Part 1

[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 150.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

THE PORTABLE THEATRE.

A few wagon-loads of large and square wooden shutters; numerous poles of various lengths; a quantity of seat-planks and their supports; some scene-painted canvas wrapped around long rollers, some nailed and glued upon framework; a collection of ropes and pulleys; various ‘stage properties;’ two open coke-fire grates; an amount of dark and soiled drapery and cheap carpeting, and a mass of other things—meet these on the highway, and you may know that a portable theatre is shifting its quarters.

Soon after the wagons reach their destination, the work of building commences. The town chosen is no doubt a small one, with interests which may be manufacturing, mineral, or agricultural. The theatre had arranged for its stance before moving—some waste ground let at a nominal rent, or a field bordering the town. Then beardless men, dressed in stained and ragged cloth garments, start hacking up the ground, digging narrow holes wherein to erect uprights. While some erect the framework, others build at one end a gallery, at the other a stage; and so bit by bit. After an adornment of the interior by draping the walls with some material and giving a scant covering to the best seats, and a sawdust carpet to the whole concern, the labour of erection is about at an end, and the actor-builders are at liberty to cleanse—and shave themselves if they have time, and throw off their working clothes. If they perform the same night and are late, they will have little time for rest; and in the impersonator of Hamlet, who enters the stage at a quarter to eight to a flourish on brass and string, you may recognise the man who, forty-five minutes before, had been walking to his lodgings in a state of grime and weariness and with a stubbly chin. When he appears as the Prince, he is clean shaven, all but the heavy moustache—for that is his pride, and is never sacrificed.

The portable theatre is generally ‘run’ by the proprietor, who is often also stage-manager and leading man or comedian. The usual method of fixing the amount of payment to employees is by share. In this way every individual worker is a sort of partner, and so feels an interest in the welfare of the business; and if the receipts are large, he, and she, participate in the benefit. This method is favourable to the manager and proprietor too, even when business is not brisk, though he is never heard to admit as much. The mode of procedure is very simple, and may be worthy the attention of those who admire simplicity and promptitude in business. The sharing takes place nightly after performance, when the audience have dispersed and the curtain has been drawn up, and all the company are dressed for home and assembled on the stage. The proprietor sits at a table in the centre, the receipts in cash and a slip of paper before him. ‘The “house” is three pounds and fourpence,’ the manager proceeds to explain; ‘and from that is to be taken two shillings for ground-rent; that leaves two-eighteen-four. Now, twenty-five shares into that is two shillings and fourpence a share. It’s very bad, especially for an opening night; but the show went well, so we may hope business’ll pick up, now they know what we are like. I hope it will, for all our sakes.’ And then does the gentleman proceed to give to each member his one share, which on this night amounts to two shillings and fourpence; but to the low comedian is given an extra half-share, according to agreement, for his services are very valuable to the firm, and he is expected to sing humorous songs during the interval between drama and farce.

Now, all this looks very fair on the face of it; but much may be learned by an analysis of the arrangement. The proprietor has given twelve and a half shares among twelve people, in which are included the small orchestra; the remainder he has put in his pocket. For his own services as leading man and stage-manager, and for his wife, who plays the feminine leading parts—when they are good—he takes up four shares each night; for supplying the wardrobe!—which is scanty and worn—he takes another share; he has another to recoup him for that night’s outlay in stage properties; a half-share to pay for the coke the fires have burned; and lastly, he takes six shares as rent of the theatre, which is his property. So, of the twenty-five shares into which the receipts are nightly divided, the proprietor receives altogether twelve and a half. Much of this he would tell you is but the return of money previously laid out, and the melancholy sigh with which he accompanies the ceremony of division is meant to indicate the fact that he is losing money rapidly.

His wife, when not in the cast, or his offspring, or a decrepit father, are generally assigned to the post of money-taker at the theatre door. The company are supposed to have a check against them by appointing as their representatives those who collect the tickets. The person who receives the cash from the public as they enter is familiarly known to the fraternity by the name of ‘first robber.’

Now, many who know the business have been heard to declare that the manager seldom loses—if ever—and generally gains, however slack business may be, and even while his fellow-actors are pinched for necessities. If it is asked, ‘Why do the workers agree to such an arrangement?’ it may be replied: ‘The proprietor and manager is master in his own establishment; and those who won’t conform to the rules of the theatre may go and make way for those who will.’

