When R. W. Elliston was manager of the ‘Royal Circus,’ to which he gave the present name of the ‘Surrey Theatre,’ he was one night called before the curtain under rather exceptional circumstances. On that occasion, an actor named Carles, who had long been a popular favourite at that house, was absent, having unfortunately been arrested for debt while on his way to the theatre, and another actor, possibly not very much his inferior in regard to talent, had to be substituted. The performance, however, had not long commenced, when the audience missed their favourite, and called loudly for ‘Carles!’ Carles not appearing, the uproar became general; and as soon as the curtain had fallen upon the first act, the manager was summoned. Elliston duly appeared and asked, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what is your pleasure?’ But to all that he said they cried only ‘Carles!’ Not yet aware of their intentions, he exclaimed: ‘One at a time, if you please;’ and singling out a puny yet over-energetic malcontent in the pit, he begged pardon of the audience, saying: ‘Let me hear what this gentleman has to say.’ Then addressing the man: ‘Now, sir, I’ll attend to you first, if the rest of the gentlemen will allow me.’
The man, as might be imagined, was not a little taken aback at this remark; yet he managed to say: ‘Carles’ name is in the bill, and where is he?’ At this, Elliston assumed a grave air, and folding his arms, addressed the people as follows: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, with your leave I will say a few words. I admit that Mr Carles’ name is in the bill; I do not wish to deny it; but’—here he assumed a decidedly tragic tone—‘but are you to be reminded of the many accidents that may intervene between the issuing of that bill and the evening’s fulfilment of its promise? Is it requisite to remind the enlightened and thinking portion of the public here assembled that the chances and changes of human life are dependent upon circumstances, and not upon ourselves?’
Here all shouted: ‘Ay, ay; bravo!’
The manager, pointing to the man in the pit, went on: ‘And you, sir, who are so loud in your demand for Mr Carles, cannot you also imagine that his absence may be occasioned by some sore distress, some occurrence not within human foresight to anticipate or divert? Cannot you picture to yourself the possibility of Mr Carles at this moment lying upon a sick—nay, perhaps a dying bed, surrounded by his weeping children and his agonised wife’ [Mr Carles was a bachelor!], ‘whose very bread depends upon the existence of an affectionate devoted husband and father, and who may be deprived of his exertions and support for ever? Is it so very difficult to imagine a scene like this taking place at the very moment when you are calling for him so imperiously to appear before you, selfishly desirous of your present amusement and unmindful of his probable danger!’ Great and general applause.
Inwardly, Mr Elliston felt struck at the success of his diplomacy, especially as at this point the audience turned against the man who had spoken, and joined their voices in cries of ‘Turn him out!’ to which sentence the manager found it best to lend countenance; and having given his permission, the unlucky ‘pitite’ was summarily ejected from the theatre, and in a little while the performance was continued in perfect order.
Calls for the author after the first representation of a new play are, of course, frequent, the more especially when the work has given entire satisfaction. In some instances, the audience summon that individual to appear for no other purpose than to hiss him for the unskilfulness of his performance; in which case, the author will most probably retaliate with a speech wherein mention of ‘an organised opposition’ comes uppermost. Speaking of the former, some curious examples might be noted. An author frequently announces, through the medium of the manager, that he has betaken himself abroad, or, say, to Scotland, fearing the result of his piece, whereas he may be quietly looking on at the back of the pit, or has concealed himself behind the curtains of a private box. In another case, the successful author will attempt to make a speech, while bowing his acknowledgments, and signally fail, retiring considerably more abashed than triumphant. But the crowning episode to be narrated in this connection occurred some years ago at one of the Dublin theatres, when one of the tragedies of Sophocles was put on the stage. At the close of the performance, the ‘gods’ loudly called for the author; whereupon the manager explained that as the author had been dead more than two thousand years, he could not very well appear. Nothing disconcerted, a very small gallery-boy called out: ‘Then let’s have his mummy!’
Dramatic, including operatic, artistes taking their benefits are almost invariably honoured with a call before the curtain. On such occasions, too, they may fairly be entitled to considerable latitude in various ways, as, for instance, in their own selection of the programme for that evening. Notwithstanding this, they should not suffer themselves to infringe the ordinary regulations of the establishment. Not very long ago, a star prima donna of the very first magnitude, when taking her benefit at the Imperial Opera, St Petersburg, found herself called before the curtain more than twenty consecutive times. In the end she occupied the centre of the stage, and addressed her enthusiastic patrons a few words in the Russian language, then offered to show her gratitude for their favours by singing them a song in their own tongue. This was received with rapturous applause; but judge of her surprise when, after retiring from the stage, the management fined her two thousand francs for addressing the audience without permission! The proceeds of her benefit were thus considerably reduced; and her experience was only in one degree removed from that of the French pantomimist and dancer, as related by Charles Kemble. This individual was in the habit of taking a benefit at regular intervals, but always with a loss. One night, however, he came before the curtain with a beaming countenance, and after a polite bow, he acknowledged his thanks in these terms: ‘Dear public, moche oblige; very good benefice; only lose half a crown dis time. I come again!’
At an American theatre, an actor once took his benefit, and selected as the play for the occasion, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. The company being small, he found it necessary not only to subject several of the incidental characters to being doubled—that is, one actor to sustain two different characters in the same piece, rapidly changing his costume from one to the other as occasion requires—but he also accepted a double himself. His was that of Sambo with St Clair. St Clair appears in one act, and Sambo in the next. Having won considerable honours as the first individual, the actor, directly the curtain had descended, hurried away to his dressing-room to prepare in all haste his toilet and costume for Sambo. His face and hands had of course to be blacked; and in the midst of this operation of applying the burnt cork, the prompter entered his room to announce that the audience were uproarious for him to appear before the curtain. ‘But I can’t,’ he exclaimed; ‘it is impossible; I’m just making up for Sambo!’ Nothing, however, would satisfy his patrons short of responding to his call; so boisterously demanded, that, without his compliance, the performance could not possibly proceed. At length our hero made his appearance. But the audience were scarcely prepared to receive him in his altered person, and, failing to recognise the metamorphosed St Clair in the half-made-up Sambo, they shouted: ‘Go away! Who sent for you?’
Floral offerings are, of course, pleasantly associated with artistes’ benefits, and long may they so continue. The Emperor Nero, it is said, always provided the Roman spectators with the thousand-and-one bouquets which were thrown at his feet when he occupied the stage. But bouquets voluntarily offered are worthy to be prized very highly. Not very long ago, Mr Edward Terry, when taking his leave of an Irish audience, was honoured with the reception of a beautiful floral wreath, which must have been infinitely more acceptable than that wreath of immortelles which some insulting ruffian cast at the feet of Mademoiselle Favart, at a French theatre, a few years ago, in order to indicate that her age had placed her beyond the power of playing youthful parts. Had she been composed of the same metal as was the actor in the following example, she would have enjoyed the opportunity presented of paying the wretch back in his own coin. The story may be accepted as true.
At the close of his own benefit performance, a certain favourite comedian was called before the curtain at a theatre in Vienna. In the midst of a shower of bouquets, some insulting individual threw a bunch of vegetables on the stage. Very complacently the bénéficier, having marked from what portion of the house it had proceeded, picked up the article, and said: ‘We have here an interesting collection of carrots and turnips. From my slight knowledge of natural history, I believe this to be the proper food for asses; I therefore return it to its owner, for who knows in these hard times he may be in want of such a meal in the morning!’ With these words, he threw the object whence it came; and the individual being discovered, was immediately expelled from the theatre amid mingled hisses and applause.