Penny Dreadful Multipack Vol. 1 (Illustrated. Annotated. 'Wagner The Wehr-Wolf,' 'Varney The Vampire,' 'The Mysteries of London Vol. 1' + Bonus Features) (Penny Dreadful Multipacks) (265 page)

 
danseuse
 
actually risked her life - and
all, her limbs. The awkwardness of an underling in shifting a trap-door at the
precise moment would have led her to dash her head against a plank with fearful
violence.
    The art of theatrical dancing is divided into two schools,
called
 
Ballonné
 
and
 
Tacqueté
. The former is the branch in
which Taglioni shines; the latter is that in which Fanny Ellsler excels. The
style of the
 
Ballonné
 
takes its name from the airiness of the balloon; it combines
lightness with grace, and it principally characterized by a breezy and floating
appearance of the figure. The
 
Tacqueté
 
is all vivacity and rapidity, distinguished by sparkling steps and
twinkling measures, executed with wonderful quickness upon the point of the
feet. In both these schools was Ellen instructed.
    So intense was the application of Miss Monroe - so unwearied
was she in her practice, so quick in comprehending the instructions of the
master - so
 
resolute in surmounting all obstacles, that in the. short space of
two months she was a beautiful dancer. The manager was perfectly astonished at
her progress; and he pronounced a most favourable opinion upon her chance of
achieving a grand triumph.
    Her form became all suppleness and lightness; her powers of
relaxation and abandonment of limb were prodigious. When attired in the
delicate drapery of the ballet, nothing could be more beautiful - nothing more
sylph-like, than the elastic airiness of her rich and rounded figure. The grace
of her attitudes - the charm of her dance - the arrangement of that drapery,
which revealed or exhibited the exquisite contours of her form - the classic
loveliness of her countenance - the admirable symmetry of her limbs - and the
brilliant whiteness of her skin, formed a whole so attractive, so ravishing,
that even the envy of her sister-figurantes was subdued by a sentiment of
uncontrollable admiration.
    In obedience to a suggestion from the manager, Ellen agreed
to adopt a well-sounding name. She accordingly styled herself Miss Selina
Fitzherbert. She then learned that at least two-thirds of the gentlemen and
ladies constituting the theatrical company, had changed their original
patronymics into convenient pseudonyms. Thus Timothy Jones had become Gerald
Montgomery; William Wilkins was announced as William Plantagenet; Simon
Snuffles adopted the more aristocratic nomenclature of Emeric Gordon; Benjamin
Glasscock was changed into Horatio Mortimer; Betsy Podkins was distinguished as
Lucinda Hartington; Mary Smicks was displaced by Clara Maberly; Jane Storks was
commuted into Jacintha Runnymede; and so on.
    In her relations with the gentlemen and ladies of the corps.
Ellen (for we shall continue to call her by her real name) found herself in a
new world. Every thing with her present associates might be summed up in the
word -
 
egotism
. To hear them talk, one would have imagined that they were so
many princes and princesses in disguise, who had graciously condescended to
honour the public by appearing upon the stage. The gentlemen were all descended
(according to their own accounts) from the best and most ancient families in
the country; the ladies had all brothers, or cousins, or uncles highly placed
in the army or navy ;- and if any one ventured to express surprise that so many
well-connected individuals should be compelled to adopt the
 
stage as a profession, the answer
was invariably the same- "I entered on this career through preference, and
have quarreled with all my friends in consequence. Oh! if I chose," would
be added, with a toss of the head, "I might have any thing done for me; I
might ride in my carriage; but I am determined to stick to the stage."
    Poor creatures! this innocent little vanity was a species of
reward, a sort of set-off, for long hours of toil, the miseries of a precarious
existence, the moments of bitter anguish produced by the coldness of an
audience, and all the thousand causes of sorrow, vexation, and distress which
embitter the lives of the actor and actress.
    With all their little faults, Ellen found the members of the
theatrical company good-natured creatures, ever ready to assist each other,
hospitable and generous to a fault. In their gay moments, they were sprightly,
full of anecdote, and remarkably entertaining. Many of them were clever, and
exhibited much sound judgment in their remarks and critical observations upon
new dramas and popular works.
    At length the evening arrived when Ellen was to make her
first appearance upon the stage in public. The house was well attended; and the
audience was thrown into a remarkably good humour by the various performances
which preceded the ballet. Ellen was in excellent spirits, and full of
confidence. As she surveyed herself In the glass in her little dressing-room a
few moments before she appeared, a smile of triumph played upon her lips, and
lent fire to her eyes. She was indeed ravishingly beautiful.
    Her success was complete. The loveliness of her person at
once produced an impression in her favour; and when she executed some of the
most difficult measures of the Ballonné school, the enthusiasm of the audience
knew no bounds. The eyes of the ancient libertines, aided by opera-glasses and
 
