DURING the garden scene, Mr. Vane had begged Mrs. Woffington to let him accompany her. She peremptorily refused, and said in the same breath she was going to Triplet, in Hercules Buildings, to have her portrait finished.
Had Mr. Vane understood the sex, he would not have interpreted her refusal to the letter; when there was a postscript, the meaning of which was so little enigmatical.
Some three hours after the scene we have described, Mrs. Woffington sat in Triplet's apartment; and Triplet, palette in hand, painted away upon her portrait.
Mrs. Woffington was in that languid state which comes to women after their hearts have received a blow. She felt as if life was ended, and but the dregs of existence remained; but at times a flood of bitterness rolled over her, and she resigned all hope of perfect happiness in this world--all hope of loving and respecting the same creature; and at these moments she had but one idea--to use her own power, and bind her lover to her by chains never to be broken; and to close her eyes, and glide down the precipice of the future.
"I think you are master of this art," said she, very languidly, to Triplet, "you paint so rapidly."
"Yes, madam," said Triplet, gloomily; and painted on. "Confound this shadow!" added he; and painted on.
His soul, too, was clouded. Mrs. Woffington, yawning in his face, had told him she had invited all Mr. Vane's company to come and praise his work; and ever since that he had been _morne et silencieux._
"You are fortunate," continued Mrs. Woffington, not caring what she said;
"it is so difficult to make execution keep pace with conception."
"Yes, ma'am;" and he painted on.
"You are satisfied with it?"
"Anything but, ma'am;" and he painted on.
"Cheerful soul!--then I presume it is like?"
"Not a bit, ma'am;" and he painted on.
Mrs. Woffington stretched.
"You can't yawn, ma'am--you can't yawn."
"Oh, yes, I can. You are such good company;" and she stretched again.
"I was just about to catch the turn of the lip," remonstrated Triplet.
"Well, catch it--it won't run away."
"I'll try, ma'am. A pleasant half-hour it will be for me, when they all come here like cits at a shilling ordinary--each for his cut."
"At a sensitive goose!"
"That is as may be, madam. Those critics flay us alive!"
"You should not hold so many doors open to censure."
"No, ma'am. Head a little more that way. I suppose you _can't_ sit quiet, ma'am?--then never mind!" (This resignation was intended as a stinging reproach.) "Mr. Cibber, with his sneering snuff-box! Mr. Quin, with his humorous bludgeon! Mrs. Clive, with her tongue! Mr. Snarl, with his abuse! And Mr. Soaper, with his praise!--arsenic in treacle I call it!
But there, I deserve it all! For look on this picture, and on this!"
"Meaning, I am painted as well as my picture!"
"Oh, no, no, no! But to turn from your face, madam--on which the lightning of expression plays, continually--to this stony, detestable, dead daub!--I could-- And I will, too! Imposture! dead caricature of life and beauty, take that!" and he dashed his palette-knife through the canvas. "Libelous lie against nature and Mrs. Woffington, take that!" and he stabbed the canvas again; then, with sudden humility: "I beg your pardon, ma'am," said he, "for this apparent outrage, which I trust you will set down to the excitement attendant upon failure. The fact is, I am an incapable ass, and no painter! Others have often hinted as much; but I never observed it myself till now!"
"Right through my pet dimple!" said Mrs. Woffington, with perfect _nonchalance._ "Well, now I suppose I may yawn, or do what I like?"
"You may, madam," said Triplet, gravely. "I have forfeited what little control I had over you, madam."
So they sat opposite each other, in mournful silence. At length the actress suddenly rose. She struggled fiercely against her depression, and vowed that melancholy should not benumb her spirits and her power.
"He ought to have been here by this time," said she to herself. "Well, I will not mope for him. I must do something. Triplet," said she.
"Madam."
"Nothing."
"No, madam."
She sat gently down again, and leaned her head on her hand, and thought.
She was beautiful as she thought!--her body seemed bristling with mind!
At last, her thoughtful gravity was illumined by a smile. She had thought out something _excogitaverat._
"Triplet, the picture is quite ruined!"
"Yes, madam. And a coach-load of criticism coming!"
"Triplet, we actors and actresses have often bright ideas."
"Yes, ma am."
"When we take other people's!"
"He, he!" went Triplet. "Those are our best, madam!"
"Well, sir, I have got a bright idea."
"You don't say so, ma'am!"
"Don't be a brute, dear!" said the lady gravely.
Triplet stared!
"When I was in France, taking lessons of Dumesnil, one of the actors of the Theatre Francais had his portrait painted by a rising artist. The others were to come and see it. They determined, beforehand, to mortify the painter and the sitter, by abusing the work in good set terms. But somehow this got wind, and the patients resolved to be the physicians.
They put their heads together, and contrived that the living face should be in the canvas, surrounded by the accessories; these, of course, were painted. Enter the actors, who played their little prearranged farce; and, when they had each given the picture a slap, the picture rose and laughed in their faces, and discomfited them! By the by, the painter did not stop there; he was not content with a short laugh, he laughed at them five hundred years!"
"Good gracious, Mrs. Woffington!"
"He painted a picture of the whole thing; and as his work is immortal, ours an April snow-flake, he has got tremendously the better of those rash little satirists. Well, Trip, what is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose; so give me the sharpest knife in the house."
