the while talking and laughing at the very tops of their voices.

John had, in the period of one intermission, observed a beau cover and uncover his head twenty times, then wind his watch, set it, check it, take snuff so that his diamond ring would flash upon his finger, sneeze violently, dangle his cane and fiddle with his sword knot, all in fifteen minutes flat. Louis de Vignolles, however, was a man of sterner stuff and had only secured such a desirable position in order to exhibit his beautiful and somewhat notorious wife.

There were fourteen of these stage loges at Drury Lane theatre, arranged in two rows on either side of the stage. The rows nearer to the audience contained four boxes, the others three, with a high peephole above for those unafraid of heights. And it was to the bottom box on the left-hand side that the Comte, having paid five shillings for the privilege, led his dinner guests, sending the footman who had secured it for them up to the gallery to join his peers. In common with all the boxes, entry to the stage loges was obtained via a door at the back, through which the group now passed. This despite the fact that the parapet separating its occupants from the stage was so low as to allow the ill-mannered to step straight over, a custom much indulged in by young bloods. To the relief of Louis’s party, each of them obtained a place on a little chair, there being only four present, so no one was forced to stand behind, a most uncomfortable proceeding. Drawing his seat close to the front, John looked around him.

Even though it was still ten minutes before seven, the theatre was already packed, the boxes, stage and otherwise, all being spoken for either by audience or servants. Most of the neighbouring loges, the Apothecary noted with dry amusement, were filled by ladies, obviously there to see Mr Jasper Harcross, without doubt one of the most handsome men alive, and tonight playing the part of Captain Macheath. In the front rows of the pit sat the critics, for this was a new production and as such would be written about in the newspapers. Behind them were congregated the true theatre lovers; merchants of rising eminence, barristers and students of the Inns of Court, mostly well read in plays, whose judgement was in general worth attending to. In the lower two galleries, for which an entry fee of a shilling and two shillings was charged, sat the middle classes in ascending order of status. While the top gallery itself was packed with servants and those of a similar stamp, who rained half eaten oranges and apples below and indulged in a fearsome volley of cat calls. As ever, John was amused to see that the Tories sat to the right of the theatre and the Whigs to the left, and felt that he could well hazard a guess as to the political leanings of Comte Louis de Vignolles.

‘I do believe I am being observed,’ said Serafina, close to his ear, breaking his train of thought.

‘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.

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.’