Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон - What Will He Do with It? — Complete

“Worth!” cried the ladies—“Beauty!” exclaimed the Mayor. “Wonderful, wonderful!”

“Take up the hat,” said the child, and turning to the Mayor—“Ah! tell him, sir, that what Worth and Beauty give to Valour in distress is not alms but tribute.”

The words were little better than a hack claptrap; but the sweet voice glided through the assembly, and found its way into every heart.

“Is it so?” asked the old soldier, as his hand hoveringly passed above the coins. “Upon my honour it is, sir!” said the Mayor, with serious emphasis. The audience thought it the best speech he had ever made in his life, and cheered him till the roof rang again. “Oh! bread, bread, for you, darling!” cried the veteran, bowing his head over the child, and taking out his cross and kissing it with passion; “and the badge of honour still for me!”

While the audience was in the full depth of its emotion, and generous tears in many an eye, Waife seized his moment, dropped the actor, and stepped forth to the front as the man—simple, quiet, earnest man—artless man!

“This is no mimic scene, ladies and gentlemen. It is a tale in real life that stands out before you. I am here to appeal to those hearts that are not vainly open to human sorrows. I plead for what I have represented. True, that the man who needs your aid is not one of that soldiery which devastated Europe. But he has fought in battles as severe, and been left by fortune to as stern a desolation. True, he is not a Frenchman; he is one of a land you will not love less than France,—it is your own. He, too, has a child whom he would save from famine. He, too, has nothing left to sell or to pawn for bread,—except—oh, not this gilded badge, see, this is only foil and cardboard,—except, I say, the thing itself, of which you respect even so poor a symbol,—nothing left to sell or to pawn but Honour! For these I have pleaded this night as a showman; for these, less haughty than the Frenchman, I stretch my hands towards you without shame; for these I am a beggar.”

He was silent. The dog quietly took up the hat and approached the Mayor again. The Mayor extracted the half-crown he had previously deposited, and dropped into the hat two golden sovereigns. Who does not guess the rest? All crowded forward,—youth and age, man and woman. And most ardent of all were those whose life stands most close to vicissitude, most exposed to beggary, most sorely tried in the alternative between bread and honour. Not an operative there but spared his mite.

Omne ignotum pro magnifico.—Rumour, knowing nothing of his antecedents, exalts Gentleman Waife into Don Magnifico.

The Comedian and his two coadjutors were followed to the Saracen’s Head inn by a large crowd, but at respectful distance. Though I know few things less pleasing than to have been decoyed and entrapped into an unexpected demand upon one’s purse,—when one only counted, too, upon an agreeable evening,—and hold, therefore, in just abhorrence the circulating plate which sometimes follows a public oration, homily, or other eloquent appeal to British liberality; yet, I will venture to say, there was not a creature whom the Comedian had surprised into impulsive beneficence who regretted his action, grudged its cost, or thought he had paid too dear for his entertainment. All had gone through a series of such pleasurable emotions that all had, as it were, wished a vent for their gratitude; and when the vent was found, it became an additional pleasure. But, strange to say, no one could satisfactorily explain to himself these two questions,—for what, and to whom had he given his money? It was not a general conjecture that the exhibitor wanted the money for his own uses. No; despite the evidence in favour of that idea, a person so respectable, so dignified, addressing them, too, with that noble assurance to which a man who begs for himself is not morally entitled,—a person thus characterized must be some high-hearted philanthropist who condescended to display his powers at an Institute purely intellectual, perhaps on behalf of an eminent but decayed author, whose name, from the respect due to letters, was delicately concealed. Mr. Williams, considered the hardest head and most practical man in the town, originated and maintained that hypothesis. Probably the stranger was an author himself, a great and affluent author. Had not great and affluent authors—men who are the boast of our time and land—acted, yea, on a common stage, and acted inimitably too, on behalf of some lettered brother or literary object? Therefore in these guileless minds, with all the pecuniary advantages of extreme penury and forlorn position, the Comedian obtained the respect due to prosperous circumstances and high renown. But there was one universal wish expressed by all who had been present, as they took their way homeward; and that wish was to renew the pleasure they had experienced, even if they paid the same price for it. Could not the long-closed theatre be re-opened, and the great man be induced by philanthropic motives, and an assured sum raised by voluntary subscriptions, to gratify the whole town, as he had gratified its selected intellect? Mr. Williams, in a state of charitable thaw, now softest of the soft, like most hard men when once softened, suggested this idea to the Mayor. The Mayor said evasively that he would think of it, and that he intended to pay his respects to Mr. Chapman before he returned home, that very night: it was proper. Mr. Williams and many others wished to accompany his worship. But the kind magistrate suggested that Mr. Chapman would be greatly fatigued: that the presence of many might seem more an intrusion than a compliment; that he, the Mayor, had better go alone, and at a somewhat later hour, when Mr. Chapman, though not retired to bed, might have had time for rest and refreshment. This delicate consideration had its weight; and the streets were thin when the Mayor’s gig stopped, on its way villa-wards, at the Saracen’s Head.

It is the interval between our first repinings and our final resignation, in which, both with individuals and communities, is to be found all that makes a history worth telling. Ere yet we yearn for what is out of our reach, we are still in the cradle. When wearied out with our yearnings, desire again falls asleep; we are on the deathbed.

Sophy (leaning on her grandfather’s arm as they ascend the stair of the Saracen’s Head).—“But I am so tired, Grandy: I’d rather go to bed at once, please!”

GENTLEMAN WAIFE.—“Surely you could take something to eat first—something nice,—Miss Chapman?”—(Whispering close), “We can live in clover now,—a phrase which means” (aloud to the landlady, who crossed the landing-place above) “grilled chicken and mushrooms for supper, ma’am! Why don’t you smile, Sopby? Oh, darling, you are ill!”

“No, no, Grandy, dear; only tired: let me go to bed. I shall be better to-morrow; I shall indeed!”

Waife looked fondly into her face, but his spirits were too much exhilarated to allow him to notice the unusual flush upon her cheek, except with admiration of the increased beauty which the heightened colour gave to her soft features.

“Well,” said he, “you are a pretty child!—a very pretty child, and you act wonderfully. You would make a fortune on the stage; but—”

SOPHY (eagerly).—“But—no, no, never!—not the stage!”

WAIFE.—“I don’t wish you to go on the stage, as you know. A private exhibition—like the one to-night, for instance—has” (thrusting his hand into his pocket) “much to recommend it.”

SOPHY (with a sigh).—“Thank Heaven! that is over now; and you’ll not be in want of money for a long, long time! Dear Sir Isaac!”