On the Stage—and Off/Chapter 17

by Jerome Klapka Jerome

Chapter XVII.

I join a "Fit-up."

he show which I now graced with my presence was a "fit-up." I didn't know this beforehand, or I should never have engaged myself. A "fit-up" is only one grade higher than a booth, which latter branch of the profession, by the way, I have always regretted never having explored. I missed the most picturesque and romantic portion of the theatrical world by not penetrating into that time-forsaken corner. Booth life is a Bohemia within a Bohemia. So far as social and artistic position is concerned, it is at the bottom of the dramatic ladder; but for interest and adventure, it stands at the very top.

However, I never did join a booth, so there is an end of the matter. The nearest I approached to anything of the kind was this fit-up, and that I didn't like at all. We kept to the very small towns, where there was no theatre, and fitted up an apology for a stage in any hall or room we could hire for the purpose. The town-hall was what we generally tried for, but we were not too particular; any large room did, and we would even put up with a conveniently situated barn. We carried our own props, scenery, and proscenium, and trusted for the woodwork to some local carpenter. A row of candles did duty for footlights, and a piano, hired in the town, represented the orchestra. We couldn't get a piano on one occasion, so the proprietor of the hall lent us his harmonium.

I will not linger over my experiences with this company; they were not pleasant ones. Short extracts from two letters, one written just after joining, and the other sent off just before I left, will be sufficient:—

 

"Dear Jim,—I find I've dropped the substance and grasped the shadow (I pride myself not so much on the originality of this remark as on its applicability). I shall leave as soon as possible, and try my luck in London. My ambition to play Juvenile Lead vanished the moment I saw the Leading Lady, who is, as usual, the manager's wife. She is a fat, greasy old woman. She has dirty hands and finger nails, and perspires freely during the course of the performance. She is about three times my size, and if the audiences to which we play have the slightest sense of humour—which, from what I have seen of them, I think extremely doubtful—our love-making must be a rare treat to them. How a London first-night gallery would enjoy it! I'm afraid, though, it's only wasted down here. My arm, when I try to clasp her waist, reaches to about the middle of her back; and, when we embrace, the house can't see me at all. I have to carry her half-way across the stage in one part. By Jove! I'm glad we don't play that piece often.

"She says I shall never make a good 'lover' unless I throw more ardour ('harder,' she calls it) into my acting. . . "

 

" . . . Shall be with you on Monday next. Can't stand this any longer. It's ruining me. Seven-and-six was all I could get last week, and eleven shillings the week before. We are not doing bad business by any means. Indeed, we have very good houses. The old man has got the knack of making out good gag bills, and that pulls 'em in for the two or three nights we stay at each place. You know what I mean by a 'gag' bill:—The Ruined Mill by Dead Man's Pool. Grace Mervin thinks to meet a friend, but finds a foe. Harry Baddun recalls old days. "Why do you not love me?" "Because you are a bad man." "Then die!" The struggle on the brink!! "Help!!" "There is none to help you here." "You lie, Harry Baddun; I am here." A hand from the grave!! Harry Baddun meets his doom!!!'

"That's what I mean by a gag bill.

"Whatever money is made, however, he takes care to keep for himself. He can always put up at the best hotel in the place, while we have to pawn our things to pay for the meanest of lodgings.

"It isn't only actors who get robbed by these managers: authors also suffer pretty considerably. We have two copyright pieces in our list, both of which draw very well, but not a penny is paid for performing them. To avoid any chance of unpleasantness, the titles of the pieces and the names of the chief characters are altered. So that even if the author or his friends (supposing it possible for an author to have any friends) were on the lookout, they would never know anything about it. And, if they did, it would be of no use. It would be throwing good money after bad to attempt to enforce payment from the men who do this sort of thing,—and I hear that it is done all over the provinces,—they have no money, and none can be got out of them. Your penniless man can comfortably defy half the laws in the statute book.

"What a nuisance firearms are on the stage! I thought I was blinded the other night, and my eyes are painful even now. The fellow should have fired up in the air. It is the only safe rule on a small stage, though it does look highly ridiculous to see a man drop down dead because another man fires a pistol at the moon. But there is always some mishap with them. They either don't go off at all, or else they go off in the wrong place, and, when they do go off, there is generally an accident. They can never be depended upon. You rush on to the stage, present a pistol at somebody's head, and say, 'Die!' but the pistol only goes click, and the man doesn't know whether to die or not. He waits while you have another try at him, and the thing clicks again; and then you find out that the property man hasn't put a cap on it, and you turn round to get one. But the other man, thinking it is all over, makes up his mind to die at once from nothing else but fright, and, when you come back to kill him for the last time, you find he's already dead.

"We have recourse to some rum makeshifts here, to eke out our wardrobes. My old frock coat, with a little cloth cape which one of the girls has cut out for me pinned on underneath the collar, and with a bit of lace round the cuffs, does for the gallant of half the old comedies; and, when I pin the front corners back and cover them with red calico, I'm a French soldier. A pair of white thingumies does admirably for buckskin riding breeches, and, for the part of a Spanish conspirator, I generally borrow my landlady's tablecloth. . . . " ***** It was about the end of October when I found myself once more in London. The first thing I then did was to go to my old shop on the Surrey-side. Another company and another manager were there, but the latter knew me, and, as I owned a dress suit, engaged me at a salary of twelve shillings weekly to play the part of a swell. When I had been there just one week, he closed. Whether it was paying me that twelve shillings that broke him, I cannot say; but on Monday morning some men came and cut the gas off, and then he said he shouldn't go on any longer, and that we must all do the best we could for ourselves.

