LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1672, 30 June 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MATED TO A CLOWN. By J. W. Jones. [From the “ Era Almanac.”] Theatres in very small manufacturing tov. as are not usually remarkable for the elegance of their appointments, and the Theatre Royal, Ooaltown, was certainly no exception to the general rule. It was, perhaps, the moat squalid and poverty-stricken looking building in the whole of the black and melancholy High street. It stood next door to a public-house, the proprietor of which was also lessee of the theatre; and having tested both hia drinks and his dramas, I am forced to the conclusion that his patrons must have had a bad time of it both physically and mentally. Often have I seen the worm-eaten bosrds of his theatre literally strewn with corpses, and on a Saturday night the mimes of an entire Assize would often be crowded into a single act. But the proprietor—l won’t introduce him, because he has nothing whatever to do with this history—know exactly what his audiences wanted, and he took care that they should have it. For instance, one night the appearance of a property skeleton caused a perfect thrill to run through the house. The proprietor, watching keenly from behind the curtain of his private box, at once noted the effect, and, determined that for the future he would give them the real thing, he set out next morning in search of a good second-hand skeleton. He got one at last at a very low rate from a surgeon who had seen better days, and having billed it well, he awaited with hope and confidence the first night of its appearance. Never was such a success known. The leading man and the favorite low comedian were entirely neglected, while the skeleton received two distinct calls, and had to be led in front of the curtain by the manager. A fter this the skeleton made its appearance in every piece, whether with reason or without. Had “Our Boys” or “Two Roses ” been played at the Ooaltown Theatre, the proprietor would not have been content without ho could have introduced his great attraction at the end of the second act. Once a travelling company came down with a bright and witty comedy, and in hia low way the proprietor said, “ Our people don’t want any dr—d epigram ; give ’em that bag of bones of mine.” It is a delightful thing to see a manager who knows the requirements of his audience. About the middle of December an eruption of red and yellow bills broke out on the walla announcing the preparations for the “ grand • and gorgeous Christmas pantomime on a scale of splendour never before attempted.” The title of this production was to be “ Harlequin Old Mother Hubbard; or, the Skeleton in the Cuoboard.” Wonderful attractions were promised. There were the Great Little Dicky Wax (“ the celebrated clown from Drury Lane”), Signor Jeakino (“ the renowned harlequin”), and “ the engagement at enormous expense of the graceful and agile premiere dansense, Mdlle. Sophie Smithski, who will make her first appearance in England as columbine.” Of course, Mdlle. Sophie came from the Imperial Opera House, St. Petersburg, and La Scala, Milan; all columbines do. The excitement was at fever heat in Coaltowu, and rumours of the forthcoming splendours even reached the great county families residing in the neighbourhood. At last the night came The house was literally cowded. Before the demon scene was over the inhabitants of the High street were startled to eeo a carriage drawn by four magnificent horses arrive at tho box entrance, and still more astounded were they when tho powdered footman opened the carriage door and there descended Viscount Man vers Main and his cousin—“ daughter of a hundred Earls,”—the haughty and beautiful Lady Clara. Here was a triumph for the proprietor. He whispered confidentially to the checktaker as the Viscount paid the money for a private box, “ It’s the skeleton what’s done it.” And then how wonderfully tho pantomime went, too. The audience applauded all the songs and encored all tho dances, Tho production certainly excelled anything previously seen in the town. There was a “grand procession,” in which six native children, with dirty faces, took part; there was a grand pas de fascination (which fascinated everybody) danced by four native young ladies who had been coached by the great Mdle, Sophie herself; and the transformation scene had been turned cut by an artist who used Dutch metal with an unsparing hand. The piece was bound to run for several weeks, and the sleek proprietor counted his gains, rubbed his hands, and began seriously to consider whether ho would not bo justified in purchasing another skeleton. Only two people in the theatre seemed to be dissatisfied with the performance, and they were tho Lady Clara and Viscount Manvers Main. The Viscount pulled his long fair moustache, and a contemptuous smile played upon his lips, while the beautiful face of tho proud Lady Clara wore an expression of unutterable weariness. As the red fire was lighted at the close of the transformation scene she drew her fur-lined cloak round her shoulders with a hasty and impatient movement, and rose to go. She had drawn herself to her full height, and had turned to give a last careless glance at the stage, when suddenly she became transfixed, and stood looking with a new and strange light in her large black eyes. The Great Little Dicky Wax had made his appearance — had performed one tumble, and with inimitable humor had asked, “ How are you tomorrow ?” Without a word the Lady Clara threw off her cloak and sat down again. The Viscount was annoyed; hf|,had pro

