THE MAID OF HONOUR.
The Adelphi “Correspondent from Paris” has favoured that Theatre with an adaptation of Scribe’s “Verre d’Eau,” which he has called “The Maid of Honour.”
Everybody must remember that, last year, the trifling affair of the British Government was settled by the far more momentous consideration of who should be Ladies of the Bed-chamber. The Parisians, seeing the dramatic capabilities of this incident, put it into a farce, resting the whole affair upon the shoulders of a former Queen whose Court was similarly circumstanced. This is the piece which Mr. Yates has had the daring to get done into English, and transplanted into Spain, and interspersed with embroidery, confectionary, and a Spanish sentence; the last judiciously entrusted to that accomplished linguist, Mr. John Saunders.
Soon after the rising of the curtain, we behold the figure of Mr. Yates displayed to great advantage in the dress usually assigned to Noodle and Doodle in the tragedy of “Tom Thumb.” He represents the Count Ollivarez, and the head of a political party—the opposition. The Court faction having for its chief the Duchess of Albafurez, who being Mistress of the Queen’s robes is of course her favourite; for the millinery department of the country which can boast of a Queen Regnant is of far higher importance than foreign or financial affairs, justice, police, or war—consequently, the chief of the wardrobe is far more exalted and better beloved than a mere Premier or Secretary of State. The Count is planning an intrigue, the agents of which are to be Henrico, a Court page, and Felicia, a court milliner. Not being able to make much of the page, he turns over a new leaf, and addresses himself to the dress-maker; so, after a few preliminary hems, he draws out the thread of his purpose to her, and cuts out an excellent pattern for her guidance, which if she implicitly follow will assuredly make her a Maid of Honour.
A comedy without mystery is Punch without a joke; Yates without a speech to the audience on a first night; or Bartley’s pathos without a pocket-handkerchief. The Court page soon opens the book of imbroglio. He is made a Captain of the Queen’s Guard by some unknown hand; he has always been protected by the same unseen benefactor, who, as if to guard him from every ill that flesh is heir to, showers on him his or her favours upon condition that he never marries! “Happy man,” exclaims the Count. “Not at all,” answers the other, “I am in love with Felicia!” Nobody is surprised at this, for it is a rule amongst dramatists never to forbid the banns until the banned, poor devil, is on the steps of the altar. Henrico, now a Captain, goes off to flesh his sword; meets with an insult, and by the greatest good luck kills his antagonist in the precincts of the palace; so that if he be not hanged for murder, his fortune is made. The victim is the Count’s cousin, to whom he is next of kin. “Good Heavens!” ejaculates Ollivarez, “You have made yourself a criminal, and me—a Duke! Horrible!”
By the way, this same Henrico, as performed by that excellent swimmer (in the water-piece), Mr. Spencer Forde, forms a very entertaining character. His imperturbable calmness while uttering the heart-stirring words, assigned by the author to his own description of the late affair-of-honourable assassination, was highly edifying to the philosophic mind. The pleasing and amiable tones in which he stated how irretrievably he was ruined, the dulcet sweetness of the farewell to his heart’s adored, the mathematical exactitude of his position while embracing her, the cool deliberation which marked his exit—offered a picture of calm stoicism just on the point of tumbling over the precipice of destruction not to be equalled—not, at least, since those halcyon dramatic days when Osbaldiston leased Covent Garden, and played Pierre.
Somehow or other—for one must not be too particular about the wherefores of stage political intrigues—Felicia is promoted from the office of making dresses for the Queen to that of putting them on. Behold her a maid of honour and of all-work; for the Queen takes her into her confidence, and in that case people at Court have an immense variety of duties to perform. The Duchess’s place is fast becoming a sinecure, and she trembles for her influence—perhaps, in case of dismissal, for her next quarter’s salary to boot—so she shakes in her shoes.
It is at this stage of the plot that we perceive why the part of Henrico was entrusted to the gentleman who plays it,—the mystery we have alluded to being by this arrangement very considerably increased; for we now learn that no fewer than three ladies in the piece are in love with him, namely, Felicia, the Queen, and the Duchess. Now the most penetrating auditor would never, until actually informed of the fact, for a moment suspect a Queen, or even a Duchess, of such bad taste; for, as far as our experience goes, we have generally found that women do not cast their affections to men who are sheepish, insensible, cold, ungainly, with small voices, and not more than five feet high. Surprise artfully excited and cleverly satisfied is the grand aim of the dramatist. How completely is it here fulfilled! for when we discover that the personator of Henrico is meant for an Adonis, we are astonished.
The truth is then, that the secret benefactor of this supposed-to-be irresistible youth has always been the Duchess Albafurez, who, learning from Ollivarez that her pet has new claims upon her heart for having killed her friend the Duke, determines to assist him to escape, which however is not at all necessary, for Ollivarez is entrusted with the warrant for apprehending the person or persons unknown who did the murder. But could he injure the man who has made him a Duke by a lucky coup-d’épée? No, no. Let him cross the frontier; and, when he is out of reach, what thundering denunciations will not the possessor of the dukedom fulminate against the killer of his cousin! It is shocking to perceive how intimately acquainted old Scribe must be with manners, customs, and feelings, as they exist at Court.
The necessary passports are placed before the Queen for her signature (perhaps her Spanish Majesty can’t afford clerks); but when she perceives whom they threaten to banish from behind her chair, she declines honouring them with her autograph. The Duchess thus learns her secret. “She, too, love Henrico? Well I never!” About this time a tornado of jealousy may be expected; but court etiquette prevents it from bursting; and the Duchess reserves her revenge, the Queen sits down to her embroidery frame, and one is puzzled to know what is coming next.