The Complete Works of Washington Irving: Short Stories, Plays, Historical Works, Poetry and Autobiographical Writings (Illustrated). Вашингтон Ирвинг

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ run up a cord from the stage to the gallery with fireworks all round her. She was seized on by the management with avidity; she was the saving of the great national theatre for the season. Nothing was talked of but Madame Saqui’s fireworks and flame-colored pantaloons; and nature, Shakespeare, the legitimate drama, and poor Pillgarlick were completely left in the lurch.

      However, as the manager was in honor bound to provide for me, he kept his word. It had been a turn-up of a die whether I should be Alexander the Great or Alexander the coppersmith; the latter carried it. I could not be put at the head of the drama, so I was put at the tail. In other words, I was enrolled among the number of what are called useful men; who, let me tell you, are the only comfortable actors on the stage. We are safe from hisses and below the hope of applause. We fear not the success of rivals, nor dread the critic’s pen. So long as we get the words of our parts, and they are not often many, it is all we care for. We have our own merriment, our own friends, and our own admirers; for every actor has his friends and admirers, from the highest to the lowest. The first-rate actor dines with the noble amateur, and entertains a fashionable table with scraps and songs and theatrical slip-slop. The second-rate actors have their second-rate friends and admirers, with whom they likewise spout tragedy and talk slip-slop; and so down even to us; who have our friends and admirers among spruce clerks and aspiring apprentices, who treat us to a dinner now and then, and enjoy at tenth hand the same scraps and songs and slip-slop that have been served up by our more fortunate brethren at the tables of the great.

      I now, for the first time in my theatrical life, knew what true pleasure is. I have known enough of notoriety to pity the poor devils who are called favorites of the public. I would rather be a kitten in the arms of a spoiled child, to be one moment petted and pampered, and the next moment thumped over the head with the spoon. I smile, too, to see our leading actors, fretting themselves with envy and jealousy about a trumpery renown, questionable in its quality and uncertain in its duration. I laugh, too, though of course in my sleeve, at the bustle and importance and trouble and perplexities of our manager, who is harassing himself to death in the hopeless effort to please every body.

      I have found among my fellow subalterns two or three quondam managers, who, like myself, have wielded the sceptres of country theatres; and we have many a sly joke together at the expense of the manager and the public. Sometimes, too, we meet like deposed and exiled kings, talk over the events of our respective reigns; moralize over a tankard of ale, and laugh at the humbug of the great and little world; which, I take it, is the very essence of practical philosophy.

      Thus end the anecdotes of Buckthorne and his friends. A few mornings after our hearing the history of the ex-manager, he bounced into my room before I was out of bed.

      “Give me joy! give me joy!” said he, rubbing his hands with the utmost glee, “my great expectations are realized!”

      I stared at him with a look of wonder and inquiry. “My booby cousin is dead!” cried he, “may he rest in peace! He nearly broke his neck in a fall from his horse in a fox-chase. By good luck he lived long enough to make his will. He has made me his heir, partly out of an odd feeling of retributive justice, and partly because, as he says, none of his own family or friends know how to enjoy such an estate. I’m off to the country to take possession. I’ve done with authorship. — That for the critics!” said he, snapping his fingers. “Come down to Doubting Castle when I get settled, and egad! I’ll give you a rouse.” So saying he shook me heartily by the hand and bounded off in high spirits.

      A long time elapsed before I heard from him again. Indeed, it was but a short time since that I received a letter written in the happiest of moods. He was getting the estate into fine order, everything went to his wishes, and what was more, he was married to Sacharissa: who, it seems, had always entertained an ardent though secret attachment for him, which he fortunately discovered just after coming to his estate.

      “I find,” said he, “you are a little given to the sin of authorship which I renounce. If the anecdotes I have given you of my story are of any interest, you may make use of them; but come down to Doubting Castle and see how we live, and I’ll give you my whole London life over a social glass; and a rattling history it shall be about authors and reviewers.”

      If ever I visit Doubting Castle, and get the history he promises, the Public shall be sure to hear of it.

      PART THIRD.

       THE ITALIAN BANDITTI.

       Table of Contents

      THE INN AT TERRACINA.

       Table of Contents

      Crack! crack! crack! crack! crack!

      “Here comes the estafette from Naples,” said mine host of the inn at Terracina, “bring out the relay.”

      The estafette came as usual galloping up the road, brandishing over his head a short-handled whip, with a long knotted lash; every smack of which made a report like a pistol. He was a tight square-set young fellow, in the customary uniform — a smart blue coat, ornamented with facings and gold lace, but so short behind as to reach scarcely below his waistband, and cocked up not unlike the tail of a wren. A cocked hat, edged with gold lace; a pair of stiff riding boots; but instead of the usual leathern breeches he had a fragment of a pair of drawers that scarcely furnished an apology for modesty to hide behind.

      The estafette galloped up to the door and jumped from his horse.

      “A glass of rosolio, a fresh horse, and a pair of breeches,” said he, “and quickly — I am behind my time, and must be off.”

      “San Genaro!” replied the host, “why, where hast thou left thy garment?”

      “Among the robbers between this and Fondi.”

      “What! rob an estafette! I never heard of such folly. What could they hope to get from thee?”

      “My leather breeches!” replied the estafette. “They were bran new, and shone like gold, and hit the fancy of the captain.”

      “Well, these fellows grow worse and worse. To meddle with an estafette! And that merely for the sake of a pair of leather breeches!”

      The robbing of a government messenger seemed to strike the host with More astonishment than any other enormity that had taken place on the road; and indeed it was the first time so wanton an outrage had been committed; the robbers generally taking care not to meddle with any thing belonging to government.

      The estafette was by this time equipped; for he had not lost an instant in making his preparations while talking. The relay was ready: the rosolio tossed off. He grasped the reins and the stirrup.

      “Were there many robbers in the band?” said a handsome, dark young man, stepping forward from the door of the inn.

      “As formidable a band as ever I saw,” said the estafette, springing into the saddle.

      “Are they cruel to travellers?” said a beautiful young Venetian lady, who had been hanging on the gentleman’s arm.

      “Cruel, signora!” echoed the estafette, giving a glance at the lady as he put spurs to his horse. “Corpo del Bacco! they stiletto all the men, and as to the women—”

      Crack! СКАЧАТЬ