Altogether, portable actors, or, as many of the labouring classes prefer to call them, showfolk, make but a precarious living, and they have often many troubles, for which they receive little sympathy. At times they are heard speaking of how some years ago, during the fair at a certain town, they performed five times during the day, and individually amassed three pounds seven shillings for the day’s work. But that was a rare occurrence, and they dwell with pleasure upon the memory of it. The usual share in ordinary times rises to five shillings nightly during good business, and perhaps as much as seven or eight on the Saturday, and very often it drops to the amount of but a few coppers. There is all the excitement of chance in this mode of remuneration, and that may offer an inducement to some speculative minds. If trade is bad, or the people are too poor or anti-theatrical, the strolling Thespian may find that his reward after work is something less than a shilling, and upon that he may have to feed and lodge himself until the next night brings a further supply.

Many who dwell in towns think that the portable theatre is now little more than a remnant of a bygone age, that the drama has cast off this itineracy; and such thinkers would doubtless be surprised if they were shown a list of the playhouses that move about the country. They are certainly very numerous. These buildings seldom look well in the morning light; there is a dissipated look about them, as though they kept bad hours. This more particularly applies to the interior, to whose good appearance the glare of gas is very essential. When the actors assemble for rehearsal, which is generally at eleven o’clock, the drapery looks dull and tawdry, the woodwork seems rough, the sawdust over the earth-floor is dirty, and the scenes appear daubs. If there be a little breeze astir, the canvas roofing overhead will flap with a sound like that of the sails of a ship at sea. The curtain and scene-cloths are rolled up, that the dust may not settle upon them.

When the players have gathered together, rehearsal commences. They seem a motley group. There is the proprietor and manager, a portly man, who is troubled with occasional rheumatism—which he calls gout; he wears a heavy moustache and a heavy gold albert, and has much power of voice—which at times is decidedly throaty. There is the low comedian, who is small of stature, with an expansive face deeply lined; his legs are misshapen, and he walks with the gait of one who suffers the affliction of many corns and bunions. Naturally, his countenance has the most serious aspect of any one in the company; but usage has trained it otherwise; he would be a melancholy man were it not that he gained his living by provoking mirth, and has a reputation to keep up. In his youth, his soul aspired to tragedy, but his legs were against it. Within his quaint figure he holds more sentiment than many of his companions of more symmetrical mould, and he professes to be a diligent and critical reader. He values ‘low comedy’ now, because it has many advantages; it gains an extra half-share, makes him popular with the audience, and secures him the best benefit in each town.

The middle-aged man with the stiff carriage, and with the hair grown long and well oiled and curved, so that at the bottom it lies like a roll upon the neck, is the ‘heavy man,’ who claims the chief-villain parts; he glories in his deep tones and in his dark scowl. It seems he does not much admire the smooth-faced scoundrels of the drama; you cannot mistake the villainy _he_ portrays; directly he enters the stage, you say, ‘That is the villain of the piece.’ And he is not without a speciality in his particular line of business; to use his own words—‘He likes his scoundrel’s “game;” no chicken-hearted repentance at the end of the last act.’ His favourite final exit speech is thus: ‘Ah! soh, you have counterplotted and balked me. But I-a haave played a bold and desper-rat game, and now I leave you with contempt-a! My curses light-a ’pon ye!’ If, however, he is killed when villainy has done its allotted work, he makes the most of his death, and invariably dies with a terrific backward fall. He has been heard to complain that in his stage career he receives small encouragement; ‘for,’ argues he, ‘after my heavy night’s work, anybody may come on with a stuffed stick and knock me down, and they’ll get all the applause.’

One of the company is a young man whose face has already lost its pristine freshness; he wears his hat with an inclination to the right, and looks to be a knowing, wayward, idle, and thriftless wanderer. A great amount of cheap beer enters into his idea of life. He drinks this liquor at any hour; and when counting his cash, calculates it not by pence, but by the half-pints it represents. He is a weed who benefits nobody, not even himself. Enough has been said about him.

The man who throughout his life has never ceased to do his best, honestly and cheerfully, and has failed through no fault of his own, must be worthy of some respect. This has been the way of the old gentleman—he may be called that—whose age is more than any other of the company. In his work he is painstaking, even amid the inartistic surroundings of a portable theatre. He now possesses an extensive stage wardrobe, gathered for his own private use; it is the collection of years, and he is proud of it. You won’t hear him speak so often of his own future now, but he is always chattering about what he thinks his daughter will do. She is a darling girl, he says, and will be the blessing of his old age.

His daughter matches well with the morning sunshine. A fresh, rosy-faced girl, with shining hair and laughing eyes, in great contrast to these yellow women and blue-chinned men. She always shows neatness and good taste. Her father has often told her that they are merely ‘birds of passage’ in this cheap playhouse, and she is anxiously anticipating their migration. If that indulgent old dad of hers isn’t careful, she’ll become a vain young woman.