lorgnettes
, devoured the charms of that
beautiful girl; - the young men followed every motion, every gesture, with
rapturous attention ;- the triumph of the debutante was complete.
    There was something so graceful and yet so voluptuous in her
style of dancing, - something so bewitching in her attitudes and so captivating
in her manner, that she could not have failed to please. And then she had so
well studied all those positions which set off her symmetrical form to its best
advantage, - she had paid such unwearied attention to those measures that were
chiefly calculated to invoke attention to her well-rounded, and yet light and
elastic limbs, - she had so particularly practised those pauses which afforded
her an opportunity of making the most of her fine person, that her dancing
excited pleasure in every sense - delighting the eye, - producing an effect as
of a musical and harmonious feeling in the mind, and exciting in the breasts of
the male portion of the spectators passions of rapture and desire.
    She literally wantoned in the gay and voluptuous dance; at
one moment all rapidity, grace, and airiness; at another suddenly falling into
a pause expressive of a soft and languishing fatigue ;- then again becoming all
energy, activity, and animation,- representing, in all its phases, the soul -
the spirit - the very poetry of the dance!
    At length the toils of her first performance ended. There
was not a dissenting voice, when she was called for before the curtain. And
then, as she came forward, led by the manager, flowers fell around her - and
handkerchiefs were waved by fair hands - and a thousand enthusiastic voices
proclaimed her success. Her hopes were gratified - her aspirations were
fulfilled:- she bad achieved a brilliant triumph!

THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER

AND now commenced a gay and busy life for Ellen Monroe. To account
for her long absence each day from home, was an easy matter; for her father was
readily satisfied, so implicit was the confidence he placed in his daughter's
discretion; and Markham was always buried amongst his books in his study, save
during the intervals occupied by meals.
    Ellen's salary was considerable; and to dispose. of it in a
manner that was not calculated to excite the suspicion of her parent and
benefactor, required more duplicity. She took home with her a small amount
weekly; and the remainder she placed in the hands of a man of business,
recommended to her by the manager.
    Numerous attempts were made by certain young noblemen and
gentlemen, who frequented the theatre, to ascertain where she resided. But this
secret was unknown to every one save the manager, and he kept it religiously.
    Nevertheless, Ellen was persecuted by amatory letters, and
by proposals of a tender nature. A certain favoured few, of the youthful
fashionables above alluded to, were permitted to lounge behind the scenes
during the hours of performance; and with them Ellen was an object of powerful
attraction - indeed,
 
the
 
object of undivided attention and
interest. They perceived that she was as beautiful when surveyed near as she
seemed when viewed from a distance. But, although she would lend a willing ear
to the nonsense and small talk of her wooers, she gave them no direct
encouragement; and, though somewhat free, her manners never afforded a pretense
even for the most daring to overstep the bounds of decency towards her. The
most brilliant offers were conveyed to her in the most delicate terms; but they
were invariably declined with firmness, when oral - and left unanswered, when
written.
    A species of mystery appeared to hang around the charming
danseuse, and only served to render her the more interesting. No one knew who
she was, or whence she came. Her residence was a secret; and she was seen only
at the theatre. There she was reported to be a very paragon of virtue, and had
refused the offers of titled and wealthy men. These circumstances invested her
with those artificial attractions which please the public, and which, when
united with her real qualifications, raised her to a splendid degree of
popularity.
    Although her time was fully occupied, she now and then found
leisure to call at the house of Mr. Wentworth, the surgeon, and pass half an
hour in the company of her child. The little being throve apace; and Ellen felt
for it all a mother's tenderness - a love which was not impaired by that
callousness towards virtue for virtue's sake, which we have before noticed, and
which had been produced in her by the strange scenes through which she had
passed.
    One evening, a short time before she was to appear in the
ballet, the manager informed her that a gentleman desired to speak with her
alone in the green-room. 
    To that apartment did Ellen immediately repair,
 
