# On the Stage—and Off/Chapter 3

Chapter III.
Through the Stage Door.
It was not until about a week before the opening night, that I received a summons to attend at the theatre. Eleven o'clock was the time appointed for "the company to assemble on the stage," and, accordingly, at a few minutes before that hour, I stood in front of the stage door.
It was a dingy-looking place, up a back street, with a barber's shop on one side, and a coal shed on the other. A glorious spring sunshine made it look, by contrast, still more uninviting, and I likened it to the entrance to the enchanted palace in the fairy tales, where the gloomier the portal through which the prince passes, the more gorgeous the halls beyond. This was before I had seen the inside.
But it wouldn't do for me to stop there meditating. It was already two minutes past eleven, and the rest of the company would be waiting for me. I laid my hand upon the latch, and—
A moment, please. Before I throw open that door, and let daylight in upon the little world behind, let me offer a word or two of preparatory explanation.
The theatrical world is a big world. From one ​of the leading London theatres to a travelling booth (I intend no slighting allusion to our talented American cousin) is a wide stretch, and embraces a great variety. My experience was confined to three or four of these varieties, and by no means. extended to the whole. My short career was passed among the minor London theatres, and second and third rate travelling companies; and it is of these, and these only, that I shall speak. But of these—of what came under my actual observation, that is—I shall speak freely, endeavouring to record things exactly as I found them—nothing extenuating, nor setting down aught in malice. It may be that, in the course of my comments, I shall think it necessary to make a few more or less sensible and original remarks; to tell actors and actresses what they ought to do, and what they ought not to do; to explain to managers how they ought to manage their own business; and to give good advice generally all round. Therefore, at the outset, I wish it to be clearly understood that, when so doing, I have in mind only that part of the theatrical world with which I am acquainted. As regards such theatres as, for example, the Lyceum or the St. James's, they are managed quite as well, perhaps, as I could manage them myself, and I have no fault to find with them. Even if I had, I should not do so here, for in these reminiscences I intend to talk only about what I understand—an eccentric resolution for an author, I admit; but no matter, I like to be original, now ​and then. With this understanding, we will push back the door and enter.
I found a wheezy little old man inside, boxed up behind a glass partition, toasting a bloater before a small fire. On that morning, I felt kindly disposed towards all living things, and I therefore spoke kindly, even to this poor old buffer. I said:
"Good morning. It's a fine day."
He said, "Shut the door, can't yer; or else get outside."
Acting on this suggestion, I shut the door, and then stood leaning against it, while he finished toasting the bloater. When I saw that this operation was completed, I had another try at him. I remarked that my name was ———. Of course, I had assumed a stage name. They all do it. Heaven only knows why; I am sure they don't. While in the profession, I met a young fellow whose real name happened to be the very one that I had assumed, while he had taken my real name for his assumed one. We were both happy and contented enough, until we met; but afterwards, we took a sadder view of life, with all its shams and vanities.
As the mere announcement of my name had no visible effect upon the stage-door keeper—for such I found him to be—I fired my last shot, and told him I was an actor. It roused him. It electrified him to such a degree, that he took his gaze off the bloater, and looked at me. Having feasted his ​eyes upon me to his full satisfaction, he said, "Down the yard," and returned to what, I suppose, was his breakfast; there being a dismal, just-gotup sort of look about him.
Gathering from this, that there was a yard somewhere in the neighbourhood, and that, when I had found it, I was to go down it, I started off to look for it. I discovered it at last, quite unexpectedly, by the process of stumbling over a friendly cat, and bursting open a door with my head. The moment I got into it, I was surrounded by at least half a dozen of the feline species. They looked hungry, and welcomed me with enthusiasm, under an absurd idea that I was the cat's-meat man, whom I did not resemble in the least. Cats are kept at theatres to keep away the rats, but sometimes the cats themselves become so numerous, as to be rather more of a nuisance than the rats, and then it is necessary to keep some one to keep away the cats. They take a great interest in the drama, these cats. They always make a point of coming on in the middle of the most pathetic scenes, when they take the centre of the stage, and proceed to go through one or other of their decidedly peculiar toilet exercises.
Going down the yard, as directed, and groping my way through a dark passage at the end, I found myself in a vast, gloomy vault, full of hollow echoes, and strange, shapeless shadows; at least, that is what it seemed to me.
I cannot say, now, what notions I had previously ​formed of "behind the scenes." They were dispelled so rudely and suddenly, that all trace of them is lost. I know they were formed; partly by Dower Wilson's charming sketches, where fairy damsels (in the costume of their country) lean gracefully against the back of the landscapes, with their pretty legs crossed; partly by the descriptions of friends who said they had been there; and partly from my own imagination—a vivid one. The reality, however, exceeded my wildest expectations. I could never have dreamt of anything so utterly dismal, as an empty theatre by daylight, or rather day-darkness. No, not even after a supper of beefsteaks and porter.
At first, I could see nothing; but, after a while, I got used to the dimness, and was able to look about me. The decorations of the place (such as they were—such as might be expected in a theatre where the stalls were three shillings, and the gallery fourpence) were shrouded in dirty white cloths. The music stools and stands in the orchestra, together with the big drum, and the violoncello in a green baize case, were all in a heap in the corner, as if they had had a performance on their own account during the night, and had ended up by getting drunk. This idea was further suggested by the appearance of the gallery bar, which could be seen. from the stage, though it looked about half a mile off, and which was crowded with empty bottles and dirty pewter pots and glasses. Shabby, patched scenery—a mere unintelligible daub, seen close to​—was littered all round me; propped up against the great wooden beams which supported the flies, or against the side walls; piled up at the back, in what was called the "scene dock;" lying down flat at my feet; or hanging suspended over my head. In the centre of the stage was a rickety table, and on the table was a candle, stuck in a ginger-beer bottle. A solitary sunbeam, having sneaked in through some odd crevice, threw a band of light across the gloom, and showed up the dust, of which the place seemed full. A woman, with a noisy cold in her head, was sweeping out the pit; and some unseen animal, which I judged to be a small boy, by the noise it made, was performing a shrill whistle somewhere in the region of the dress circle. The roar from the streets sounded dull and muffled, but the banging of a door, or the falling of a chair within the building, made such a noise, that the spiders ran into their holes for fright.