'There's no such word in Turk's vocabulary, Chris, my boy. The man who goes in with an idea that he will fail generally does fail, and deserves to fail. Is there any want of pluck in Turk West? Is there any want of stamina in him? No, no. It's no game of chance that he plays. On Saturday night next he throws double sixes. And after that he'll be able to serve his friends.'
Did his family know of it? I asked.
'Yes, they know of it,' he replied, and those who can come will be there--in different parts of the theatre, Chris, my boy, strangers to each other. And old Mac will be there, with an oak stick; it's an off night with him. Here are a couple more orders which you may like to give to friends,' with most significant emphasis on the last word.
I fully understood his meaning, and I gave the orders to persons who promised to applaud Turk on every available opportunity, and who, I have good reason for believing, basely betrayed their trust; but there are not more ungrateful persons in the world than those who go to a theatre without paying. The receipt of an order has a baleful effect upon them; it deadens their sense of enjoyment, and makes them miserably hypercritical. On the following Saturday I made my way to the West-end theatre in a state of great expectation and excitement. Meeting with a man in the streets who sold walking-sticks, I purchased the stoutest in his collection, and, thus armed, seated myself in the front of the pit, half an hour before the curtain rose. The theatre was quite filled before the performances commenced, and a fashionable company was assembled in the stalls and private boxes. I recognised several members of Turk West's family in different parts of the house, who stared at me stolidly, and made no response to my familiar nods. Debating with myself upon the reason of this, I came to the conclusion that they had resolved not to know any person on that night lest they might be set down as partisans of Turk, and thus tarnish the genuineness of his triumph. The conclusion was strengthened by the circumstance which I noted, that they seemed to be perfectly oblivious of each other's existence; but there was certainly a family likeness in the sticks they carried. Studying the playbill, I found that a piece of some importance would be played first, and that Turk would not make his appearance until past nine o' clock. I paid but little attention to the drama in which Turk was not; my stick was as indifferent as myself; and the other sticks witnessed this part of the performance in mute inglorious ease; nevertheless there was a good deal of applause when the curtain fell. About this time there straggled into the stalls and private boxes certain persons whom a communicative stranger who sat next to me, and who appeared to be a wonderful authority on all matters connected with the drama, pointed out as notabilities.
The critics were the most interesting persons in my eyes, and I stared at them with interest, and with some feeling of disappointment because they were so like ordinary mortals. I asked my neighbour what he thought of Mr. Turk West as an actor--when I mentioned the name of my friend, I consulted my playbill with the air of one to whom he was a stranger--and I learnt to my mortification that he had never heard of him. He did not seem to be very sanguine of the success of the new play or the new actor, and I was mean enough to agree with him. The title of the play was Twice Wedded, or Torn Asunder; and in due time the curtain rose for its introduction to the audience. I cannot undertake to describe it, for the reasons that a good deal of it was not heard, that the actors and actresses were imperfect in their parts, and that the story was so involved and mysterious as to baffle description. The heroine, it appeared, had been twice married--once, many years ago to Turk, who had been torn from his wife, for no assignable reason, on the wedding-day, and who was supposed to have died in battle (what battle, and why he went to battle, were not explained); and afterwards to a person whose identity I was not successful in discovering. Turk played two characters, an Irish servant and the first husband, who instead of dying in battle, as he should have done, had been confined in a madhouse, from which he had just made his escape. After a comic scene as the Irish servant, which was mildly tolerated by the audience, Turk came on in a high-peaked hat, a long cloak, and hessian boots, and hearing that his wife had married again, behaved in so mad a manner as to fully justify his long incarceration. Being a very short man, Turk's appearance in this costume was even in my eyes most ludicrous; no effort of imagination could have made a hero of him, and as (for the sake of contrast, I suppose, with his other character) he spoke in the most lugubrious tone, the audience went through various transitions of feeling. First, they were, as I have said, mildly tolerant; then they became impatient, then indignant, and then, there was something so really comic in the little man's despair, they hooted and laughed at him. Directly the feeling of derision came into play, even I knew that both Turk and his new and original drama were, in dramatic parlance, 'damned.' An unfortunate word which Turk used was taken up as a catchword by the audience, and they flung it at him with merciless enjoyment. They literally screamed with laughter when he was most serious, and even the critics threw themselves back in their seats and showed by their merriment (for critics are rarely merry) that they were tasting a new sensation. In vain the sticks rapped approval; in vain did Turk's friends endeavour to stem the current. The knowing man who sat next to me declared, as he wiped his eyes, that he would not have missed this first night for anything. It's the richest thing I've ever seen,' he said; and, like a coward as I was, I flung away Turk's colours, and basely murmured that it was the richest thing I had ever seen. I was very sorry for poor Turk, and more so because he was so brave all through. He did not exhibit the slightest sign of discomposure at this miscarriage of his ambition, but faithfully spoke every word of his part, until the curtain finally fell amidst peals of laughter; and then the stage-manager came forward and stated that the new drama would not be played again.
When I was out of the theatre, I was almost inclined to run away, for I felt that the verdict was a just one, and I was afraid that Turk might wish me to declare otherwise; but I liked him too well to desert him. I waited for him near the stage-door, and so did a few other of his friends, who seemed to regard their big sticks, as I did mine, with gloomy disgust. Turk soon made his appearance, and, to my surprise, with a cheerful countenance. Not a word was said about his failure. We adjourned to a neighbouring tap, and talked of anything but the drama. Old Mac was there, enjoying his toddy, but he did not at first join in the conversation. Turk, also, was silent. Suddenly old Mac burst out:
'Hang it, my sons, let's speak! Turk, you acted bravely. I was never prouder of my profession than I was to-night when I saw you go manfully and artistically through your part in defiance of the senseless howlings of the envious crew. If I could have broken all their heads with one blow of my stick--did you hear it going, Turk? I stuck to you, my son; I stuck to you like a man--I'd have done it! Dammee, I'd have done it, to see where the brains were. I'd have made a quarry with thousands of these quartered slaves as high as I could pick my lance! Thank you; I will. Another glass of whisky-toddy, miss--as before. As before!' Here old Mac drew the back of his left hand across his eyes, and holding out his right sympathisingly, said: 'Turk, my boy, drown dull care! A small piece of lemon, if you please, miss. Here's confusion to the rabble!'
'Now what's the use of beating about the bush?' demanded Turk, a little huskily. 'I'm not such an ass as not to see that I've made a failure. Is Turk West going to bury his head in the sand, like an ostrich, and refuse to see it? Not he! Well, I'm not the first, and sha'n't be the last. Pass me the pewter, Chris. It served me right. I ought to have taken more time; I ought to have gone on by degrees; I ought to have stuck to my last. I've had my lesson, and I mean to profit by it. Mac, old boy, you and I will never meet again at Philippi. I've had my dream, and it's over.'
'The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces!' murmured old Mac.
'It was all the fault of the piece,' said one. 'What audience could be expected to stand such a hash?'