WHAT THE NEWSPAPERS SAID OF "A HEART OF GOLD."
Mr. Linton's speech before the curtain served more than one good purpose
with many of the dramatic critics. It diverted the attention of some
from the demerits of the comedy drama, and it softened the condemnation
which others would have pronounced upon it. Again, it furnished a theme
upon which one and all dilated--this one indulgently, that one severely;
but the main point was (and the most important in the judgment of the
manager of the Star Theatre) that it drew public attention to the
production.
"The great point gained," said that astute individual, "is that we get a
lot of advertising for nothing."
There were leading articles upon the incident, and it provoked
correspondence upon certain collateral matters, which the theatrical
manager did his best to nourish. "Keep the pot boiling," said he, and he
persuaded his friends to write to the papers, not caring much which side
they took so long as their letters were inserted. The old cry of
first-night cliques was raised; the right of passing judgment within the
walls of the theatre on the first night of production was defended, as
to which certain methods in vogue were challenged or upheld, some
calling them cruel, others maintaining that they were just. Novel
theories were discussed. Said one correspondent:
"We are compelled to pay our money at the doors before we know anything
of the quality of the dish which is to be set before us. If it is
worthless, we are naturally indignant, and we say as much; if it is good
work, we give unstinted praise. Had we the option of paying afterward,
instead of being compelled to part with our money beforehand, the case
would be different."
To this it was replied:
"Nobody forces you to the theatre on first nights; you can keep away if
you choose until you hear from the dramatic critics whether the fare is
good or bad."
Of course came the indignant rejoinder:
"It is the public who are the critics, not the writers on the press.
There is not a man in pit or gallery who is not as good a judge of the
merits of a play as the best professional dramatic critic in the
country."
An Englishman who had just returned from a visit to America wrote:
"Three weeks ago I was present in a New York theatre on the first
production of a new play. It was the most wretched trash imaginable, and
was an unmitigated and deserved failure. In comparison with the play I
witnessed then, _A Heart of Gold_, at the first representation of which
I was present, shines forth a most worthy, intellectual, and
praiseworthy effort. It is the work of an earnest, capable playwright,
who deserves every encouragement, even when he does not come up to the
requirements of the modern play-goer. I will, however, go so far as to
place the two plays on a level, pronouncing them, for the purpose of my
illustration, as equal in merit--which is not the case, for one is a
gem, the other the vilest paste. Both plays were condemned. Note, now,
the methods of condemnation. In New York, when the curtain fell, the
audience very quietly left the theatre; there was no applause; there
were no shrieks and howls; no brutal cries for 'Author,' to serve a
cruel end. There was something almost funereal in the manner of the New
York audience as they filed slowly out of the house; they seemed to
tread more softly than usual; they spoke in lower tones. This was their
method of damning the play, and I commend it to the attention of London
play-goers as incomparably more decent and respectable than that which
they adopt to break an author's heart. There are certain of our national
customs which will bear reform; this undoubtedly is one. As I pen these
lines I see the two assemblages; one conducting itself with reason and
dignity, as becomes rational men and women; the other conducting itself
with unreasoning and indefensible cruelty, as becomes a lower order of
being."
A morning paper of high repute summed up the matter thus:
"In our columns to-day will be found a letter from a gentleman who
contrasts with some force the different methods of 'damning' a play in
England and America. He commends the American system and condemns the
English, ignoring, as it appears to us, the more important issues which
hang upon the methods he describes. If the matter which he argues
commenced and ended with the behaviour of an audience on the first night
of a new production, his views would be convincing, but it only
commences and does not end there. We have ourselves, on several
occasions during late years, commented with some severity upon the
unnecessarily noisy conduct of first-night audiences in London when an
indifferent or a bad play has been submitted to their judgment, but we
have never gone so far as to absolutely condemn the method which has
excited the indignation of our correspondent. It is merely a question of
degree, and the good sense of the public will sooner or later set the
matter right. To this end the proceedings at the Star Theatre on the
first representation of _A Heart of Gold_ will healthfully contribute.
But that is not the question. What we have to consider is absolutely
apart from the purely personal aspect of the matter, and we have no
hesitation in declaring that the English method, exercised with
reasonable moderation, is much more powerful in its beneficial effects
upon dramatic literature than the 'silent system' depicted by our
correspondent as being the vogue in New York. If a lesson is to be
enforced, it is as well that some emphasis should be used in the manner
of its administration; its effect is intended not only for the present,
but for the future, and our correspondent is totally mistaken in
supposing that there is anything really and solely personal in the
attitude of our first-night audiences when they are displeased--and
generally justly displeased--with the fare provided for them. It means,
'Be more careful in your future work; let your proportions be more
nicely managed, do not fall into the ultra-sentimental, or the
ultra-farcical, or the ultra-melodramatic.' The condemnation pronounced
is not the condemnation of an author's life and career; it is
condemnation of a single effort. Let this same author the following
night at another theatre produce a play which justly pleases, and he
will be acclaimed from the topmost row of the gallery to the foremost
row of the stalls. This fact is a proof that the argument of personalism
ridiculously introduced is unworthy of consideration, and likely to be
detrimental to the best interests of the drama. As well might one say
that a wholesome correction administered to a child is cruel and brutal.
