1817 to 1818.
Grimaldi becomes a Proprietor of Sadler's Wells--Newcastle Salmon,
and a Coal Mine--Production of Baron Munchausen--Anecdote of
Ellar the Harlequin, showing how he jumped through the Moon,
and put his hand out--Gold Snuff-box, Sir Godfrey Webster, and
the Duke of York.
Grimaldi need not have hastened back to town with so much expedition,
for he was not in request at Covent Garden, as it turned out, until
November, and then only for a night or two in "La Perouse." Still, as
it was uncertain whether he might not be wanted at a few days' notice,
he was fearful of accepting any provincial engagement of more than a
week's duration.
Sadler's Wells was closed when he reached London, after a season which
had entailed a very severe loss on the proprietors; the balance against
whom was so heavy, as to cause it to be rumoured that one more such
season would throw a few of the shares into new hands, which in reality
shortly afterwards occurred. In a pecuniary point of view, it was an
extremely fortunate thing for Grimaldi that he had remained absent from
Sadler's Wells during the summer of 1817, his gains in the provinces
being considerably more than they would have been if he had remained
in town; while, on the other hand, the degree of exertion he had to
encounter in the provinces was greatly inferior to that which he must
have sustained at Sadler's Wells. In addition to the 1423_l._ 19_s._
of which an account is given in the last chapter, he received for four
nights at Birmingham 150_l._, for two nights at Leicester 70_l._, and
for six at Chester 100_l._, making a clear gain of 1743_l._ 19_s._ for
fifty-six nights' performance; whereas, if he had remained at Sadler's
Wells, he would have merely received his thirty weeks' salary at 12_l._
each, and two benefits of 150_l._ each, making a total of 660_l._ for
one hundred and eighty nights' performance. He was therefore a gainer
not only in the saving of bodily exertion, but in the sum of 1073_l._
19_s._, by his fortunate and unlooked-for expulsion from Sadler's Wells.
In February, 1818, Grimaldi received several intimations that if he
chose to make application to the proprietors of Sadler's Wells, he
might return almost upon his own terms; but he declined doing so,
partly from feeling rather annoyed at the manner in which he had been
treated, and partly from discovering how well provincial excursions
answered in a pecuniary point of view, and how much more conducive they
were to his health than remaining in town. Nevertheless, when Mrs.
Hughes, the widow of his friend, waited upon him and entreated him
herself to return, he scarcely knew how to refuse, and at last told
her that if he returned at all to that establishment, it must be as a
part proprietor. He said this, thinking that it would either release
him from any further requests to go back to Sadler's Wells, or enable
him to share in the profits which had been for many years accruing to
the proprietors. But in this idea, as in many others, he was totally
mistaken. After some little preliminaries, in the shape of meetings,
discussions, waiving of objections, &c., the proposal was accepted, and
he became the purchaser of a certain number of shares in Sadler's Wells
from Mrs. Hughes herself.[70] This being arranged, Grimaldi accepted an
engagement for the ensuing season upon his old terms, merely bargaining
that he should be permitted to leave town about the end of July, for
six weeks in each year, to fulfil provincial engagements.
The Covent Garden season terminated on the 17th of July, and his
benefit at Sadler's Wells, which occurred two nights afterwards, being
over, (the receipts were 243_l._ 19_s._,) he left town to fulfil the
engagements he had entered into with country managers. He went first
to Liverpool, where he acted from the 27th July until the 19th of
August: his profits amounted to 327_l._, being two pounds and a few
shillings more than the result of his previous visit. Thence he went to
Lancaster, the theatre of which town, like the one at Berwick, he found
up a stable-yard, but very neat and commodious. Here he played two
nights, for which he received 111_l._ 16_s._ From this town he went to
Newcastle-upon-Tyne, where he performed five nights, realizing 243_l._
14_s._ as his share of the profits.
