Chapter: In Which a Charade Is Acted Which May or May Not Puzzle the Reader

After Becky's appearance at my Lord Steyne's private and select
parties, the claims of that estimable woman as regards fashion were
settled, and some of the very greatest and tallest doors in the
metropolis were speedily opened to her--doors so great and tall that
the beloved reader and writer hereof may hope in vain to enter at them.
Dear brethren, let us tremble before those august portals.  I fancy
them guarded by grooms of the chamber with flaming silver forks with
which they prong all those who have not the right of the entree. They
say the honest newspaper-fellow who sits in the hall and takes down the
names of the great ones who are admitted to the feasts dies after a
little time.  He can't survive the glare of fashion long.  It scorches
him up, as the presence of Jupiter in full dress wasted that poor
imprudent Semele--a giddy moth of a creature who ruined herself by
venturing out of her natural atmosphere. Her myth ought to be taken to
heart amongst the Tyburnians, the Belgravians--her story, and perhaps
Becky's too. Ah, ladies!--ask the Reverend Mr. Thurifer if Belgravia is
not a sounding brass and Tyburnia a tinkling cymbal.  These are
vanities. Even these will pass away.  And some day or other (but it
will be after our time, thank goodness) Hyde Park Gardens will be no
better known than the celebrated horticultural outskirts of Babylon,
and Belgrave Square will be as desolate as Baker Street, or Tadmor in
the wilderness.

Ladies, are you aware that the great Pitt lived in Baker Street? What
would not your grandmothers have given to be asked to Lady Hester's
parties in that now decayed mansion? I have dined in it--moi qui vous
parle, I peopled the chamber with ghosts of the mighty dead. As we sat
soberly drinking claret there with men of to-day, the spirits of the
departed came in and took their places round the darksome board.  The
pilot who weathered the storm tossed off great bumpers of spiritual
port; the shade of Dundas did not leave the ghost of a heeltap.
Addington sat bowing and smirking in a ghastly manner, and would not be
behindhand when the noiseless bottle went round; Scott, from under
bushy eyebrows, winked at the apparition of a beeswing; Wilberforce's
eyes went up to the ceiling, so that he did not seem to know how his
glass went up full to his mouth and came down empty; up to the ceiling
which was above us only yesterday, and which the great of the past days
have all looked at. They let the house as a furnished lodging now.
Yes, Lady Hester once lived in Baker Street, and lies asleep in the
wilderness. Eothen saw her there--not in Baker Street, but in the other
solitude.

It is all vanity to be sure, but who will not own to liking a little of
it? I should like to know what well-constituted mind, merely because it
is transitory, dislikes roast beef? That is a vanity, but may every man
who reads this have a wholesome portion of it through life, I beg:
aye, though my readers were five hundred thousand. Sit down, gentlemen,
and fall to, with a good hearty appetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy,
the horse-radish as you like it--don't spare it.  Another glass of
wine, Jones, my boy--a little bit of the Sunday side.  Yes, let us eat
our fill of the vain thing and be thankful therefor. And let us make
the best of Becky's aristocratic pleasures likewise--for these too,
like all other mortal delights, were but transitory.

The upshot of her visit to Lord Steyne was that His Highness the Prince
of Peterwaradin took occasion to renew his acquaintance with Colonel
Crawley, when they met on the next day at the Club, and to compliment
Mrs. Crawley in the Ring of Hyde Park with a profound salute of the
hat.  She and her husband were invited immediately to one of the
Prince's small parties at Levant House, then occupied by His Highness
during the temporary absence from England of its noble proprietor.  She
sang after dinner to a very little comite. The Marquis of Steyne was
present, paternally superintending the progress of his pupil.

At Levant House Becky met one of the finest gentlemen and greatest
ministers that Europe has produced--the Duc de la Jabotiere, then
Ambassador from the Most Christian King, and subsequently Minister to
that monarch.  I declare I swell with pride as these august names are
transcribed by my pen, and I think in what brilliant company my dear
Becky is moving.  She became a constant guest at the French Embassy,
where no party was considered to be complete without the presence of
the charming Madame Ravdonn Cravley.  Messieurs de Truffigny (of the
Perigord family) and Champignac, both attaches of the Embassy, were
straightway smitten by the charms of the fair Colonel's wife, and both
declared, according to the wont of their nation (for who ever yet met a
Frenchman, come out of England, that has not left half a dozen families
miserable, and brought away as many hearts in his pocket-book?), both,
I say, declared that they were au mieux with the charming Madame
Ravdonn.

But I doubt the correctness of the assertion.  Champignac was very fond
of ecarte, and made many parties with the Colonel of evenings, while
Becky was singing to Lord Steyne in the other room; and as for
Truffigny, it is a well-known fact that he dared not go to the
Travellers', where he owed money to the waiters, and if he had not had
the Embassy as a dining-place, the worthy young gentleman must have
starved.  I doubt, I say, that Becky would have selected either of
these young men as a person on whom she would bestow her special
regard.  They ran of her messages, purchased her gloves and flowers,
went in debt for opera-boxes for her, and made themselves amiable in a
thousand ways.  And they talked English with adorable simplicity, and
to the constant amusement of Becky and my Lord Steyne, she would mimic
one or other to his face, and compliment him on his advance in the
English language with a gravity which never failed to tickle the
Marquis, her sardonic old patron. Truffigny gave Briggs a shawl by way
of winning over Becky's confidante, and asked her to take charge of a
letter which the simple spinster handed over in public to the person to
whom it was addressed, and the composition of which amused everybody
who read it greatly. Lord Steyne read it, everybody but honest Rawdon,
to whom it was not necessary to tell everything that passed in the
little house in May Fair.

