THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE, AND WHAT PART BABY TOOK IN THE
PERFORMANCES.
The news of the arrival of Hart's Star Dramatic Company spread through
the Silver Creek Goldfields like wildfire, and every able-bodied man
and woman (about thirty of the former to one of the latter, so you may
guess what a precious commodity woman was) within ten miles around,
resolved to pay them a visit. It was really an event in the history of
the township; with the exception of casinos, sing-songs, and negro
entertainments, there had been no amusements, and the inhabitants
looked forward to the opening night with great interest and
excitement.
Mr. Hart, who was the originator and guiding-star of the company, was
the old man already referred to as the Acting-manager; he was the
putty that kept the separate parts of the venture together, for
without him the concern would have gone to pieces. A tradesman takes a
small order, and is thankful for it; but give a small part to an
actress who aspires (and lives there an actress who does not aspire?)
and wait to hear the thanks that are showered on your head! Heaven and
earth! These little Junos are sublime in their indignation, and as for
the little Jupiters, it is well for some persons that they are not
Vulcans. It devolved upon Mr. Hart to heal every difference that arose
among the members of the company. No sinecure this, for Vanity's
ruffled feathers had to be smoothed a dozen times a week. In every
difficulty he was the one appealed to, and his decision was invariably
received with respect, if not with equanimity, for he was known to be
a just man. He had led a strange and wandering life, had been
Jack-of-all-trades and master of none, as he himself said, and was in
every respect a gentleman. He spoke French and German, and was in
other ways well educated; he painted, he sang, and knew how to conduct
himself--in other words he had no low vices, and here he was an old
man, fourteen thousand miles away from the land of his birth, an
adventurer, with a purse as lean as Falstaff's. He had been all over
the world, and (rare gift) had made friends everywhere; no one had
ever been heard to speak an ill word of him. That so old a man,
becoming attached to a Star Dramatic Company, should play the juvenile
lead will not be wondered at by persons acquainted with the
peculiarities of the profession; as little will it be wondered at that
the First Old Man was barely out of his teens. These reversals of the
proper order of things are common. Was Mr. Hart happy? His eye was
bright, his step was light, and his heart was as fresh as a young
man's. For the rest the question will be answered as this story
proceeds.
Being in the Silver Creek township, with probably five pounds between
them, the first thing to be seen to by these wandering Bohemians was
the building of a theatre. An impossibility do you say? Not at all.
Easily accomplished. Directly their arrival and purpose became known,
the proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle Hotel and Restaurant
addressed Mr. Hart.
"What have you come here for?" he asked.
"To act," replied Mr. Hart.
"You will want a theatre to act in."
"We shall."
"Is your company a good one?"
"I think I may say it is. Go and look at our women."
"I've seen them. You've a real beauty among them. I'm not a man to
beat about the bush, and you look like a man to be trusted."
"Try me."
"I will. I'll build you a theatre at the back of my hotel on the
following conditions." (The proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and
Thistle Hotel dotted off the conditions on the fingers of his left
hand with the forefinger of his right hand.) "You will undertake to
play in no other place for three months. You will undertake to play in
my theatre for six nights a week for three months, and the
entertainment shall not last less than four hours. You will undertake
to hand over to me every night one-fifth of the gross money received,
that being the rent I shall charge you. You will undertake that you
and all of you shall board and lodge at the Rose, Shamrock, and
Thistle, and to pay me three pounds per week per head for such board
and lodging--baby not to count." He looked at his thumb with a pucker
in his forehead, and finding no condition to which it could be
applied, concluded abruptly by saying, "That's all."
Mr. Hart, with the mind of a general, debated for one moment, and
resolved the next.
"How many people will the theatre hold?"
"A thousand," replied the enterprising hotel-keeper promptly.
It was a rough guess; he had not the slightest idea as to the size of
the place required for the accommodation of the number.
"How long will the theatre take to build?
"A week," was the brisk reply.
"Then we can open in ten days," said Mr. Hart. "There's my hand on it.
What shall be the name of the theatre?"
"I'm a loyal subject," said the hotel-keeper. "We'll call it 'The
Theatre Royal.' God save the Queen!"
