I want to know how "Jack and the Beanstalk" goes. I have a notion from a
notice--a favourable notice, however--which I saw in _Galignani_, that
Webster has let down the comic business.
In a piece at the Ambigu, called the "Rentree a Paris," a mere scene in
honour of the return of the troops from the Crimea the other day, there
is a novelty which I think it worth letting you know of, as it is easily
available, either for a serious or a comic interest--the introduction of
a supposed electric telegraph. The scene is the railway terminus at
Paris, with the electric telegraph office on the prompt side, and the
clerks _with their backs to the audience_--much more real than if they
were, as they infallibly would be, staring about the house--working the
needles; and the little bell perpetually ringing. There are assembled to
greet the soldiers, all the easily and naturally imagined elements of
interest--old veteran fathers, young children, agonised mothers, sisters
and brothers, girl lovers--each impatient to know of his or her own
object of solicitude. Enter to these a certain marquis, full of sympathy
for all, who says: "My friends, I am one of you. My brother has no
commission yet. He is a common soldier. I wait for him as well as all
brothers and sisters here wait for _their_ brothers. Tell me whom you
are expecting." Then they all tell him. Then he goes into the
telegraph-office, and sends a message down the line to know how long the
troops will be. Bell rings. Answer handed out on slip of paper. "Delay
on the line. Troops will not arrive for a quarter of an hour." General
disappointment. "But we have this brave electric telegraph, my friends,"
says the marquis. "Give me your little messages, and I'll send them
off." General rush round the marquis. Exclamations: "How's Henri?" "My
love to Georges;" "Has Guillaume forgotten Elise?" "Is my son wounded?"
"Is my brother promoted?" etc. etc. Marquis composes tumult. Sends
message--such a regiment, such a company--"Elise's love to Georges."
Little bell rings, slip of paper handed out--"Georges in ten minutes
will embrace his Elise. Sends her a thousand kisses." Marquis sends
message--such a regiment, such a company--"Is my son wounded?" Little
bell rings. Slip of paper handed out--"No. He has not yet upon him those
marks of bravery in the glorious service of his country which his dear
old father bears" (father being lamed and invalided). Last of all, the
widowed mother. Marquis sends message--such a regiment, such a
company--"Is my only son safe?" Little bell rings. Slip of paper handed
out--"He was first upon the heights of Alma." General cheer. Bell rings
again, another slip of paper handed out. "He was made a sergeant at
Inkermann." Another cheer. Bell rings again, another slip of paper
handed out. "He was made colour-sergeant at Sebastopol." Another cheer.
Bell rings again, another slip of paper handed out. "He was the first
man who leaped with the French banner on the Malakhoff tower."
Tremendous cheer. Bell rings again, another slip of paper handed out.
"But he was struck down there by a musket-ball, and----Troops have
proceeded. Will arrive in half a minute after this." Mother abandons all
hope; general commiseration; troops rush in, down a platform; son only
wounded, and embraces her.
As I have said, and as you will see, this is available for any purpose.
But done with equal distinction and rapidity, it is a tremendous effect,
and got by the simplest means in the world. There is nothing in the
piece, but it was impossible not to be moved and excited by the
telegraph part of it.
I hope you have seen something of Stanny, and have been to pantomimes
with him, and have drunk to the absent Dick. I miss you, my dear old
boy, at the play, woefully, and miss the walk home, and the partings at
the corner of Tavistock Square. And when I go by myself, I come home
stewing "Little Dorrit" in my head; and the best part of _my_ play is
(or ought to be) in Gordon Street.
I have written to Beaucourt about taking that breezy house--a little
improved--for the summer, and I hope you and yours will come there often
and stay there long. My present idea, if nothing should arise to unroot
me sooner, is to stay here until the middle of May, then plant the
family at Boulogne, and come with Catherine and Georgy home for two or
three weeks. When I shall next run across I don't know, but I suppose
next month.
We are up to our knees in mud here. Literally in vehement despair, I
walked down the avenue outside the Barriere de l'Etoile here yesterday,
and went straight on among the trees. I came back with top-boots of mud
on. Nothing will cleanse the streets. Numbers of men and women are for
ever scooping and sweeping in them, and they are always one lake of
yellow mud. All my trousers go to the tailor's every day, and are
ravelled out at the heels every night. Washing is awful.
Tell Mrs. Lemon, with my love, that I have bought her some Eau d'Or, in
grateful remembrance of her knowing what it is, and crushing the tyrant
of her existence by resolutely refusing to be put down when that monster
would have silenced her. You may imagine the loves and messages that are
now being poured in upon me by all of them, so I will give none of them;
though I am pretending to be very scrupulous about it, and am looking (I
have no doubt) as if I were writing them down with the greatest care.
Ever affectionately.
[Sidenote: Mr. W. Wilkie Collins.]