ACTING CHARADES

by: Francis A. Durivage (1814-1881)

The following story is reprinted from The Three Brides, Love in a Cottage, and Other Tales. Francis A. Durivage. Boston: Sanborn, 1856.

But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass.

—Shakspeare, Much Ado about Nothing.

Many of our readers have doubtless witnessed, or perchance participated in, the amusement of acting charades—a divertisement much in vogue in social circles, and if cleverly done, productive of much mirth. To the uninitiated, a brief description of an acted charade may not be unacceptable. A word of two or more syllables is selected, each part of which must make sense by itself—as, for instance, the word inspector, which would be decomposed, thus; inn spectre. The company of performers would then extemporize a scene at a public house, leaving the spectators to guess at the first syllable, inn. The second scene would represent the terror occasioned by the apparition of a phantom, and give the second part of the word spectre. The third scene would represent the whole word, and would perhaps be a brigade inspector reviewing his troops, giving occasion for the humors of a Yankee militia training. Much ingenuity is required in the selection of a word, and in carrying out the representation, with appropriate dialogue, &c.

Acting charades generally turns a house topsy turvy; wardrobes and garrets are ransacked for costumes and properties; hats, canes, umbrellas, and firearms are mustered, and old dresses that haven't seen the light for forty years are rummaged out as disguises for the actors in these extempore theatricals.

In a certain circle in this city there was a knot of clever young people, of both sexes, strongly addicted to acting charades, and very happy in their execution. But they were unfortunately afflicted by an interloper,

"Whose head

Was not of brains particularly full,"

one of those geniuses who have a fatal facility for making blunders. Yet, with a pleasing unconsciousness of his deficiencies, he was always volunteering his services, and always expected, in this matter of acting charades, to be intrusted with the leading parts.

One evening the usual coterie was assembled, charades were proposed, as usual, and the little knot of performers retired to the back drawing room, dropping the curtain behind them, and prepared for their performance, congratulating themselves that Mr. Blinks, the name of the marplot, was not on hand to spoil their sport. They selected the word catastrophe, and the curtain went up.

A very pretty and lively young lady, who had been abroad, gave a very happy imitation of the almost inimitable Jenny Vertpré, in the French vaudeville of the "Cat metamorphosed to a Woman," in that scene where she betrays her original nature. She purred, she frolicked, she pounced on an imaginary mouse, caught it, tossed it up in the air, and went through all the manœuvres of a veritable grimalkin. When the curtain fell, amidst roars of laughter and applause, the first syllable—cat—was whispered from mouth to mouth, among the audience.

At this moment the hated Blinks arrived in the green-room.

"What are you up to? Acting charades—eh? By Jove! I'm just in time. You must give me a part—can't get along without me. What's the word?"

"No matter," said the young lady who had played the cat, with a wicked smile of intelligence. "Prompter, ring the curtain up. All you've got to do, Mr. Blinks, is to walk across the stage."

"But where's my dress?"

"What you have on. Appear in your own character."

The curtain went up, and Blinks stalked across with his accustomed air of intolerable stupidity. Amidst smothered laughter, the audience guessed the second syllable of the charade—ass.

The curtain went up for the third time. A group of Indian chiefs were located in a wigwam. A young brave entered, distinguished by the eagle plume and wampum belt, the bow and hatchet, and threw down at the feet of the eldest warrior a bundle of the scalps he had brought back from battle. A hum of approbation rose from the assembly. The curtain fell. The word trophy had been thus indicated. The whole word was then represented by an appropriate scene from the close of a popular tragedy, and the spectators, cheering the performance, called out catastrophe to the actors.

"Well, they made out to guess it," said Blinks, when the curtain had fallen, for the last time. "But now it's all over, you made one confounded blunder."

"What was that?" asked the wicked young lady.

"You didn't act the second syllable."

"No?"

"No! indeed!" said Blinks, with a look of intense cunning. "You had cat and trophy—but where was the ass?"

"O, indeed!" said the young lady.

"You see, ladies and gentleman," said Blinks, enjoying his triumph, "you can't get along without me. If I'd been here in the beginning, you'd have had the ass."

"We certainly should," said the young lady, winking to her companions, who could hardly suppress their laughter.

"And I move we repeat this charade to-morrow night," said Blinks—"and mind, I'm the ass."

"Of course."

"I'll get a costume and disguise myself."

"Disguise yourself!" echoed his tormentor—"for Heaven's sake, don't do that—they'd never guess it."

The next night the charade was ass-ass-in, and Blinks went on for the first two syllables. He was perfectly at home—"Richard himself again!" and the wicked young lady, in complimenting his performance, declared it was "perfectly natural."