The Adventures of Gil Blas of Santillane, Alain René le Sage [most read books .txt] 📗
- Author: Alain René le Sage
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yet seen in this region of foppery. My prediction was not
falsified by his discourse. He dwelt with fondness on every
syllable he uttered, and pronounced his words in an emphatic
tone, with gestures and glances artfully adapted to the subject.
I had the curiosity to ask Laura who this strange figure might
be. I forgive you, said she, this instance of an inquisitive
disposition. It is impossible to see and to hear Signor Carlos
Alonso de la Ventoleria for the first time, without having such a
natural longing. I will paint him to the life. In the first
place, he was originally a player. He left the stage through
caprice, and has since repented in sober sadness of the step. Did
you notice his dark hair? Every thread of it is pencilled, as
well as his eyebrows and his whiskers. He was born in the reign
of Saturn’s father, in the age before the golden; but as there
were no parish registers at that time, he avails himself of the
primitive barbarism, and dates at least twenty centuries below
the true epoch. Moreover, his self-sufficiency keeps pace with
his antiquity. He passed the olympiads of his youth in the
grossest ignorance; but taking a fancy to become learned about
the Christian era, he engaged a private tutor, who taught him to
spell in Greek and Latin. Nay, more, he knows by heart an
infinite number of good stories, which he has given so often as
genuine, that he actually begins to believe them himself. They
are eternally pressed into the service, and it may truly be said
that his wit shines at the expense of his memory. He is thought
to be a great actor. I am willing to believe it implicitly, but I
must own he is not to my taste. He declaims here sometimes; and I
have observed, among other defects, an affectation in his
delivery, with a tremulousness of voice bordering on the
antiquated and ridiculous.
Such was the portrait drawn by my abigail of this honorary
spouter; and never was mortal of a more stately carriage. He
prided himself too on being an agreeable companion. He never was
at a loss for a commodity of trite remarks, which he delivered
with an air of authority. On the other hand, the Thespian
fraternity were not much addicted to silence. They began
canvassing their absent colleagues in a manner little consistent
with charity, it must be owned; but this is a failing pardonable
in players as well as in authors. The fire grew brisk and the
satire personal. You have not heard, ladies, said Rosimiro, a new
stroke of our dear brother Cesarino. This very morning he bought
silk stockings, ribbons, and laces, and sent them to rehearsal by
a little page, as a present from a countess. What a knavish
trick! said Signor de la Ventoleria, with a smile made up of
fatuity and conceit. In my time there was more honesty, we never
thought of descending to such impositions. To be sure, women of
fashion were tender of our inventive faculties, nor did they
leave such purchases to be made out of our own pockets; it was
their whim. By the honour of our house, said Ricardo, in the same
strain, that whim of theirs is lasting, and if it were allowable
to kiss and tell … . But one must be secret on these
occasions, above all when persons of a certain rank are
concerned.
Gentlemen, interrupted Florimonde, a truce, if you please, with
your conquests and successes, they are known over the whole
earth. Apropos of Ismene. It is said that the nobleman who has
fooled away so much money upon her, has at length recovered his
senses. Yes, indeed, exclaimed Constance; and I can tell you
besides that she has lost, by the same stroke, a snug little hero
of the countinghouse, whose ruin would otherwise have been
signed and sealed. I have the thing from the first hand. Her
Mercury made an unfortunate mistake, for he carried a tender
invitation to each, and delivered them wrong. These were great
losses, my darling, quoth Florimonde. Oh! as for that of the
lord, replied Constance, it is a very trifling matter. The man of
blood had almost run through his estate, but the little fellow
with the pen behind his ear was but just coming into play. He had
never been fleeced before, it is a pity he should have escaped so
easily.
Such was the tenor of the conversation before dinner, and it was
not much mended in its morality at table. As I should never have
done with the recital of all their ribaldry and nonsense, the
reader will excuse the omission, and pass on to the entrance of a
poor devil, yclept an author, who called just before the cloth
was taken away.
Our little footboy came and said to my mistress in an audible
voice — Madam, a man in a dirty shirt, splashed up to his
middle, with very much the look of a poet, saving your presence,
wants to speak to you. Let him walk up, answered Arsenia. Keep
your seats, gentlemen, it is only an author. To be sure so it
was, one whose tragedy had been accepted, and he was bringing my
mistress her part. His name was Pedro de Moya. On coming into the
room he made five or six low bows to the company, who neither
rose nor took the least notice of him. Arsenia just returned his
superabundant civilities with a slight inclination of the head.