During his stay at Newcastle, he recollected that the best pickled
salmon sold in London was called by that name, and came from thence,
and he resolved to have a feast of it, naturally concluding that he
should procure it in high perfection in the place whence it was brought
for sale. Accordingly, one evening he ordered some to be got ready for
supper upon his return from the theatre; which the waiter of the hotel
he was staying at promised should be done, but in so curious a manner
that he could not help fancying he did not understand his meaning. He
therefore asked him if he had heard what he said.
"Oh dear, yes, sir!" was the reply: "I'll take care it shall be ready,
sir."
This appeared to settle the point, and as soon as the play was over, he
returned to the inn, anticipating how much better the salmon would be
than the London pickle. The cloth was duly spread, and a covered dish
placed before him.
"Supper, sir quite ready, sir," said the waiter, whisking away the
cover, and presenting to his sight a mutton cutlet. "You'll find this
excellent, sir."
"No doubt; but I ordered pickled salmon!"
"I beg your pardon, sir, did you, sir?" (with a slight appearance of
confusion.)
"Did I! Yes, to be sure I did. Do you mean to say you do not recollect
it?"
"I may have forgotten it, sir; I suppose I _have_ forgotten it, sir."
"Well, it does not matter much; I can make a supper of this. But don't
forget to let me have some pickled salmon to-morrow evening."
"Certainly not, sir," was the waiter's answer; and so the matter ended
for that night.
On the following evening, Grimaldi invited the manager, at the close of
the performances, to go home and sup with him, which he willingly did.
As on the preceding evening, the meal was prepared and awaiting their
arrival. Down they sat, and upon the removal of the cover, a rump-steak
presented itself. A good deal surprised, he said to the waiter,
"What's this! have you forgotten the pickled salmon again?"
"Why, really, sir, dear me!" hesitated the man, "I believe I have I
really fancied you said you would have beef to-night, sir. To-morrow
night, sir, I'll take care that you have some."
"Now, mind that you _do_ remember it, for to-morrow is the last day
I shall be here, and I have a particular wish to taste some before I
leave the town."
"Depend upon me, sir, you shall certainly have some to-morrow, sir,"
said the waiter. The manager preferred meat, so it was no great matter,
and they took their hot supper very comfortably.
There was a crowded audience next night, which was Grimaldi's benefit
and the last of his performance. He played Acres and Clown, received
the cash, bade farewell to the manager, and hurried to his inn, greatly
fatigued by his performance, and looking forward with much pleasure to
the pickled salmon.
"All right to-night, waiter?" he inquired.
"_All_ right to-night, sir," said the waiter, rubbing his hands.
"Supper is quite ready, sir."
"Good! Let me have my bill to-night, because I start early in the
morning."
Grimaldi turned to the supper-table: there was a dish, with a cover;
the waiter removed it with a flourish, and presented to his astonished
eyes--not the long-expected pickled salmon, but a veal-cutlet. These
repeated disappointments were rather too much, so he pulled the bell
with great vehemence and called for the landlord.
The landlord came, and Grimaldi having stated his grievance, he
appeared to understand as little about the matter as his waiter; but
at length, after many explanations, Grimaldi learned to his great
surprise, that pickled salmon was an article unknown in Newcastle, all
Newcastle pickled salmon being sent to London for sale. The brilliant
waiter not having the remotest conception of what was wanted, and
determined not to confess his ignorance, had resolved to try all the
dishes in the most general request until he came to the right one.
Grimaldi saw a coal mine on this expedition, his curiosity having been
roused by the manager's glowing description. We should rather say that
he went down into one, for his survey was brief enough. He descended
some two or three hundred feet in a basket, and was met at the bottom
of the shaft by a guide, who had not conducted him far, when a piece
of coal, weighing about three tons, fell with a loud noise upon a spot
over which they had just passed.
"Hollo!" exclaimed Grimaldi, greatly terrified. "What's that?"
"Hech!" said the guide, "it's only a wee bit of cool fallen doon: we
ha'e that twa or three times a day."
