Death at the Beggar's Opera (3 page)

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.

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 at 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.

‘Couldn’t he let them have their moment of glory?’ John whispered to Serafina.

‘Obviously not. I told you he was a peacock.’

The act ended with Mrs Delaney alone on the stage, Lucy having given Macheath the keys to Newgate gaol in order that he might escape. Sinking down on the bare boards, the actress sang one of the most moving arias in the entire piece. There was absolute silence in the theatre, even the gallery quiet, as her beautiful voice soared out with the words:

‘Oh dear,’ said Serafina, and slipped her hand beneath her mask to wipe away a tear.

‘One would almost think she meant it,’ remarked the Comte, obviously also affected.

‘She probably does,’ John answered, and smiled to himself at the way of the world.

It was time for the interval again, but on this occasion nobody left the box except to answer the calls of nature in the Office Houses provided for that purpose. Instead, the Comte de Vignolles and his guests surveyed the audience and in turn were surveyed.

‘There’s David Garrick,’ said Samuel, pointing.

‘Where?’

‘In that stage box high up.’

‘Is that his wife with him or his mistress?’

‘It’s Madame Violetta, of course. He would hardly flaunt his light-o-love in public.’

‘But she’s most certainly here,’ put in Serafina, and gestured towards a box in which the celebrated actress Peg Woffington sat alone.

John, staring from one lovely woman to the other, came to the conclusion that actors must be greedy when it came to matters of love and lust. The company of the dancer, Madame Violetta, Garrick’s lawful wife, would have been quite enough for him without throwing the charming black-haired Miss Woffington in for good measure. Then he took himself to task for being too sober and dull and decided that it was in the nature of mankind to flirt. With this in mind he took Serafina’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

‘Neither of them is as exquisite as you.’

‘Oh come now,’ she answered, but the Comtesse was smiling behind her mask and he knew that he had pleased her.

‘Are you dallying with my wife?’ asked Louis.

‘Of course.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it, you are sometimes far too serious for your own good.’ And with that the Comte refilled everyone’s wine glass. ‘Here, we’re going to need this. Mr Harcross is about to wring our withers.’

‘Oh dear!’ said John, and then, just for the briefest second, the strange feeling of fear swept over him once more. Determined to ignore it, the Apothecary concentrated hard as the curtains parted for the last act.

Once again the dismal scene of Newgate revealed itself, but it was not long before there was another of Mr Garrick’s wonders. As the action changed to a gaming house, the barred window was hauled up out of sight and an elegant velvet curtain dropped in its place. The two flats, meanwhile, were unhooked and turned on their casters to reveal a painted representation of a grand saloon with chandeliers. At the same moment the stagehands dashed on at speed carrying with them card tables, cards and dice. A thunderous cheer broke out and Mr Garrick, in his box, winked at his wife. Jasper Harcross appeared in a fine tarnished coat and threw himself into a rendering of
Lillibulero
, which John considered far too long drawn out.

Greatly to his relief, the scene changed to Peachum’s Lock, a cant word for a warehouse in which stolen goods are received. Unable to do much with such a quick change, David Garrick had merely loaded the set with properties representing booty and directed the actors playing Peachum and Lockit to examine them as they discussed the goods lifted at the coronation of George II in 1727.

It was at this juncture that Mr Garrick dispensed with a theatrical tradition which the Apothecary, having an extremely neat and logical mind, had always thought quite ridiculous. The scene between the two men was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs Diana Trapes, the tally woman, a part played at the original performance and ever since by the actress who had taken the role of Mrs Peachum. When he had first heard the opera, John had wondered for a second why Peachum’s wife had come on dressed as someone else, then had seen through the device. But tonight, mercifully, a different woman appeared, a tall thin creature with auburn hair swept up beneath a saucy hat.