“It would be a glorious beginning for a young man,” I said, “but, of course, such good things are not for me.”
Mr. Tupper appeared to be buried in his own thoughts for a time. When he spoke again, he had changed the subject.
“Will you have another plate of steak-and-kidney pie?” he asked, and I consented with many thanks.
Then he returned to the great subject of the stage.
“Only yesterday,” he said, “I was spending half an hour in dear old Wilson’s private room at the Princess’s Theatre. He likes me to drop in between the acts. He is a man who would always rather listen than talk; and, if he has to talk, he chooses any subject rather than himself and his histrionic powers. All the greatest actors are the same. They are almost morbid about mentioning their personal talents, or the parts they have played. But the subjects that always interest Wilson are the younger men and the future of the drama. ‘Martin,’ he said to me, ‘I would throw up the lead in my own theatre to-night, if I could by so doing reveal a new and great genius to the world! I would gladly play subordinate parts, if I could find a young man to play my parts better than I do myself.’ I tell you this, Mr. Corkey, to show you that one supreme artist, at least, is always on the lookout for talent, always ready to stretch a helping hand to the tyro.”
“Perhaps some day,” I said, “years hence, of course, when I have learned elocution and stage deportment and got the general hang of the thing, you would be so very generous and kind as to give me a letter of introduction to Mr. Barrett?”
Mr. Tupper filled my glass with more beer and sank his voice to a confidential whisper.
“I couldn’t ‘give’ you an introduction, Mr. Corkey, because Wilson himself would not allow that. I am, of course, enormously rich, but it is always understood between me and the great tragedian that I get some little honorarium for these introductions. Personally, I do not want any such thing; but he feels that a nominal sum of three to five guineas ought to pass before young fellows are lifted to the immense privilege of his personal acquaintance, and enabled actually to tread the boards with him in some of his most impassioned creations. The money I give to the Home for Decayed Gentlewomen at Newington Butts—in which I am deeply interested. Thus, you see, these introductions to Mr. Wilson Barrett serve two great ends: they advance the cause of the Decayed Gentlewomen—the number of whom would much distress you to learn—and they enable the aspirant to theatrical honours to begin his career under the most promising circumstances that it is possible to conceive.”
“But I ought to go through the mill, like Mr. Barrett himself and Mr. Henry Irving and all famous actors have done,” I said; and Mr. Tupper agreed with me.
“Have no fear for that,” he answered. “Wilson will see to that. He is more than strict and, while allowing reasonable freedom for the expansion of individual genius, will take very good care you have severe training and plenty of hard work. But the point is that you must go through his mill and not another’s. It is no good going to Wilson after some lesser man has taught you to speak and walk and act. You would only have to unlearn these things. If you want to flourish in his school of tragedy, which is, of course, the most famous in England at the moment, you must go to him, as it were, empty—a blank sheet—a virgin page whereon he can impress his great principles. Will you have apple tart, plum tart, or tapioca pudding and Surrey cream?”