The Adventures of Gil Blas of Santillane, Alain René le Sage [most read books .txt] 📗
- Author: Alain René le Sage
- Performer: -
Book online «The Adventures of Gil Blas of Santillane, Alain René le Sage [most read books .txt] 📗». Author Alain René le Sage
several days, and was visible to no one but myself; a sincere
sympathiser, from the recollection of my own experience in his
sorrow. The occasion drew forth fresh tears to Antonia’s memory.
The death of the Marchioness de Toral, under circumstances so
similar, tore open a wound imperfectly skinned over, and so
exasperated my affliction, that the minister, though he had
enough to do with his own sufferings, could not help taking
notice of mine. It seemed unaccountable how exactly his feelings
were echoed. Gil Blas, said he one day, when my tears seemed to
feed upon indulgence, my greatest consolation consists in having
a bosom friend so much alive to all my distresses. Ah! my lord,
answered I, giving him the full credit of my amiable tenderness,
I must be ungrateful and degenerate in my nature if I did not
lament as for myself. Can I be aware that you mourn over a
daughter of accomplished merit, whom you loved so tenderly,
without shedding tears of fellow-feeling! No, my lord, I am too
much naturalized to you on the side of obligation, not to take a
permanent interest in all your pleasures and disappointments.
CH. X. — Gil Blas meets with the poet Nunez by accident, and
learns that he has written a tragedy, which is on the point of
being brought out at the theatre royal. The ill fortune of the
piece, and the good fortune of its author.
THE minister began to pick up his crumbs, and myself consequently
to get into feather again, when one evening I went out alone in
the carriage to take an airing. On the road I met the poet of the
Asturias, who had been lost to my knowledge ever since his
discharge from the hospital. He was very decently dressed. I
called him up, gave him a seat in my carriage, and we drove
together to Saint Jerome’s meadow.
Master Nunez, said I, it is lucky for me to have met you
accidentally; for otherwise I should not have had the pleasure .
… No severe speeches, Santillane, interrupted he with
considerable eagerness: I most own frankly that I did not mean to
keep up your acquaintance, and I will tell you the reason. You
promised me a good situation provided I abjured poetry, but I
have found a very excellent one, on condition of keeping my
talents in constant play. I accepted the latter alternative, as
squaring best with my own humour. A friend of mine got me an
employment under Don Bertrand Gomez Del Ribero, treasurer of the
king’s galleys. This Don Bertrand, wanting to have a wit in his
pay, and finding my turn for poetical composition very much in
unison with his own sense of what is excellent, has chosen me in
preference to five or six authors who offered themselves as
candidates for the place of his private secretary.
I am delighted at the news, my dear Fabricio, said I, for this
Don Bertrand must be very rich. Rich indeed! answered he; they
say that he does not know himself how much he is worth. However
that may be, my business under him is as follows. He prides
himself on his turn for gallantry, at the same time wishing to
pass for a man of genius: he therefore keeps up an epistolary
intercourse of wit with several ladies who have an infinite deal,
and borrows my brain to indite such letters as may amplify the
opinion of his sprightliness and elegance. I write to one for him
in verse, to another in prose, and sometimes carry the letters
myself, to prove the agility of my heels as well as the ingenuity
of my head.
But you do not tell me, said I, what I most want to know. Are you
well paid for your epigrammatic cards of compliment? Yes, most
plentifully, answered he. Rich men are not always open-handed;
and I know some who are downright curmudgeons; but Don Bertrand
has behaved in the most handsome manner. Besides a salary of two
hundred pistoles, I receive some little occasional perquisites
from him, sufficient to set me above the world, and enable me to
live on an equal footing with some choice spirits of the literary
circles, who are willing, like myself, to set care at defiance.
But then, resumed I, has your treasurer critical skill enough to
distinguish the beauties of a performance from its blemishes? The
least likely man in the world, answered Nunez: a flippant-tongued
smatterer, with a miserable assortment of materials for judging.
Yet he gives himself out for chief justice and lord president of
Apollo’s tribunal. His decisions are adventurous, if not always
lucky; while his opinions are maintained in so high a tone and
with so bullying a challenge of infallibility, that nine times
out of ten the issue of an argument is silence, though not
conviction, on the part of the opponent, as a measure of
precaution against the gathering storm of foul language and
contemptuous sneers.
You may readily suppose, continued he, that I take especial care
never to contradict him, though it almost exceeds human patience
to forbear: for, to say nothing of the unpalatable phrases that
might be hailed down on my defenceless head, I should stand a
very good chance of being shoved by the shoulders out of doors. I
therefore am discreet enough to approve what he praises, and to
condemn without mitigation or appeal whatever he is pleased to
find fault with. By this easy compliance, for poets are compelled
to acquire a knack of knocking under to those by whom they live,
not even excepting their booksellers, I have gained the esteem
and friendship of my patron. He has employed me to write a
tragedy on a plot of his own. I have executed it under his
inspection; and if the piece succeeds, a percentage on the laud
and honour must accrue to him.