Here, before long, Becky received not only "the best" foreigners (as
the phrase is in our noble and admirable society slang), but some of
the best English people too. I don't mean the most virtuous, or indeed
the least virtuous, or the cleverest, or the stupidest, or the richest,
or the best born, but "the best,"--in a word, people about whom there
is no question--such as the great Lady Fitz-Willis, that Patron Saint
of Almack's, the great Lady Slowbore, the great Lady Grizzel Macbeth
(she was Lady G.  Glowry, daughter of Lord Grey of Glowry), and the
like.  When the Countess of Fitz-Willis (her Ladyship is of the
Kingstreet family, see Debrett and Burke) takes up a person, he or she
is safe.  There is no question about them any more.  Not that my Lady
Fitz-Willis is any better than anybody else, being, on the contrary, a
faded person, fifty-seven years of age, and neither handsome, nor
wealthy, nor entertaining; but it is agreed on all sides that she is of
the "best people." Those who go to her are of the best:  and from an
old grudge probably to Lady Steyne (for whose coronet her ladyship,
then the youthful Georgina Frederica, daughter of the Prince of Wales's
favourite, the Earl of Portansherry, had once tried), this great and
famous leader of the fashion chose to acknowledge Mrs. Rawdon Crawley;
made her a most marked curtsey at the assembly over which she presided;
and not only encouraged her son, St.  Kitts (his lordship got his place
through Lord Steyne's interest), to frequent Mrs. Crawley's house, but
asked her to her own mansion and spoke to her twice in the most public
and condescending manner during dinner.  The important fact was known
all over London that night.  People who had been crying fie about Mrs.
Crawley were silent.  Wenham, the wit and lawyer, Lord Steyne's
right-hand man, went about everywhere praising her:  some who had
hesitated, came forward at once and welcomed her; little Tom Toady, who
had warned Southdown about visiting such an abandoned woman, now
besought to be introduced to her.  In a word, she was admitted to be
among the "best" people.  Ah, my beloved readers and brethren, do not
envy poor Becky prematurely--glory like this is said to be fugitive.
It is currently reported that even in the very inmost circles, they are
no happier than the poor wanderers outside the zone; and Becky, who
penetrated into the very centre of fashion and saw the great George IV
face to face, has owned since that there too was Vanity.

We must be brief in descanting upon this part of her career.  As I
cannot describe the mysteries of freemasonry, although I have a shrewd
idea that it is a humbug, so an uninitiated man cannot take upon
himself to portray the great world accurately, and had best keep his
opinions to himself, whatever they are.

Becky has often spoken in subsequent years of this season of her life,
when she moved among the very greatest circles of the London fashion.
Her success excited, elated, and then bored her.  At first no
occupation was more pleasant than to invent and procure (the latter a
work of no small trouble and ingenuity, by the way, in a person of Mrs.
Rawdon Crawley's very narrow means)--to procure, we say, the prettiest
new dresses and ornaments; to drive to fine dinner parties, where she
was welcomed by great people; and from the fine dinner parties to fine
assemblies, whither the same people came with whom she had been dining,
whom she had met the night before, and would see on the morrow--the
young men faultlessly appointed, handsomely cravatted, with the neatest
glossy boots and white gloves--the elders portly, brass-buttoned,
noble-looking, polite, and prosy--the young ladies blonde, timid, and
in pink--the mothers grand, beautiful, sumptuous, solemn, and in
diamonds.  They talked in English, not in bad French, as they do in the
novels.  They talked about each others' houses, and characters, and
families--just as the Joneses do about the Smiths.  Becky's former
acquaintances hated and envied her; the poor woman herself was yawning
in spirit. "I wish I were out of it," she said to herself.  "I would
rather be a parson's wife and teach a Sunday school than this; or a
sergeant's lady and ride in the regimental waggon; or, oh, how much
gayer it would be to wear spangles and trousers and dance before a
booth at a fair."

"You would do it very well," said Lord Steyne, laughing. She used to
tell the great man her ennuis and perplexities in her artless way--they
amused him.

"Rawdon would make a very good Ecuyer--Master of the Ceremonies--what
do you call him--the man in the large boots and the uniform, who goes
round the ring cracking the whip? He is large, heavy, and of a military
figure.  I recollect," Becky continued pensively, "my father took me to
see a show at Brookgreen Fair when I was a child, and when we came
home, I made myself a pair of stilts and danced in the studio to the
wonder of all the pupils."

"I should have liked to see it," said Lord Steyne.

