Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (359 page)
Read Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) Online
Authors: Jerome K. Jerome
‘Must contrive to keep sober, at all events during the performance.’
‘People who are constantly getting drunk need not write.’ I’ve known some idiots actually make themselves half tipsy on purpose before coming on the stage, evidently thinking, because they can’t act when they’ve got all their few wits about them, that they’ll manage better if they get rid of them altogether. There is a host of wonderful traditions floating about the theatrical world of this, that, and the other great actor having always played this, that, and the other part while drunk; and so, when some wretched little actor has to take one of these parts, he, fired by a noble determination to follow in the footsteps of his famous predecessor, gets drunk too.
“Bad language is another thing that the profession might spare a lot of, and still have enough remaining for all ordinary purposes. I remember one night at — we all agreed to fine ourselves a penny each time we swore. We gave it up after two hours’ trial: none of us had any money left....”
Six weeks later:
“... Business gets worse instead of better. Our manager has behaved very well indeed. He paid us our salaries right up to the end of last week, though any one could see he was losing money every night; and then on Saturday, after treasury, he called us all together, and put the case frankly. He said he could not continue as he had been doing, but that, if we liked, he was ready to keep on with us for a week or two longer upon sharing terms, to see if the luck turned. We agreed to this, and so formed ourselves into what is called a ‘commonwealth’ — though common poverty would be a more correct term in my opinion, for the shares each night, after deducting expenses, have been about eighteen-pence. The manager takes three of these shares (one for being manager, one for acting, and the other one to make up the three), and the rest of us have one each. I’m getting awfully hard up, though I live for a week, now, on less than what I’ve often given for a dinner...
A week later, this company broke up, and I then joined another that was close handy at the time. It is from this latter that the following is written:
“... I just manage to keep my head above water, and that is all. If things get worse, I shall be done for. I’ve no money of my own left now.
“A very sad thing happened here last week. Our leading man died suddenly from heart disease leaving his wife and two children totally destitute. If he had been a big London actor, for half his life in receipt of a salary of, say, three thousand a year, the theatrical press would have teemed with piteous appeals to the public, all his friends would have written to the papers generously offering to receive subscriptions on his behalf, and all the theaters would have given performances at double prices to help pay his debts and funeral expenses. As, however, he had never earned anything higher than about two pounds a week, Charity could hardly be expected to interest herself about the case; and so the wife supports herself and her children by taking in washing. Not that I believe she would ask for alms, even were there any chance of her getting them, for, when the idea was only suggested to her, she quite fired up, and talked some absurd nonsense about having too much respect for her husband’s profession to degrade it into a mere excuse for begging...
This company also went wrong. It was a terrible year for theaters. Trade was bad everywhere, and “amusements” was the very first item that people with diminishing incomes struck out of the list of their expenditure. One by one I parted with every valuable I had about me, and a visit to the pawnshop, just before leaving each town, became as essential as packing. I went through the country like a distressed ship through troubled waters, marking my track by the riches I cast overboard to save myself. My watch I left behind me in one town, my chain in another; a ring here, my dress suit there; a writing-case I dropped at this place, and a pencil-case at that. And so things went on — or, rather, off — till the beginning of May, when this letter, the last of the series, was written:
“DEAR Jim: Hurrah! I’ve struck oil at last. I think it was time I did after what I’ve gone through. I was afraid the profession would have to do without me, but it’s all safe now. I’m in a new company — joined last Saturday, and we’re doing splendidly. Manager is a magnificent fellow, and a good man of business. He understands how to make the donkey go. He advertises and bills right and left, spares no expense, and does the thing thoroughly well. He’s a jolly nice fellow, too, and evidently a man of intelligence, for he appreciates me. He engaged me without my applying to him at all, after seeing me act one night last week, when he was getting his company together. I play First Walking Gent, at thirty-five shillings a week. He has been a captain in the army, and is a thorough gentlemen. He never bullies or interferes, and everybody likes him. He is going all round the North of England, taking all the big Lancashire and Yorkshire towns, and then going to bring us to London for the winter. He wants me to sign an agreement for one year certain at two pounds five. I haven’t appeared to be too anxious. It’s always best to hang back a bit in such cases, so I told him I would think it over; but of course I shall accept. Can’t write any more now. I’m just off to dine with him. We stop here three weeks, and then go to — : Very comfortable lodgings. Yours,—”
That was written on Tuesday. On Saturday we came to the theater at twelve for treasury. The Captain was not there. He had gone that morning to pay a visit to Sir somebody or other, one of the neighboring gentry, who was a great friend of his, and he had not yet returned. He would be back by the evening — so the courteous acting manager assured us — and treasury would take place after the performance.
So in the evening, when the performance was over, we all assembled on the stage, and waited. We waited about ten minutes, and then our Heavy Man, who had gone across the way to get a glass before they shut up, came back with a scared face to say that he’d just seen the booking clerk from the station, who had told him that the “Captain” had left for London by an early train that morning. And no sooner had the Heavy Man made this announcement, than it occurred to the call boy that he had seen the courteous acting manager leave the theater immediately after the play had begun, carrying a small black bag.
