The humane manager gave me a situation in his company. I became an actor, and for seven years played the part of second young gentleman in comedies and melodramas; also such parts as Horatio in “Hamlet” or Macduff in “Macbeth.” But my heart was not in my vocation. It had chagrins which I could not stomach.
One evening I was playing the part of a lover. The dramatis persona of whom I was supposed to be enamored was represented by Miss B——, rather a showy, voluptuous figure, but whom I secretly disliked for qualities the reverse of those of Cæsar’s wife. Instead of allowing my aversion to appear, I played with the appropriate ardor. In performing the “business” of the part, I was about to kiss her, when I heard a loud, solitary hiss from a person in an orchestra box. He was a man of a full face, very fair red-and-white complexion, and thick black whiskers,—precisely what a coarse feminine taste would call “a handsome fellow.” Folding my arms, I walked towards the foot-lights, and asked what he wanted. “None of your business, you damned stroller!” replied he; “I have a right to hiss, I suppose.” “And I have a right to pronounce you a blackguard, I suppose,” returned I. The audience applauded my rebuke, and laughed at the handsome man, who, with scarlet cheeks, rose and left the house. I learned he was a Mr. Ratcliff, a rich planter, and an admirer of Miss B——.
Soon after this adventure I quitted the profession, and for some time gave myself up to study. My tastes were rather musical than histrionic; and having from boyhood been a proficient on the piano-forte, I at last, when all my money was exhausted, offered my services to the public as a teacher.
My first pupil was Henri Dufour, the only son of the widow of a French physician. It was soon agreed that, for the greater convenience of Henri, and in payment for his tuition, I should become a member of the family, which was small, consisting only of himself, his mother, Jane, a black slave, and Estelle, a white girl who occupied the position of a humble companion of the widow.
[At this point in the narrative, Mr. Quattles appeared at the head of the stairs, and, with his forefinger placed on the side of his long nose, winked expressively at Colonel Hyde. The latter rose, and said, “Sorry to go, Mr. Vance; but the fak is, I’m in fur a hahnd at euchre, an’ jest cum up ter see ef you’d jine us.”
“You’re too gallant a man, Colonel Delancy Hyde,” replied Vance, “not to agree with me, when I say, Duty to ladies first.”
“Yer may bet yer pile on that, Mr. Vance; the ladies fust ollerz; but Madame will ’scuze me, I reckon. Hahd a high old time, ma’am, last night, an’ an almighty bahd streak of luck. Must make up fur it somehow.”
“Business before pleasure, Colonel,” said Vance. “We’ll excuse you.”
And the Colonel, with a lordly sweep of his arm, by way of a bow, joined his companion, Quattles, to whom he remarked, “A high-tone Suthun gemmleman that, and one as does credit to his raisin’.” The companions having disappeared, Vance proceeded with his story.]
Let me call up before you, if I can, the image of Estelle. In person about three inches shorter than I (and I am five feet six), slender, lithe, and willowy, yet compactly rounded, straight, and singularly graceful in every movement; a neck and bust that might have served Powers for a model when the Greek Slave was taking form in his brain; a head admirably proportioned to all these symmetries; a face rather Grecian than Roman, and which always reminded me of that portrait of Beatrice Cenci by Guido, made so familiar to us through copies and engravings; a portrait tragic as the fate of the original in its serene yet mournful expression. But Estelle’s hair differed from that of Beatrice in not being auburn, but of a rare and beautiful olive tint, almost like the bark of the laburnum-tree, and exquisitely fine and thick. In complexion she could not be called either a blonde or a brunette; although her dark blue eyes seemed to attach her rather to the former classification. She was one of the few beautiful women I have seen, whose beauty was not marred by a besetting self-consciousness of beauty, betrayed in every look and movement, and even in the tones of the voice. In respect to her personal charms Estelle was as unconscious as a moss-rose.