Glancing over the bill we meet with one or two of Thackeray’s names. We have Farintosh, we have Poyntz. Mere indications these. But useful, nevertheless, as evidence in confirmation of our theory—straws indicating from what quarter the wind of inspiration blows. When the curtain rises we meet with something more convincing than indications.
We meet, for example, with Beau Farintosh. It would be silliness to attempt to identify Mr. Robertson’s Beau Farintosh with any of Thackeray’s characters. The points of dissimilarity are almost as numerous as the points of similarity to that character which he most resembles. But what reader of the History of Pendennis, having seen School, was not constantly reminded by Beau Farintosh of that delightful but godless old dandy Major Pendennis, who, as we all know, “could not have faced the day without his two hours’ toilet.” Major Pendennis had a nephew; so has Beau Farintosh. The name of the Pendennis nephew was Arthur; Beau Farintosh’s nephew is an Arthur too. But the resemblance does not confine itself to names. Before Farintosh has been ten minutes on the stage he gives his nephew sundry sage but dreadfully worldly counsels on the subject of marriage, which set us thinking of very similar advices confided years ago by Major Pendennis to his nephew. In manner also the Beau possesses a strong family likeness to the Major. There are little peculiarities of thought and expression common to both. Major Pendennis especially, when conversing with an author, was wont to adorn his conversation with little allusions and quotations, just as samples of what he could do were he so intended, “Tempora mutantur, egad. And whatever is, is right, as Shakspeare says,” said the Major one afternoon in Pall Mall. The Beau is equally happy in his allusions. “Arthur, Arthur, this is blasphemy—atheism—reminds me of Burke and Hare—and, and, Voltaire.” Perhaps on scientific matters the Beau surpasses the Major. In act ii. of School one of the young ladies has given an answer displaying a more than ordinary amount of stupidity, upon which the Beau expresses his delight by declaring that “She’s a remarkable girl; a perfect Sir Humphrey Davy, begad.” How the Beau’s studied compliments to the young ladies, of whom he “can’t distinguish a feature,” seem familiar to us. And as to his “God bless you, Arthur,” Pendennis senior has said it to Pendennis junior a hundred times. The two characters most resemble each other (I should rather say, remind us most of each other; for, in good sooth, the characters differ most at this point, though the resemblance of manner is strongest) towards the close of the comedy, and towards the close of the novel. I Beau Farintosh’s interview with his nephew in the last act of the play will bear a not unfavourable comparison with those passages in chapter seventy of Pendennis, in which the Major beseeches Arthur to marry Blanche Amory, “Arthur,” says Major Pendennis, “for the sake of a poor broken-down old fellow who has always been dev’lish fond of you, don’t fling this chance away—I pray you—I beg you . . . dammy, on my knees, there, I beg of you don’t do this.” Then when Arthur’s resolution shatters the fond hopes of the old soldier, he goes on, “I’ve done my best, and said my say; and I’m a dev’lish old fellow. And—and—it don’t matter. And—and Shakspeare was right—and Cardinal Wolsey, begad—and had I but served my God as I have served you—yes, on my knees by Jove, to my own nephew—I mightn’t have been— Good night, sir, you needn’t trouble yourself to call again.” This is, of course, inimitable. The master-hand is there. But the later author has put a pathos into the Beau’s confession of old age—confession after so many years of hair from Truefitts, and bloom from Bond Street, too forceful to be ludicrous. And the tears which he makes the repentant old sinner shed are too genuine to be thought other than natural.
In the plays of Mr. Robertson it is a general resemblance to the novels of Thackeray which arrests us, and not so much a similarity of particular characters. Ever and anon we happen upon little well-known touches, peculiarities of expression, turns of sentiment, moralisings, teachings, which convince us of the justice of our assumption. They are impressions of “the touch of a vanish’d hand.” They are echoes “of a voice that is still.” Thackeray very largely adopted a strain, half satire, half banter, with regard to certain shams both in high and low places. Some people, who didn’t know the meaning of words, called this strain cynicism. And, at one time, it was considered quite the fashion to dub Thackeray a cynic. People know better now, let us hope. This note, or strain, is easy of detection in School. In act i. it is particularly noticeable.
There is one scene in the play—in the third act—which has been regarded with especial admiration by the public; and concerning which some of the journals have gone into ecstasies. It is a scene, however, concerning the merit of which there is a difference of opinion. When a thing is loudly praised by the Philistines, the children of light turn up their noses. We are referring to the moonlight scene, in which Bella and Lord Beaufoy are the actors. To us the bit of sentiment about the jug is a touch worthy of Sterne. The comparison of the shadows, and the allusions to the distance of the moon, are very susceptible of burlesque. But when in Vanity Fair we read of Miss Sharp’s walk in the moonlight with Captain Osborne, and listen to her as she says, “Who’d think the moon was two hundred and thirty-six thousand eight hundred and forty-seven miles off?” it never occurs to us to burlesque that.
The letter of Jack Poyntz to Naomi Tighe is just such a composition as Thackeray would attribute to a young officer of the Poyntz stamp; even to the bad spelling. “He spells cochineal with two ee’s,” says Naomi on reading the letter; though, we should scarcely imagine, from Naomi’s previous appearances, that she was the most competent to decide on matters of orthography. However, “with two ees” is exactly the way in which Rawdon Crawley would have spelt cochineal, if the ever-watchful Becky were not looking over his shoulder.
The influence of the most popular English novelist has for some years been very potent on the stage. Imitators of Mr. Dickens do alarmingly abound in these days. And so it happens that we can scarcely enter a theatre without a strong foreboding that we are about to be entertained by some thief from Whitechapel, whose highest notion of fun consists in making “v” and “w” interchangeable; or some turfy clerk from the City, who relies for his power of attraction principally upon his “get up.” That this is no fault of the novelist (of whom we can never have too much) we readily admit. The followers of Mr. Thackeray are less numerous, and anything that indicates a spread of his influence on the modern stage is worthy of note. Whatever may he said about Mr. Robertson’s originality, the public is right in applauding his efforts. This applause is at once an unconscious tribute to the genius of Thackeray, and a mark of appreciation of Mr. Robertson’s ability. It will surely be a matter for congratulation when eccentricities, whether from St. Giles’s or St. James’s, are driven from the boards, and when in their place we have put before us the men and women—or something like them—which we meet in real life, and in the pages of Vanity Fair, Pendennis, and The Newcomes.
One does not like to close a notice of this kind without some mention of the actors, on whose efforts much of the success of the piece depends. In having such a company as that of the Prince of Wales’ Theatre to undertake his characters Mr. Robertson is especially fortunate. Miss Wilton is perfection. Mr. Hare has genius, and his acting evinces careful study. The other performers are so excellent, each in his or her own way, that unless we mentioned all of them we dare not mention any; and, indeed, any notice now is somewhat after date, for has not all London seen the play, and all Pressdom said its say anent the same?