I, with two or three others, thereupon started off for a theatre at the East End, which was about to be opened for a limited number of nights by some great world-renowned actor. This was about the fortieth world-renowned party I had heard of for the first time within the last twelvemonth. My education in the matter of world-renowned people had evidently been shamefully neglected.

The theatre was cunningly contrived, so that one had to pass through the bar of the adjoining public-house—to the landlord of which it belonged—to get to the stage. Our little party was saved from temptation, however, for I don't think we could have mustered a shilling amongst the lot of us that morning. I was getting most seriously hard up at this time. The few pounds I had had left, after purchasing my wardrobe and paying my railway fares, etc., had now dwindled down to shillings, and, unless things mended, I felt I should have to throw up the sponge and retire from the stage. I was determined not to do this though, till the very last, for I dreaded the chorus of "I told you so's," and "I knew very well how 'twould be's," and such like well-known and exasperating crows of triumph, with which, in these cases, our delighted friends glorify themselves and crush us.

The East End theatre proved a stop-gap for a while. I was fortunate enough to be one of those engaged out of the crowd of eager and anxious applicants, among whom I met a couple from the fit-up company I had lately left, they having come to the same conclusion as myself, viz., that it was impossible to live well and "dress respectably on and off the stage" upon an average salary of ten shillings weekly. The engagement was only for a fortnight, and there is only one incident connected with it that I particularly remember. That was my being "guyed" on one occasion. We were playing. a melodrama, the scene of which was laid in some outlandish place or other, and the stage manager insisted on my wearing a most outrageous costume. I knew it would be laughed at, especially in that neighbourhood, and my expectations were more than fulfilled. I hadn't been on the stage five. seconds before I heard a voice from the gallery hoarsely inquire: "What is it, Bill?" And then another voice added: "Tell us what it is, and you shall have it."

A good deal of laughter followed these speeches. I got hot all over, and felt exceedingly uncomfortable and nervous. It was as much as I could do to recollect my part, and it was with a great effort that I began my first line. No sooner had I opened my mouth, however, than somebody in the pit exclaimed, in tones of the utmost surprise, "Blowed if it ain't alive!"

After that, the remarks on my personal appearance fell thick and fast: "Look well in a shop window, that bloke!" "Nice suit to take your gal out on a Sunday in!" "This style, thirty shillin's," etc.; while one good-natured man sought to put me at my ease by roaring out in a stentorian voice, "Never you mind, old man; you go on. They're jealous 'cos you've got nice clothes on." How I managed to get through the part I don't know. I became more nervous and awkward every minute, and, of course, the more I bungled, the more the house jeered. I gained a good deal of sympathy behind, for most of them had had similar experiences of their own; but I was most intensely miserable all that evening, and, for the next night or two, quite dreaded to face the audience. Making game of any one is a very amusing occupation, but the "game" doesn't see the fun till a long while afterwards. I can't bear to hear any of the performers chaffed when I'm at a theatre. Actors are necessarily a sensitive class of people, and I don't think those who make fun of them, when any little thing goes wrong, have any idea of the pain they are inflicting. It is quite right, and quite necessary sometimes, that disapprobation should be expressed, and that unmistakably, but it should be for the purpose of correcting real faults. "Guying" is, as a rule, indulged in only by the silliest portion of the audience, and for no other object but to display their own vulgar wit.

After my fortnight at the East End, I went as one of the chorus in a new opera-bouffe to be brought out at a West End theatre. We rehearsed for three weeks, the piece ran for one, and then I again took a provincial engagement, which, as it was now close upon Christmas, was easy enough obtain.

My stay in London had not been very profitable to me, but it had given my friends a treat, as they had been able to come and see me act again. At least, I suppose it was a treat to them, though they did not say so. My friends are always most careful never to overdo the thing in the matter of praise. I cannot accuse them of sycophancy. They scorn to say pleasant things that they don't mean. They prefer saying unpleasant things that they do mean. There's no humbug about them; they never hesitate to tell me just exactly what they think of me. This is good of them. I respect them for saying what they think; but if they would think a little differently, I should respect them still more. I wonder if everybody's friends are as conscientious? I've heard of people having "admiring friends," and "flattering friends," and "over-indulgent friends," but I've never had any of that sort myself. I've often thought I should rather like to, though, and if any gentleman has more friends of that kind than he wants, and would care to have a few of the opposite stamp, I am quite ready to swop with him. I can warrant mine never to admire or flatter under any circumstances whatsoever; neither will he find them over-indulgent. To a man who really wishes to be told of his faults, they would be invaluable; on this point, they are candour itself. A conceited man would also derive much benefit from their society. I have myself.

 

Chapter end decoration from 'On the Stage—and Off' by Jerome Klapka Jerome, published in 1885