CHAPTER IX
A REVERSIBLE FAVOUR
A certain old actor, whose spirit had passed above the flies, once remarked, referring to “Hamlet,” “This delightful profession of ours is ruined by perennial productions of that most gloomy play.”
Such an observation is, of course, indefensible, nevertheless the magnetic charms of “Hamlet” are, to a certain extent, margined. Without exception it delights the actor who plays the title-rôle, and almost without exception it fails to delight those members of the cast who play the minor parts. Another section of the dramatic world who eye this drama askance are those indispensable gentlemen whose money is reposed in theatrical enterprise.
A syndicate, as a rule, is composed of unemotional persons, whose love of art is subordinated to a love of profit, and with this aim in view they are apt to rebel against the devotion of their capital to presentations of Shakespearian masterpieces.
This, in fact, was what occurred when Eliphalet Cardomay gravely announced this intention at the Round Table of his Supporters. His appearance in town in the character of The Ghost inspired the idea, and he had thought it over very carefully and decided it was good. Little Mornice June was to appear as Ophelia—a revival of “The Night Cry” would be postponed, and it only remained to impart his intentions to the four commercial gentlemen who composed his syndicate and receive their sanction and blessing.
“You will agree,” he said, “to an actor of my calibre a career cannot be regarded as complete if he has failed to appear as the Moody Dane. We have been in the best accord in our past dealings, and I am confident of your approval in this matter.”
For a while no one spoke. Mr. Albert Shingle, owner of a large Drapery Emporium, with branches in several Midland towns, looked furtively at Mr. Thomas Combermare, dealer in dry-goods. But Mr. Combermare only picked his teeth with a tram-ticket and shook his head.
“Well, I don’t know so much,” said Mr. Shingle, at last, expanding his globular waistcoat. “What do you say, Mr. Wardluke?” The gentleman appealed to was a retired doctor, who had done extremely well by opening small surgeries in the poorer parts of Bradford.
“I’d like to agree with Mr. Cardomay,” he said, “for, on the whole, he has done extremely well by us—but—well—‘Hamlet.’ You see what I mean? One must consider the public.” He put a pencil in his ear, stethoscope fashion, as though seeking to learn how the heart-beats of the multitude responded to so extreme a test.
“I am all against it—all against it.”