The Adventures of Gil Blas of Santillane by Alain René le Sage (ebook reader ink .TXT) 📖

I had

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