On September 17, 1900, a contract was awarded to two local firms, Woodson
Alnutt & Sons and Charles Paulson & Sons.
Under their skillful direction and supervision, an opera house second to
none in the country, then or now, for its size, materialized.
Upon the flat roof covering the domed ceiling was a “fly” loft from which
hand painted “flats” could be raised or lowered in a matter of seconds for
each scene. Lights placed along the
top of the proscenium were raised through a series of pulleys and weights; and,
by a catwalk, defective lights could be replaced.
A
trap door, to aid magicians in disappearing acts, was cut into the stage.
Dressing rooms for the “stars” took shape in the basement, and an entrance
from that basement lead musicians into the orchestra pit.
The
30-foot tubular boiler furnace was lowered into place. Artists and painters were
brought from New York to decorate the massive interior.
Acoustics were honed and perfected, allowing the merest whisper on stage
to be heard in the most remote corner of the building.
Throughout
it all, Dougherty maintained his connection to his humble beginnings.
On the curtain which would slowly disappear into the upper loft was
painted a mural of “The Valley of the Gods” in Colorado, the mountains
dwarfing one small burro being led by a miner with a pick and shovel on his
shoulder.
Finally,
the day arrived. June 20, 1901.
The fold-up seats were finally bolted to the floor; Clarence Pettus and
Authur Hamilton were hired to sell popcorn between acts for Anna and Hazel (this
being the Dougherty girls’ first business venture).
Shakespearean
troupe of “name” actors was engaged to perform As You Like It. The orchestra
began to warm up.
Opening
night had arrived. Contrary to
popular practice, tickets were not distributed until opening night. Seats were
reserved according to amounts donated. Those
not making donations paid between $10 to $20 for seats.
The lower right box was reserved for the Dougherty family.
Carriages
drew up to the entrance along Main Street; ladies in carefully selected
high-fashion gowns were handed down from their transports by equally elegant
gentlemen. A large crowd of
onlookers, either those unable to obtain or unable to afford seats, assembled to
watch enviously.
That
night was not soon forgotten by the populace of Richmond.
Later, Saturday matinees brought the Dougherty children unquestioned popularity.
One local woman by the name of Bessie Marie Carter was to recall, “The
children of the town catered to the Dougherty children all week to be invited to
sit in the family box. Often, it
was overloaded; and, on one occasion, Forrestine Conrow fell into the orchestra
pit. There hadn’t been enough seats to go around; so she had been sitting on
the ledge.”
Other
recollections held a different impact than that suffered by poor Forrestine.
Another
local resident, a man named Ernest Dale, added, “I attended The Port of
Missing Men in 1907 or ’08. The
production simply overwhelmed me. I
can still recall the wonderful scenery and the high caliber characters on the
stage with sound effects so natural the audience must surely have thought a
thunderstorm was actually in progress outside. I have never seen anything to
equal it since.”