A Love Story in the Spotlight
Beneath the folds of the velvet stage curtain and the echo of long-forgotten applause, lived a gentleman named Monty. Not a pest, nor a nuisance—just an old worldly mouse with a pink nose, a patron of the arts. A resident of the stalls—Row G, Seat 17 at the Princess Theatre in Melbourne. He was born behind the orchestra pit on a winter’s day, raised on ghost lights, biscuit crumbs and lamingtons left behind by ushers and backstage workers.
While Monty was not the only theatre mouse in town, the city was full of thespian types, he was the only one that could quote Shakespeare, loved the ballet and musicals. He watched Finian’s Rainbow a thousand times in the wings at the Princess back in 1964. He loved its whimsical tone and political edge. In fact, Monty had developed something rare for a theatre mouse: a social conscience, formed from all the abandoned newspapers he’d stumbled upon in the foyer. While other mice were chasing their tails and searching for cheese in Flinders Lane, Monty was in the Green Room reading The Moral Ledger…published Tuesdays and Fridays in The Age newspaper.
One edition carried a line, ‘A society is judged not by its wealth, but by the kindness it shows to those who dwell in its shadows.’ Monty loved the quote so much he tucked the newspaper under seat 17 for future reference.
Each night, Monty would stand watching the dancers warm up before the evening performance of Swan Lake. He had a longing in his chest. Not for stardom—but for love. You see, Monty had fallen head over tail. He’d fallen hard. For a ballerina named Isadora Bell, whose grace and poise impressed him, her beauty shining brightly under the glow of the spotlight. She never caught him watching, well, not really. Not until the night her ribbon slipped mid-pirouette, and a little grey blur darted forward, retrieving it with the tenderness of a stagehand carrying Swan Lake in his heart.
“Oh, sweet lady,” he announced, unexpectedly, “I believe you dropped this?”
Isadora Bell screamed and ran away. Monty was disappointed.
But from that moment on, Isadora would often dream of the little mouse. In fact, she could not keep Monty out of her dreams. Smitten by love, Monty started leaving Isadora tiny gifts: a rose on her vanity, a button she’d lost from her jacket, a perfectly placed piece of cheese in her pointe shoe, which went “squelch” as she slid her toes in.
“Oh, drat!” she said, more than a little disturbed by the mess it made.
However, slowly, she began to understand. There was someone watching over her. Someone little and unseen. Someone unforgettable.
Then, just as things were developing nicely, came the fire.
A faulty stage light exploded. A spark caught the curtain, and the Princess Theatre went up in flames—like the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy. Monty watched in horror as the Swan Lake backdrop caught fire and came crashing down. A stray ember landed on Isadora’s tutu mid-pirouette, moments before her dive into the lake. The performance stopped; people scrambled for the exit.
Frantic, Isadora spotted a water pitcher just offstage and doused her tutu in one swift motion. Smoke curled around her beautiful face as she ran to the swan-shaped coat rack, snatched a velvety black cape, and twirled it overhead. It settled gently on her shoulders, offering scant protection from the flames.
Isadora was trapped.
Monty, heart thundering louder than any curtain call, scurried through the rubble and over fallen props, and up the creaky coat rack.
“Isadora Bell. Don’t be scared. Let me introduce myself properly — perilous timing aside. My name is Montague Archibald Leopold Thistle the third. But most people know me as Monty. I’m the resident theatre mouse of the Princess Theatre. You may have seen me lounging about in the dress circle near the bar.”
Isadora was silent, surprised that a mouse could talk.
“Well, anyway…I know the Princess like the back of my paw. I’m here to save you. There’s no time for us to pas de chats. We must scamper — and we must do it now. Please follow my lead.”
Isadora blinked, ash clinging to her lashes. The mouse standing before her spoke with such certainty, such noble diction… and he had great stage presence…like most leading men. How could she resist!
“Montague Archibald Leopold Thistle the Third,” she said, “What a mouthful, darling.”
“I know, I blame my parents,” Monty wholeheartedly acknowledged.
“You’re real. I thought you a very peculiar hallucination from my dreams. Are you leaving me all those little gifts? Including the rose and cheese in my shoe?”
Monty bowed. “I assure you, Miss Bell, my intentions are noble—even if my posture and height is questionable.”
She smiled faintly, then stood tall just as the theatre chandelier caught fire and fell ungraciously into the orchestra pit.
“Well, if we’re dancing toward danger, we’d best do it in time. Lead on, dear Monty. And no pas de chats—I prefer a leap of faith anyway.”
By sunrise, the Princess Theatre was covered in ash—but the fire hadn’t claimed everything. The theatre was still partly standing thanks to the fast response of the city of Melbourne’s fire service.
“Oh, it’s still here. Marvellous,” Isadora said, sitting on the curb outside the theatre and lighting up a cigarette.
Monty nodded solemnly. “Half ruined. Half ready. Like most of us, I suppose.”
“Now, let us not get melancholy, Monty. The Princess Theatre will rise from the ashes with a little love and attention…everything does!” She smiled, blowing smoke his way. Picking him up, she nestled him close. ‘We are safe and that’s all that matters. And… we’re no longer just acquaintances, darling. We’re officially theatre mates. Friends forever!”
Isadora finished her cigarette and stood holding Monty close to her cheek as reporters from The Age snapped photos of her beautiful face. They were asking “Isadora? Who saved the Swan in Swan Lake from danger? The story is for the morning edition. Tell us.”
The answer of course was whispered through theatre circles for decades. Some called the story of the swan and the mouse a theatrical myth. Others called it stage magic. But we know it’s neither myth nor magic. Just a simple tale of a mouse in love.
The Princess Theatre was rebuilt. A small statue of a mouse, rose in his paw, eyes filled with longing, sits by the box office. It bears a striking resemblance to Montague Archibald Leopold Thistle the third. Also known as Monty. Every performer who steps onstage at the Princess Theatre in Melbourne touches it for good luck.
And often, as the curtain rises on a new production of Swan Lake, some swear they hear the softest applause from the stalls—Row G, Seat 17. Because love, like theatre, lives on in whispers and whiskers… and even the smallest heart can cast a long shadow.
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