He came forward with tremor and embarrassment. He dropped his
gloves and let his hat fall. He ventured to pick them up again,
then advanced towards my mistress, and presenting to her a paper
with more ceremony than a defendant an affidavit to the judge of
the court — Madam, said he, have the goodness to receive under
your protection the part I take the liberty of offering you. She
stretched out her hand for it with cold and contemptuous
indifference; nor did she condescend even to notice the
compliment by a look.
But our author was not disheartened. Seizing this opportunity to
distribute the cast, he gave one character to Rosimiro and
another to Florimonde, who treated him just as genteelly as
Arsenia had done. On the contrary, the low comedian, a very
pleasant fellow, as those gentlemen for the most part affect to
be, insulted him with the most cutting sarcasms. Pedro de Moya
was not made of stone. Yet he dared not take up the aggressor,
lest his piece should suffer for it. He withdrew without saying a
word, but stung to the quick, as it seemed to me, by his
reception. He could not fail, in the transports of his anger,
mentally to apostrophize the players as they deserved: and the
players, when he was gone, began to talk of authors in return
with infinite deference and kindness. It should seem, said
Florimonde, as if Signor de Moya did not go away very well
pleased.
Well! madam, cried Rosimiro, and why should you trouble yourself
about that? Are we to study the feelings of authors? If we were
to admit them upon equal terms, it would only be the way to spoil
them. I know that contemptible squad; I know them of old: they
would soon forget their distance. There is no dealing with them
but as slaves; and as for tiring their patience, never fear that.
Though they may take themselves off in a pet sometimes, the itch
of writing brings them back again; and they are raised to the
third heaven, if we will but condescend to support their pieces.
You are right, said Arsenia; we never lose an author till we have
made his fortune. When that is done, as soon as we have provided
for the ungrateful devils, they get to be in good case, and then
they run restive. Luckily the manager does not break his heart
after them, and one is just as good as another to the public.
These liberal and sagacious remarks met with their full share of
approbation. It was carried unanimously that authors, though
treated rather too scurvily be hind the scenes, were on the whole
the obliged persons. These fretters of an hour upon the stage
ranked the inhabitant of Parnassus below themselves; and malice
could not degrade him lower.
CH. XII. — Gil Blas acquires a relish for the theatre, and
takes a full swing of its pleasures, but soon becomes disgusted.
THE party sat at table till it was time to go to the theatre. I
went after them, and saw the play again that evening. I took such
delight in it, that I was for attending every day. I never
missed, and by degrees got accustomed to the actors. Such is the
force of habit. I was particularly delighted with those who were
most artificial and unnatural; nor was I singular in my taste.
The beauties of composition affected me much on the same
principle as the excellence of representation. There were some
pieces with which I was enraptured. I liked, among others, those
which brought all the cardinals or the twelve peers of France
upon the stage. I got hold of striking passages in these
incomparable performances. I recollect that in two days I learnt
by heart a whole play, called, The Queen of Flowers. The Rose,
who was the queen, had the Violet for her maid of honour, and the
Jessamin for her prime minister. I could conceive nothing more
elegant or refined: such productions seemed to be the triumph of
our Spanish wit and invention.
I was not content to store my memory and discipline my mind with
the choicest selections from these dramatic masterpieces: but I
was bent on polishing my taste to the highest perfection. To
secure this grand object, I listened with greedy ears to every
word which fell from the lips of the players. If they commended a
piece, I was ravished by it: but suppose they pronounced it bad?
why, then I maintained that it was infernal stuff. I conceived
that they must determine the merits of a play, as a jeweller the
water of a diamond. And yet the tragedy by Pedro de Moya was
eminently successful, though they had predicted its entire
miscarriage. This, however, was no disparagement of their
critical skill in my estimation; and I had rather believe the
audience to be divested of common sense, than doubt the
infallibility of the company. But they assured me, on all hands,
that their judgments were usually confirmed by the rule of
contraries. It seemed to be a maxim with them, to set their faces
point blank against the taste of the public; and as a proof of
this, there were a thousand cases in point of unexpected
successes and failures. All these testimonies were scarcely
sufficient to undeceive me.
I shall never forget what happened one day at the first
representation of a new comedy. The performers had pronounced it
uninteresting and tedious; they had even prophesied that it would
not be heard to the end. Under this impression, they got through
the first act, which was loudly applauded. This was very
astonishing! They played the second act; the audience liked it
still better than the first. The actors were confounded. What the
devil, said Rosimiro, this comedy succeeds! At last they went on
in the third act, which rose as a third act ought to rise. I am
quite thrown upon my back, said Ricardo; we thought this piece
would not be relished; and all the world are mad after it.
Gentlemen, said one of the players archly, it is because we
happened accidentally to overlook all the wit.
From this time I held my opinion no longer of the players
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