"I should like to do it now," Becky continued.  "How Lady Blinkey would
open her eyes, and Lady Grizzel Macbeth would stare!  Hush! silence!
there is Pasta beginning to sing." Becky always made a point of being
conspicuously polite to the professional ladies and gentlemen who
attended at these aristocratic parties--of following them into the
corners where they sat in silence, and shaking hands with them, and
smiling in the view of all persons.  She was an artist herself, as she
said very truly; there was a frankness and humility in the manner in
which she acknowledged her origin, which provoked, or disarmed, or
amused lookers-on, as the case might be. "How cool that woman is," said
one; "what airs of independence she assumes, where she ought to sit
still and be thankful if anybody speaks to her!" "What an honest and
good-natured soul she is!" said another. "What an artful little minx"
said a third.  They were all right very likely, but Becky went her own
way, and so fascinated the professional personages that they would
leave off their sore throats in order to sing at her parties and give
her lessons for nothing.

Yes, she gave parties in the little house in Curzon Street.  Many
scores of carriages, with blazing lamps, blocked up the street, to the
disgust of No. 100, who could not rest for the thunder of the knocking,
and of 102, who could not sleep for envy.  The gigantic footmen who
accompanied the vehicles were too big to be contained in Becky's little
hall, and were billeted off in the neighbouring public-houses, whence,
when they were wanted, call-boys summoned them from their beer. Scores
of the great dandies of London squeezed and trod on each other on the
little stairs, laughing to find themselves there; and many spotless and
severe ladies of ton were seated in the little drawing-room, listening
to the professional singers, who were singing according to their wont,
and as if they wished to blow the windows down.  And the day after,
there appeared among the fashionable reunions in the Morning Post a
paragraph to the following effect:

"Yesterday, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley entertained a select party at
dinner at their house in May Fair.  Their Excellencies the Prince and
Princess of Peterwaradin, H. E. Papoosh Pasha, the Turkish Ambassador
(attended by Kibob Bey, dragoman of the mission), the Marquess of
Steyne, Earl of Southdown, Sir Pitt and Lady Jane Crawley, Mr. Wagg,
&c.  After dinner Mrs. Crawley had an assembly which was attended by
the Duchess (Dowager) of Stilton, Duc de la Gruyere, Marchioness of
Cheshire, Marchese Alessandro Strachino, Comte de Brie, Baron
Schapzuger, Chevalier Tosti, Countess of Slingstone, and Lady F.
Macadam, Major-General and Lady G. Macbeth, and (2) Miss Macbeths;
Viscount Paddington, Sir Horace Fogey, Hon.  Sands Bedwin, Bobachy
Bahawder," and an &c., which the reader may fill at his pleasure
through a dozen close lines of small type.

And in her commerce with the great our dear friend showed the same
frankness which distinguished her transactions with the lowly in
station.  On one occasion, when out at a very fine house, Rebecca was
(perhaps rather ostentatiously) holding a conversation in the French
language with a celebrated tenor singer of that nation, while the Lady
Grizzel Macbeth looked over her shoulder scowling at the pair.

"How very well you speak French," Lady Grizzel said, who herself spoke
the tongue in an Edinburgh accent most remarkable to hear.

"I ought to know it," Becky modestly said, casting down her eyes. "I
taught it in a school, and my mother was a Frenchwoman."

Lady Grizzel was won by her humility and was mollified towards the
little woman.  She deplored the fatal levelling tendencies of the age,
which admitted persons of all classes into the society of their
superiors, but her ladyship owned that this one at least was well
behaved and never forgot her place in life.  She was a very good woman:
good to the poor; stupid, blameless, unsuspicious. It is not her
ladyship's fault that she fancies herself better than you and me.  The
skirts of her ancestors' garments have been kissed for centuries; it is
a thousand years, they say, since the tartans of the head of the family
were embraced by the defunct Duncan's lords and councillors, when the
great ancestor of the House became King of Scotland.

Lady Steyne, after the music scene, succumbed before Becky, and perhaps
was not disinclined to her.  The younger ladies of the house of Gaunt
were also compelled into submission.  Once or twice they set people at
her, but they failed.  The brilliant Lady Stunnington tried a passage
of arms with her, but was routed with great slaughter by the intrepid
little Becky.  When attacked sometimes, Becky had a knack of adopting a
demure ingenue air, under which she was most dangerous.  She said the
wickedest things with the most simple unaffected air when in this mood,
and would take care artlessly to apologize for her blunders, so that
all the world should know that she had made them.

Mr. Wagg, the celebrated wit, and a led captain and trencher-man of my
Lord Steyne, was caused by the ladies to charge her; and the worthy
fellow, leering at his patronesses and giving them a wink, as much as
to say, "Now look out for sport," one evening began an assault upon
Becky, who was unsuspiciously eating her dinner. The little woman,
attacked on a sudden, but never without arms, lighted up in an instant,
parried and riposted with a home-thrust, which made Wagg's face tingle
with shame; then she returned to her soup with the most perfect calm
and a quiet smile on her face.  Wagg's great patron, who gave him
dinners and lent him a little money sometimes, and whose election,
newspaper, and other jobs Wagg did, gave the luckless fellow such a
savage glance with the eyes as almost made him sink under the table and
burst into tears.  He looked piteously at my lord, who never spoke to
him during dinner, and at the ladies, who disowned him.  At last Becky
herself took compassion upon him and tried to engage him in talk. He
was not asked to dinner again for six weeks; and Fiche, my lord's
confidential man, to whom Wagg naturally paid a good deal of court, was
instructed to tell him that if he ever dared to say a rude thing to
Mrs. Crawley again, or make her the butt of his stupid jokes, Milor
would put every one of his notes of hand into his lawyer's hands and
sell him up without mercy.  Wagg wept before Fiche and implored his
dear friend to intercede for him.  He wrote a poem in favour of Mrs. R.
C., which appeared in the very next number of the Harum-scarum
Magazine, which he conducted.  He implored her good-will at parties
where he met her.  He cringed and coaxed Rawdon at the club.  He was
allowed to come back to Gaunt House after a while. Becky was always
good to him, always amused, never angry.

