On The Stage-And Off

CHAPTER X. I Buy a Basket, and go into the Provinces

OUR season at the London theater came to a close early in December, and, about the end of November, we all be gan to take a great interest in the last page but one of “The Actor’s Bible.” Being just before Christmas, which is the busiest period of the theatrical year, there was no difficulty in getting another shop, for “Useful people,” “Clever people,” “Talented people,” “Knockabout people,” “First-class High Kickers,” and “Entire Dramatic Companies,” were wanted here, there, and everywhere. I only answered one advertisement, and was engaged at once; but this, no doubt, was owing to my having taken the precaution, when applying, of enclosing my photograph.

I was to join the company a week before Christmas, at a town in the west of England, where we were to open with pantomine. I was to give the first week for rehearsals at half salary, afterward receiving a guinea a week for “responsibles,” traveling expenses, when we went on tour, being paid by the management.

And here let me say that a more honorable and courteous gentleman than the manager of this company I never met. We did not even have to ask for our money; we were paid regularly, and to the last farthing, no matter whether business was good or bad. In short, he was an honest man, and as such held a conspicuous position among the theatrical managers of that day.

Previous to leaving London, I got together a small wardrobe. I already had a stock of boots and shoes, and tights, but these were only a few of the things required, and I found it rather an expensive matter before I had done. Varying in price from seven shillings to two pounds, wigs cost the most of anything, and I had to buy seven or eight of these – a “white Court,” a “brown George,” a “flowing ringlets,” a “scratch” (why called scratch I haven’t the faintest notion), a “comic oldman,” a “bald,” and a “flow” for everything that one was not quite sure about.

I picked up a good many odds and ends of costume in Petticoat Lane one Sunday morning. It is a famous place for theatrical wardrobes. I got a complete sailor’s suit for five shillings, and a suit of livery for sixteen. Old-fashioned swallowtails and embroidered waistcoats, knee breeches, blouses, pants, hats, cloaks, and swords were also to be had there in plenty, and at very small cost. My sisters made me some more things (they had become reconciled to my “mad trick” by this time, and had even got to rather like the idea of having an actor in the family), and for the rest I had to go to a regular costumier’s. All these articles, together with a pretty complete modern wardrobe, a bundle of acting editions and other books, a “make-up” box, a dressing-case, writing-case, etc., etc., made a pretty big pile, and, as this pile would be increased rather than diminished as time went on, I determined to get one big traveling basket to hold everything, and have done with it.

I did get a big one. I’ve got it now. It’s downstairs in the washhouse. I’ve never been able to get rid of it from that day to this. I’ve tried leaving it behind when removing into new lodgings, but it has always been sent on after me, generally in a wagon with a couple of men, who, evidently imagining they were restoring me a treasured heirloom, have been disappointed at my complete absence of enthusiasm. I have lured stray boys into the house, and offered them half a crown to take it away and lose it, but they have become frightened, and gone home and told their mothers, and, after that, it has got about in the neighborhood that I have committed a murder. It isn’t the sort of thing you can take out with you on a dark night, and drop down somebody else’s area.

When I used it, I had to do all my packing in the hall, for it was impossible to get the thing up and down stairs. It always stood just behind the front door, which left about six inches of space for people to squeeze past, and every one that came in got more or less injured. The owner of the house, returning home late at night, would pitch head foremost over it, and begin yelling murder and police, under the impression it was burglars. The girl, coming in with the beer, would bang up against it, and upset the jug over it, when the whole contents would become saturated, and smell like a public-house.

The language used in connection with that basket was simply appalling. It roused railway porters and cabmen to madness, and the savage way in which they rushed upon it used to make my blood run cold. Landladies, who upon my first call had welcomed me with effusion, grew cool and distant when the basket arrived. Nobody had a good word for it. Everywhere, it was hated and despised. I even feared that some day its victims would rise up and sweep it from the face of the earth. But no, it has survived both curses and kicks, and feeling it is hopeless ever to expect to get rid of it, I have made up my mind to be buried in it.

