Come then, thought I, who knows but this may be as good as Corfu. But lo! here he comes, and now the Director, dressed in the character of the “Herr Berg-Bau und Weg-Inspector” came to the front of the stage, and beginning thus, spoke, “Meine Herren und Damen—there are no ladies,” said he, stopping short, “but whose fault is that?—Meine Herren, it grieves me much, to be obliged on this occasion———Make a row there, why don’t you?” said he, addressing me, “ran-tan-tan!—an apology is always interrupted by the audience; if it were not, one could never get through it.”
I followed his directions by hammering on the bench with my cane, and he continued to explain that various ladies and gentlemen of the corps were seriously indisposed, and that, though the piece should go on, it must be with only three out of the seven characters; I renewed my marks of disapprobation here, which seemed to afford him great delight, and he withdrew bowing respectfully to every quarter of the house.
Kotzebue’s Krahwinkel, as many of my readers know, needs not the additional absurdity of the circumstances, under which I saw it performed, to make it ludicrous and laughable. The Herr Director played to the life; and Catinka, a pretty, plump, fair-haired “fraulein,” not however, exactly the idea of Maria Stuart, was admirable in her part. Even Stauf himself was so carried away by his enthusiasm, that he laid down his candles to applaud, and for the extent of the audience, I venture to say, there never was a more enthusiastic one. Indeed to this fact the Director himself bore testimony, as he more than once, interrupted the scene to thank us for our marks of approval. On both sides, the complaisance was complete. Never did actors and audience work better together, for while we admired, they relished the praise with all the gusto of individual approbation, frequently stopping to assure us that we were right in our applause, that their best hits were exactly those we selected; and that a more judging public never existed. Stauf was carried away in his ecstasies, and between laughing and applauding, I was regularly worn out with my exertions.
Want of light—Stauf’s candles swilled frightfully from neglect—compelled them to close the piece somewhat abruptly; and in the middle of the second act, such was the obscurity, that the Herr Berg-Bau und Weg-Inspector’s wife, fell over the prompter’s bulk, and nearly capsized Stauf into the bowels of the big fiddle. This was the finale, and I had barely time to invite the corps to a supper at the Fox, which they kindly accepted, when Stauf announced that we must beat a retreat by “inch of candle.” This we did in safety, and I reached the Fox in time to order the repast, before the guests had washed off their paint, and changed their dresses.
If it has been my fortune to assist at more elegant “reunions,” I can aver with safety I never presided over a more merry or joyous party, than was our own at the Fox. Die Catinka sat on my left, Die Vrau von “Mohren-Kopf,” the “Mère noble” of the corps, on my right, the Herr Director took the foot of the table, supported by a “bassoon” and a “first lover,” while various “trombones,” “marquis,” waiting maids, walking gentlemen, and a “ghost,” occupied the space at either side, not forgetting our excellent friend Stauf, who seemed the very happiest man of the party. We were fourteen souls in all, though where two-thirds of them came from, and how they got wind of a supper, some more astute diviner than myself must ascertain.
Theatrical folks, in all countries, are as much people in themselves as the Gypsies. They have a language of their own, a peculiarity of costume and a habit of life. They eat, drink, and intermarry with each other; and, in fact, I shouldn’t wonder, from their organization, if they have a king in some sly corner of Europe, who, one day will be restored, with great pomp and ceremony. One undeniable trait distinguishes them all—at least wherever I have met them in the old world and in the new—and that is, a most unbounded candour in their estimation of each other. Frankness is unquestionably the badge, of all their tribe; and they are, without exception, the most free of hypocrisy, in this respect, of all the classes with whom it has ever been my fortune to forgather. Nothing is too sharp, nothing too smart to be said; no thrust too home, no stab too fatal; it’s a mêlée tournament, where all tilt, and hard knocks are fair. This privilege of their social world, gives them a great air of freedom in all their intercourse with strangers, and sometimes leads even to an excess of ease, somewhat remarkable, in their manners. With them, intimacy is like those tropical trees that spring up, twenty feet high in a single night. They meet you at rehearsal, and before the curtain rises in the evening, there is a sworn friendship between you. Stage manners, and green-room talk, carry off the eccentricities which other men dare not practise, and though you don’t fancy “Mr. Tuft” asking you for a loan of five pounds, hang it! you can’t be angry with Jeremy Diddler! This double identity, this Janus attribute, cuts in two ways, and you find it almost impossible to place any weight on the opinions and sentiments of people, who are always professing opinions and sentiments, learned by heart. This may be—I’m sure it is,—very illiberal—but I can’t help it. I wouldn’t let myself be moved by the arguments of Brutus on the Corn Laws, or Cato on the Catholic question, any more than I should fall in love with some sweet sentiment of a day-light Ophelia or Desdemona. I reserve all my faith in stage people, for the hours between seven and twelve at night; then, with footlights and scenery, pasteboard banquets, and wooden waves, I’m their slave, they may do with me as they will, but let day come, and “I’m a man again!”
Now as all this sounds very cross-grained, the sapient reader already suspects there may be more in it than it appears to imply, and that Arthur O’Leary has some grudge against the Thespians, which he wishes to pay off in generalities. I’m not bound to answer the insinuation; neither will I tell you more of our supper at the Fox, nor why the Herr Director Klug invited me to take a place in his wagon next day, for Weimar, nor what Catinka whispered, as I filled her glass with Champagne, nor how the “serpent” frowned from the end of the table; nor, in short, one word of the whole matter, save that I settled my bill that same night, at the Kaiser, and the next morning, left for Weimar, with a very large, and an excessively merry party.
NOTE.
Should the Reader feel—as in reason he may—some chagrin at the abrupt conclusion of this volume, I have only to beg the same indulgence, which I set out by asking, for a memoir so broken and fragmentary. If any curiosity should be found to exist regarding Mr. O’Leary’s future wanderings, or any desire to learn further of his opinions on men, women and their children, the kind Public has only, like “Oliver,” to “ask for more,” and the wish, unlike his, shall be complied with.
Ed.