raised hlmsell a game of billiards with the bmler on his return to his ancestral home. Still, he loved the Lady Clara and was in due course to become her husband j so exercising that restraint which is a leading characteristic of the scions of noble families, he sufferr 1 no sign of his annoyance to appear. Meanwhile the beautiful girl followed the movements of Little Dicky War with hef eyes as though fascinated. When he applied the red hot poker to the pantalo n she gave a silvery laugh which rang through the house When he tripped up an offending old gentleman she clapped her hands till she ran some risk of splitting her lemon-colored kid gloves ; albeit, they were of the best Paris manufacture, and ware held to her beautiful arm by eight buttons. As this went on even the Viscount’s temper was t'ied, and he stood at the back of the box savagely gnawing that fair moustache of his. At last, when after the clown had performed the strikingly ingenious feat of stealing a baby from a nursemaid, the Lady Clara took a lovely damask rose from her bosom and threw it gracefully at the great Wax’s feet, the Viscount could stand it no longei. In a terrible paseion he hissed into her shell-like ear, “I shall go and order the carriage.” Either the words or the tone in which they were spoken roused all her pride in an instant. Her chiselled lip curled as she replied in a commanding tone, ‘Go ! When I desire to return I can take a cab ’ Her tones became still more icy as she concluded, * And if you like you can tell them to clear away the supper.’ The Viscount went out, slamming the door of the box loudly behind him. The noise could be heard all over the house like a rifle shot, and it caused the clown, to say, ‘ Hallo 1 there’s another tooth out! ’ Whereat the Lady Clara laughed again. The pantomime was over. In the midst of the sleet which fell that night there stood in the narrow and dirty passage leading to the stage door a tall and beautiful woman. The light of a street lamp fell upon her proud, pale face, and revealed the richness of her costume. The stage doorkeeper ejed her critically, but she did not speak to him, nor did she deign to notice his glances. Presently Mdlle. Sophie, the columbine, came out, giving a cheery‘good night ’ to the stage doorkeeper as she passed. The beautiful lady who had been waiting there so patiently in the cold and damp brightened as she saw the dancer approach. She stopped her.

* I beg your pardon,’ she said, * but you are a woman, and I can speak to you.’ Mddle. Sophie stared, and waited for what was to come next. ‘I wish to the lady went on, ‘about Mr Wax.’ * About Dicky ? ’ cried Mddle. Sophie in astonishment ' You know him then F ’ raked the lady. ‘ Know Dicky ? Should think 1 did,’ replied Mdlle. Sophie. ‘ Then perhaps yon can tell me.’said the lady eagerly, ‘ perhaps yon can tell me if he is married.’ ‘Married? Not as I know of,’ replied Sophie. , . , * Thanks ! A thousand thanks ! cried the I ady Clara j ‘ you have taken a load from my mind.’ ‘ You had better ask him about it yourself,’ said Sophie, ‘for here he is,’and the pretty little columbine dashed on. into the night. A moment previously the stage door had swung open, and a man had made his appearance —a thoughtful, preoccupied man, with straight black hair and a sharp nose—a nose ‘as sharp as a pen,’ like Palstaff’s on his death bed. The Lady Clara conquered her pride by one strong effect, moved towards him, and gsaid inquiringly, ‘.Mr Wax ?’

“ Yes, raum,” replied the clown; “my name’s Wax.” * I throw you a flower to-night, Mr Wax,’ said Lady Clara, somewhat bashfully. * Wery much obliged, I’m sure, mum,’ responded the Clown. * ’Taint often the likes of me gets flowers pitched to ’em ; it’s mostly the gals. See, I’ve put it here.’ She noticed with a thrill of pleasure that her flower adorned his button-hole.

‘ May I walk home with you ?’ inquired tho lady, again conquering her maidenly modesty and pride by a desperate effort. * Proud of the honour, mum,’ said the clown. * Just catch hold of my arm.’ She took hia arm, and together Lady Clara and Dicky Wax passed down the now deserted High street to the clown’s humble dwelling. Oh the way they talked of hia profeesion, of the absurdity of social distinctions, of Mr Morris’s poetry, of the moon, of the relative merits of Turner and Mr Whistler, of the lore which should be so strong that neither poverty, neglect, nor even death itself could stamp it out out. At the door of his abode she left him, promising that she would again wait for him and see him home on the following evening. Then when he had vanished from her sight and the sound of his footsteps as he ascended the staircase had died away, her whole manner changed ; and haughtily summoning the last cab of the evening, she was driven rapidly to her own splendidly appointed home. I feel I must cut my story short. They met night after night, those two, and they knew what was meant by an affinity of souls, for they felt that they [were bom for each other. Not even the protestations of her relations or the sneers of her jealous cousin the Viscount could turn the noble woman from her purpose, and in the glorious springtime, when the trees were fresh and green, and the last of tho pantomimes had un its course, the two were married, the clown having invited sundry other members of his profession to be present at the wedding. * My darling,’ said the Lady Clara Wax, as she took her husband’s arm after the ceremony, ‘ life with us shall be a perpetual harlequinade,’ This prophecy at first seemed in a fair way of being literally fulfilled. That afternoon, when the clown’s apartmens in Lambeth was crowded with his brother pantomimists, the other lodgers were surprised by knocks being giver l at doors, and, when they went to see who it was, they tumbled over somebody who was lying at full length across the threshold. There wan no cause for alarm ; Dicky and his friends were keeping up the wedding day by practising comic ballets. But this bright and happy existence was not to last. * * * A month afterwards the rejected Viscount Manvers Main had his revenge upon his proud but faithless cousin. One morning, opening the door of the shabby front parlor in which she lived with her husband, he found her in tears mending one of his old costumes, Her husband might have been cruel to her —might even have thrashed her, but there she r-at weeping, and looking weary and disgusted amid the paraphernalia of his profession, while Dicky himself sat looking gloomily into tho fire. The Viscount smiled a bftter, cynical smile, and quoted the verse—- “ Thou art mated to a clown, And the grosaness of hia nature shall have power to drag thee down. Ho shall hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog—little dearer than hia horse I”

And so saying, the Viscount turned on his heel, and was never seen in tho Lambeth lodging again.