The Strollers. Isham Frederic Stewart
of art. But our principal difficulty is procuring licenses to perform.”
“You have to get permission to play?”
“That we do!” sighed the manager. “From obdurate trustees in villages and stubborn supervisors or justices of the peace in the hamlets.”
“But their reason for this opposition?” asked his companion.
They were now entering the little hamlet, exchanging the grassy path for a sidewalk of planks laid lengthwise, and the peace of nature for such signs of civilization as a troop of geese, noisily promenading across the thoroughfare, and a peacock–in its pride of pomp as a favored bird of old King Solomon–crying from the top of the shed and proudly displaying its gorgeous train. Barnes wiped the perspiration from his brow, as he answered:
“Well, a temperance and anti-theatrical agitation has preceded us in the Shadengo Valley, a movement originated in Baltimore by seven men who had been drunkards and are now lecturing throughout the country. This is known as the ‘Washington’ movement, and among the most formidable leaders of the crusade is an old actor, John B. Gough. But here we are at the supervisor’s office. I’ll run in and get the license, if you’ll wait a moment.”
Saint-Prosper assented, and Barnes disappeared through the door of a one-story wooden building which boasted little in its architectural appearance and whose principal decorations consisted of a small window-garden containing faded geraniums, and a sign with sundry inverted letters. The neighborhood of this far from imposing structure was a rendezvous for many of the young men of the place who had much leisure, and, to judge from the sidewalk, an ample supply of Lone Jack or some other equally popular plug tobacco. As Saint-Prosper surveyed his surroundings, the Lone Jack, or other delectable brand, was unceremoniously passed from mouth to mouth with immediate and surprising results so far as the sidewalk was concerned. Regarding these village yokels with some curiosity, the soldier saw in them a possible type of the audiences to which the strollers must appeal for favor. To such hobnails must the fair Rosalind say: “I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me.” And the churls would applaud with their cowhide boots, devour her with eager eyes and–at this point the soldier found himself unconsciously frowning at his village neighbors until, with an impatient laugh, he recalled his wandering fancies. What was it to him whether the players appeared in city or hamlet? Why should he concern himself in possible conjectures on the fortunes of these strollers? Moreover–
Here Barnes reappeared with dejection in his manner, and, treading his way absent-mindedly past the Lone Jack contingent with no word of explanation to his companion, began to retrace his steps toward the hostelry on the hill.
“Going back so soon?” asked the young man in surprise.
“There is nothing to be done here! The temperance lecturer has just gone; the people are set against plays and players. The supervisor refuses the license.”
With which the manager relapsed into silence, rueful and melancholy. Their road ran steadily upward from the sleepy valley, skirting a wood where the luxuriance of the overhanging foliage and the bright autumnal tint of the leaves were like a scene of a spectacular play. Out of breath from the steepness of the ascent, and, with his hand pressed to his side, Barnes suddenly called a halt, seated himself on a stump, his face somewhat drawn, and spoke for the first time since he left the hamlet.
“Let’s rest a moment. Something catches me occasionally here,” tapping his heart. “Ah, that’s better! The pain has left. No; it’s nothing. The machinery is getting old, that’s all! Let me see–Ah, yes!” And he drew a cigar from his pocket. “Perhaps there lies a crumb of comfort in the weed!”
The manager smoked contemplatively, like a man pushed to the verge of disaster, weighing the slender chances of mending his broken fortunes. But as he pondered his face gradually lightened with a faint glimmer of satisfaction. His mind, seeking for a straw, caught at a possible way out of this labyrinth of difficulties and in a moment he had straightened up, puffing veritable optimistic wreaths. He arose buoyantly; before he reached the inn the crumb of comfort had become a loaf of assurance.
At the tavern the manager immediately sought mine host, stating his desire to give a number of free performances in the dining-room of the hotel. The landlord demurred stoutly; he was an inn-keeper, not the proprietor of a play-house. Were not tavern and theater inseparable, retorted Barnes? The country host had always been a patron of the histrionic art. Beneath his windows the masque and interlude were born. The mystery, harlequinade and divertissement found shelter in a pot-house.
In a word, so indefatigably did he ply arguments, appealing alike to clemency and cupidity–the custom following such a course–that the landlord at length reluctantly consented, and soon after the dining-room was transformed into a temple of art; stinted, it is true, for flats, drops, flies and screens, but at least more tenable than the roofless theaters of other days, when a downpour drenched the players and washed out the public, causing rainy tears to drip from Ophelia’s nose and rivulets of rouge to trickle down my Lady Slipaway’s marble neck and shoulders. In this labor of converting the dining-room into an auditory, they found an attentive observer in the landlord’s daughter who left her pans, plates and platters to watch these preparations with round-eyed admiration. To her that temporary stage was surrounded by glamour and romance; a world remote from cook, scullion and maid of all work, and peopled with well-born dames, courtly ladies and exalted princesses.
Possibly interested in what seemed an incomprehensible venture–for how could the manager’s coffers be replenished by free performances?–Saint-Prosper that afternoon reminded Barnes he had returned from the village without fulfilling his errand.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Barnes, his face wrinkling in perplexity. “What have I been thinking about? I don’t see how I can go now. Hawkes or O’Flariaty can’t be spared, what with lamps to polish and costumes to get in order! Hum!” he mused dubiously.
“If I can be of any use, command me,” said the soldier, unexpectedly.
“You!”–exclaimed the manager. “I could not think–”
“Oh, it’s a notable occupation,” said the other with a satirical smile. “Was it not the bill-posters who caused the downfall of the French dynasty?” he added.
“In that case,” laughed Barnes, with a sigh of relief, “go ahead and spread the inflammable dodgers! Paste them everywhere, except on the tombstones in the graveyard.”
Conspicuously before the postoffice, grocery store, on the town pump and the fence of the village church, some time later, the soldier accordingly nailed the posters, followed by an inquisitive group, who read the following announcement: “Tuesday, ‘The Honeymoon’; Wednesday, ‘The School for Scandal’; Thursday, ‘The Stranger,’ with diverting specialties; Friday, ‘Romeo and Juliet’; Saturday, ‘Hamlet,’ with a Jig by Kate Duran. At the Travelers’ Friend. Entrance Free.”
“They’re going to play after all,” commented the blacksmith’s wife.
“I don’t see much harm in ‘Hamlet,’” said the supervisor’s yokemate. “It certainly ain’t frivolous.”
“Let’s go to ‘The Honeymoon’?” suggested an amorous carl to his slip-slop Sal.
“Go ’long!” she retorted with barn-yard bashfulness.
“Did you ever see ‘The School for Scandal’?” asked the smithy’s good wife.
“Once,” confessed the town official’s faded consort, her worn face lighting dreamily. “It was on our wedding trip to New York. Silas warn’t so strict then.”
Amid chit-chat, so diverting, Saint-Prosper finished “posting” the town. It had been late in the afternoon before he had altered the posters and set out on his paradoxical mission; the sun was declining when he returned homeward. Pausing at a cross-road, he selected a tree for one of his remaining announcements. It was already adorned with a dodger, citing the escape of a negro slave and offering a reward for his apprehension; not an uncommon document in the North in those days.
As the traveler read the bill his expression became clouded, cheerless.