Faithful old basket! it is a good many years since you and I started on our travels that snowy seventeenth of December, and what a row we had with the cabman, ah me! But why did you desert me at Bristol? Why did you —

But stay, wherefore should I go on apostrophizing the miserable old thing in this imbecile manner, And now I come to think of it, why too should I sit here sucking the end of my pen and scowling savagely at the lamp, in the agonies of composition, when “copy,” which one of Field & Tuer’s devils is plaguing me for (I do wish they’d send a boy who couldn’t whistle), is lying ready to my hand?

Before me, borrowed for reference in penning these reminiscences, is a pile of letters, written during my travels to my old pal, Jim. Here’s one:

“Dear Jim:

“We (the basket and I) had a terribly cold journey down. Lost the basket at Bristol and had to telegraph after it. That basket will be the death of me, I know. There is one advantage, though; it stamps you as an actor at once, and the porters don’t expect any gratuities. Got jolly lodgings here. Nice, big bedroom, use of sitting-room, full attendance, and cooking for four bob a week. Pleasant, homely people, everything as clean as a new pin, and daughter rather pretty.

“I should have written before, but we have been so busy. Two and sometimes three rehearsals a day, to say nothing of painting the scenery, at which we all assisted. We had a crowded house for the opening on Boxing night, and have had very fair ones ever since – all over fifteen pounds.

“Sergeant Parry was in the stalls the other night, and a big London actor, whose name I forget just now. We (I say ‘we’ because we all help in everything – two of us went out early a morning or two ago bill-posting: we’ve got a regular billposter, but it’s his week for being drunk) – we, then, had a good deal of trouble training the supers and ballet. You should hear the supers dance: you can do so easily a mile off. They shake the whole building. Both they and the ballet are drawn from the fishing population of the town, and this is their first appearance on any stage. The ballet consists of eight at present, but that is only for the first go off, we shall reduce it to six in a little while. We have also got about a dozen children to do a May-pole dance. It’s a treat to see them. They are paid threepence a night, but they get three shillings’ worth of enjoyment out of it for themselves. There is one little girl with the face of an angel – I honestly confess I’ve never seen an angel’s face, and don’t suppose I ever shall till I die, but I think it is that sort of face. She is dressed by seven every evening, and, from then, till she goes on the stage at ten, she is dancing and singing on her own account all over the place. When the May-pole is at last set up, she stands and gazes at it open-mouthed, and laughs to herself with glee. In her excitement, she always dances round the wrong way, and with the wrong boy – but it’s always the same wrong boy, that is what makes it extraordinary. Happy wrong boy, only he doesn’t know he’s happy; he is so small. After the dance, the little boys kiss the little girls. You ought to see this little fairy turn aside and giggle, and push her little lover away. The boys are awfully shy over the business, but the little girls don’t seem a bit afraid. Such is the superiority of woman over man?

“The pantomime dresses all come from London, and are quite handsome and costly. The piece is Whittington and his Cat, written by the stage manager here, but it is nearly all songs and dances, and what little is spoken is more gag than book. I’ve two songs in one of my parts, and one in the other. I suppose singing is easy enough when you are used to it. It is the orchestra that puts me out, though. I should feel much freer without the music. We give them plenty of topical allusions on burning local questions, being careful, of course, to follow Mr. Pickwick’s advice, and ‘shout with the crowd.’ It fetches them immensely. The enthusiasm created nightly by a reference to the new lamp-post in the High Street is tremendous.

“Our low comedian is teaching me dancing, and I practice for about an hour a day. It’s terribly hard work, but I can nearly do a hornpipe already. I want to do that: there is nothing knocks a country audience like a hornpipe.

“The stage manager is a surly fellow, of course: but the manager himself is a brick, and treats us – the actors – with as much respect as if we were stage carpenters; and money is safe. Our leading man has never turned up, so his part has been cut out, and this has not improved the plot. I play a lazy clerk in the opening (it’s like going back to the old Civil Service days), and also prime minister of Tittattoo; having only three minutes for change. I get some legitimate fun out of the prime minister, but the clerk does not require artistic acting. I pretend to go to sleep, and then the clown, who plays another clerk catches me over the head with a clapper, and then I wake up and catch him over the head with the clapper, and then he rushes at me and hits me, and I take the nap from him, and then he takes a nap from me (it wakes you up, this sort of nap, I tell you), after which, we both have a grand struggle with the cat. I fell on my head the other night (lucky it wasn’t any other part of me), and broke a chair in the course of this struggle. I got an encore for that, but didn’t take it. I suppose you might call this knockabout business. I’m glad there are none of my friends here to see me. Acting isn’t all making love in tights, and fighting with a real sword.