His lordship's vizier and chief confidential servant (with a seat in
parliament and at the dinner table), Mr. Wenham, was much more prudent
in his behaviour and opinions than Mr. Wagg.  However much he might be
disposed to hate all parvenus (Mr. Wenham himself was a staunch old
True Blue Tory, and his father a small coal-merchant in the north of
England), this aide-de-camp of the Marquis never showed any sort of
hostility to the new favourite, but pursued her with stealthy
kindnesses and a sly and deferential politeness which somehow made
Becky more uneasy than other people's overt hostilities.

How the Crawleys got the money which was spent upon the entertainments
with which they treated the polite world was a mystery which gave rise
to some conversation at the time, and probably added zest to these
little festivities.  Some persons averred that Sir Pitt Crawley gave
his brother a handsome allowance; if he did, Becky's power over the
Baronet must have been extraordinary indeed, and his character greatly
changed in his advanced age.  Other parties hinted that it was Becky's
habit to levy contributions on all her husband's friends: going to this
one in tears with an account that there was an execution in the house;
falling on her knees to that one and declaring that the whole family
must go to gaol or commit suicide unless such and such a bill could be
paid.  Lord Southdown, it was said, had been induced to give many
hundreds through these pathetic representations. Young Feltham, of the
--th Dragoons (and son of the firm of Tiler and Feltham, hatters and
army accoutrement makers), and whom the Crawleys introduced into
fashionable life, was also cited as one of Becky's victims in the
pecuniary way.  People declared that she got money from various simply
disposed persons, under pretence of getting them confidential
appointments under Government. Who knows what stories were or were not
told of our dear and innocent friend? Certain it is that if she had had
all the money which she was said to have begged or borrowed or stolen,
she might have capitalized and been honest for life, whereas,--but this
is advancing matters.

The truth is, that by economy and good management--by a sparing use of
ready money and by paying scarcely anybody--people can manage, for a
time at least, to make a great show with very little means: and it is
our belief that Becky's much-talked-of parties, which were not, after
all was said, very numerous, cost this lady very little more than the
wax candles which lighted the walls. Stillbrook and Queen's Crawley
supplied her with game and fruit in abundance.  Lord Steyne's cellars
were at her disposal, and that excellent nobleman's famous cooks
presided over her little kitchen, or sent by my lord's order the rarest
delicacies from their own.  I protest it is quite shameful in the world
to abuse a simple creature, as people of her time abuse Becky, and I
warn the public against believing one-tenth of the stories against her.
If every person is to be banished from society who runs into debt and
cannot pay--if we are to be peering into everybody's private life,
speculating upon their income, and cutting them if we don't approve of
their expenditure--why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable
dwelling Vanity Fair would be! Every man's hand would be against his
neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the benefits of civilization
would be done away with. We should be quarrelling, abusing, avoiding
one another.  Our houses would become caverns, and we should go in rags
because we cared for nobody.  Rents would go down. Parties wouldn't be
given any more. All the tradesmen of the town would be bankrupt.  Wine,
wax-lights, comestibles, rouge, crinoline-petticoats, diamonds, wigs,
Louis-Quatorze gimcracks, and old china, park hacks, and splendid
high-stepping carriage horses--all the delights of life, I say,--would
go to the deuce, if people did but act upon their silly principles and
avoid those whom they dislike and abuse.  Whereas, by a little charity
and mutual forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly enough:  we
may abuse a man as much as we like, and call him the greatest rascal
unhanged--but do we wish to hang him therefore? No. We shake hands when
we meet.  If his cook is good we forgive him and go and dine with him,
and we expect he will do the same by us.  Thus trade
flourishes--civilization advances; peace is kept; new dresses are
wanted for new assemblies every week; and the last year's vintage of
Lafitte will remunerate the honest proprietor who reared it.

At the time whereof we are writing, though the Great George was on the
throne and ladies wore gigots and large combs like tortoise-shell
shovels in their hair, instead of the simple sleeves and lovely wreaths
which are actually in fashion, the manners of the very polite world
were not, I take it, essentially different from those of the present
day:  and their amusements pretty similar.  To us, from the outside,
gazing over the policeman's shoulders at the bewildering beauties as
they pass into Court or ball, they may seem beings of unearthly
splendour and in the enjoyment of an exquisite happiness by us
unattainable. It is to console some of these dissatisfied beings that
we are narrating our dear Becky's struggles, and triumphs, and
disappointments, of all of which, indeed, as is the case with all
persons of merit, she had her share.