As this girl is now, so was at one time that blear-eyed, bedraggled woman, who seems to prefer sitting to standing and idling to working. She is untidy and careless, and walks out with her boots unbrushed. Her rising this morning is yet quite a recent affair; traces of sleep still cling to her eyes. Not many years ago, she was as fair and modest as the old man’s daughter is now, and not a soul anticipated such a change. Who can answer that the other may not alter likewise?

The man who is hammering at some repair to the building is the degenerated female’s husband, and candour must confess that he looks it. He has many of his wife’s characteristics; the same dissipated face, impolite manner at times, and general attitude of discontent. But these parallel ways of theirs are not productive of concord; quite the contrary, for, as one of their acquaintance tersely observes, ‘They quarrel like old boots,’ a simile which must be more fantastic than correct.

Among the company is an old woman who only needs the sugar-loaf-shaped hat to resemble the familiar pictures of a witch. She is indigenous to the portable theatre, was cradled in one, and knows little of any life beyond it. Her daughter is that scraggy, uncanny-looking young female, whose dominant passion at present is jealousy of the old man’s daughter, whom she never ceases to malign.

The rehearsal here is not generally a long ceremony. A partial or complete repetition of the words, and a comparing of notes respecting the various entrances, exits, and general business of the play, and that is all. Then the healthy-minded people do their marketing, and go off for a short walk. The others continue to ‘hang about.’

The audience that comes here likes its dramatic food strong—no parlour comedies and talky dramas, but plenty of incident, of action, passions, stirring speeches, combats, and a little coloured fire burned off the wings. The probability of the sequence of events as here dramatically represented, or the possibility of their occurrence at all, are not matters which trouble the mind of either the actor or his audience. In the matter of denouements the author’s published idea is quite regularly departed from in the portable theatre, and of greatest playwrights’ masterpieces it is frequently said: ‘Oh, we can bring the curtain down better than that.’ So, directly vice is unmasked with a taste of punishment, the virtuous gather together—perhaps without explanation of why they were so near—and the hero spouts a short speech in a victorious spirit, and thus—finale.

At one travelling theatre where the manager followed the usual custom of announcing during each evening the succeeding night’s programme, the drama in question had been billed. In the managerial speech occurred the following words: ‘I have very great pleasure in announcing for next Thursday night the production, for the first time during our visit, of the favourite play, entitled _Maria Martin, or the Murder at the Red Barn_. I have further pleasure in stating that the version we play has _never_ been performed in this town; and was written expressly for this company by a relative of the Martin family, and has been secured by me at great expense.’

This information was received with much satisfaction and applause; that it had had the desired effect was proved conclusively by a view of the Thursday night’s house. And the gentleman faithfully kept his promise, for he played a version that had certainly never been performed in that town; he introduced into the drama as usually given, a part of a gypsy family of vengeful proclivities, and so got two sets of murders, and as both were constantly repeated in visions, it may be supposed the audience had a fair dose of dramatic crime for its money.

But there is many a good performance to be seen in a portable theatre; and extremely good, when the surroundings are considered. The writer remembers a very creditable performance of the play of _Hamlet_—given one dreadfully wild night in a portable that was not the best of its kind. The rain had penetrated the roof in many places before the performance began, and the wind had been all day threatening to blow off the tilt. With the combined damp and cold, it was a very undesirable task to don long hose and thin velvet shirts, and to wear them for three hours in such a draughty and rain-sodden place. But this discomfort was necessary there, as a slight mitigation of a state of poverty. Perhaps there was a want of repose in the acting that night, for it was advisable to dodge those places where the water found the roof weakest, and so descended as from a spout. The Ghost, who had a cold, coughed during his scenes in a most unspectral manner. In the ‘play-scene’ there was a crash, and it was feared the tilt was gone, and one of the courtiers ran out to see what had given way. Two of the rope-fastenings were loose and flying about wildly. They were secured during the performance, but not without some trouble, each male actor throwing a coat over his shoulders, and giving a hand when the scene in progress did not require him. But as these were fastened, others broke, and it was altogether a night of trouble. Before the last act was reached, there was little to be gained by dodging; the rain penetrated steadily all over, and would fall on heads and run down backs and disturb projecting noses, wherever their owners stood. Hamlet died on a damp couch that night, for the stage carpet was soaked and flooded, but he would be artistic and die lying full length. I can testify that the Horatio, who had to kneel and support the Prince’s head, wished he would die quicker. But ‘The rest is silence,’ came at last; and Hamlet jumped up again, and then looked radiantly happy; for just as the curtain was descending, one of the audience stood and threw to the actor a rose. It was a pretty compliment, and the recipient deserved it.