I asked our poet what was the title of his tragedy. He informed
me that it was “The Count of Saldagna,” and that it would come
out in two or three days. I told him that I wished it all
possible success, and thought so favour ably of his genius, as to
entertain considerable hopes. So do I, said he, but hope never
tells a more flattering tale than in the ear of a dramatic
author. You might as well attempt to fix the wind by nailing the
weathercock, as speculate on the reception of a new piece with an
audience.
At length, the day of performance arrived. I could not go to the
play, being prevented by official business. The only thing to be
done was to send Scipio, that he might bring me back word how it
went off; for I was sincerely interested in the event. After
waiting impatiently for his return, in he came with a long face
which boded no good. Well, said I, how was “The Count of
Saldagna” welcomed by the critics? Very roughly, answered he;
never was there a play more brutally handled; I left the house in
high anger at the injustice and insolence of the pit. It serves
him right, rejoined I. Nunez is no better than a madman, to he
always running his head against the stone walls of a theatre. If
he was in his senses, could he have preferred the hisses and
catcalls of an unfeeling mob, to the ease and dignity he might
have commanded under my patronage? Thus did I inveigh with
friendly vehemence against the poet of the Asturias, and disturb
the even tenor of my mind for an event, which the sufferer hailed
with joy, and inserted among the well-omened particulars of his
journal.
He came to see me within two days, and appeared in high spirits.
Santillane, cried he, I am come to receive your congratulations.
My fortune is made, my friend, though my play is marred. You know
what a mistake they made on the first and last night of “The
Count of Saldagna;” hissed instead of applauding! You would have
thought all the wild beasts of the forest had been let loose,
with their ears fortified against the softening power of poetry:
but the more they bellowed, the better I fared, and they have
roared me into a provision for life.
There was no knowing what to make of this incident in the drama
of our poet’s adventures. What is all this, Fabricio? said I: how
can theatrical damnation have conjured up such Elysian ecstacy?
It is exactly so, answered he: I told you before that Don
Bertrand had thrown in some of the circumstances; and he was
fully convinced that there was no defect but in the taste of the
spectators. They might he very good judges; but, if they were, he
was no judge at all! Nunez! said he this morning;
Victrix causa Diis placuit, sed victa Catoni.
[Members of parliament, and the ladies, will probably expect a
translation of these hard words; but I refer the former to their
dictionaries, to which they bade a long farewell on leaving Eton
or Harrow; and the latter to an extended paraphrase of five acts
in the tragedy of Cato. Those of the softer sex who may think the
Stoic philosophy rude and uncouth, will feel their nerves vibrate
in unison with the love scenes. — Translator.]
Your piece has been ill-received by the public; but against that
you may place my entire approbation; and thus you ought to set
your heart at rest. By way of something to balance the bad taste
of the age, I shall settle an annuity of two thousand crowns on
you: go to my solicitor, and let him draw the deed. We have been
about it: the treasurer has signed and sealed; my first quarter
is paid in advance … .
I wished Fabricio joy on the unhappy fate of “The Count of
Saldagna,” and probably most authors would have envied his
failure more than all the success that ever succeeded. You are in
the right, continued he, to prefer my fortune to my fame. What a
lucky peal of disapprobation in double choir! If the public had
chosen to ring the changes on my merits rather than my misdeeds,
what would they have done for my pocket? A mere paltry nothing.
The common pay of the theatre might have kept me from starving;
but the wind of popular malice has blown me a comfortable
pension, engrossed on safe and legal parchment.
CH. XI. — Santillane gives Scipio a situation: the latter sets
out for New Spain.
MY secretary could not look at the unexpected good luck of Nunez
the poet without envy: he talked of nothing else for a week. The
whims of that baggage, Fortune, said he, are most unaccountable:
she delights to turn her lottery wheel into the lap of a sorry
author, while she deals out her disappointments like a stepmother to the race of good ones. I should have no objection,
though, if she would throw me up a prize in one of her vertical
progresses. That is likely enough to happen, said I, and sooner
than you imagine. Here you are in her temple; for it is scarcely
too presumptuous to call the house of a prime minister the temple
of Fortune, where favours are conferred by wholesale, and
votaries grow fat on the spoils of her altar. That is very true,
sir, answered he; but we must have patience, and wait till the
happy moment comes. Take my advice while it is worth having,
Scipio, replied I, and make your mind easy: perhaps you are on
the eve of some good appointment. And so it turned out; for
within a few days an opportunity offered of employing him
Comments (0)