At this time the amiable amusement of acting charades had come among us
from France, and was considerably in vogue in this country, enabling
the many ladies amongst us who had beauty to display their charms, and
the fewer number who had cleverness to exhibit their wit. My Lord
Steyne was incited by Becky, who perhaps believed herself endowed with
both the above qualifications, to give an entertainment at Gaunt House,
which should include some of these little dramas--and we must take
leave to introduce the reader to this brilliant reunion, and, with a
melancholy welcome too, for it will be among the very last of the
fashionable entertainments to which it will be our fortune to conduct
him.

A portion of that splendid room, the picture gallery of Gaunt House,
was arranged as the charade theatre.  It had been so used when George
III was king; and a picture of the Marquis of Gaunt is still extant,
with his hair in powder and a pink ribbon, in a Roman shape, as it was
called, enacting the part of Cato in Mr. Addison's tragedy of that
name, performed before their Royal Highnesses the Prince of Wales, the
Bishop of Osnaburgh, and Prince William Henry, then children like the
actor. One or two of the old properties were drawn out of the garrets,
where they had lain ever since, and furbished up anew for the present
festivities.

Young Bedwin Sands, then an elegant dandy and Eastern traveller, was
manager of the revels.  An Eastern traveller was somebody in those
days, and the adventurous Bedwin, who had published his quarto and
passed some months under the tents in the desert, was a personage of no
small importance.  In his volume there were several pictures of Sands
in various oriental costumes; and he travelled about with a black
attendant of most unprepossessing appearance, just like another Brian
de Bois Guilbert.  Bedwin, his costumes, and black man, were hailed at
Gaunt House as very valuable acquisitions.

He led off the first charade.  A Turkish officer with an immense plume
of feathers (the Janizaries were supposed to be still in existence, and
the tarboosh had not as yet displaced the ancient and majestic
head-dress of the true believers) was seen couched on a divan, and
making believe to puff at a narghile, in which, however, for the sake
of the ladies, only a fragrant pastille was allowed to smoke.  The
Turkish dignitary yawns and expresses signs of weariness and idleness.
He claps his hands and Mesrour the Nubian appears, with bare arms,
bangles, yataghans, and every Eastern ornament--gaunt, tall, and
hideous.  He makes a salaam before my lord the Aga.

A thrill of terror and delight runs through the assembly. The ladies
whisper to one another.  The black slave was given to Bedwin Sands by
an Egyptian pasha in exchange for three dozen of Maraschino.  He has
sewn up ever so many odalisques in sacks and tilted them into the Nile.

"Bid the slave-merchant enter," says the Turkish voluptuary with a wave
of his hand.  Mesrour conducts the slave-merchant into my lord's
presence; he brings a veiled female with him.  He removes the veil.  A
thrill of applause bursts through the house.  It is Mrs. Winkworth (she
was a Miss Absolom) with the beautiful eyes and hair. She is in a
gorgeous oriental costume; the black braided locks are twined with
innumerable jewels; her dress is covered over with gold piastres.  The
odious Mahometan expresses himself charmed by her beauty.  She falls
down on her knees and entreats him to restore her to the mountains
where she was born, and where her Circassian lover is still deploring
the absence of his Zuleikah. No entreaties will move the obdurate
Hassan.  He laughs at the notion of the Circassian bridegroom. Zuleikah
covers her face with her hands and drops down in an attitude of the
most beautiful despair.  There seems to be no hope for her, when--when
the Kislar Aga appears.

The Kislar Aga brings a letter from the Sultan.  Hassan receives and
places on his head the dread firman.  A ghastly terror seizes him,
while on the Negro's face (it is Mesrour again in another costume)
appears a ghastly joy.  "Mercy!  mercy!" cries the Pasha:  while the
Kislar Aga, grinning horribly, pulls out--a bow-string.

The curtain draws just as he is going to use that awful weapon. Hassan
from within bawls out, "First two syllables"--and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,
who is going to act in the charade, comes forward and compliments Mrs.
Winkworth on the admirable taste and beauty of her costume.

The second part of the charade takes place.  It is still an Eastern
scene.  Hassan, in another dress, is in an attitude by Zuleikah, who is
perfectly reconciled to him. The Kislar Aga has become a peaceful black
slave.  It is sunrise on the desert, and the Turks turn their heads
eastwards and bow to the sand.  As there are no dromedaries at hand,
the band facetiously plays "The Camels are coming." An enormous
Egyptian head figures in the scene.  It is a musical one--and, to the
surprise of the oriental travellers, sings a comic song, composed by
Mr. Wagg.  The Eastern voyagers go off dancing, like Papageno and the
Moorish King in The Magic Flute.  "Last two syllables," roars the head.

The last act opens.  It is a Grecian tent this time.  A tall and
stalwart man reposes on a couch there.  Above him hang his helmet and
shield.  There is no need for them now.  Ilium is down. Iphigenia is
slain.  Cassandra is a prisoner in his outer halls. The king of men (it
is Colonel Crawley, who, indeed, has no notion about the sack of Ilium
or the conquest of Cassandra), the anax andron is asleep in his chamber
at Argos.  A lamp casts the broad shadow of the sleeping warrior
flickering on the wall--the sword and shield of Troy glitter in its
light. The band plays the awful music of Don Juan, before the statue
enters.