"Have you?" replied Grimaldi, running back to the shaft. "Then I'll
thank you to ring for my basket, or call out for it, for I'll stop here
no longer."
The basket was lowered, and he ascended to the light without delay,
having no wish whatever to take his chance again among the "wee bits of
cool."
While upon this last expedition, he received a letter from Mr. Harris,
in which that gentleman informed him that it would be necessary for
him to be in London by the 7th of September, to attend the opening of
Covent Garden; in consequence of which he was obliged to forego his
Edinburgh engagement with Mr. Murray, which annoyed him greatly, for
he had calculated upon clearing pretty nigh five hundred pounds by
that portion of his trip; besides, being at Newcastle, he was within
one day's journey of Edinburgh. However, he was obliged to attend to
the summons, and so returned to London, where a few days afterwards
he encountered Mr. Harris, with whom he had the following vexatious
colloquy.
"Ah, Joe!" he exclaimed, with evident surprise, "why, I did not expect
to see you for three weeks to come!"
"You did not, sir!" exclaimed Grimaldi, with at least an equal degree
of astonishment.
"Certainly not; I thought you were going into Scotland."
"So I was; but I received a letter from you, recalling me to town
by to-day; which summons I have obeyed, by sacrificing my Edinburgh
excursion, and with it about five hundred pounds."
"Ah!" said Mr. Harris, "I see now how all this is. I suppose you left
Newcastle the same day you received my letter?"
"I did, sir."
"That was unfortunate; for I changed my mind after writing that letter,
and wrote again on the following day, giving you permission to stay
away until the first week of October. Never mind; as you _are_ here,
we'll find you something to do;--we'll try 'Mother Goose' for a night
or two next week."
To this obliging promise he made no reply, not deriving the smallest
degree of comfort from it. Mr. Harris, observing that his offer had
failed in producing the intended effect, added, "And as to the loss of
your Edinburgh engagement, that I must endeavour to make up to you in
some way or other at a future time."
He thanked him for this kindness, and Mr. Harris did not forget his
promise.
The result of Grimaldi's first season's proprietorship was far from
propitious. At first all went on very well; but after he had left (as
previously stipulated) in July, the houses fell to nothing, and when he
arrived in town again in September, he was informed that there would be
a clear loss instead of any profit. This both surprised and vexed him;
for Sadler's Wells had always been considered a very good property,
and he had fully expected that he should, merely upon becoming a
proprietor, have to receive a sum of money yearly, in addition to his
regular salary.
The first proprietors' meeting which he attended, occurred a few days
after the close of the season; and then all the books and papers
connected with the business of the theatre being produced, it was found
that a heavy loss was really attendant upon the year's campaign.
"And pray what may be the amount?" he inquired, rather dolefully,--for
he now began to repent of his purchase, and to fancy that he saw all
his recently acquired wealth fading away.
Mr. Richard Hughes shook his head when he heard his question, and said,
"Ah, Joe, the loss is 333_l._ 13_s._"
"Oh, come!" cried Grimaldi, "it's not so bad as I thought,--333_l._
13_s._ is not so much among six persons!" which was the number of
proprietors at that time.
"Joe," said Mr. Hughes, gravely, "is this the first meeting you have
attended?"
"Yes."
"Ah, then I do not wonder you have misunderstood me. What I meant was,
that the loss to each person is 333_l._ 13_s._, the gross loss being
six times that sum."
This communication was a very unexpected blow to all his hopes; but as
there was nothing better to be done, he paid his share of the money at
once with as good a grace as he could assume, having thus gratified
his wish to become a proprietor of Sadler's Wells by the expenditure,
first, of a large sum of money for his shares, and secondly, of another
sum of upwards of 330_l._ at the end of the first season.
Grimaldi anticipated other heavy demands upon his provincial gains of
1817 and 1818, and bitterly regretted having connected himself with the
establishment in any other way than as a salaried actor.
