TURK WEST'S APPEARANCE AT THE WEST-END THEATRE, AND ITS RESULTS.
Early in the morning I watched for an opportunity to endeavour to make
peace with Jessie. My mother had been in great anxiety about me during
the night, and had come down to my bedroom three or four times,
whispering my name at the door; but I pretended to be asleep, and as
the door was locked, she could not enter the room. I passed a
sleepless night, and tossed about in bed, longing for daylight. When
it came, I rose and commenced to work, and even in the midst of my
great unhappiness I found comfort in it, for I loved it. At seven
o'clock I heard my mother calling to me, and I opened my door.
'At work so soon, my dear!' she said, in a tone of exquisite
tenderness.
I answered that I had a great deal of work in hand, and that it would
not do for me to be idle. She sat by my side, and was saying meekly
that her boy must not work too hard, but must take proper rest, when
she broke down. Looking at her, I saw an expression of such yearning
devotion in her pale face, such sweet and wistful love, that, softened
for a moment, I laid my head on her shoulder, and sobbed quietly. Her
tears flowed with mine.
'Ill could help you, dear child!' she murmured.
You cannot--you cannot,' I murmured in reply. Mother, Jessie must not
go out this morning without my seeing her. I _must_ speak to her
alone.'
Soon after breakfast, when uncle Bryan was in the shop, I heard her
tell Jessie to wait in the parlour for a minute or two, and then I
knew that Jessie was alone. I immediately opened my door, which led
into the parlour, and stepped to Jessie's side. She did not look at
me.
'I have come to ask you to forgive me,' I said.
'What have I to forgive?' she asked.
'You know,' I answered. 'What I said yesterday about Mr. Glover. I did
not mean it, Jessie; I spoke in passion. It was cruel of me. Say that
you forgive me, Jessie.'
'It was unjust as well as cruel,' she said; but I am not the only
person you are cruel to. Do you know what time your mother came to bed
this morning?'
'It was very late,' I said remorsefully.
'Have you any idea what she suffered while she waited up for you,
Chris? Because you and I have quarrelled, is that a reason why you
should be cruel to her?'
'I have been doubly wrong,' I said, 'but I have made my peace with
her.'
'Yes, that is easy with such a nature as hers; mine is harder.'
'Still you forgive me; say that you forgive me, Jessie.'
'Yes, I forgive you,' she said coldly; 'not because you were unkind to
me, for I deserve that, perhaps, but because you were unjust to me.'
I could extract nothing more than this from her, and I was fain to be
satisfied. But I saw clearly enough that she was less cordial towards
me than heretofore. The spirit that animated and sweetened our
intercourse in the dear old days seemed to have fled, never to return.
But I had something in my mind which, when carried out, might, I
thought, be the means of reëstablishing myself in Jessie's favour. Her
birthday was approaching; in a fortnight she would be eighteen years
of age. From the day on which Jessie had given me, as a birthday
present, the silver locket, with the words engraven on it, 'To Chris,
with Jessie's love,' I had had many anxious consultations with myself
as to what kind of gift I should give her on her birthday, and I had
resolved that a gold Geneva watch and chain would be appropriate and
acceptable. I had seen the very thing I wanted in a jeweller's shop,
and the price asked for the pretty ornament--seven pounds--was not
beyond my means, for I had been saving money for some time, and was
now earning more than two pounds a week. On the very day on which
Jessie and I made up our quarrel, I went to the jeweller's and
purchased the birthday gift, and gave instructions that on the inside
of the case should be engraven, From Chris to Jessie, on her
eighteenth birthday. With undying love.' In my state of mind nothing
less fervent would satisfy me. Being attracted by a plain ivory
brooch, in the form of a true lover's knot, I purchased that also, and
felt, as I did so, that that would complete our reconciliation. As I
sat at my work after the transaction of this business, I thought of
what had passed between me and Jessie when she gave me the silver
locket, and I reproached myself very strongly for having uttered a
word to give her pain. Was not the inscription, 'To Chris, with
Jessie's love,' sufficient? I decided that it was, and I resolutely
refused to harbour the words of Mr. Glover which came to my mind, to
the effect that Jessie and I had been brought up as brother and
sister, and that it was natural we should be fond of each other in
that way. How, thought I, could I ever have been so mad as to
entertain a doubt of Jessie? She was better than I, cleverer than I,
and she saw faults in me which she wished to correct, and she was also
naturally hurt at my suspicions of her. Well, I would never again
suspect her; from this moment I would have the fullest faith in her
goodness, her purity, her love. It was in this mood that I presented
myself at Mr. Rackstraw's office, somewhat doubtful of the manner in
which Jessie would receive me, but resolved to show her in every
possible way how truly I loved her and what faith I had in her. Mr.