I went back to the dressing-room, gathered my things into a bundle, and came down again with it. The others were standing about the stage, talking low, with a weary, listless air. I passed through them without a word, and reached the stage door. It was one of those doors that shut with a spring. I pulled it open, and held it back with my foot, while I stood there on the threshold for a moment, looking out at the night. Then I turned my coat collar up, and stepped into the street: the stage door closed behind me with a bang and a click, and I have never opened another one since.
THE END
STAGELAND
CONTENTS
TO
THAT HIGHLY RESPECTABLE BUT UNNECESSARILY
RETIRING INDIVIDUAL,
OF WHOM
WE HEAR SO MUCH
BUT
SEE SO LITTLE,
“THE EARNEST STUDENT OF THE DRAMA,”
THIS
(COMPARATIVELY) TRUTHFUL LITTLE BOOK
IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED.
THE HERO.
His name is George, generally speaking. “Call me George!” he says to the heroine. She calls him George (in a very low voice, because she is so young and timid). Then he is happy.
The stage hero never has any work to do. He is always hanging about and getting into trouble. His chief aim in life is to be accused of crimes he has never committed, and if he can muddle things up with a corpse in some complicated way so as to get himself reasonably mistaken for the murderer, he feels his day has not been wasted.
He has a wonderful gift of speech and a flow of language calculated to strike terror to the bravest heart. It is a grand thing to hear him bullyragging the villain.
The stage hero is always entitled to “estates,” chiefly remarkable for their high state of cultivation and for the eccentric ground plan of the “manor house” upon them. The house is never more than one story high, but it makes up in green stuff over the porch what it lacks in size and convenience.
The chief drawback in connection with it, to our eyes, is that all the inhabitants of the neighboring village appear to live in the front garden, but the hero evidently thinks it rather nice of them, as it enables him to make speeches to them from the front doorstep — his favorite recreation.
There is generally a public-house immediately opposite. This is handy.
These “estates” are a great anxiety to the stage hero. He is not what you would call a business man, as far as we can judge, and his attempts to manage his own property invariably land him in ruin and distraction. His “estates,” however, always get taken away from him by the villain before the first act is over, and this saves him all further trouble with regard to them until the end of the play, when he gets saddled with them once more.
Not but what it must be confessed that there is much excuse for the poor fellow’s general bewilderment concerning his affairs and for his legal errors and confusions generally. Stage “law” may not be quite the most fearful and wonderful mystery in the whole universe, but it’s near it — very near it. We were under the impression at one time that we ourselves knew something — just a little — about statutory and common law, but after paying attention to the legal points of one or two plays we found that we were mere children at it.
We thought we would not be beaten, and we determined to get to the bottom of stage law and to understand it; but after some six months’ effort our brain (a singularly fine one) began to soften, and we abandoned the study, believing it would come cheaper in the end to offer a suitable reward, of about 50,000 pounds or 60,000 pounds, say, to any one who would explain it to us.
The reward has remained unclaimed to the present day and is still open.
One gentleman did come to our assistance a little while ago, but his explanations only made the matter more confusing to our minds than it was before. He was surprised at what he called our density, and said the thing was all clear and simple to him. But we discovered afterward that he was an escaped lunatic.
The only points of stage “law” on which we are at all clear are as follows:
That if a man dies without leaving a will, then all his property goes to the nearest villain.
But if a man dies and leaves a will, then all his property goes to whoever can get possession of that will.
That the accidental loss of the three-and-sixpenny copy of a marriage certificate annuls the marriage.
That the evidence of one prejudiced witness of shady antecedents is quite sufficient to convict the most stainless and irreproachable gentleman of crimes for the committal of which he could have had no possible motive.
But that this evidence may be rebutted years afterward, and the conviction quashed without further trial by the unsupported statement of the comic man.
That if A forges B’s name to a check, then the law of the land is that B shall be sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude.
That ten minutes’ notice is all that is required to foreclose a mortgage.
That all trials of criminal cases take place in the front parlor of the victim’s house, the villain acting as counsel, judge, and jury rolled into one, and a couple of policemen being told off to follow his instructions.
These are a few of the more salient features of stage “law” so far as we have been able to grasp it up to the present; but as fresh acts and clauses and modifications appear to be introduced for each new play, we have abandoned all hope of ever being able to really comprehend the subject.
To return to our hero, the state of the law, as above sketched, naturally confuses him, and the villain, who is the only human being who does seem to understand stage legal questions, is easily able to fleece and ruin him. The simple-minded hero signs mortgages, bills of sale, deeds of gift, and such like things, under the impression that he is playing some sort of a round game; and then when he cannot pay the interest they take his wife and children away from him and turn him adrift into the world.