"It may not be unprofitable to cursorily examine the effect of the
opposite systems current in America and England with respect to
first-nights. We do not for one moment intend to advance that these
verdicts are the direct cause of the comparative merits of production,
but certainly they contribute to the result. For generations it has been
the fashion here to sigh for the dramatist who is to lift our drama to a
higher level than it occupies at present. This yearning is to a great
extent sentimental, for much has been done by living English dramatists
which is by no means discreditable to intellectual effort; and the
thirst for great plays--plays which shall take their place as
classics--seems in the near future not unlikely to be satisfied. We
mention no names, for that would be invidious, and we are aware that in
a few of our best theatres no high level is aimed at--that is to say,
that the eye more than the mind is catered for. There are, however, four
or five West End theatres which, while entirely satisfying the demand
for pictorial effect, at the same time satisfy the intellect. At these
theatres original plays of a high order are from time to time produced,
and in their revival of old plays an intelligence is displayed worthy of
the sincerest commendation. We have writers of comedy also who are
aiming high, who fail now and then, but who buckle on their armour again
and work with a will. This is the right spirit, and we claim that our
English first-night system has stirred it to a higher emulation. On the
other hand, what has America done? Is there upon the English stage
to-day one lofty example of American original dramatic effort? We supply
the American theatres; they do not reciprocate by supplying us. What is
the customary answer to this? 'Oh! but we are a young country.' It is a
fallacious excuse. America, as a nation, is more than a hundred years
old; it has gathered into its folds a fair proportion of our best
intellect; it has a stirring, new, and picturesque history; its public
and social life teems with novel and amusing characteristics; its story
abounds in heroic episodes; Nature smiles upon it bounteously and
beautifully; and humanity, as varied and many-sided in its aspects as
could ever be hoped to be seen cheek by jowl in one country, there plays
its part through the hours and the days and the years. What more is
needed? Young! America is ripe now, if ever it will be; but where is its
lofty dramatic record? 'Where is yours?' the nation may retort. And we
answer: Such as it is, look for it in your American theatres. You ask
for our stamp, when you should make and rely upon one of your own. We
should not be the losers if you satisfied our demand; nor would you; we
should both be nerved to the highest instead of to the mediocre. It is
not unworthy of consideration whether the silent attitude of your
first-night audiences, instead of the indignant, as with us, be not
prejudicial to the production of a dramatic literature worthy of your
greatness.
"One word more. If London play-goers who are in the habit of going to
'first nights' with unfair and ungenerous intentions, in the hope of or
the desire for a failure, regard what we have said as a defence or a
justification of their occasionally inconsiderate and violent conduct,
they are grievously mistaken. There must be moderation an all things,
and there must be moderation in the expression of their opinions. They
have a license, but the privilege accorded to them must not be abused.
They have no right to demand that the author of an unsuccessful play
should appear before them to be hooted and howled at, and it is to be
hoped for the future that this insistence may not be carried to an
extreme, as of late years has frequently been the case."
The result of all this was that instead of empty benches, as the manager
of the Star Theatre had feared before Mr. Linton's speech, the public
flocked to see _A Heart of Gold_, in order that they might judge for
themselves. Everybody in the theatre was in a high state of exultation
at this unexpected turn of the tables. Kiss, who was in great
trepidation at the prospect of not being able to meet the bill which
Jeremiah Pamflett held, became gradually reassured, and was not chary in
the expression of his hopes to Mr. Lethbridge. "It is the most wonderful
event in my professional experience," he said.
This recountal of the progress of Mr. Linton's comedy drama has somewhat
transgressed the sequence of events, the private details of which now
claim our attention.
When Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge returned home after their visit to Mrs.
Linton they found the young people up; Fred Cornwall, as a matter of
course, and because of what had taken place between him and Phoebe,
being happily ensconced by Phoebe's side, as was his undoubted right
under the circumstances. Very few moments elapsed before Mr. and Mrs.
Lethbridge were made acquainted with the engagement. Phoebe's
happiness was reflected in her face, and her aunt and uncle fondly
embraced her, and wished the young people every joy.
"I should not have dared to stop so late but for this," said Fred
Cornwall to Mrs. Lethbridge.