Glover was there of course, and we all three walked together from the
office. That I abased myself before him is true, and it is quite as
true, notwithstanding the resolution I had formed, that I despised
myself for so doing. Jessie looked at me thoughtfully, and seemed to
be considering within herself whether she approved of my new mood. For
this reason Mr. Glover found her a somewhat inattentive listener to
his confidential utterances, the intervals between which he improved
by talking to and at me on his pet theme--his character and good name.
Before we had walked a mile, Jessie proposed that she and I should
take an ..omnibus home, as she was tired, and Mr. Glover left us. On
our way she told me that Mr. Rackstraw had offered her an engagement
on the stage. Did she intend to accept it? I asked; and she said that
she had deferred her answer until after her birthday.
'I wish with all my heart,' I said, that you were not going on the
stage; not that there is any harm in it, Jessie, nor that there could
be harm in anything you do, but because it seems as if it will take
you away from us.'
'Do you think,' was the reply, 'that a woman has not an ambition as
well as a man? If I have a talent--and I really think I have,
Chris--why should I not turn it to good account? Besides, I have my
plans. I owe money, Chris.'
To Mr. Rackstraw for your lessons. Well, I can pay that, Jessie. All
that I have is yours, and you don't know how rich I am growing.'
'You are too good to me, Chris,' she said, giving me her hand, which I
took and held close in mine beneath her mantle; in that moment all my
trouble vanished, and a feeling of ineffable delight brought peace to
my heart once more. Will nothing cure you?'
'Nothing will ever cure me of loving you,' I said, in a glad whisper.
'You would not wish that.'
She turned the subject.
'I owe other money as well. I owe a great deal to uncle Bryan; he is
poor, and I should like to pay him. But we'll not talk of this any
more just now, Chris; wait till my birthday comes.'
'You will have a secret to tell me then, Jessie.'
'Yes; I have thought a great deal lately of the letter I am to read
for the first time on that day.'
'And you have never had the curiosity to open it, Jessie?'
'Oh yes, I have; but I have never opened it. I can be steadfast and
faithful, Chris, as well as other people. Let us call in together and
see Josey West.'
'Ah,' said that little woman, with a shrewd glance at us as we
entered, so you two lovers have been making it up?'
'Don't be foolish, Josey,' exclaimed Jessie.
'How do you know we ever quarrelled?' I asked, in high spirits.
'How do I know that it will be night to-night, you meant to ask.
Because I'm crooked, you think I can't see things perhaps. Have you
seen Turk?'
'No,' I answered.
'He has gone to your house to tell you something. I dare say he is
waiting there for you. Here is a rose for you.'
I took and dropped it.
'Ah,' said the queer little creature, 'because a rose is pretty and
fresh, and smells sweet, you think it can't prick you! There, get
along with you, Mr. Wiseacre, and mind how you handle your roses for
the future.'
Turk had great news to communicate. His chance had come. By a
fortunate combination of circumstances, an opening had occurred in a
West-end theatre, and he was to make his first appearance there on the
ensuing Saturday night in the new play that had been written for him.
'It's a fluke, Chris, my boy, a fluke,' he said, walking up and down
the room excitedly; 'a sensation piece that the lessee thought would
be a great draw is a most complete failure, as it deserves to be. He
must either fill his house with paper or play to empty benches, so he
withdraws his sensation piece, and gives me a show. We came out
without much of a flourish; but we shall astonish them, Chris, my boy.
The simple announcement of a new play and a new actor at that theatre
is sufficient to draw all the critics, and we shall have a great house
and a great triumph. You shall come, Chris, my boy; you shall come to
witness the effect I shall produce. You shall go into the pit; here is
an order for you. I don't ask you to take a big stick with you--I
scorn to solicit undeserved applause; but at the same time every
friend is a friend, and what's the use of a friend if he isn't
friendly, eh, Chris, my boy?--a word to the wise; you understand;
there's no need of anything more betwixt _us_. The piece will be
wretchedly put upon the stage; there will be no scenery to speak of;
the stock actors who play the other parts will be--well, no better
than they should be, Chris, my boy, and, in addition, they will not be
disposed to regard with favour a man who is an actor, Chris, my boy,
and who comes to break down vicious monopolies and vicious systems.