Aegisthus steals in pale and on tiptoe.  What is that ghastly face
looking out balefully after him from behind the arras? He raises his
dagger to strike the sleeper, who turns in his bed, and opens his broad
chest as if for the blow.  He cannot strike the noble slumbering
chieftain. Clytemnestra glides swiftly into the room like an
apparition--her arms are bare and white--her tawny hair floats down her
shoulders--her face is deadly pale--and her eyes are lighted up with a
smile so ghastly that people quake as they look at her.

A tremor ran through the room.  "Good God!" somebody said, "it's Mrs.
Rawdon Crawley."

Scornfully she snatches the dagger out of Aegisthus's hand and advances
to the bed.  You see it shining over her head in the glimmer of the
lamp, and--and the lamp goes out, with a groan, and all is dark.

The darkness and the scene frightened people.  Rebecca performed her
part so well, and with such ghastly truth, that the spectators were all
dumb, until, with a burst, all the lamps of the hall blazed out again,
when everybody began to shout applause.  "Brava!  brava!" old Steyne's
strident voice was heard roaring over all the rest.  "By--, she'd do it
too," he said between his teeth. The performers were called by the
whole house, which sounded with cries of "Manager! Clytemnestra!"
Agamemnon could not be got to show in his classical tunic, but stood in
the background with Aegisthus and others of the performers of the
little play.  Mr. Bedwin Sands led on Zuleikah and Clytemnestra.  A
great personage insisted on being presented to the charming
Clytemnestra.  "Heigh ha? Run him through the body. Marry somebody
else, hay?" was the apposite remark made by His Royal Highness.

"Mrs. Rawdon Crawley was quite killing in the part," said Lord Steyne.
Becky laughed, gay and saucy looking, and swept the prettiest little
curtsey ever seen.

Servants brought in salvers covered with numerous cool dainties, and
the performers disappeared to get ready for the second charade-tableau.

The three syllables of this charade were to be depicted in pantomime,
and the performance took place in the following wise:

First syllable.  Colonel Rawdon Crawley, C.B., with a slouched hat and
a staff, a great-coat, and a lantern borrowed from the stables, passed
across the stage bawling out, as if warning the inhabitants of the
hour.  In the lower window are seen two bagmen playing apparently at
the game of cribbage, over which they yawn much. To them enters one
looking like Boots (the Honourable G.  Ringwood), which character the
young gentleman performed to perfection, and divests them of their
lower coverings; and presently Chambermaid (the Right Honourable Lord
Southdown) with two candlesticks, and a warming-pan.  She ascends to
the upper apartment and warms the bed. She uses the warming-pan as a
weapon wherewith she wards off the attention of the bagmen. She exits.
They put on their night-caps and pull down the blinds.  Boots comes out
and closes the shutters of the ground-floor chamber.  You hear him
bolting and chaining the door within.  All the lights go out.  The
music plays Dormez, dormez, chers Amours.  A voice from behind the
curtain says, "First syllable."

Second syllable.  The lamps are lighted up all of a sudden.  The music
plays the old air from John of Paris, Ah quel plaisir d'etre en voyage.
It is the same scene. Between the first and second floors of the house
represented, you behold a sign on which the Steyne arms are painted.
All the bells are ringing all over the house. In the lower apartment
you see a man with a long slip of paper presenting it to another, who
shakes his fists, threatens and vows that it is monstrous.  "Ostler,
bring round my gig," cries another at the door.  He chucks Chambermaid
(the Right Honourable Lord Southdown) under the chin; she seems to
deplore his absence, as Calypso did that of that other eminent
traveller Ulysses. Boots (the Honourable G.  Ringwood) passes with a
wooden box, containing silver flagons, and cries "Pots" with such
exquisite humour and naturalness that the whole house rings with
applause, and a bouquet is thrown to him.  Crack, crack, crack, go the
whips.   Landlord, chambermaid, waiter rush to the door, but just as
some distinguished guest is arriving, the curtains close, and the
invisible theatrical manager cries out "Second syllable."

"I think it must be 'Hotel,'" says Captain Grigg of the Life Guards;
there is a general laugh at the Captain's cleverness.  He is not very
far from the mark.

While the third syllable is in preparation, the band begins a nautical
medley--"All in the Downs," "Cease Rude Boreas," "Rule Britannia," "In
the Bay of Biscay O!"--some maritime event is about to take place.  A
bell is heard ringing as the curtain draws aside. "Now, gents, for the
shore!" a voice exclaims.  People take leave of each other.  They point
anxiously as if towards the clouds, which are represented by a dark
curtain, and they nod their heads in fear. Lady Squeams (the Right
Honourable Lord Southdown), her lap-dog, her bags, reticules, and
husband sit down, and cling hold of some ropes. It is evidently a ship.

The Captain (Colonel Crawley, C.B.), with a cocked hat and a telescope,
comes in, holding his hat on his head, and looks out; his coat tails
fly about as if in the wind.  When he leaves go of his hat to use his
telescope, his hat flies off, with immense applause. It is blowing
fresh.  The music rises and whistles louder and louder; the mariners go
across the stage staggering, as if the ship was in severe motion.  The
Steward (the Honourable G. Ringwood) passes reeling by, holding six
basins.  He puts one rapidly by Lord Squeams--Lady Squeams, giving a
pinch to her dog, which begins to howl piteously, puts her
pocket-handkerchief to her face, and rushes away as for the cabin.  The
music rises up to the wildest pitch of stormy excitement, and the third
syllable is concluded.

