United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
VAN BIBBER AND OTHERS
By
Richard Harding Davis
1892, 1920
* * * * *
TO
MY FATHER
L. CLARKE DAVIS
WHO HAS BEEN MY KINDEST AND
MY SEVEREST CRITIC
* * * * *
CONTENTS
HER FIRST APPEARANCE
VAN BIBBER'S MAN-SERVANT
THE HUNGRY MAN WAS FED
VAN BIBBER AT THE RACES
AN EXPERIMENT IN ECONOMY
MR. TRAVERS'S FIRST HUNT
LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG
ELEANORE CUYLER
A RECRUIT AT CHRISTMAS
A PATRON OF ART
ANDY M'GEE'S CHORUS GIRL
A LEANDER OF THE EAST RIVER
HOW HEFTY BURKE GOT EVEN
OUTSIDE THE PRISON
AN UNFINISHED STORY
* * * * *
HER FIRST APPEARANCE
It was at the end of the first act of the first night of "The
Sultana," and every member of the Lester Comic Opera Company, from
Lester himself down to the wardrobe woman's son, who would have had to
work if his mother lost her place, was sick with anxiety.
There is perhaps only one other place as feverish as it is behind the
scenes on the first night of a comic opera, and that is a newspaper
office on the last night of a Presidential campaign, when the returns
are being flashed on the canvas outside, and the mob is howling, and
the editor-in-chief is expecting to go to the Court of St. James if
the election comes his way, and the office-boy is betting his wages
that it won't.
Such nights as these try men's souls; but Van Bibber passed the
stage-door man with as calmly polite a nod as though the piece had
been running a hundred nights, and the manager was thinking up
souvenirs for the one hundred and fiftieth, and the prima donna had,
as usual, began to hint for a new set of costumes. The stage-door
keeper hesitated and was lost, and Van Bibber stepped into the
unsuppressed excitement of the place with a pleased sniff at the
familiar smell of paint and burning gas, and the dusty odor that came
from the scene-lofts above.
For a moment he hesitated in the cross-lights and confusion about him,
failing to recognize in their new costumes his old acquaintances of
the company; but he saw Kripps, the stage-manager, in the centre of
the stage, perspiring and in his shirt-sleeves as always, wildly
waving an arm to some one in the flies, and beckoning with the other
to the gas-man in the front entrance. The stage hands were striking
the scene for the first act, and fighting with the set for the second,
and dragging out a canvas floor of tessellated marble, and running a
throne and a practical pair of steps over it, and aiming the high
quaking walls of a palace and abuse at whoever came in their way.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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