"So be it."
And there and then the matter was settled.
Within an hour a contract was given for the building of the Theatre
Royal; within two it was commenced; within a week it was finished; and
on the tenth night it was opened. Men never know what they can do till
they try; wonders can be accomplished only by saying they shall be
accomplished, and setting to work on them. It is grappling with small
things that dwarf men's minds; give them a wilderness to conquer, and
they rise to the occasion. When I say "them," I mean especially
Americans and English; next to them, but not equal to them, the
Germans; least of all civilised nations, with capacity to make grand
use of such opportunity, the French.
The excitement in Silver Creek was tremendous. Crowds thronged the
High Street during the opening day of the Theatre Royal. The Rose,
Shamrock, and Thistle did a roaring trade. Eight hundred pounds were
taken over the bars for drinks before six o'clock in the evening; no
drink less than a shilling. Some contemptible rival grog-shop in the
vicinity had already reduced the price of a glass of ale to sixpence,
but the miners turned their noses up at it. They were as generous as
sailors, and they were not going to pay sixpence for a glass of ale
when a shilling was the regulation price. There was something sneaking
in it, and many a gold-digger lost caste by patronising the cheap
grog-shop. Fabulous prices were offered for the privilege of going
into the theatre before the doors were open, and securing front seats;
but the landlord of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle turned a deaf ear
to the tempters.
"Fair play, mates," he said. "First come, first served; and the devil
take the hindmost."
(Which, if the devil did, he would have had a good haul, for the
hindmost on that night stood for a thousand at least.)
"Bravo, mate," the rough diggers cried; "you're the right sort!"
He looked it, as he stood behind the bar, passing the jest and merry
word, with one eye gleaming cordially on his customers, and the other
eye looking sharply after his till, and nothing loth to make his
"pile" (or fortune) with his sleeves tucked up, and to boast of it
afterwards.
The scene that took place that night within the walls of the new
Theatre Royal was one which not many have the privilege of witnessing.
Before the curtain drew up, there were two hundred and twenty pounds
in the drawers. And listen to this with envy, you harassed lessees;
there were only three persons admitted within the walls of the Theatre
Royal who did not pay; these were the proprietor of the theatre and
the editors of the two newspapers. Happy theatrical manager! Only two
critics to woo and conciliate! Deducting the landlord's fifth, and the
expenses for printing and lighting, there would not be less than one
hundred and forty pounds to divide. Why, at that rate, even the baby
would have four pounds for her share so curiously acquired! The
entertainment was arranged to show off the full strength of the
company. A "screaming" farce, to set the audience in a good humour (it
was not required, for they came in prime spirits, full set for
enjoyment); a dance by the pretty Chambermaid, _not_ dressed as a
chambermaid, be it here remarked; a stirring mob-drama; and a two-act
comic drama to conclude with. A liberal programme--one which made the
proprietor of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle rub his hands with
satisfaction. The actors and actresses, as they came on the stage,
were greeted with roars of applause, as they were already old
established favourites; the very supernumerary, the neophyte who
intended to rival the elder Kean, received a round which made him
certain that fame was within his grasp. All through the night, the
audience appeared to be anxiously looking out for new faces to give
them cordial greeting. The farce was literally a "screaming" farce;
had the author of the poor little literary bantling been present, it
would have done his heart good, and he might have had dreams of
greatness. When the curtain fell on the farce, it seemed impossible
for anything to be more successful; but the dance that followed
it eclipsed it. The gold-diggers could not have the farce
repeated--although they would have been well content to have had it,
one fellow actually crying out, "Let's have it all over again, mates!"
but they could have the dance again, and they did, once, twice,
thrice, and would have insisted on it again, but that the poor girl
stood before them with panting bosom, like a deer at its last gasp,
and appealed to them as prettily as her exhaustion would allow her to
do. The gold-diggers stood up, waved their billycock hats, and cheered
her as she had never been cheered before; and one threw a crown-piece
on the stage, and another cried, "I can beat that, mate!" and threw a
sovereign. Then it commenced to rain silver and gold, and the girl
stood aside at the wings, half frightened at the shower. It amounted
to no less than eleven pounds, which she gathered up in her gauze
dress and walked off with, kissing her hand and smiling bewitchingly
on the generous givers, who felt themselves well paid for their
liberality.