There was a little ballet, "Le Rossignol," in which Montessu and Noblet
used to be famous in those days, and which Mr. Wagg transferred to the
English stage as an opera, putting his verse, of which he was a skilful
writer, to the pretty airs of the ballet.  It was dressed in old French
costume, and little Lord Southdown now appeared admirably attired in
the disguise of an old woman hobbling about the stage with a faultless
crooked stick.

Trills of melody were heard behind the scenes, and gurgling from a
sweet pasteboard cottage covered with roses and trellis work.
"Philomele, Philomele," cries the old woman, and Philomele comes out.

More applause--it is Mrs. Rawdon Crawley in powder and patches, the
most ravissante little Marquise in the world.

She comes in laughing, humming, and frisks about the stage with all the
innocence of theatrical youth--she makes a curtsey.  Mamma says "Why,
child, you are always laughing and singing," and away she goes, with--

  THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY

  The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming
  Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring;
  You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming,
  It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

  The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing,
  Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen:
  And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,
  It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

  Thus each performs his part, Mamma, the birds have found their voices,
  The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye;
  And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices,
  And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.


During the intervals of the stanzas of this ditty, the good-natured
personage addressed as Mamma by the singer, and whose large whiskers
appeared under her cap, seemed very anxious to exhibit her maternal
affection by embracing the innocent creature who performed the
daughter's part.  Every caress was received with loud acclamations of
laughter by the sympathizing audience. At its conclusion (while the
music was performing a symphony as if ever so many birds were warbling)
the whole house was unanimous for an encore:  and applause and bouquets
without end were showered upon the Nightingale of the evening.  Lord
Steyne's voice of applause was loudest of all. Becky, the nightingale,
took the flowers which he threw to her and pressed them to her heart
with the air of a consummate comedian. Lord Steyne was frantic with
delight.  His guests' enthusiasm harmonized with his own.  Where was
the beautiful black-eyed Houri whose appearance in the first charade
had caused such delight? She was twice as handsome as Becky, but the
brilliancy of the latter had quite eclipsed her.  All voices were for
her.  Stephens, Caradori, Ronzi de Begnis, people compared her to one
or the other, and agreed with good reason, very likely, that had she
been an actress none on the stage could have surpassed her. She had
reached her culmination: her voice rose trilling and bright over the
storm of applause, and soared as high and joyful as her triumph.  There
was a ball after the dramatic entertainments, and everybody pressed
round Becky as the great point of attraction of the evening.  The Royal
Personage declared with an oath that she was perfection, and engaged
her again and again in conversation.  Little Becky's soul swelled with
pride and delight at these honours; she saw fortune, fame, fashion
before her.  Lord Steyne was her slave, followed her everywhere, and
scarcely spoke to any one in the room beside, and paid her the most
marked compliments and attention.  She still appeared in her Marquise
costume and danced a minuet with Monsieur de Truffigny, Monsieur Le Duc
de la Jabotiere's attache; and the Duke, who had all the traditions of
the ancient court, pronounced that Madame Crawley was worthy to have
been a pupil of Vestris, or to have figured at Versailles. Only a
feeling of dignity, the gout, and the strongest sense of duty and
personal sacrifice prevented his Excellency from dancing with her
himself, and he declared in public that a lady who could talk and dance
like Mrs. Rawdon was fit to be ambassadress at any court in Europe.  He
was only consoled when he heard that she was half a Frenchwoman by
birth.  "None but a compatriot," his Excellency declared, "could have
performed that majestic dance in such a way."

Then she figured in a waltz with Monsieur de Klingenspohr, the Prince
of Peterwaradin's cousin and attache.  The delighted Prince, having
less retenue than his French diplomatic colleague, insisted upon taking
a turn with the charming creature, and twirled round the ball-room with
her, scattering the diamonds out of his boot-tassels and hussar jacket
until his Highness was fairly out of breath. Papoosh Pasha himself
would have liked to dance with her if that amusement had been the
custom of his country.  The company made a circle round her and
applauded as wildly as if she had been a Noblet or a Taglioni.
Everybody was in ecstacy; and Becky too, you may be sure.  She passed
by Lady Stunnington with a look of scorn.  She patronized Lady Gaunt
and her astonished and mortified sister-in-law--she ecrased all rival
charmers.  As for poor Mrs. Winkworth, and her long hair and great
eyes, which had made such an effect at the commencement of the
evening--where was she now? Nowhere in the race.  She might tear her
long hair and cry her great eyes out, but there was not a person to
heed or to deplore the discomfiture.

The greatest triumph of all was at supper time.  She was placed at the
grand exclusive table with his Royal Highness the exalted personage
before mentioned, and the rest of the great guests.  She was served on
gold plate.  She might have had pearls melted into her champagne if she
liked--another Cleopatra--and the potentate of Peterwaradin would have
given half the brilliants off his jacket for a kind glance from those
dazzling eyes. Jabotiere wrote home about her to his government.  The
ladies at the other tables, who supped off mere silver and marked Lord
Steyne's constant attention to her, vowed it was a monstrous
infatuation, a gross insult to ladies of rank.  If sarcasm could have
killed, Lady Stunnington would have slain her on the spot.

