A friend of mine has started as manager of his first theatre these
holidays. It may seem to you an unpropitious moment for such a
beginning, but in many ways this special theatre is exceptionally well
guaranteed against failure. The proprietor was kind enough to invite my
presence at his opening performance. As a matter of fact I had myself
put up the money for it.
Naturally I was anxious for the thing to be a success. The theatre
stands on what you could truthfully call a commanding situation at one
end of the schoolroom table. It is an elegant renaissance edifice of
wood and cardboard, with a seating accommodation only limited by the
dimensions of the schoolroom itself, and varying with the age of the
audience. The lighting effects are provided in theory by a row of oil
foot-lamps, so powerful as to be certain, if kindled, to consume the
entire building; in practice, therefore, by a number of candle-ends,
stuck in the wings on their own grease. These not only furnish
illumination, but, when extinguished (as they constantly are by falling
scenery) produce a penetrating aroma which is specially dear to the
managerial nostrils.
The manager, to whom I have already had the pleasure of introducing you,
is Peter. I have been impatiently waiting for the moment of Peter's
first theatre, these nine years. Like marbles or _Treasure Island_, it
is at once a landmark and a milestone in the present-giving career of an
uncle. So I had devoted some considerable care to its selection.
In one respect Peter's theatre reminds me of the old Court in the days
of the VEDRENNE-BARKER repertory. You recall how one used to see the
same people at every performance, a permanent nucleus of spectators that
never varied? The difference is that Peter's permanent nucleus are
neither so individually agreeable nor in any true sense enthusiasts of
the drama. Indeed, being painted on the proscenium, with their backs to
the stage, the effect they produce is one of studied indifference. Nay
more, a horrible suspicion about them refused to be banished from my
thoughts; it was based partly upon the costumes of the ladies, partly on
the undeniably Teutonic suggestion in the gentlemen's uniforms. However,
I said nothing about this to Peter.
Despite the presence of these unpleasing persons, the opening
performance must be pronounced a real success. Perhaps more as a
spectacle than anything else. Scenically the show was a triumph; the
memory of the Forest Glade especially will remain with me for weeks by
reason of the stiff neck I got from contorting myself under Peter's
guidance to the proper angle for its appreciation. But histrionically it
must be confessed that things dragged a little. Perhaps this was due to
a certain severity, not to say baldness, in the dialogue as spoken. Not
having read the script, I have a feeling that it might be unfair to
judge the unknown author by the lines as rendered by Peter, who was
often pre-occupied with other anxieties. As, for example, the scene in
the Baronial Castle between its noble but unscrupulous proprietor and a
character introduced by Peter with the simple notice: "This is a
murderer coming on now."
_Baron._ Oh, are you a murderer?
_Murderer._ Yes.
_Bar._ Oh, well, you've got to murder the Princess.
_Murd._ All right.
_Bar._ That's all of that scene.
Crisp, of course, and to the point; but I feel sure that there must have
been more in the interview as originally written.
Perhaps, again, the cast was to blame for whatever may have been
disappointing in the performance. Individually they were a fine company,
passionate and wiry of gesture, and full of energy. Indeed their chief
fault sprang from an incapacity to remain motionless in repose. This led
to a notable lack of balance. However sensational it may be for the exit
of every character to bring down the house, its effect is unfortunately
to retard the action of the piece.
Personally I consider that the women were the worst offenders. Take the
heroine, for example. Lovely she may have been, though in a style more
appreciated by the late GEORGE CRUIKSHANK than by myself; but looks are
not everything. Art simply didn't exist for her. Revue might have been
her real line; or, better still, a strong-woman turn on the Halls. There
was the episode, for instance, where, having to prostrate herself before
the Baron, she insisted upon a backward exit (with the usual result) and
then made an acrobatic re-entrance on her knees.
Tolerant as he was, even Peter began at last to grow impatient at the
vagaries of his company. Finally, when the Executioner (a mere walker-on
of no importance whatever) had twice brought ridicule upon the ultimate
solemnities of the law by his introduction of comic dives off the
scaffold, the manager rang down the curtain. Not before it was time.
"They're lovely to look at," he observed, surveying the supine cast,
"but awfully difficult to do anything with."
"Peter," I answered gratefully, "as an estimate of the theatrical
profession your last remark could hardly be improved upon."
Of course he didn't understand; but, being dramatist as well as uncle, I
enjoyed saying it.
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[Illustration: _Nervous Country Gentleman_ (_as taxi just misses an
island_). "Do drive carefully, please. I'm not accustomed to taxis."
_Driver_ "That's funny! I ain't used to 'em, neither. As a matter o'
fact I've only taken this on for a bet."]
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"February 3.--A total eclipse of the sun, partly visible at
Greenwich as a partial eclipse. Eclipse begins to be visible at
Greenwich at 4.31 P. M.; ends after the sun has set."
"February 3.--A partial eclipse of the moon, partly visible at
Greenwich. Begins at 4.31 P. M."--_Churchman's Almanack._
This double obscuration will make navigation very difficult for
sky-pilots.
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