“We play a drama before the Panto, on Saturday next. Fancy me as the heavy father, blessing the stage manager and the leading lady, whose united ages amount to about eighty. That is what I am going to do.

“We all dined with the manager on Christmas Day at his hotel, and had a very pleasant evening, keeping it up till four. We are each of us to have a ‘ben.’ before leaving here. I was rather pleased at this when I heard it, but the others displayed no rapture. Our walking gent, told me he never lost less than thirty shillings at his benefits. I don’t think I shall take one. You pay all expenses, and have half the receipts. The attraction about it to my mind, though, is that you can put up what you like, and choose your own parts. I should like to have a try at Romeo.

“I have tasted fame and don’t like it. I have been recognized in the street, and followed by a small crowd of children. They evidently expected me to stop at some corner and sing.

“The men’s dressing-room at the theater is up in the flies, and the only means of communication with it is by a ladder. This got removed the other night, so that our low comedian couldn’t get down. We didn’t know this, however, so the Lord Chamberlain went on and said, ‘Behold your Prince approaches,’ and of course he didn’t come. So the Lord Chamberlain said it again, and the house began to laugh; and then an excited voice from above cried out, ‘Shut up, you fool. Where’s the ladder?’

“Must ‘shut up’ myself now, for it’s half-past seven, and I’m on at eight. I’m very comfortable down here. Write soon, old chap, and give us all the news. Have you seen dear little – ?”

Oh! the rest has nothing to do with theatrical matters.

CHAPTER XI. First Provincial Experiences

ITHOUGHT I was safe for the summer with this company, and congratulated myself upon having found such good quarters. The glorious uncertainty of the boards, however, almost rivals that of the turf. From one reason and another, we broke up without ever going on tour, so that, two months after leaving London, I found myself back there again on my way to the opposite side of the kingdom to join another company.

But, short as was my first country engagement, it gave me a pretty good insight into what provincial work was like. The following is from one of my letters, written after about a fortnight’s experience of this work, which did not begin until the pantomime was withdrawn:

“The panto, is over. I wasn’t by any means fond of it, but I’m sorry for one thing. While it was running, you see, there was no study or rehearsal, and we had the whole day free, and could – and did – enjoy ourselves. But no skating parties now! no long walks! no drives! no getting through a novel in one day! We play at least two fresh pieces every night and sometimes three. Most of them here already know their parts as well as they know their alphabet, but everything is new to me, and it is an awful grind. I can never tell until one night what I’m going to play the next. The cast is stuck up by the stage door every evening, and then, unless you happen to have the book yourself, you must borrow the stage manager’s copy, and write out your part. If somebody else wants it, too, and is before you, you don’t get hold of it till the next morning perhaps, and that gives you about eight hours in which to work up a part of say six or seven lengths (a ‘length’ is forty-two lines).

“Sometimes there’s a row over the cast. Second Low Comedy isn’t going to play old men. That’s not his line; he was not engaged to play old men. He’ll see everybody somethinged first. – First Old Man wants to know what they mean by expecting him to play Second Old Man’s part. He has never been so insulted in his life. He has played with Kean and Macready and Phelps and Matthews, and they would none of them have dreamt of asking him to do such a thing. – Juvenile Lead has seen some rum things, but he is blowed if ever he saw the light comedy part given to the Walking Gentleman before. Anyhow he shall decline to play the part given him, it’s mere utility. – Walking Gent, says, well it really isn’t his fault; he doesn’t care one way or the other. He was cast for the part, and took it. – Juvenile Lead knows it isn’t his fault – doesn’t blame him at all – it’s the stage manager he blames. Juvenile Lead’s opinion is that the stage manager is a fool. Everybody agrees with him here; it is our rallying point.