Rawdon Crawley was scared at these triumphs.  They seemed to separate
his wife farther than ever from him somehow.  He thought with a feeling
very like pain how immeasurably she was his superior.

When the hour of departure came, a crowd of young men followed her to
her carriage, for which the people without bawled, the cry being caught
up by the link-men who were stationed outside the tall gates of Gaunt
House, congratulating each person who issued from the gate and hoping
his Lordship had enjoyed this noble party.

Mrs. Rawdon Crawley's carriage, coming up to the gate after due
shouting, rattled into the illuminated court-yard and drove up to the
covered way.  Rawdon put his wife into the carriage, which drove off.
Mr. Wenham had proposed to him to walk home, and offered the Colonel
the refreshment of a cigar.

They lighted their cigars by the lamp of one of the many link-boys
outside, and Rawdon walked on with his friend Wenham.  Two persons
separated from the crowd and followed the two gentlemen; and when they
had walked down Gaunt Square a few score of paces, one of the men came
up and, touching Rawdon on the shoulder, said, "Beg your pardon,
Colonel, I vish to speak to you most particular." This gentleman's
acquaintance gave a loud whistle as the latter spoke, at which signal a
cab came clattering up from those stationed at the gate of Gaunt
House--and the aide-de-camp ran round and placed himself in front of
Colonel Crawley.

That gallant officer at once knew what had befallen him.  He was in the
hands of the bailiffs.  He started back, falling against the man who
had first touched him.

"We're three on us--it's no use bolting," the man behind said.

"It's you, Moss, is it?" said the Colonel, who appeared to know his
interlocutor.  "How much is it?"

"Only a small thing," whispered Mr. Moss, of Cursitor Street, Chancery
Lane, and assistant officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex--"One hundred
and sixty-six, six and eight-pence, at the suit of Mr. Nathan."

"Lend me a hundred, Wenham, for God's sake," poor Rawdon said--"I've
got seventy at home."

"I've not got ten pounds in the world," said poor Mr. Wenham--"Good
night, my dear fellow."

"Good night," said Rawdon ruefully.  And Wenham walked away--and Rawdon
Crawley finished his cigar as the cab drove under Temple Bar.

 Now come the few months of Becky's triumph. Oh, sorry, spoiler alert. Ever since the invitation to the cool table at Lady's Steyne's house, all doors are open to Becky. She takes full advantage and is generally a star. At first she hangs out with the "best" foreigners. Then she is accepted into the society of the "best" English people. The narrator makes fun of the idea of a "best" person as meaningless and vain. Think about what it means to be "popular" in high school - this is about as shallow as that. What's fascinating is that Becky quickly becomes bored with the high life. Just like every other group of people, this one hangs out together and has the same tired conversations about each other over and over again. At first Becky has fun trying to figure out how to dress perfectly and host parties given that she and Rawdon have no money. But soon, even this becomes boring. But while she's on top, she remains on top. At the parties she makes sure to be very nice to the professional entertainment . This behavior has two good effects: 1) the aristocrats are charmed by how she always remembers her own poor artist background and so are less hostile to her pretentions, and 2) the professionals are floored by being treated as human beings and so come and sing at Becky's own parties for free. Becky is not only charming and pretty, she also has a fast and sharp wit. This is useful for deflecting the insults or jokes made at her expense by her various enemies and frenemies in this circle. Rumors start to circulate about how she could possibly afford to dress and entertain like she does. The rumors mostly involve her unscrupulously begging, borrowing, or stealing money from various innocents. The narrator doesn't clarify one way or another whether the rumors are true, but says that surely all of them can't be. This is an important evasion. Keep in mind the narrator not wanting to tell us the truth about Becky - it will come up again. There's a fad at the time to act out elaborate charades at parties. Back then, charades were a combination of what we think of charades and little one-act plays. Each word would be acted out syllable by syllable, then all at once through an elaborate theatrical set piece. Becky convinces Lord Steyne to host one of these charade nights at Gaunt House, and he agrees. OK, quick poll: who thinks lying, wheedling, conniving Becky is going to be really good at acting on stage? The first charade is "Agamemnon." This gets broken up into the syllables "Aga" and "Memnon" . Each of these is acted out very nicely. Then it's time to act out the whole word. Rawdon acts the part of Agamemnon himself, sleeping on a couch. Then Becky comes out for the first time, dressed as Agamemnon's wife, Clytemnestra - with a giant knife in her hand poised to kill him! Flashing neon "Symbolism" sign. The crowd goes wild. After the charades are over, Becky is an even bigger hit at the party. Lord Steyne loves it and laughs to himself at the idea of Becky playing a husband-killing wife. He seems into that idea. Rawdon is sad at all the attention and success Becky gets. He feels her becoming more and more distant from him and painfully realizes that she is his superior. After the party he puts Becky in her carriage and sends her home. Then he starts walking home himself. Suddenly some men come out from the alley nearby and arrest Rawdon for debt! The debt is relatively small, about a hundred pounds . Rawdon goes quietly with the three bailiffs.

