I could also lessen or increase the number of my performances at my pleasure, which was not one of the slightest advantages of my management.
Lastly, I had a right, whenever I thought proper, to put the key of my room in my pocket, dismiss my staff, and walk about at my leisure in expectation of better times.
All these advantages, to which I will add that of being burdened with very slight expenses compared with my brethren, offered me no other result than that of not losing my money. However I might try, the public remained deaf to my appeal as to theirs.
I am mistaken though; for some days I received very polite letters from the Provisional Government, in the shape of “free passes,” which begged me to find room in my hall for the students of the Polytechnic and St. Cyr schools, accompanied by their tutors.
I was enchanted, it is true, by this amiable act of politeness, which augmented the number of my scanty spectators; for I performed, at least, before a well-filled room, and I had no longer the annoyance of seeing those unlucky benches empty—a sight which usually paralyzes the most philosophic performers.
This illusion was, in truth, very ephemeral, for each evening, after the performance, my cashier assumed a very gloomy face on approaching me.
What disenchantment! What bitter reprisals on the part of the blind goddess who, for some time, had granted me such sweet favors!
Still, in these moments of distress, I may say with perfect sincerity deceptions and torment were not confined to the profit and loss account; and though a manager does not take money, he desires to conceal his misery. In order to produce a deception, he tries to furnish his theatre, and he gives free admissions. I had recourse to this measure; but, what will appear strange, these tickets, which, a month earlier, would have been regarded as an immense favor, were viewed with considerable indifference, and it often happened that people did not take the trouble to accept my invitation.
Having become a philosopher through necessity, I ended by resigning myself to seeing my room nearly empty, and I sent out no more invitations. Besides, I had enjoyed an opportunity of studying the “free admissions,” and I had remarked that this class of spectators is, or pretends to be, quite indifferent to the performance. In fact, the “free admission,” when he believes the theatre short of spectators, imagines he is doing an act of kindness by accepting the invitation offered him. If he find the house full, he fancies all the places are occupied by gratis tickets (and he is sometimes correct), and he concludes from it that the performance cannot be very amusing. If he happen to be mistaken, he does not applaud, in his fear of being taken for a gratuitous visitor, and pass for an accomplice paying for his seat in applause.
I was in the thick of my managerial troubles when, one morning, I received a visit from the manager of the French theatre in London. Mitchell (that is his name), far from seeking to delude me by false promises, like my Brussels theatrical agent, merely made me the following simple proposal: