smoking is permitted only in the gallery above. The company is of the “better sort” in the salle below; that is to say, that vice, shameless and unveiled, is not allowed to flaunt without a check; but there is taint and gangrene among all; feeble wills and failing hearts to bear up against the intoxicating stream of music, and giddy heads for thought or reason amid the whirl and swimming of the dance.
“Unkraut’s” has, however, attractions apart from the ball-room. By a quiet stair at the end of the gallery, through muffled doors that close upon you as you enter, and shut out like walls the hum and hubbub below, we come upon an ill-shapen apartment, where hushed, absorbed men are seated at desks, as at a school, each with a huge frame dotted with numbers before him. A strange contrast to the scene without. There is a heavy quiet in the place, disturbed only by an occasional cough, a shuffling of feet, and the silvery ringing of little plates of glass. A monstrous game of Lotto is this. A mere child’s play of gambling, requiring neither tact, wit, nor reasoning; a simple lottery, in fact, dependent for success upon the accidental marking (each player upon his own board or table) of the first five numbers that may be drawn. Now we hear a strange rattling of wooden pieces, shaken in a bag, and as each piece is drawn, a bustling man with an obstreperous voice, calls out the number; not in full, sonorous German, but in broad, uncouth Platt Deutsche (low German), and eager tongues respond from distant corners claiming the prize. A dull-headed game is this, fitted only for the most inveterate gamblers; but it yields money to the Stadt, and that is its recommendation.
As the day wears on, its attractions increase. The Elb Pavilion offers a rare treat; exquisite music, executed with vigour, delicacy, and precision. Moreover, its frequenters are decidedly of a respectable class. But we will not be moved; we have set our hearts upon witnessing a play of Shakespeare’s, announced for this night at the Stadt Theatre, and that no less a one than “Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.”
The Stadt Theatre in Hamburg enjoys a strange monopoly; for by the Senate’s will it is declared that no other theatre shall exist within the city walls. Yet, curiously enough, a wonderful old woman, by some unaccountable freak, has the privilege, or hereditary right, of licensing or directing a theatrical establishment within the boundaries, and thus a second theatre contends for the favours of the public; and in order to define its position and state of existence, it
is entitled simply Das Zweite Theatre (The Second Theatre). It is an especially favourite place of amusement with the Hamburgers, although they play an incomprehensible jumble of unconnected scenes, called “possen,” adapted solely to display the peculiar talents of certain actors. One odd fellow there reaps showers of applause for no other exhibition of ability than that of looking intensely stupid, for he seldom utters a word; but assumes an appearance of unfathomable vacuity that is inimitable. There are still two theatres outside the city walls: the one, the Tivoli, devoted to farces and vaudevilles; the other consecrated to the portrayal of the deeply sentimental, and the fearfully tragic—with poison, dagger-blades, convulsions and heavy-stamping ever at command.
But our play! Here we are in the gallery of a splendid edifice, equal in extent to our Covent Garden Theatre at home, having come to this part of the house in anticipation of a feeble audience in preference to the parterre or pit. Note also, that here we pay eight schillinge only, while a place below would cost us twenty. But the house is crammed, for Shakespeare draws as well in Germany as in England, perhaps for the simple reason that in no other country are his works so well translated. We find ourselves in the midst of a dense cluster of earnest Danes, who say the most impressive things in the quietest way in the world. They are strongly interested in the coming performance, for “Hamlet the Dane” has taken deep hold upon the Danish affections; and in Elsinore, so great is the consideration entertained for this all but fabulous prince, that they will point you out the garden wherein his royal father suffered murder
—most foul, strange, and unnatural,
and the grave where the “gentle prince” himself lies buried. The play begins; with the deepest earnestness the audience listen, and, crowded as they are, preserve the utmost quiet. The glorious drama scene by scene unfolds itself, and passage by passage we recognise the beauties of our great poet. Herr Carr, starring it from Vienna, is no unworthy representative of the noble-hearted Dane, although unequal, we think, to the finer traits, and more delicate emotions of the character. The dresses are admirable, sometimes gorgeous, and the groupings most effective. The scenery alone is unsatisfactory; indecisive and colourless as it is, without
depth or tone, it strikes you as the first effort in perspective of a feeble-handed amateur. As the play proceeds, the action grows upon us, and the rapt spectators resent with anger the least outcry or disturbance. The first scene with the players is omitted, but the concluding portion is a triumph; for as Hamlet, arriving at the climax of his sarcasm, and bursting for a moment into rage, flings the flute away, with the exclamation: “S’blood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?” the whole theatre rings with the applause.
Presently, however, we are aware of a gap, a huge hiatus in the performance; a grave, and yet no grave, for the whole churchyard scene, with its quaint and exquisite philosophy, the rude wit of the gravediggers, and the pointed moralising of the prince, are all wanting—all swept away by the ruthless hand of the critic; skulls and bones, picks and mattocks, wit and drollery, diggers, waistcoats and all! Not even Yorick, with his “gibes” and “flashes of merriment”—not even he is spared. On the other hand, a portion of a scene is represented which, until lately, was always omitted on the English stage. It is that in which the guilty king, overcome by remorse, thus soliloquises:—