THE FIRST NIGHT OF "A HEART OF GOLD."
Three-quarters of an hour before it was time to start for the Star
Theatre, Fred Cornwall with a cab was at the Lethbridges' door. There
was no one but 'Melia Jane to receive him. Everybody was dressing, and
'Melia Jane, with a jug of hot water in her hand, informed Fred Cornwall
that "Miss Phoebe, sir, she do look most lovely," for which she
received a sixpenny bit.
"Take these flowers up to the ladies, 'Melia Jane," said Fred, "and be
careful you don't mix them. These are for Mrs. Lethbridge; these are for
Miss Lethbridge; these for Miss Farebrother; and ask them how long they
will be."
"Lor', sir!" exclaimed 'Melia Jane, "now you're 'ere they'll be down in
no time."
"That foolish boy," observed Fanny, when the flowers were brought into
the girls' bedroom, "will ruin himself. You will have to check him,
Phoebe. But what taste he has! Did you ever see anything more
exquisite? I knew he would bring us flowers. And of course he has the
cab at the door, waiting; he hasn't the least idea of the value of
money. I shall have to give him a good talking to, the foolish,
extravagant boy!"
This was a new fashion of Fanny's--to put on matronly airs and to talk
of Fred Cornwall as a foolish boy. He was greatly amused by it, and he
listened to her lectures with a mock-penitential air, which caused her
to deliver her counsels with greater severity.
"You are a model of punctuality," he said, as Fanny sailed into the
room.
"And you're a modeller," retorted Fanny gaily. "How do I look?" turning
slowly round.
"Beautiful!" exclaimed Fred, advancing eagerly as Phoebe entered.
"Oh, of course," cried Fanny. "Come here, Phoebe," taking her cousin's
hand. "He sha'n't admire one without the other."
With looks and words of genuine admiration, Fred scanned and criticised
the girls, who, truly, for loveliness, would take the palm presently in
the Star Theatre.
"That's very sweet of you," said Fanny, when he came to the end of an
eloquent speech, "and you may kiss my hand. But don't come too near me;
I mustn't be crushed; and Phoebe mustn't, either. Oh, my dear,
beautiful mother!" And the light-hearted girl ran to her mother, who at
this moment entered the room.
Aunt Leth was the picture of a refined, gentle-hearted sweet-mannered
lady. She had her best gown on, of course; and so cleverly had she
managed that it looked, if not quite new, at least almost as good as
new. She gazed with wistful tenderness at her daughter and niece, and
kissed them affectionately; then she greeted Fred, and thanked him for
the flowers.
Phoebe and Fanny had already thanked him, and when he gave Uncle Leth
a rose for his coat (he himself wearing one), Fanny whispered to
Phoebe that she had not a fault to find with him.
"What I like especially about Fred," said Fanny, "is that when he does a
thing he does it thoroughly. Did you notice how pleased dear mamma was
when he gave papa the rose? He could not have delighted her more. You
lucky girl!"
Altogether Fred's position in that affectionate family was an enviable
one, and if he was not a proud and happy young fellow as he rattled away
with them to the Star Theatre, he ought to have been. Any gentleman in
London would have been happy to be in his shoes.
Bob, of course, had gone early to the theatre, convinced that the
success of _A Heart of Gold_ depended upon the way in which he would
announce "Mrs. Portarlington," "Mr. Praxis," and "Lord Fouracres."
There was a great house. The manager had taken more than usual pains to
obtain the attendance of the critic of every influential paper. Fred,
who knew a great many of them, pointed them out to the eager girls, and
described their peculiarities and the qualities for which they were
famous. Mr. Linton, although he had written seven or eight pieces, all
of which had been played, was not yet looked upon as a dramatist of
mark; some of the best judges had declared that he had a great deal in
him, and that he would one day surprise the public, and take London
captive by the production of a play of the greatest merit. This opinion
was more or less shared by most of the dramatic writers on the press,
and they came to-night prepared to deal generously toward him if he
showed himself deserving of it. There were others who came prepared for
contingencies: theatrical frequenters of pit and gallery, regular
"first-nighters," who knew by sight every critic on the London press,
and every notability in the city. Before the music commenced they kept
up a buzz of conversation, pointing out the celebrities, and tiptoeing
over their neighbours to catch a sight of the great men. "It's quite
like a party," observed Aunt Leth, as she saw the friendly greeting and
salutations of those who were in the habit of meeting on such occasions.
