MANAGERS.
THE last two days had been very trying ones for the little household in
Norfolk Street, and, though success had crowned their hopes, they bore
marks of the struggle that evening. Even young William Henry, who, like
the antiquarian Duchess (but with a difference), seemed to have been
born before nerves had come into fashion, showed signs of the terrible
ordeal through which he had passed; he was tender-footed, after the
red-hot ploughshares.
The antiquary himself was almost in a state of collapse; while
Margaret, as sensible and self-contained a girl as was to be found on
either side of the Thames, between gratitude to Heaven and love to man,
became for the first time in her life hysterical. All was well for her
Willie at last, but she doubted; and with reason, whether, exposed
to the brunt of the battle, and fighting for what was dearer to him
than life itself, his honour, he had suffered as much as she had done,
sitting in her little room apart from the _mêlée_ and picturing to
herself the terrors of defeat.
She listened to their narrative of the proceedings with a fearful joy,
deemed at first Mr. Pye the basest, and presently the best of men, and
felt a secret gratitude to Mr. Albany Wallis that she would have found
it difficult to explain: she had an impression that he was not their
ally, but that a strong sense of justice, mingled perhaps with remorse
for the part he had on a former occasion taken against them, had made
him something more than neutral. Remorse, too, she herself felt as
regarded the person to whom the final triumph was after all mainly
owing.
‘Where is Mr. Talbot, Willie?’ she said excitedly. ‘I should like to
tell him, not only how much indebted I am to him, but how wrong was the
judgment I had previously formed of him.’
‘To be sure,’ observed the antiquary naïvely; ‘where _is_ Talbot?’ When
the city has been preserved, as the Scripture says, nobody remembers
the name of the obscure individual who saved it, and in the glow of
victory Mr. Erin had clean forgotten his young Irish ally. ‘I suppose
his modesty prevented him from waiting to receive our acknowledgments.’
‘No doubt it was his modesty,’ said William Henry drily. ‘But as for
your gratitude, Maggie, I think it is somewhat misplaced; if he has now
done us good, he once did his best to do us harm, and thus far we are
only quits.’
‘That was a dirty trick his following Samuel to the Temple,’ observed
Mr. Erin; ‘though, as it happened, it has turned out to our advantage.’
‘Still, it is not every one who is ready to make reparation for an
error,’ said Margaret gravely.
To this there was no reply from her uncle. Margaret hardly expected
any. He was a man who took the gifts which Heaven vouchsafed him
without any excess of fervour; but from Willie she had looked for more
generosity of spirit; on the other hand, he might be a little jealous
(she had a vague impression that the young Irish gentleman had made
some clumsy attempt in confederation with his eye-glass to recommend
himself to her attention), in which case of course Willie was forgiven.
‘At all events,’ she continued smiling, for this idea amused her, ‘I
shall not be considered forward if I thank Mr. Talbot on my own account
when he next pays us a visit.’
‘I shall not have the least objection,’ returned William Henry in
the same light tone—though his taking it upon himself to say so was
significant enough of his confidence in his position—’but I am afraid
you will not have an early opportunity of relieving your mind of its
weight of gratitude. Talbot goes home to-morrow by the Irish packet.’
‘Then you saw him after all, before he left this afternoon,’ cried
Margaret. ‘Why, I understood that he had fled to avoid your thanks.’
‘That was my father’s view,’ said William Henry, ‘and such a touching
one that I had not the heart to combat it; but as a matter of fact I
did see Talbot for one moment, and of course I thanked him.’
‘Oh! Willie, Willie, why will you always make yourself out worse than
you are?’ exclaimed Margaret reproachfully.
‘I think we had better say nothing about it,’ observed the antiquary
thoughtfully. Margaret looked up rather sharply at him; she thought
his words had reference to William Henry’s modest concealment of his
own virtues, and that he was disputing the fact; but, strange to say,
though that estimable young man was before his eyes, Mr. Erin was not
thinking of him at all. ‘We will leave others to say what they like,’
continued he, ‘and fight it out among themselves. In twenty-four hours
the whole town will be talking of nothing else.’
‘You mean about the play, sir?’ suggested William Henry.
‘Well, of course; what the devil else should I mean?’ returned the
antiquary with irritation. It was disgusting that these two young
people—for his niece looked as much at sea as his son—should be so
wrapped up in one another and their commonplace affairs as to have
forgotten ‘Vortigern and Rowena’ already. ‘I think it will be better to
rest on our oars and wait events.’
‘Shut our eyes and open our mouths,’ said William Henry, ‘and see what
Heaven will send us.’
The remark was flippant, but the sense of it was in accordance with Mr.
Erin’s views. In his exaltation of spirit he even condescended to reply
in the same vein.
‘I shall open my mouth pretty wide, I can tell you, when the managers
come; but we must not go to them.’
‘You of course know best,’ said William Henry modestly. If left to
himself the impetuosity of youth would have led him on the morrow, cap
(and MS.) in hand, to the stage-door of the nearest theatre.
‘Fortunately, you see, we can afford to wait,’ said Mr. Erin
composedly.
William Henry glanced at Margaret, and Margaret dropped her eyes; Mr.
Erin’s sentiments, though intended to be comforting and even exultant,
were, strange to say, not shared by these young people.
They had not, however, to wait long. As Mr. Erin had predicted, the
news that the committee appointed to investigate the claims of the
‘Vortigern’ MS. had decided in its favour flew swiftly over the town.
‘From the palace to the cottage,’ said Mr. Erin in his enthusiasm,
though probably it only reached the cottage _orné_. Letters of
congratulation poured in from every quarter. Even Malone was reported
to have said that if it could have been done _incognito_ he should
have liked to see the manuscript. (What he really said was, ‘I wish
that Steevens had found it,’ meaning that he should have taken a
real pleasure in eviscerating _him_.) The opinion of antiquaries was
divided; and if Reid and Ritson denounced the play, Garter-King-at-Arms
was enthusiastic in its favour, and gave it more supporters than
Heraldry ever dreamt of.
Before a week was over came Mr. Harris, proprietor of Covent Garden
Theatre, to Norfolk Street in person. The announcement of his name
set William Henry’s heart beating more quickly than it had done even
on that fateful afternoon in Anne Hathaway’s garden. For the first
time he shrank from the customary ordeal of investigation, and Mr.
Erin interviewed the manager alone. As it happened, the young man need
have been under no apprehension of a brow-beating. Mr. Harris was a
practical man, of an expansive mind, which did not stoop to details.
‘The committee, I hear, sir, have decided in favour of this play of
yours,’ was his first remark; it was delivered with quite unnecessary
abruptness, but it was not the tone alone which grated upon Mr. Erin’s
ears.
‘This play of mine, as you have thought proper to term it, Mr. Harris,’
he replied with dignity, ‘is Shakespeare’s play.’
‘So you say, and, indeed, so many other people say, or I should not
be here,’ was the cool rejoinder. ‘Between ourselves, Mr. Erin,
and, speaking as one man of the world to another, I don’t care a
farthing—certainly not a Queen Anne’s farthing—whether it is
Shakespeare’s play or not. The question that concerns _me_ is, “Do the
public believe it to be such?”’
‘Am I to understand, then, that you do not wish to examine the MS.?’
‘Examine it? Certainly not. My time is very much occupied—it is in
five acts, is it not?’
‘It is in five acts,’ assented the antiquary; he could hardly
trust himself to reply, except in the other’s words. Mr. Harris’s
indifference, notwithstanding that it promised to facilitate matters,
was most offensive to him. ‘Mr. Pye has been so good as to promise us a
prologue for the play.’
‘That’s good; “Prologue by the Poet Laureate“ will look well in the
bill. We must have an epilogue ready, even though’—here he smiled
grimly—’we never get so far as that.’
The suggestion of such a contingency—which, of course, meant total
failure—in cold blood, filled up the cup of the antiquary’s
indignation. He almost resolved, whatever this man offered, to decline
his proposition to bring out the play.
‘Mr. Merry will write the epilogue,’ he replied icily.
‘A very good man—for an epilogue,’ replied the manager drily. ‘Well,
we must strike while the iron’s hot, or not at all. We must not give
the public time to flag in its enthusiasm, or, what will be worse,
perhaps, to alter its opinion. There is risk of this even now, but I am
ready to run it, and I’ll take the play.’
‘The devil you will!’ said Mr. Erin.
‘Yes, I will,’ continued the manager calmly, taking, or pretending to
take, this explosion of his companion as an expression of admiration of
his own courage; ‘it will cost a good bit of money, but I’ll take it
and never charge you a farthing for placing it on the boards. It’s an
offer you are not likely to get again, I promise you.’
‘I’ll take your word for that,’ said the antiquary quietly; he had
passed the glowing stage of indignation, into that white heat which
looks almost like coolness. ‘I don’t think any other human being would
venture to make so audacious a proposal. Have you really the impudence
to ask me to give you a play of Shakespeare’s for nothing?’
‘For nothing? What, do you call the advertisement nothing? How is an
author’s name established? How does he acquire fame and fortune but
through the opportunity of becoming known? And how could he get a
better one than having his play acted at Covent Garden?’
‘I was not aware that Shakespeare stood in need of an advertisement,
Mr. Harris,’ returned the antiquary grimly. ‘And even supposing that,
thanks to you, he becomes popular, he is not a rising young author;
should “Vortigern and Rowena“ be ever so successful, that would not
enable us to find another of his plays.’
‘It would be a great encouragement to do it,’ answered the manager
impudently. ‘However, there’s my offer!’
‘And there’s my door, Mr. Harris.’ And Mr. Erin pointed to it with
unmistakable significance.
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said the manager. ‘What do you want? How do you
suppose plays are brought out, man? Come, what do you say to half
profits?’
‘No!’
‘Then, look here—now, this is your last chance, as I’m a Christian
man.’
‘Then I shall have another,’ said Mr. Erin. It was the first approach
to an epigram he had ever made in his life. Anger is a short madness,
genius is a kind of madness, and so, perhaps, it came about that fury
suggested to him that lively sally.