The Christmas pantomime at Covent Garden was entitled "Baron
Munchausen,"[71] and proved as successful as its predecessors had done
for some years. During its run, a circumstance occurred worthy of
mention, as an instance of the brutality of a man belonging to the
theatre.
One night, a fellow engaged as a carpenter, and whose business it
likewise was to assist in holding a carpet in which the pantomime
characters are caught when they jump through the scenes, went to
Ellar, who was the Harlequin, and holding up the carpet, said that it
was very dry, thereby intimating in the cant phrase that he required
something to drink. Ellar, from some cause or other, either because
he had already fee'd the men liberally, or was engaged at the moment
in conversation, returned some slight answer, unaccompanied by the
required gratuity, and the fellow went away grumbling. On the following
evening, Ellar was informed that the man had been heard to talk about
being revenged upon him: he only laughed at the threat, however, and
all went on as usual until the third night afterwards, when, as he and
Grimaldi were on the stage together, in the scene where he used to jump
through the "moon," and after the former had given the cue for him
to take the leap, he was surprised to observe that he hesitated, and
still more so when, drawing close to him, he said, in a whisper, "I am
afraid they don't mean to catch me. I have knocked three times against
the scene, and asked if they were ready; but nobody has said a word in
reply."
"It's impossible," whispered Grimaldi: "I don't believe there is a man
in the theatre who would dream of such a thing. Jump, man, jump."
Ellar still paused, and Grimaldi fancying that symptoms of impatience
were beginning to appear among the audience, told him so, and again
urged him not to stop the business of the scene, but to jump at once.
"Well, well," cried Ellar, "here goes!--but Heaven knows how it will
end!" And in a complete state of uncertainty whether any men were
there to catch him, or he was left to break his neck, he went through
the scene. His fears were not without good ground; for the fellows
whose business it was to hold the carpet were holding it, as they well
knew, in a position where he could never reach it, and down he fell.
Suspecting his danger while in the very act of going through the panel,
he endeavoured to save his head by sacrificing a hand. In this he
fortunately succeeded, as he sustained no other injury than breaking
the hand upon which he fell. The accident occasioned him great pain
and inconvenience, but he insisted on going through the part, and the
audience were quite ignorant of the occurrence.
The circumstance was not long in reaching the ears of Mr. Harris and
Mr. Fawcett, who were made acquainted not only with Ellar's accident,
but with the man's threat, and the occasion which had given rise to it.
Fawcett immediately caused all the carpenters to assemble on the stage,
and told them that if Mr. Ellar would undertake to say he believed the
accident had been brought about wilfully, they should every one be
discharged on the spot. Ellar being sent for, and informed that this
was the proprietor's deliberate intention, replied without hesitation,
that he could not believe it was intentional, and whispered to Grimaldi
as he left the house, that the fellow had got a wife and half-a-dozen
children dependent upon him.
This praiseworthy resolution, which prevented several men from being
thrown out of employment, was rendered the more praiseworthy by Ellar's
having no earthly doubt that the mistake was intentional, and by his
knowing perfectly well that if he had fallen on his head in lieu of his
hand, he would most probably have been killed on the spot.
While upon the subject of stage accidents, we may remark, that very few
of these mischances befel Grimaldi, considering the risks to which a
pantomime actor is exposed, and the serious injuries he is constantly
encountering. The hazards were not so great in Grimaldi's case as
they would have been to any other man similarly situated, inasmuch as
his clown was a very quiet personage, so far as the use or abuse of
his limbs was concerned, and by no means addicted to those violent
contortions of body, which are painful alike to actor and spectator.
His clown was an embodied conception of his own, whose humour was in
his looks, and not in his tumbles, and who excited the laughter of an
audience while standing upon his heels, and not upon his head. If the
present race of clowns, and the rising generation of that honourable
fraternity, would endeavour to imitate him in this respect, they would
be more at ease themselves, and place their audiences more at ease also.