Then came a cheer or two and a clapping of hands, which was taken up
gradually in all the cheaper parts of the house. A favourite actress had
entered a private box, and the enthusiastic play-goers were showing
their regard for her. She smiled, and turned to the pit with a pleasant
nod, which added to the delight of her admirers. They compared notes:
"Did you see her in so-and-so? Wasn't she stunning? Ah, but she was
better than all in such-and-such. What does she play in next?" Hungry
and eager and ever-ready are the theatrical public to show favour to
established favourites; beloved by them are the actor and actress who
have given them pleasure; and thus much being acknowledged, it is
strange that the dramatic author should hold in their regard what is at
best but an equivocal position. They call him out when the curtain falls
to hoot or applaud him, and it is a moot point which of the two
processes pleases them more. It was of this moment to come that Mr.
Linton was thinking as he sat hidden in a box behind the curtains, his
fingers playing convulsively on the palms of his hands. To-night, he
believed, was to make or mar him. More hung upon the success of _A Heart
of Gold_ than the public was aware of. He was poor, very poor; his wife
was nursing a sick child, for whom the doctor had prescribed what it was
not in Linton's power to afford. Would the result of this night's work
put him in funds, cause him to be in demand, and make the world bright
for him? He saw an American manager in the stalls, and he knew if _A
Heart of Gold_ was successful that he would at once receive an offer
from him for the American rights. That meant money--meant, perhaps, the
life of his child. He had sat by the bedside at home till the last
minute, and when he kissed his little one, had whispered, "Wish father
good luck, my dear!" "Good luck, father!" murmured the child, and kept
his arms entwined round the loving father's neck so tight that they had
to be loosened by gentle force. Then he had held his good wife in his
embrace for a moment, and she pressed him fondly to her; he could not
speak, he was almost choked; his lips trembled so that he could scarcely
kiss her; and he bore with him, as he ran out of the room, the memory of
the patient, wistful face, which would have been more cheerful had their
circumstances been better. He saw it now as he sat hidden behind the
curtains in the private box; he saw his little child in bed, pining
away. "Oh, God!" he muttered, "if they but knew! if they but knew!"
"Who is in that box?" asked Fanny. "Not a soul can be seen; but--there,
there it is again--the curtain just moved, and some one peeped through."
"That is the author's box," said Fred. "I have no doubt Mr. Linton is
there."
"Poor gentleman!" said Aunt Leth. "How anxious he must be! I wish we had
him here with us."
"They prefer to be alone, as a rule," said Fred, somewhat grimly, "on
the first nights of their pieces."
The leader of the band entered the orchestra, gloved for the honourable
occasion. People began to seat themselves; the music was lively and
appropriate, and put them in good humour. Linton gnawed his under-lip,
and leaning forward suddenly, almost betrayed his presence. The curtain
rose, and _A Heart of Gold_ commenced its perilous career.
Is there any need to describe it at length here? It would be but a
recapitulation of that with which every old play-goer is familiar, for
this was a night to be remembered. Sufficient that the comedy-drama
opened well and won the sympathies and the favour of the house. Kiss was
greeted with a roar of applause, and outshone himself. The act-drop
descended on the first act, and there was a general call. Linton
brightened up; he hastened to the back of the scenes through a little
door at the side of his box, and nodded gaily at the manager; but that
astute person of long experience merely looked at him, and said, "Wait."
He passed on, and Linton, rather dashed, went back to his box.
In the second act Bob made his appearance, and very bravely announced
"Mrs. Portarlington," and his family declared that it was a most
successful debut. It was with difficulty that they refrained from
applauding him, and if the truth must be told they did patter slightly
with their feet, but as not a soul in the house responded to this
initial movement, they did not continue it.
How was it that, after this, _A Heart of Gold_ began to trail off? The
Lethbridges could not account for it, nor could many other sympathizing
friends in the house. It was pretty, the language was touching, the
situations were sufficiently good, and yet it is a fact that from the
opening of the second act the favourable impression created faded away,
and was replaced by a feeling of weariness and indifference. Behind the
scenes, where Linton did not put in an appearance till the play was
over, the manager knitted his brows, and Kiss looked grave; while in his
private box the poor dramatic author was gnawing his heart and thinking
of his wife and child. The Lethbridges were in consternation; they
strove in vain to stimulate the applause; the audience resented the
attempt, and commenced to hiss. This stirred the indignation of the more
favourably disposed, and they stamped and clapped their hands violently.
