As regards the momentous occasion of the opera, this evening, I found
myself in a grievous predicament, for a republican. The tickets were all
sold long ago, so I must either go as a member of the royal family or
not at all. After a good deal of reflection it seemed best not to mix up
with that class lest a political significance might be put upon it. But
a queer arrangement had been devised whereby I might have a glimpse of
the show, and I took advantage of that. There is an immense barn-like
glass house attached to the rear of the theater, and that was fitted up
with seats, carpets, mirrors, gas, columns, flowers, garlands, and a
meager row of shrubs strung down the sides on brackets--to create an
imposing forest effect, I suppose. The place would seat ten or twelve
hundred people. All but a hundred paid a dollar and a quarter a
seat--for what? To look at the Shah three quarters of a minute, while he
walked through to enter the theater. The remaining hundred paid $11 a
seat for the same privilege, with the added luxury of rushing on the
stage and glancing at the opera audience for one single minute
afterward, while the chorus sung “God Save the Queen!” We are all gone
mad, I do believe. Eleven hundred five-shilling lunatics and a hundred
two-guinea maniacs. The _Herald_ purchased a ticket and created me one
of the latter, along with two or three more of the staff.
Our cab was about No. 17,342 in the string that worked its slow way
through London and past the theater. The Shah was not to come till nine
o’clock, and yet we had to be at the theater by half past six, or we
would not get into the glass house at all, they said. We were there on
time, and seated in a small gallery which overlooked a very brilliantly
dressed throng of people. Every seat was occupied. We sat there two
hours and a half gazing and melting. The wide, red-carpeted central
aisle below offered good display ground for officials in fine uniforms,
and they made good use of it.