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UR 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.