and, to her surprise, she found
herself in the presence of Mr. Greenwood.
    "Ah! I am not then mistaken," exclaimed that
gentleman, with one of his blandest smiles. " I saw you last night for the
first time; and the moment you appeared upon the stage I knew you - that is, I
felt almost convinced that it was you.  But how happened this strange
event in your life?"
    "My benefactor,
 
Richard Markham
," answered Ellen, with
singular and mysterious emphasis upon the name, "is not wealthy -
 
you
 
best know why; my father is
irretrievably ruined -
 
you
 
also know how :- and, with all my
faults, I could not endure the idea of eating the bread of dependence and
idleness."
    "But why did you not apply to me?" demanded
Greenwood. "I would have placed you above want."
    "No - I would not for worlds be dependent upon
you," replied Ellen warmly. "I appealed to you to support my child -
our child; and you did so. There was only one way in which you could have
manifested a real generosity towards me - and you refused. The service I asked
you once upon my knees - with tears and prayers  -you rejected :- I
implored you to give a father's honourable name to your child - I besought you
to save the reputation of her whose father was ruined through you, and who
herself became your victim by a strange combination of circumstances. You
refused! What
 
less
 
could I accept at
 
your
 
hands? Do you think that I have
not my little sentiments of pride as well as you? I could not live idly :- I
embraced the stage; and my exertions have been crowned with success."
    "And your father - and Richard - do they know of your
present avocation?" demanded Greenwood, somewhat abashed by the bitterness
of the undercurrent of reproach which had characterised the last speech of the
figurante.
    "God forbid!" cried Ellen. "And yet," she
added, after a moment's thought, "I need not be ashamed of earning my
bread by my own honourable exertions."
    "And now, Ellen - one more question," said
Greenwood. "The child - is he well! Is he taken care of?"
    "He is well - and he is duly cared for," was
Ellen's reply; and as she delivered it, she felt an emotion  -almost of
tenderness - in favour of the man who thus inquired, with embarrassment of
manner, after the welfare of their child.
    Greenwood's quick eye noticed the feeling that animated the
young mother's bosom. He took her hand, and drew her towards him. She was so
exquisitely beautiful - so inviting in the light gauze garb which she wore,
that Greenwood's passions were fired, and he longed to make her his mistress.
    Her hand lingered in his ;- he pressed it gently. She did
not seem to notice the circumstance; her eyes were cast down - she was absorbed
in thought.
    Greenwood imprinted a kiss upon her spotless forehead.
    She started, hastily withdrew her hand, and cast upon him a
look of mingled curiosity and reproach.
   "Are you astonished that I should bestow a mark of kind
feeling upon the mother of my child?" asked Greenwood, assuming a soft and
tender tone of voice.
    "That mother," answered Ellen, "whom you
abandoned to shame and dishonour!"
    "Do not reproach me for what is past," said
Greenwood.
    "Would you not act in the same manner over again?"
inquired Ellen, darting a searching glance at the member of Parliament.
    "Why this question, Ellen?" exclaimed Greenwood.
"Will you not believe me if I tell you that I am attached to you? Will you
not give me credit for sincerity, when I declare that I would gladly exert all
the means in my power to make you happy? Why do you look so coldly upon me?
Listen for a moment, Ellen, to what I am about to say. A few miles from London
there is a delicious spot - a perfect Paradise upon earth, a villa surrounded
by charming grounds, and commanding views of the most lovely scenery. That
property is for sale: say but the word - I will purchase it - it shall be
yours; and all the time that I can spare from my numerous avocations shall be
devoted to Ellen and to love."
    "The way to that charming villa, so far as you and I
are concerned," said Ellen, " must lead through the church. Is it
thus that you understand it?"
    "Why destroy the dream of love and happiness which I
had formed, by allusion to the formal ceremonies of this cold world ?"
exclaimed Greenwood.
    "That is the language of every libertine, sir,"
replied Ellen, with bitter irony. "Do not deceive yourself - you cannot
deceive me. I would accept the title of your wife, for the sake of our child ;-
but to be your  mistress - no, never - never."
    With these words Ellen left the green-room; and in a few
minutes she appeared upon the stage - gay, animated, radiant with beauty and
with smiles - the very personification of the voluptuous dance in which she
shone with such unrivalled splendour.
    Five or six evenings after the one on which she had this
interview with Greenwood, Ellen received a note by the post. It was addressed
to her at the theatre, by the name which she had assumed; and its contents ran
as follows - 