"The fools!" muttered the manager, as he stood at the side wings. "Why
don't they leave off applauding? If they go on, there'll be a row." His
prognostication was verified. The hissing grew louder and more frequent,
and when the curtain finally fell a perfect storm broke out. It was,
however, stilled for a few minutes by a spirit of toleration toward old
favourites among the company, and these were called before the curtain
and applauded. Then came calls for "Author! Author!" The unfortunate man
had made his way on to the stage, and was wandering about with a white
face and a mind almost crazed with distracted thought. The actors and
actresses scarcely dared to speak to him; some looked upon him with
positive displeasure, and turned from him to their dressing-rooms,
saying as they went: "The notice will be up to-morrow. A nice slating we
shall get in the papers!" Kiss stepped to Linton's side, and laid his
hand kindly on the author's shoulder. Linton raised his eyes pitifully,
and a sound like a sob escaped from him. Meanwhile the hooting and
hissing and the cruel cries for "Author! Author!" continued.
"Oh!" sighed Aunt Leth, "how dreadful! how dreadful! I shall never have
courage to come to another first night."
She was on the verge of tears herself, as though it was one very dear to
her who was being damned. In a little while the audience waxed into
fury. "Author! Author! Author!" rang through the house; and there were
malicious ones among the auditors who enjoyed the fun. Five minutes, six
minutes, seven minutes passed in this way. And still the poor author
paced the stage, in and out the wings.
"Go on," said the manager to him, "or they'll tear up the benches!"
Linton did not answer. The cries redoubled in fierceness.
"Author! Author! Author! Hoo-oo-oo! Hoo-oo-oo! Author! Author!"
"Damn you!" cried the manager to Linton; "go on like a man, can't you,
and get it over! It will cost me another hundred pounds if you don't!"
The noise now really began to assume the preliminary features of a riot;
the malcontents were not only angry, they were enraged.
"How will it end? How will it end?" sighed Aunt Leth, clasping her
hands.
"He ought to come on," observed Fred Cornwall, gravely.
Suddenly the green curtain was shaken, drawn aside, and Linton stepped
in front. He made but two steps forward, and was greeted with volleys of
hisses and derisive laughter. He was about to retire, when, swayed by an
uncontrollable impulse, he altered his intention, and, advancing swiftly
into the centre of the stage, stood before the audience, and held up his
trembling hands.
"What is he going to do now?" said the manager, watching him from the
side. "He has his gruelling; why don't he come off?"
Linton's unexpected movement produced an instant effect. Every voice was
instantly hushed, and the people craned forward to hear what he had to
say.
Two or three times he essayed to speak, but not a sound issued from him.
Then he found his voice and spoke:
"Why have you insisted that I should come before you? In order that you
may hoot me? Do you think I do not feel with sufficient keenness that my
effort to-night has been a failure? It is an effort, at least, which has
occupied me for many hard-working months; and that the result should be
what it is--is it not punishment enough? Are you not satisfied with
killing a man? Must you also torture him? There is a side to this matter
which may not recommend itself to you, because it is human. An author is
not entirely an abstract entity. He is also a man. In my case he is a
husband and a father. I am not appealing to you for mercy--I would scorn
to do it; I am simply stating a fact. We are not very rich at home, and
cannot afford more than two rooms to live in. When I left my wife this
evening to come here she was nursing a delicate child--our only
child--for whom the doctor had ordered a certain course which we were
not exactly able to carry out, because of the slender purse. I hoped to
be able to take home to her news which would cheer her heart, and
perhaps save the life of our little one. How anxiously is she awaiting
me, counting the moments, and fondly hoping that my brows are being
crowned with success! You are angry, indignant with me, but your loss is
a trifle compared with mine. I take with me this night from the theatre
a heavier load than yours. I can say no more; I retire from your
presence with no light heart, and as I go, continue to hoot me! It will
be manly!"
He bowed with an ashen face, and was slowly leaving the stage amidst a
dead silence, when he paused and spoke again:
"There have been instances when first-night verdicts have been reversed,
and when what looked like a failure has been worked into a success. On
my knees to-night I shall pray to God that this may be the case with my
play! Perhaps He will hear me!"
"My boy!" cried the manager, slapping Linton on the back when he got
behind the curtain. "My boy! a wonderful speech! Wonderful! I never
heard anything like it. Did you learn it beforehand? It will do us a
power of good. Nothing could be more fortunate. It may save the piece."
"Don't speak to me! Don't speak to me!" said Linton, and he crept from
the theatre, sobbing as though his heart were breaking.