# On the Stage—and Off/Chapter 18

Chapter XVIII.
My Last Appearance.
I left London exactly twelve months from the day on which I had started to fulfil my first provincial engagement, and I did not return to it again while I was an actor. I left it with my baggage early in the morning by the newspaper express from Euston; I returned to it late at night, footsore and hungry, and with no other possessions than the clothes I stood upright in. Of the last few months of my professional life, the following brief extracts will speak. A slightly bitter tone runs through some of them, but at the time they were written I was suffering great disappointment, and everything was going wrong with me—circumstances under which a man is perhaps apt to look upon his surroundings through smoke-coloured glasses.
Three weeks after Christmas I write:—
" . . . Business good and money regular. Business is almost always good, though, at pantomime time: the test will come later on, when we begin to travel. How a provincial audience does love a pantomime! and how I do hate it! I can't say I think very highly of provincial audiences. ​They need a lot of education in art. They roar over coarse buffoonery, and applaud noisy rant to the echo. One might as well go to Billingsgate to study English as to the provinces to learn acting.
"I played First Low Comedy on Saturday night at half an hour's notice, the real First Low Comedy being hopelessly intoxicated at the time. It's a pity, amidst all the talk about the elevation of the stage, that the elevation of actors is not a less frequent occurrence. It can hardly improve the reputation of the profession in the eyes of the public, when they take up the Era and read advertisement after advertisement, ending with such lines as, 'None but sober people need apply.' '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 eighteenpence. 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 theatres 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 ter​rible year for theatres. 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 theatre 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 neighbouring 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 theatre 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.