The Silent Showman

Chapter 1 - With a Little Bit of Luck

For late November, Melbourne had turned on a drab day. Dark clouds gathered to reinforce the rain already falling. Only people with pressing business were on the streets.

The young man leaving the White Hart Hotel turned left into Spring Street, and headed for the noise a block away. There he found frenzied builders and tradesmen giving their finishing touches to the Princess Theatre,¹ which was being rebuilt in grand style.

Although the entrance was crawling with men, its magnificence took the young man’s breath away. From the foyer he gazed on the auditorium, with its stalls, dress and family circles, and private boxes wedged between Corinthian columns. Electric lights and gas flames threw the blue and gold decor into relief.

But the lad was obstructing traffic. A workman ordered him to move on.

‘Is Mr Williamson here?’

‘The American? No. Try the Theatre Royal three blocks down Bourke Street,’ the man replied.

As he reached the pavement, the young man nearly fell over an advertising sign: ‘The Mikado, Opens Dec 18, Book Now.’ Urgency gripped him as he turned west into Bourke Street and started to run. Wind ripped at his eyes and ballooned his coat. He swore softly. Had he come all this way expecting sunshine only to find an Irish winter in an Australian spring?

One block, two blocks, three blocks and there it was: the Theatre Royal. He tapped his pocket to make sure that the two letters he had been carrying were there. The main theatre door was open, although it was still morning.

He wrestled with excitement as he entered the hallway that led to the main vestibule. This was not as impressive as the one he’d just left, but it would do.

A few lights burned feebly, yet he could see that the theatre was enormous. The ceiling dome stretched sixty feet high, and from it hung a glittering chandelier. The dome boasted paintings of city scenes, barely distinguishable in the half-light. An ornate proscenium surrounded the stage.

 

The young man looked over the rows of seats, and guessed the theatre’s capacity at between three and four thousand, with every pocket catered for: soft and roomy seats, hard and skimpy chairs. Just how many patrons would turn up every night? Little did he know that star players of the day regarded the Royal as a barn. It was dusty, and the amenities for actors and audiences alike were primitive.

He stood and listened to the silence of an empty theatre. The Royal cafe, billiard room and saloon were dark and deserted, and the whole place seemed asleep. A billboard near the main entrance told him that the Royal Dramatic Company was producing Human Nature, and that the show was in its last weeks.

Footsteps behind him interrupted his reverie. Then he heard a man’s voice: ‘What are you doing, young fellow?’
An American accent! The quest was over. ‘Mr Williamson, I have a letter for you.’ He turned to be confronted by an imposing figure. JC Williamson was about forty, stockily built, handsome, moustached and well-dressed. His demeanour invited no liberties.

Williamson examined this boy who had identified him so readily. Just another Irish lad escaping the woes of home? Perhaps not. This one stood tall and lean; he had brown, wavy hair and steely blue eyes. His gaze was unwavering: not arrogant or disrespectful, but as if he meant business.

Williamson read the letter and put it in his pocket. ‘All right, so you are George Tallis, you are seventeen and you have worked as a cadet reporter for two years on the Kilkenny Moderator. You are also a young man who wants to achieve. Do you have any other letters of introduction?’

‘Yes, sir, I have one for the Argus newspaper.’

‘Well, with a background like yours, why not apply there for a job first?’

‘Because I don’t want to be a reporter, sir. I want to work for you.’

‘Do you have anything special you can offer me?’

‘Yes, sir: hard work, application, loyalty and Pitman shorthand.’

Williamson was silent. Then he said quietly: ‘They all offer me the first three, but none ever mentions the fourth. I doubt if they have even heard of Pitman.’

Then the showman went on with words that young George had not expected. Williamson said, speaking half to himself, that the time was coming when the management of Australian theatre would be by professional business brains. The actor-manager could no longer do it alone. The big managers of the future would leave the acting to others and concentrate on the business side - the production, management, promotion and booking of shows.

But, warned Williamson, if you start with no acting background at all, there is everything to learn. The new managers must be prepared to come in at the bottom, help clean theatres, move scenery, act as ushers, and assist with the takings and bookkeeping. They would have to learn backwards the mechanics of managing a theatre before they could take charge.
Williamson eyed the young man. ‘It is a long, tortuous climb; are you sure you want to try it?’

‘Yes sir,’ answered George without hesitation.

‘Right. You will start work here at the Theatre Royal. I will watch your progress, and maybe one day we will make use of your Pitman shorthand.’

---

Notes

1 The theatre was known as the Princess’s Theatre until replaced in 1886 by a new theatre designed by William Pitt, to emerge as the Princess Theatre on the new letterheads. We note that the amusement columns in the newspapers continued to refer to this theatre as the Princess’s.