I Might As Well Have Attempted To Fill Out
His Clothes As His Characters.
When we had a dialogue together, I was
nothing before him, with my slender voice and discriminating manner.
I
might as well have attempted to parry a cudgel with a small sword. If
he found me in any way gaining ground upon him, he would take refuge in
his mighty voice, and throw his tones like peals of thunder at me,
until they were drowned in the still louder thunders of applause from
the audience.
To tell the truth, I suspect that I was not shown fair play, and that
there was management at the bottom; for without vanity, I think I was a
better actor than he. As I had not embarked in the vagabond line
through ambition, I did not repine at lack of preferment; but I was
grieved to find that a vagrant life was not without its cares and
anxieties, and that jealousies, intrigues, and mad ambition were to be
found even among vagabonds.
Indeed, as I become more familiar with my situation, and the delusions
of fancy began to fade away, I discovered that my associates were not
the happy careless creatures I had at first imagined them. They were
jealous of each other's talents; they quarrelled about parts, the same
as the actors on the grand theatres; they quarrelled about dresses; and
there was one robe of yellow silk, trimmed with red, and a head-dress
of three rumpled ostrich feathers, which were continually setting the
ladies of the company by the ears. Even those who had attained the
highest honors were not more happy than the rest; for Mr. Flimsey
himself, our first tragedian, and apparently a jovial, good-humored
fellow, confessed to me one day, in the fullness of his heart, that he
was a miserable man. He had a brother-in-law, a relative by marriage,
though not by blood, who was manager of a theatre in a small country
town. And this same brother, ("a little more than kin, but less than
kind,") looked down upon him, and treated him with contumely, because
forsooth he was but a strolling player. I tried to console him with the
thoughts of the vast applause he daily received, but it was all in
vain. He declared that it gave him no delight, and that he should never
be a happy man until the name of Flimsey rivalled the name of Crimp.
How little do those before the scenes know of what passes behind; how
little can they judge, from the countenances of actors, of what is
passing in their hearts. I have known two lovers quarrel like cats
behind the scenes, who were, the moment after, ready to fly into each
other's embraces. And I have dreaded, when our Belvidera was to take
her farewell kiss of her Jaffier, lest she should bite a piece out of
his cheek. Our tragedian was a rough joker off the stage; our prime
clown the most peevish mortal living.
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