“The general result, when this sort of thing occurs, is that the part in dispute, no matter what it is, gets pitched on to me as ‘Responsibles.’ There’s a little too much responsibility about my line. I like the way they put it, too, when they want me to take a particularly heavy part. They call it ‘giving me an opportunity!’ If they mean an opportunity to stop up all night, I agree with them. That is the only opportunity I see about it. Do they suppose you are going to come out with an original and scholarly conception of the character, when you see the part for the first time the night before you play it? Why, you haven’t time to think of the meaning of the words you repeat. But even if you had the chance of studying a character, it would be no use. They won’t let you carry out your own ideas. There seems to be a regular set of rules for each part, and you are bound to follow them. Originality is at a discount in the provinces.

“I have lived to see our stage manager snubbed – sat upon – crushed. He has been carrying on down here, and swelling around to that extent you’d have thought him a station-master at the very least. Now he’s like a bladder with the air let out. His wife’s come.

“The company is really getting quite famili-fied. There are three married couples in it now. Our Low Comedian’s wife is the Singing Chambermaid – an awfully pretty little woman (why have ugly men always got pretty wives?). I played her lover the other night, and we had to kiss two or three times. I rather liked it, especially as she doesn’t make-up much. It isn’t at all pleasant getting a mouthful of powder or carmine.

“I gained my first ‘call’ on Saturday, before a very full house. Of course I was highly delighted, but I felt terribly nervous about stepping across when the curtain was pulled back. I kept thinking, ‘Suppose it’s a mistake, and they don’t want me.’ They applauded, though, the moment I appeared, and then I was all right. It was for a low comedy part – Jacques in The Honeymoon. I always do better in low comedy than in anything else, and everybody tells me I ought to stick to it. But that is just what I don’t want to do. It is high tragedy that I want to shine in. I don’t like low comedy at all. I would rather make the people cry than laugh.

“There is one little difficulty that I have to contend with at present in playing comedy, and that is a tendency to laugh myself when I hear the house laughing. I suppose I shall get over this in time, but now, if I succeed in being at all comical, it tickles me as much as it does the audience, and, although I could keep grave enough if they didn’t laugh, the moment they start I want to join in. But it is not only at my own doings that I am inclined to laugh. Anything funny on the stage amuses me, and being mixed up in it makes no difference. I played Frank to our Low Comedian’s Major de Boots the other night. He was in extra good form and very droll, and I could hardly go on with my part for laughing at him. Of course, when a piece is played often, one soon ceases to be amused; but here, where each production enjoys a run of one consecutive night only, the joke does not pall.

“There is a man in the town who has been to the theater regularly every night since we opened. The pantomime ran a month, and he came all through that. I know I was sick enough of the thing before it was over, but what I should have been sitting it out from beginning to end every evening, I do not like to think. Most of our patrons, though, are pretty regular customers. The theater-going population of the town is small but determined. Well, you see, ours is the only amusement going. There was a fat woman came last week, but she did not stay long. The people here are all so fat themselves they thought nothing of her.”

CHAPTER XII. “Mad Mat” Takes Advantage of an Opportunity

IHAD a day in London before starting off on my next venture, and so looked in at my old theater. I knew none of the company, but the workmen and supers were mostly the same that I had left there. Dear old Jim was in his usual state and greeted me with a pleasant:

“Hulloa! you seem jolly fond of the place, you do. What the deuce brings here?”

I explained that it was a hankering to see him once again.

“Mad Mat” was there, too. The pantomime was still running, and Mat played a demon with a pasteboard head. He was suffering great injustice nightly, so it appeared from what he told me. He was recalled regularly at the end of the scene in which he and his brother demons were knocked about by the low comedian, but the management would not allow him to go on again and bow.

“They are jealous,” whispered Mat to me, as we strolled into The Rodney (it would be unprofessional for an actor to meet a human creature whose swallowing organization was intact, and not propose a drink) – “jealous, that’s what it is. I’m getting too popular, and they think I shall cut them out.”

The poor fellow was madder than ever, and I was just thinking so at the very moment that he turned to me and said:

“Do you think I’m mad? candidly now.”

