“Baron Stein requires an actor in every way out of the common for his
adequate rendition, and if Mr. Rupert B. Somervail did not plumb the
character to the core and betray the secret springs that inspire it, he
none the less submitted a consistent and highly intelligent, if rather
tame, reading. He has considerable promise, in our opinion; and we shall
watch his future progress with acute attention.”
I took each character in turn in this way, and found that, to do real
justice to the production, almost a whole number of _Thespis_ would be
necessary. However, that, of course, was not my affair. I had undertaken
to do a thing for Mr. Bulger, and I did it as well as I could. The rest
I left to him.
Much to my regret, he took a very high-handed course with my review, and
of all the twelve pages of carefully written foolscap (not to mention
that I copied it three times) he only availed himself of twelve lines.
The analytic part he remorselessly cut out, and the advice to the
Clapham Macreadies, and most of the adverse criticism. In fact, all you
would have gathered from the few commonplace paragraphs that finally
appeared was this: that the Clapham Macreadies had produced _Diplomacy_,
in the interests of a Cottage Hospital somewhere, and that they had
given a painstaking and capable performance before a distinguished and
enthusiastic audience. The usual finish and style inseparable from a
Clapham Macready production was apparent, the ladies’ band excelled
itself, and the Club was to be congratulated on adding another wreath to
its laurels.
Of course, I had said all these things, but not in this bald and silly
way. In fact, I was a good deal annoyed, and asked Brightwin rather
bitterly what Mr. Bulger supposed I had hired a suit of dress clothes
for, and gone down to Clap-ham, and racked my brain for twelve hours on
Sunday, and so on; but he assured me that Mr. Bulger had been
tremendously taken by my review and considered that I was a born critic
and had really been far too conscientious in the matter.
It was my first glimpse behind the scenes of the press world, and I
found that all that is written, even by critics, by no means gets into
print.
I felt in the first pangs of disappointment that I would never put my
pen to paper again, and so be lost to Mr. Bulger and _Thespis_ forever;
but when a week or two later he actually published “The Witches’
Sabbath” on the last page, under the title of “Original Poetry,” I
forgave him all. He had undoubtedly tampered with “The Witches’ Sabbath”
and reduced the number of the stanzas; but all the best of it was still
there; and in print it looked decidedly literary. A great many mistakes
had unfortunately crept into it; and Mr. Bulger had rather tampered with
the terror in one or two of the most fearful verses. Still, it was mine,
and as I passed home through London that day, with a copy of _Thespis_
in my pocket, sent from the editor, I could not help wondering how
little the hurrying thousands guessed that, as they carelessly elbowed
me, they were touching a man who had written original poetry which had
been accepted and printed in a public newspaper, and might be bought at
any bookstall in London. It was rather a solemn thought in its way, and
I stopped at a bookstall near Regent’s Circus to prove it, and threw
down a penny and asked for _Thespis_. Much to my surprise, however, the
man did not keep it in stock.
“We could get it for you, no doubt; but I thought it was dead,” he said.
“I can get it for myself, if it comes to that,” I answered, picking up
the penny again. “You ought to stock it. All theatrical people buy it,
and if you thought it was dead, you thought utterly wrong. It’s much
more alive than you are.”