"It _is_ very late," said Mrs. Lethbridge, glancing at the clock; "five
minutes to three; and the girls must go to bed. Dear, dear, what a night
this has been! Now, Fanny, Phoebe, you must not stop up a minute
longer. Mr. Cornwall, I am glad, for Phoebe's sake, that you are not a
dramatic author."
"Why, mamma?" exclaimed Fanny, the staunch and faithful champion. "The
successful ones makes heaps of money, and Fred would have been sure to
be successful. And, mamma, it isn't 'Mr. Cornwall' now; it is Fred with
all of us. You mustn't forget he is one of the family--aren't you,
Fred?"
"I hope to be," said Fred, gaily, "and very soon."
"And you must call mamma Aunt Leth, as everybody does who has the least
affection for her," said Fanny.
"May I?" asked Fred.
"Indeed you may," said Mrs. Lethbridge. She clasped the young man's
hand, and looked at him solicitously; "I must speak to you before you
go."
He took the hint, and went out into the passage to wish his dear girl
good night. It is wonderful what a long time this simplest form of
farewell occupied, but then it was like a new language to the lovers.
Indeed, everything to their senses was at that moment new and beautiful,
and every word they spoke to each other was charged with strange
tenderness. Fanny, as was to be expected of her, retired first to her
bedroom, leaving the lovers together; but her high spirits would not
allow her to be utterly extinguished. When at length Phoebe came
slowly into the room, "with many a lingering look behind," Fanny popped
out into the passage, shutting her cousin in.
"Fred!" said Fanny, in a stage-whisper, leaning over the balustrade.
"Yes," he said, looking up.
"Like Romeo and Juliet, isn't it? Parting is such sweet sorrow she could
say good-night until to-morrow. But she isn't coming out again, so you
had best go at once to mamma. Good-night, Fred."
"Good-night, Fanny."
Then he went into the dining-room, where Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge were
waiting for him. It rather discomposed him to observe that they received
him with grave looks instead of smiles.
"You are not sorry," he said, "for what has occurred?"
"No," replied Mrs. Lethbridge, "we are not sorry. But for one
consideration there would not be a cloud upon our hearts to-night."
"What consideration?" asked Fred.
"Phoebe's father. You have not spoken to him?"
"No, I have not. To speak the truth, it was my intention to ask your
advice whether, before I spoke to Phoebe, I should go to see Mr.
Farebrother at Parksides."
"That would have been the best course, perhaps," said Mrs. Lethbridge.
"You would have advised me to do so?"
"Yes."
"It is, however, too late to talk of that now. I had no intention of
proposing to Phoebe to-night, and I have no idea how it all came
about. But there it is, and I would not unsay what I have said, or undo
what I have done, for all the wealth in the world."
"We would not wish you to do so," said Mrs. Lethbridge; and her gentle
voice and wistful eyes were sufficient proof that she was in entire
sympathy with him. "It is not to-night that we have discovered that you
and our dear Phoebe love each other. We have known it a long time, and
our prayer is that we have not acted unwisely in innocently encouraging
it. Should there be no obstacle to your union a happy life is before you
both."
"What obstacle can there be?"
"Phoebe's father may refuse his consent."
"I cannot see upon what grounds," said Fred. "I am not rich, it is true;
but I am a gentleman, and I shall not ask him for any money. I am
content--more than content--to take Phoebe as she is, without a penny,
and to work with all my heart and soul for her happiness and comfort.
And she will be happy with me, Aunt Leth."
"There is no reason to doubt it," said Mrs. Lethbridge. "But it is as
well to be prepared when you go to see Mr. Farebrother."
"To be prepared for what?--for his refusal? Well, in that case I shall
have reason to rejoice that I spoke to Phoebe first, and learnt from
her dear lips that her heart is mine. With her father's refusal staring
me in the face I might have hesitated, but I should have spoken all the
same. It isn't likely that I should have stood tamely aside and seen the
happiness of our lives destroyed. But what is done, is done, Aunt Leth,
and nothing can undo it. Phoebe is mine, and I am hers. Nothing in the
world shall part us."
"Let us hope for the best," said Mrs. Lethbridge. "We thought it our
duty to give you a word of warning. Phoebe's father is a strange man,
and you must be careful in dealing with him."
"I will be. Phoebe remains here four or five days, she tells me."
"Yes; her father consented that she should stop with us till Tuesday or
Wednesday next."
Fred rubbed his hands joyously. "Let it be Wednesday, Aunt Leth."
"I shall be only too happy, Fred. When will you go to Parksides?"
"Not before Wednesday next. I want time, you see, to think of what I
shall say to Mr. Farebrother. There is no immediate hurry, because
everything is as good as settled. Good-night dear Aunt Leth. I am the
happiest man in the world!"