But what matter these small drawbacks to Turk West? They daunt not
him! Resolved to conquer, he goes in and wins. Turk's sun will rise on
Saturday night, Chris, my boy, and ever after it will blaze--that's the
word, sir, Chris, my boy--blaze refulgent, and all the lesser suns
shall pale before it.'
'But if you should fail,' I suggested.
He glared at me in incredulous astonishment.
'There's no such word in Turk's vocabulary, Chris, my boy. The man who
goes in with an idea that he will fail generally does fail, and
deserves to fail. Is there any want of pluck in Turk West? Is there
any want of stamina in him? No, no. It's no game of chance that he
plays. On Saturday night next he throws double sixes. And after that
he'll be able to serve his friends.'
Did his family know of it? I asked.
'Yes, they know of it,' he replied, and those who can come will be
there--in different parts of the theatre, Chris, my boy, strangers to
each other. And old Mac will be there, with an oak stick; it's an off
night with him. Here are a couple more orders which you may like to
give to _friends_,' with most significant emphasis on the last word.
I fully understood his meaning, and I gave the orders to persons who
promised to applaud Turk on every available opportunity, and who, I
have good reason for believing, basely betrayed their trust; but there
are not more ungrateful persons in the world than those who go to a
theatre without paying. The receipt of an order has a baleful effect
upon them; it deadens their sense of enjoyment, and makes them
miserably hypercritical. On the following Saturday I made my way to
the West-end theatre in a state of great expectation and excitement.
Meeting with a man in the streets who sold walking-sticks, I purchased
the stoutest in his collection, and, thus armed, seated myself in the
front of the pit, half an hour before the curtain rose. The theatre
was quite filled before the performances commenced, and a fashionable
company was assembled in the stalls and private boxes. I recognised
several members of Turk West's family in different parts of the house,
who stared at me stolidly, and made no response to my familiar nods.
Debating with myself upon the reason of this, I came to the conclusion
that they had resolved not to know any person on that night lest they
might be set down as partisans of Turk, and thus tarnish the
genuineness of his triumph. The conclusion was strengthened by the
circumstance which I noted, that they seemed to be perfectly oblivious
of each other's existence; but there was certainly a family likeness
in the sticks they carried. Studying the playbill, I found that a
piece of some importance would be played first, and that Turk would
not make his appearance until past nine o' clock. I paid but little
attention to the drama in which Turk was not; my stick was as
indifferent as myself; and the other sticks witnessed this part of the
performance in mute inglorious ease; nevertheless there was a good
deal of applause when the curtain fell. About this time there
straggled into the stalls and private boxes certain persons whom a
communicative stranger who sat next to me, and who appeared to be a
wonderful authority on all matters connected with the drama, pointed
out as notabilities.
The critics were the most interesting persons in my eyes, and I stared
at them with interest, and with some feeling of disappointment because
they were so like ordinary mortals. I asked my neighbour what he
thought of Mr. Turk West as an actor--when I mentioned the name of my
friend, I consulted my playbill with the air of one to whom he was a
stranger--and I learnt to my mortification that he had never heard of
him. He did not seem to be very sanguine of the success of the new
play or the new actor, and I was mean enough to agree with him. The
title of the play was _Twice Wedded, or Torn Asunder_; and in due time
the curtain rose for its introduction to the audience. I cannot
undertake to describe it, for the reasons that a good deal of it was
not heard, that the actors and actresses were imperfect in their
parts, and that the story was so involved and mysterious as to baffle
description. The heroine, it appeared, had been twice married--once,
many years ago to Turk, who had been torn from his wife, for no
assignable reason, on the wedding-day, and who was supposed to have
died in battle (what battle, and why he went to battle, were not
explained); and afterwards to a person whose identity I was not
successful in discovering. Turk played two characters, an Irish
servant and the first husband, who instead of dying in battle, as he
should have done, had been confined in a madhouse, from which he had
just made his escape. After a comic scene as the Irish servant, which
was mildly tolerated by the audience, Turk came on in a high-peaked
hat, a long cloak, and hessian boots, and hearing that his wife had
married again, behaved in so mad a manner as to fully justify his long
incarceration. Being a very short man, Turk's appearance in this
costume was even in my eyes most ludicrous; no effort of imagination
could have made a hero of him, and as (for the sake of contrast, I
suppose, with his other character) he spoke in the most lugubrious
tone, the audience went through various transitions of feeling. First,
they were, as I have said, mildly tolerant; then they became
impatient, then indignant, and then, there was something so really
comic in the little man's despair, they hooted and laughed at him.