    "A certain person who is enamoured of you,
and who is not accustomed to allow trivial obstacles to stand in the way of his
designs, has determined upon carrying you forcibly off to a secluded spot in
the country. He knows where you reside, and has ascertained that you return
every evening from the theatre in a hackney cab to within a short distance of your
abode. His plan is to way-lay you during your walk from the place where you
descend from the vehicle, to your residence. If your suspicions fall upon any
person of your acquaintance, after a perusal of this note, beware how you tax
him with the vile intent ;- beware how you communicate this warning, for by any
imprudence on your part, you may deprive the writer of the means of
counteracting in future the infamous designs which the individual above alluded
to may form against yourself or others."

    This note was written in a neat but curious
hand, which seemed to be that of a foreigner. The reader can well imagine the
painful surprise which its contents produced upon the young figurante. She
however had no difficulty in fixing upon Greenwood as the person who
contemplated the atrocity revealed in that note.
    He alone (save the manager, who was an honourable and
discreet man) knew where she lived; unless, indeed, some other amatory swain
had followed her homeward. This idea perplexed her - it was possible; and yet
she could not help thinking that Greenwood was the person against whom she was
thus warned.
    But who had sent her that friendly notice? Who was the
mysterious individual that had thus generously placed her upon her guard?
Conjecture was useless. She must think only of how she ought to act!
    Her mind was speedily made up. She resolved to ride in the
vehicle of an evening up to the very door
 
of Markham's house, and trust to
her ingenuity for an excuse to satisfy her father relative to this apparent
extravagance on her part. Both Richard and Mr. Monroe put implicit confidence
in her word ;- she had already satisfactorily accounted for the late hours
which her attendance at the theatre compelled her to  keep, by stating
that she was engaged to attend private concerts and musical conversaziones at
the West End - sometimes, even, at Blackheath, Kensington, and Clapham - where
she presided at the piano, in which she was a proficient. Then, when she was
compelled to be present at rehearsals at the theatre, she stated that she had
morning concerts to attend; and as she was not absent from home every a day
(her engagement with the manager being merely to appear three nights a-week)
this system of deception on her part readily obtained credit with both Markham
and her father, neither of whom could seriously object to what they were
induced to believe was the legitimate exercise of her accomplishments.
Accordingly, when, on the morning after the receipt of the mysterious letter,
she casually mentioned that she should no longer return home of an evening by
the omnibus, as she disliked the lonely walk from the main-road, where it set
her down, to the Place, and that her emoluments would now permit her to enjoy
the comfort and safety of a cab, both Richard and her father earnestly
commended her resolution.
    And why did she not tell the truth at once? wherefore did
she not acknowledge the career which she was pursuing, and reveal the triumph
which she had achieved?
    Because she knew that both her father and Markham would
oppose themselves to the idea of her exercising the profession of a dancer ;-
because she had commenced a system of duplicity, and was almost necessitated to
persevere in it ;- and because she really loved - ardently loved - the course upon
which she had entered. The applause of crowded audiences - the smiles of the
manager - the adulation of the young nobles and gentlemen who, behind the
scenes, complimented her upon her success, her talents, and her beauty,- these
were delights which she would not very readily abandon.