“And yet some people say that there’s no appreciation of Shakespeare in England!” said Archie, as he led Harold round the stalls, over which the attendants were spreading covers, and on to Mrs. Mowbray’s private rooms.
“From the crowds that went out by every door, I judge that the theatre is making money, at any rate; and I suppose that’s the most practical test of appreciation,” said Harold.
“Oh, they don’t all pay,” said Archie. “That’s a feature of theatrical management that it takes an outsider some time to understand. Mrs. Mowbray should understand it pretty well by this time, so should her business manager. I’m just getting to understand it.”
“You mean to say that the people are allowed to come in without paying?”
“It amounts to that in the long run—literally the long run—of the piece, I believe. Upon my soul, there are some people who fancy that a chap runs a show as a sort of free entertainment for the public. The dramatic critics seem to fancy that a chap produces a play, simply in order to give them an opportunity of showing off their own cleverness in slating it. It seems that a writer-chap can’t show his cleverness in praising a piece, but only in slanging it.”
“I think that I’d try and make people pay for their seats.”
“I used always to pay for mine in the old days—but then, I was always squandering my money.”
“I have always paid for mine.”
“The manager says that if you asked people to pay, they’d be mortally offended and never enter the theatre again, and where would you be then?”
“Where, indeed?” said Harold. “I expect your manager must know his business thoroughly.”