Directly the feeling of derision came into play, even I knew that both
Turk and his new and original drama were, in dramatic parlance,
'damned.' An unfortunate word which Turk used was taken up as a
catchword by the audience, and they flung it at him with merciless
enjoyment. They literally screamed with laughter when he was most
serious, and even the critics threw themselves back in their seats and
showed by their merriment (for critics are rarely merry) that they
were tasting a new sensation. In vain the sticks rapped approval; in
vain did Turk's friends endeavour to stem the current. The knowing man
who sat next to me declared, as he wiped his eyes, that he would not
have missed this first night for anything. It's the richest thing I've
ever seen,' he said; and, like a coward as I was, I flung away Turk's
colours, and basely murmured that it was the richest thing _I_ had
ever seen. I was very sorry for poor Turk, and more so because he was
so brave all through. He did not exhibit the slightest sign of
discomposure at this miscarriage of his ambition, but faithfully spoke
every word of his part, until the curtain finally fell amidst peals of
laughter; and then the stage-manager came forward and stated that the
new drama would _not_ be played again.
When I was out of the theatre, I was almost inclined to run away, for
I felt that the verdict was a just one, and I was afraid that Turk
might wish me to declare otherwise; but I liked him too well to desert
him. I waited for him near the stage-door, and so did a few other of
his friends, who seemed to regard their big sticks, as I did mine,
with gloomy disgust. Turk soon made his appearance, and, to my
surprise, with a cheerful countenance. Not a word was said about his
failure. We adjourned to a neighbouring tap, and talked of anything
but the drama. Old Mac was there, enjoying his toddy, but he did not
at first join in the conversation. Turk, also, was silent. Suddenly
old Mac burst out:
'Hang it, my sons, let's speak! Turk, you acted bravely. I was never
prouder of my profession than I was to-night when I saw you go
manfully and artistically through your part in defiance of the
senseless howlings of the envious crew. If I could have broken all
their heads with one blow of my stick--did you hear it going, Turk? I
stuck to you, my son; I stuck to you like a man--I'd have done it!
Dammee, I'd have done it, to see where the brains were. I'd have made
a quarry with thousands of these quartered slaves as high as I could
pick my lance! Thank you; I will. Another glass of whisky-toddy,
miss--as before. As before!' Here old Mac drew the back of his left
hand across his eyes, and holding out his right sympathisingly, said:
'Turk, my boy, drown dull care! A small piece of lemon, if you please,
miss. Here's confusion to the rabble!'
'Now what's the use of beating about the bush?' demanded Turk, a
little huskily. 'I'm not such an ass as not to see that I've made a
failure. Is Turk West going to bury his head in the sand, like an
ostrich, and refuse to see it? Not he! Well, I'm not the first, and
sha'n't be the last. Pass me the pewter, Chris. It served me right. I
ought to have taken more time; I ought to have gone on by degrees; I
ought to have stuck to my last. I've had my lesson, and I mean to
profit by it. Mac, old boy, you and I will never meet again at
Philippi. I've had my dream, and it's over.'
'The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces!' murmured old Mac.
'It was all the fault of the piece,' said one. 'What audience could be
expected to stand such a hash?'
'It wasn't all the fault of the piece,' retorted Turk manfully. 'We
were both to blame. It isn't a first-rate piece. I can see that now;
but there's merit in it, merit, my boy, although the subject is an
unfortunate one. I've brought desolation upon more than one breast
to-night.' He beat his own, and the action would have been ludicrous,
but for the genuine tone in which he spoke. 'The author had set his
all upon the hazard of the die, and I saw him rush from the side-wings,
with the salt tears running down his face. What did I say I'd
throw to-night, Chris, my boy? Double sixes? Well, I threw for both,
and threw double blank. A nice bungler I am I! My mind's made up.
Othello's occupation's gone! Turk West acts no more.'
'Nonsense, old fellow, nonsense!' his friends remonstrated. 'You'll
think better of it.'
'I've said it,' cried Turk, with stern resolve. 'I act no more.'
'In that case,' said old Mac, in a tone of gloomy desperation, 'I'll
take another glass of whisky-toddy. Little does the English stage know
what it has lost this night!'