(Before the week was out this dancing and singing Chambermaid had
forty-two distinct offers of marriage, and the other two ladies of the
company each about half as many.)
Then came the Tragedian's chance in the melodrama, and good use did he
make of it. He emulated Bottom in his roaring, and the louder he
roared the louder the audience cheered. But decidedly the greatest
success of the night was achieved by the smallest member of the
company, and in an unexpected way. If any person was to be thanked for
it, it was the Acting-manager, Mr. Hart.
It occurred in this wise: The Leading Lady dropped a few words,
which were construed into an objection to the baby receiving its
one-thirty-sixth share of the receipts. The mother (who was the First
Old Woman of the company) heard them, and spoke to Mr. Hart with tears
in her eyes. The singing Chambermaid stood near.
"The spiteful thing!" she exclaimed.
"Never mind," said Mr. Hart, "we will get over the difficulty; the
baby shall appear in the last piece."
The mother in astonishment said that was impossible.
"It is quite possible," answered Mr. Hart, "and shall be done."
"But she'll be asleep, the darling!" exclaimed the mother.
"All the better," was the answer. "She'll have nothing to say. You
play in the piece. Now attend to my instructions;" and he forthwith
gave them to her.
In the drama, the mother, who really played the part of a mother, had
to sit at a table for five or six minutes sewing, and speaking perhaps
a dozen words, while the action of the piece was being carried on by
two characters who occupied the front of the stage. Mr. Hart, in this
scene, placed the cradle on the stage, with the baby in it. When the
mother went to her seat at the table, she took the baby from the
cradle on to her lap.
"Why, it's a real baby!" cried the gold-diggers, and a buzz of delight
ran through the house.
Suddenly the baby awoke, opened her eyes and stared with all her might
at the audience, whose attention was now entirely fixed upon the
movements of the pretty little thing. The mother raised her to her
feet on her lap, and the child, pleased with the light and glitter of
the scene, clapped her little hands--one of her pretty tricks--while
her face broke out into smiles and dimples. This was enough for the
gold-diggers; they laughed, they clapped their hands, they applauded,
they cried:
"Bravo, young un! Bravo!"
As though the baby had performed the most marvellous feats; and when
the mother, carried away by her feelings, tossed her baby in the air,
who fell into her arms crowing and laughing, this little touch of
nature roused the audience to a pitch of the wildest enthusiasm. They
called for three cheers for the baby, and three for the mother, and
three more on the top of those, and some of the men left money at the
bars of the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, to buy sweets and cakes for
the youngster.
"A great success," remarked Mr. Hart; "no one can say now that she is
not entitled to her share. It will be as well to repeat baby every
evening until further notice. We will make a feature of baby. She will
draw."
Baby did "draw," and the performances went on bravely. Full houses
every night. At the end of the week, after paying expenses, there were
nearly six hundred pounds to divide. The money was shared on the
Saturday night, after the performance. Mr. Hart, with his share
tightly clasped in his hand walked into his bedroom and locked the
door. Then he lit a candle, and out of a small trunk took a little
packet of letters and a portrait. He knelt by the bed, and read the
letters with slow delight; they were short, and the earlier ones were
written in a large straggling hand. He opened the portrait-case, and
gazed lovingly on the picture of a beautiful girl; a child, with
laughing hazel eyes and light curls. He kissed it again and again; and
taking from his share of the money he had received a sum barely
sufficient for his necessities, he deposited the balance in a safe
corner of the trunk.
"For you, my darling, for you," he murmured, speaking to the pretty
picture before him. "God preserve and bless you, and make your life
happy!"
Tears came into his eyes, and rolled down his cheeks; and sweet
remembrance brought his darling into his arms, where she lay as she
had lain on the last day he saw her, seven years ago.
"My darling must be almost a woman now," he mused, with a yearning
heart.
And so he knelt and dreamed, and garlanded his heart's treasure with
loving thoughts. Many a rough hard life is in this way sweetened and
purified.