It’s a little awkward when a maniac asks you point-blank if you think he’s mad. Before I could collect myself sufficiently to reply, he continued:

“People often say I’m mad —I’ve heard them. Even if I am, it isn’t the thing to throw in a gentleman’s teeth, but I’m not – I’m not. You don’t think I am, do you?”

I was that “took aback,” as Mrs. Brown would put it, that, if I had not had the presence of mind to gulp down a good mouthful of whisky and water, I don’t know what I should have done. I then managed to get out something about “a few slight eccentricities, perhaps, but – ”

“That’s it,” he cried excitedly, “‘eccentricities ‘ – and they call that being mad. But they won’t call me mad long – wait till I’ve made my name. They won’t call me mad then. Mad! It’s they’re the fools, to think a man’s mad when he isn’t. Ha, ha, my boy, I’ll surprise ‘em one day. I’ll show the fools – the dolts – the idiots, who’s been mad. ‘Great genius is to madness close allied.’ Who said that, eh? He was a genius, and they called him mad, perhaps. They’re fools – all fools, I tell you. They can’t tell the difference between madness and genius, but I’ll show them some day – some day.”

Fortunately there was nobody else in the bar where we were, or his ravings would have attracted an unpleasant amount of attention. He wanted to give me a taste of his quality then and there in his favorite rôle of Romeo, and I only kept him quiet by promising to call that night and hear him rehearse the part.

When we were ready to go out, I put my hand in my pocket to pay, but, to my horror, Mat was before me, and laid down the money on the counter. Nor would any argument induce him to take it up again. He was hurt at the suggestion even, and reminded me that I had stood treat on the last occasion – about three months ago. It was impossible to force the money on him. He was as proud on his six shillings a week as Croesus on sixty thousand a year, and I was compelled to let him have his way. So he paid the eightpence, and then we parted on the understanding that I was to see him later on at his “lodgings.” – “They are not what I could wish,” he explained, “but you will, I am sure, overlook a few bachelor inconveniences. The place suits me well enough – for the present.”

Hearing a lunatic go through Romeo is not the pleasantest way of passing the night, but I should not have had pluck enough to disappoint the poor fellow, even if I had not promised, and, accordingly, after having spent the evening enjoying the unusual luxury of sitting quiet, and seeing, other people excite themselves for my amusement, I made my way to the address Mat had given me.

The house was in a narrow court at the back of the New Cut. The front door stood wide open, though it was twelve o’clock, and a bitterly cold night. A child lay huddled up on the doorstep, and a woman was sleeping in the passage. I stumbled over the woman, groping my way along in the dark. She seemed used to being trodden upon though, for she only looked up unconcernedly, and went to sleep again at once. Mat had told me his place was at the very top, so I went on until there were no more stairs, and then I looked round me. Seeing a light coming from one of the rooms, I peered in through the halfopen door, and saw a fantastic object, decked in gaudy colors and with long, flowing hair, sitting on the edge of a broken-down bedstead. I didn’t know what to make of it at first, but it soon occurred to me that it must be Mat, fully made-up as Romeo, and I went in.

I thought, when I had seen him a few hours before, that he looked queer – even for him – but now, his haggard face daubed with paint, and his great eyes staring out of it more wildly than ever, he positively frightened me. He held out his hand, which was thin and white, but remained seated.

“Excuse my rising,” he said slowly, in a weak voice, “I feel so strange. I don’t think I can go through the part to-night. So sorry to have brought you here for nothing, but you must come and see me some other time.”

I got him to lie down on the bed just as he was, and covered him with the old rags that were on it. He lay still for a few minutes, then he looked up and said:

“I won’t forget you, L – , when I’m well off. You’ve been friendly to me when I was poor: I shan’t forget it, my boy. My opportunity will soon come now – very soon, and then – ”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but began to murmur bits of the part to himself, and in a little while he dropped asleep. I stole softly out, and went in search of a doctor. I got hold of one at last, and returned with him to Mat’s attic. He was still asleep, and after arranging matters as well as I could with the doctor, I left, for I had to-be on my way early in the morning.

I never expected to see Mat again, and I never did. People who have lived for any length of time on six shillings a week don’t take long to die when they set about it, and two days after I had seen him, Mad Mat’s opportunity came, and he took it.