When the audience had dispersed, the actors received their reward—fifteenpence each. They deserved it. But their labour was not yet ended for the day. The rain had abated, but the wind lashed with greater force and blew with louder voice. ‘Nothing short of a miracle will save that roof to-night,’ said somebody. So its safety had to be guarded; that is, the company were to attend in turns and keep watch, two or three at a time. One of the coke-fires in the auditorium was replenished, and round it the men sat, talking of absent acquaintances, recounting the peculiarities of some, and giving anecdotes; while above their heads the swaying of the canvas sounded loud, and the wind whirled in fury round the creaking shutters. And thus, as they drowsily sit, wishing for rest, we will leave them.

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER XIII.

For a time, Enid stood looking at the sufferer sadly, and wondering where the friends of the poor girl might be. Gradually, as the scene came back to her, she remembered the words of Lucrece, and turned to her. ‘Lucrece, did I hear you say you knew this poor woman?’

‘Indeed, yes, miss. Three years ago, in Paris, Linda and I were great friends—what you English call “chums.” She was an actress at the “Varieties”—a clever player; but she could not rise. Jealousy and a bad husband prevented that. Poor Linda, she has all the talent!’

‘Strange that you should know her; but still fortunate. Perhaps, through you, we may be able to discover where her friends are.’

‘Poor child! she has no friends.—But hush! See! she has opened her eyes.’

The sufferer was looking wildly around. She tried to rise, but the pain and weakness were too great, and she sank back with a deep fluttering sigh. As she collected her senses—‘Where am I?’ she asked faintly. ‘How did I come here?’

‘Do not distress yourself,’ Enid said softly. ‘You are quite safe. You had an accident, and they brought you here.’

For a moment the girl closed her eyes. ‘I remember now. I was knocked down by a cab. But I am better now. Let me get up. Where is my boy?’ she continued—‘what has become of my boy?’

‘Do not trouble yourself about your child,’ Enid said soothingly, marvelling that one apparently so young should be a mother. ‘He shall be well cared for. Tell us where he is, and he shall be brought to you.’

‘You are so good—so good and beautiful! You will find a card in my jacket-pocket where to send for him. Tell me, bright angel of goodness, what is the name they know you by?’

‘My name is Enid Charteris,’ she replied, smiling a little at the theatrical touch, earnest though it was.—‘I must not let you talk any longer. The doctor was very strict about that.’

At the mention of the name, the sick woman became strangely agitated, so much so that Enid was alarmed. ‘Am I in Grosvenor Square? Are you the daughter of Sir Geoffrey Charteris?’

‘Yes, yes. But you really must be quiet now.’

But instead of complying with this request, the stranger burst into a fit of hysterical crying, weeping and sobbing as if her heart would break. ‘Miserable woman that I am!’ she cried, ‘what have I done? Oh, what have I done? O that I could have known before!’

Enid looked at Lucrece in alarm. The outbreak was so sudden, so unexpected, that for a moment they were too startled to speak.

‘She is unhinged by the shock,’ Enid whispered. ‘Perhaps if you were to speak to her, it would have a good effect.’

‘Yes, madam. But if I may be allowed to make a suggestion—I should say it was better if you left the room for a time. She sees some likeness to you, or fancies she does, to some one. She knows me; and if you will leave for a short time, I will try and soothe her.’

‘I think you are right, Lucrece. I will come in again presently, when she has become quieter.’

Directly Enid quitted the apartment, Lucrece’s whole manner changed from the subdued domestic to the eager sympathetic friend. She bent over the bed and looked down in the suffering woman’s eyes. ‘Linda! do you not know me? It is I, Lucrece!’

‘You—and here? What is the meaning of this, and in the dress of a servant? Tell me,’ she continued eagerly. ‘You are not one of his friends in his pay, to help his vile schemes?’

‘I do not know who _he_ is. I am here for a good purpose—to protect my mistress from a great harm.’

‘Ah, then, you are no friend of Le Gautier’s.—Do you ever see him? Does he come here often? Do you know what he is after?’

Lucrece started. ‘What do you know of Le Gautier?’

‘What do I know of him? Everything that is bad, and bitter, and fiendish! But he will not succeed, if I have to sacrifice my life to aid the beautiful lady who has been so kind to me.’

‘You are not the only one who would,’ Lucrece quietly answered. ‘Tell me what you know.’