While playing in "Baron Munchausen" at Covent Garden, one evening very
shortly after Ellar's accident, he observed his Royal Highness the Duke
of York, accompanied by Sir Godfrey Webster and another gentleman,
sitting in his Royal Highness's private box, and laughing very heartily
at the piece. Upon his coming off the stage about the middle of the
pantomime, he found Sir Godfrey waiting for him.
"Hard work, Grimaldi!"
"Hard and hot, Sir Godfrey!"
"Have a pinch of snuff, Grimaldi," said Sir Godfrey: "it will refresh
you." With this he produced from behind him, where he had been holding
it, the largest snuff-box Grimaldi had ever beheld. The sight of
it amused him much. Sir Godfrey laughed and said, "Take it to that
gentleman," pointing to the pantaloon, who was on the stage, "and see
if he would like a pinch."
Grimaldi willingly complied, and having shortly afterwards to enact a
foppish scene, swaggered about the stage, ostentatiously displaying
this huge box, which from its enormous size really looked like a
caricature made expressly for the purpose, and offered a pinch to
the pantaloon with all that affectation of politeness in which he
was so ludicrous. The audience laughed at its gigantic size, and the
pantaloon, looking suspiciously at him, demanded,
"Where did you get this box?"
To this, affecting modest reserve and diffidence, he made no answer,
but turned away his head.
"You've stolen it!" continued Pantaloon.
This the injured Clown strongly denied upon his honour, with many bows
and slides, and averred it was a gift.
"Given to you!" cried the Pantaloon: "and pray, who gave it to you?"
In answer to this, he pointed significantly to the box whither Sir
Godfrey had retired, and the merriment which this occasioned was
great indeed. The Duke, to whom, as he discovered afterwards, the box
belonged, was convulsed with laughter; nor were the gentlemen with him
less merry, while the audience, either suspecting that some joke was
afloat, or being amused at the scene, joined in the hearty laughter
emanating from the royal box.
"Where are you going to take the box?" asked Pantaloon, as he turned to
go off.
"Where it has often been before," cried Grimaldi, pointing upwards: "to
my uncle's!" And so saying, he ran off the stage amid a fresh burst of
merriment.
Sir Godfrey was with him in two minutes. Whether he thought the box
was really in danger of being so disposed of, is uncertain, but he
popped round behind the scenes as quickly as possible.
"Capital, Grimaldi!" he cried, still laughing; "you have won me a
wager--so ought to go snacks in it;" and he slipped five guineas into
his hand.
"So, so," said the Duke of York, who, unperceived by Grimaldi, had
followed his friend; "this is the way stakes are divided, eh?--I'll
tell you what, Sir Godfrey, although Mr. Grimaldi is not a porter, I
entertain no doubt that he would carry your box for you every evening
upon such terms as these."
Having vented this joke, his Royal Highness returned to his box. As
he was not often behind the scenes at the theatre, this was, with one
exception, the only time Grimaldi encountered him.
FOOTNOTES:
[70] Joe's desire was to become a proprietor, and an eighth share, at
his request, was disposed of to him by his brother-in-law, Mr. Hughes;
nor was the purchase-money demanded at the time of sale: the object
was, to invest Grimaldi with an interest in the theatre and to attach
him to it more permanently: but so far from any loss having arisen, we
find that on reference to the treasurer's books, the season of 1818
and the two following were profitable, and Joe participated in the
benefits arising therefrom. The season of 1821 was attended by loss;
but even then the deficit required from Grimaldi, by reason of his
eighth share, was little more than ninety pounds; and in that instance
Joe experienced the kindness of the family to which his early marriage
had attached him. The loss referred to was rendered easy to him in its
liquidation. Mr. Hughes's subsequent losses, as connected with Sadler's
Wells Theatre, exceeded 5000_l._
[71] "Baron Munchausen; or, the Fountain of Love," first performed
on December 26, 1818. Harlequin, Mr. Ellar; Clown, Mr. Grimaldi;
Pantaloon, Mr. Norman; Columbine, Miss F. Dennett.