_By Victor Who-goes-Everywhere._
[Illustration]
THE suggestion made a month ago by a "Salubrity Abroad," (now happily
a "Salubrity at home") that the above title would make a good heading
for an all-round-about theatrical and entertainment article in _Mr.
Punch's_ pages, is at length carried out. In the character of a hero
conquering difficulties, I have been here, there, and everywhere. My
first triumph was at the Gaiety Theatre, where (after surmounting all
obstruction) I secured a place from whence _Miss Esmeralda_ could be
watched in comfort. This piece is called a "melodramatic burlesque,"
in two Acts, but I confess I failed to distinguish either the
melodrama or the burlesque. It was, however, well mounted with
good scenery and pretty dresses. It had further the advantage of an
excellent stage-manager in Mr. CHARLES HARRIS, and a no less excellent
dance inventor in Mr. JOHN D'AUBAN, but of the book the less that is
said the better. Frankly, it is not amusing. This being the case I
was not surprised to find the names of its authors printed in the
programme in a type just half the size accorded to the style and title
of "the producer." The acting calls for no particular comment. Mr.
LONNEN sings an Irish song excellently well, but is less diverting
when he trusts to attitudinising as a provocative to merriment. Miss
MARION HOOD'S charming face is sweeter than her voice, and Miss FANNIE
LESLIE'S singing is as welcome now as ever it was--it recalls many
a vocal triumph of the past. Mr. GEORGE STONE as _Gringoire_ is more
broadly comic than Mr. BEERBOHM TREE in a somewhat similar _role_ in
the _Ballad Monger_. Both the Misses BLANCHE are all that could be
desired in two subordinate characters. In the last Act there is a
"Pyramid Ballet,"--which is slightly perplexing. Until my attention
was pointedly called to the fact that I was watching a terpischorean
demonstration of a game of billiards, I was under the impression that
some of the intricacies of the plot of VICTOR HUGO'S _Notre Dame_
were being very cleverly explained to me in easily followed dumb show.
Perhaps the best thing (barring the Irish song) in the whole piece
is an ingenious dance of Warders and Prisoners in Scene I., Act 2. In
alluding to the list of the company I should not have forgotten to
say that the names of that admirable comedian Mr. H. LESLIE and that
evergreen queen of burlesque, Miss E. FARREN, are conspicuous by
their absence. In spite of this very serious drawback, no doubt Miss
_Esmeralda_ will be as successful as it deserves to be. The scenery,
dresses, and music, are alone worth a visit. And when I say this I
leave out the acting, the singing and the dancing.
I also went to the Royal Aquarium the other afternoon, and witnessed
the performances of a troupe of genuine Russian Wolves. If I _had_ to
appear in public myself with a company of performing animals, I think
I should prefer poodles, or white mice, though, as a spectacle, wolves
are undoubtedly more thrilling. I don't know that these particular
wolves did much; but the really striking fact, of course, was their
condescension in doing anything, and it was certainly "pretty to see"
them jumping a gate, and arranging themselves picturesquely on chairs,
with just sufficient display of grinning jaws to make the audience
congratulate themselves that the stage was fenced round by temporary
iron railings. The creatures are evidently deeply attached to the
Professor, who has so ably prepared them for public life. I was
convinced of this by the effusion with which one after another
advanced and kissed his forehead, on receiving a slight hint to that
effect from a whip. But to be kissed--however tenderly--by a wolf,
must be a creepy sensation. On the occasion when I was present we were
afforded an additional, and I may say an unrehearsed, sensation after
the act-drop fell. There was a scurry behind, a shout, and then--a
great jagged rent in the curtain. People in the front row of stalls
looked uncomfortable--it did seem very much as if one of the wolves
had determined to "take a call" on his own account, but it was merely
a little mishap with one of the railings. However, there was no real
cause for alarm in any case, for an audience would have had ample
time to escape while the wolf was amusing himself with the orchestra,
which, fortunately, is a remarkably good one.
After the Wolves, by way of contrast, I paid a visit to La Belle
FATMA. On delivery of a shilling, I, with other members of the Public,
was passed in to a screened-off portion of the Imperial Theatre. A
stout French gentleman seated himself at a piano below the stage, and
the curtain rose presently, disclosing the fair FATMA and her troupe
seated in a row, like a new variety of Christy Minstrels. With regard
to the principal lady, I am bound to say that her charms did not seem
to me to have been at all overestimated, and her portraits upon the
posters actually do her less than justice. But this is a matter of
opinion; and I must confess that, after all, it was not upon the
peerless FATMA that my eyes were most riveted. There was a stout
old lady in a turban, two places from her--_such_ an old lady! with
immense black eyebrows, meeting over flashing dark eyes, and a massive
Oriental nose, a wide sternly compressed mouth, and three chins. Upon
her knees she held a gourd-shaped drum, which she smacked severely
at intervals; she might have sat for CORNELIA polishing one of her
"jewels"; and when she sang, the illusion was complete!
As to the performance, it was Oriental; and no description can
convey much more. We had an Overture on the familiar "Rum-tum-tum,
tum-a-tum-tum-tum, tum-a-tum" theme, which revealed considerable
"staying power" on both sides of the footlights. Then one member of
the _troupe_ after another advanced, and, if a lady, _chasse_'d and
revolved with slowly waving arms, and an expression that seemed to
imply that she would take more pains if it were only worth while; if
a man, he capered and grinned and shouted in a manner which, at all
events, infinitely amused the performer himself. While this was going
on, the old lady continued to "spank"--there really is no better term
for it--her drum in a sort of grim _reverie_, and a young person
by her side emitted piercing shrieks by way of enlivening the
proceedings. There was a mysterious One on the stage, who reminded me
of an immense dice-box muffled in muslin; this, it turned out, was the
COLOSSUS of SOUSSE, to whom was entrusted the function of "presenting"
Mademoiselle FATMA at the close of the performance. This seemed
superfluous, particularly as the excellent Colossus had no notion of
doing more than taking her by the hand and stalking two paces forward.
It was all over in a quarter of an hour or so; and, for my own part, I
considered the old lady in the turban alone worth the paltry shilling
charged for admission.
I have also been to TERRY'S Theatre, where great precautions are taken
to prevent fire. Everything, more or less, is labelled "Exit," and,
instead of doors, in several parts of the house there are curtains.
On the whole it must be a good theatre to escape from. This is worth
noting, if the performances are wearisome.
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