‘A hundred pounds down, and half profits: that is my last word,’ cried
the manager.
‘No!’ thundered the antiquary. He was still upon his legs, with his
outstretched arm pointing to the door like a finger-post.
The manager walked into the passage, opened the front door, and held it
in his hand.
‘A hundred and fifty, and half profits.’
‘No.’
‘Very good; more than a hundred and fifty pounds for the play of a
Shakespeare who spells _and_ with a final _e_ I will not give.’
The door closed behind him with a great bang, which sounded, however,
less like a thunder-clap to Mr. Erin than that concluding sarcasm. He
was not aware that a pamphlet had been published that very morning,
which pointed out that the spelling of _and_ with an _e_, a practice
pursued throughout the ‘Vortigern,’ had been utterly unknown, not only
to Elizabethan times, but to any other.
When Mr. Erin rejoined his two young people, who were waiting for him
with no little anxiety in the next room, there was no need to ask his
news. His face told it.
Nevertheless, Margaret said, ‘Well, uncle?’ before she could stop
herself.
‘It is not well,’ he answered passionately; ‘it is devilish bad.’
‘But surely Mr. Harris was not uncivil?’
‘Uncivil? Who wants his civility? Who but a fool would expect it in a
theatrical manager? Bring me the play—the “Vortigern.”’
‘What is the matter now?’ inquired William Henry.
His manner, as usual, was imperturbable. Mr. Erin—so great was the
revolution wrought in him by recent circumstances—seemed at once to
derive comfort from it. ‘Well, it’s very unfortunate, but it seems that
an objection has been discovered—insignificant in itself—but which
seriously affects its genuineness.’
‘Indeed? There have been a good many not insignificant objections—and
yet it has been generally accepted,’ said the young man smiling.
‘It’s nothing to smile at, I do assure you, if what that fellow said is
correct.’
He had the manuscript before him, and was examining it with nervous
eagerness through his glasses. ‘Yes, here’s one, and here’s another
_and_ with an _e_. Why should Shakespeare spell _and_ with an _e_?’
He looked up sharply at his son, as if asking a riddle of one who has
the answer to it.
‘I am sure I don’t know, sir,’ replied William Henry quietly. ‘He spelt
things pretty much as he pleased.’
‘That’s true, that’s true. But just now it’s certainly most
disappointing that there should be any hitch. The very stars in their
courses seem to fight against us.’
‘It is an unfortunate conjunction, that is all,’ said the young man,
smiling again. ‘The objection of which Mr. Harris speaks may be new,
but not the spelling: _and_ was so spelt in the Profession of Faith,
for example.’
‘Indeed! That had escaped my recollection. Come, that is satisfactory.
All those, then, who signed the certificate will be with us. It was
foolish of me to be so discouraged.’
‘And did Mr. Harris decline the play on the ground of _and_ being
written with the final _e_?’
‘Well, no, he didn’t decline it.’
‘He only used that argument, perhaps, in order to get it at a cheap
rate?’ suggested William Henry.
This, as we know, had not been the case; he had pretty broadly hinted
that he did not believe it to be Shakespeare’s play at all, and even
that there might be plenty more where the ‘Vortigern’ came from, but so
bound up in these wondrous discoveries had Mr. Erin’s mind become, that
it was distressing and humiliating to have to confess as much, even to
his son and niece.
‘Why, yes; he wanted it cheap, and therefore of course depreciated it.
He only offered one hundred and fifty pounds for it and half profits.’
William Henry looked up amazed. For the first time his self-control
deserted him. In his heart he thought the antiquary a fool for having
refused such terms; but it was not the rejection of the terms that
annoyed him so much as the rejection of the chance of having the play
produced at a theatre like Covent Garden. His feelings, in fact, were
precisely the same as those on which Mr. Harris had counted—without
his host.
‘The money in hand may be small, sir, but the half profits—in case the
play were successful—as I feel it must have been, might have been
well worth having.’
Mr. Erin began to think so too by this time. After all, what did it
matter whether the manager were a believer in the play or not, had his
theatre been only made the channel of its introduction to the public?
He sat in moody silence, thinking whether it would be possible, after
what had passed, ‘to win that tassel gentle,’ Mr. Harris, ‘back again.’
It was certain that he (Mr. Erin) would have to swallow a very large
leek first.
The servant-girl entered, bringing a slip of paper upon a salver, the
name, no doubt, of one of those thousand and one persons who were now
always coming to ask permission to see the MS.
‘Two gentlemen to see you, sir,’ said the maid.
The antiquary glanced at the name, and then, as high as a gentleman of
sixty _can_ leap, he leapt from his chair.
Margaret, thinking her uncle had been seized with some
malady—presumably ‘the jumps’—uttered a little scream of terror.
‘Good heavens! what is it?’
‘Sheridan!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘There are more fish in the sea,
Samuel, than have come out of it, and better ones; see, lad, it’s in
his own handwriting; he is here in person—”Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
favoured by Dr. Parr.”’