AN IRISH TRAVELLING THEATRE.
Many people who have heard of a travelling theatre may find perhaps the following peep behind the scenes somewhat interesting.
On a cold, bleak day towards the end of October 1885, I received the following letter:
Respected Lady—I is an actress, and has a travelling theatre. We came to this village two days ago; but the times is bad, and business so slack, I has had to sell most all the theatrical wardrobe; and in consequence we has but little left us we can wear. Respected lady, I writes to ask you to have the harte to help me and my company. Any evening dresses, especial ballett dresses, no matter how old, and any artificial flowers, will be thankful received by one who art and health is alike forsakin. Respected lady, I has a large family to provide for, and any old stockings and shoes I pray you to bestow, lady. My daughter is waiting for an answer. We has a benefit for her to-night. Any clothes, lady, looks well on the stage. Reserved seats fourpince, and pit twopince.—Yours respectful to command,
Madoline Emerson,
or Mary Flanagan.
I sent for the bearer of the letter, who had, as intimated, waited for my reply. A little girl of about eight years old appeared, and bowed to me very gravely. She was thinly and poorly clad, and looked miserably cold and wretched. Her little feet were without stockings, and red from exposure; they peeped through her broken shoes.
When I asked her would she like some food while she waited, her poor pinched little face brightened as she eagerly said: ‘Yes, lady, if you please. I have had no breakfast, and I am so hungry.’ So, while she partook of the meal she so much needed, I collected what clothes I could, and gave them to her, promising to have some more on the morrow, when I desired her to call again. She did so, bringing with her a letter full of expressions of gratitude from her mother for the help I had given. It was on this occasion I heard from little Mary the following history of a travelling theatre.
‘We came to this village two days ago. Our theatre is erected in the street, and we call ourselves the Emerson Company. That’s my mother’s name; and it sounds grander-like than my father’s, which is Flanagan. There are six of us alive; but my eldest sister is married these two years, and has a theatre of her own. We mostly marry into the profession, for we find it more useful,’ she added. ‘My big sister at home is fourteen, and we buried two. Next to her, then I come, and I am eight; and my only brother, who comes next to me, is six. No more of us act, because Maggie must mind the baby while mother is acting. My sister dances and sings beautifully; and as for an Irish jig, you never saw the like of her, she’s that good. But she gets frightfully tired, for she has heart disease; and the doctor says as how she may die any minute. I can sing too,’ she continued proudly; ‘and I could dance on the “tight wire” too; but I fell off it two years ago, because I forgot to rub my feet in a white powder we have to use before going on; and since then, I am afraid. But my little brother isn’t, and he can turn a summerset on the wire and juggle grand. He can throw the knives as high as that’—indicating with her hands a distance of three or four feet—‘and can bring the sharp points of the blades on to the palms of his hand without so much as giving them a scratch.’
‘How can he do that, if the knives are so sharp?’
‘Well, you see, lady, father has a big jar of stuff like brown oil—I don’t know its real name—and my brother rubs his hands all over with some of it—very little does; then the knives cannot cut him. It will only come off again by washing his hands in mostly boiling water.’
‘How many are there in your company?’
‘We have only three at present,’ she replied, ‘besides the family. When we want more, my married sister lends us one or two out of her troupe; but of course we pay them. Those we have now act very fair: one gets five shillings a night; and the other two get three shillings and half a crown. If we have a good take at the door, father will give them an extra shilling apiece all round; but some nights they get all we make, and we get none. We only took one pound between these two nights. Business is slack; but maybe we’ll make more soon, when the people in the country hear of us; for we are a most respectable company,’ she added proudly. ‘In the last village we were in, we “took” a lot because we had the wonderful speaking pony “Jack.” But another company as had a travelling theatre too, came while we were there; and as they were poorer than we were, father, who is real good to any one in the profession, lent them the pony.’
‘And what could this wonderful pony do?’
‘He could most speak, lady, he was that clever. At Pound’s Place—that’s where we were afore we came here—we lodged with a grocer in the village. He had a little girl as used to steal sweets out of the bottle from behind the counter in the shop; and the pony found it out, and told on her.’
‘How did he do that? Tell me some of this clever animal’s tricks.’
‘Well, lady, you see, this night father and Jack came on the platform as usual. First, father says: “Now, Jack, who is the biggest rogue in the theatre?” The pony walked round and looked at every one, and then came back and stood before father and nodded his head twice, which meant, “You are.” But that’s only a part of the play, lady; father isn’t really a rogue—he’s real good. Then father says again: “I wonder, Jack, could you discover who likes a good pinch of snuff?” Jack looked about, and walked a few steps and then stopped before the old woman who sold apples round the corner. ’Twas quite true,’ continued the child, ‘for she used to buy it where we lodged.—After this, father said: “Now, Jack, as you are so clever, tell the company which of all the little girls present likes sweets, and is in the habit of stealing them?”—and if Jack didn’t find out Mollie—that’s the little girl as I told you of, lady—and he nodded and nodded his head ever so often, to show he was quite sure it was Mollie! She was very angry, and began to cry, and told Jack as how she didn’t steal them. But he knew it was a lie,’ added Mary, ‘for he would not go away, though father called him. And Mollie she was that mad, she would never again come inside the theatre, she said, because the pony told lies of her before every one!
‘We have different plays each night, and have beautiful “cuts.” Some nights, when the reserved seats are mostly empty, we have only singing and dancing. My sister does a lot of steps then; and when she comes off the stage she is well-nigh dead, she is so hot and tired. Mother is tired every day; for she coughs nearly all night. We are mostly all tired,’ the child continued, ‘for ’tis twelve o’clock, and often one, before we get to bed any night. Then there is a rehearsal every day at twelve o’clock. Mother never gets up till ’tis time to go to it.—Our tent was partly blown down last night, lady, for it blew very hard, and it was much damaged. Every strip of canvas costs six shillings, and it takes a great many to make a tent. Mother and the company are mending it now, while I am here.’
‘How long will you remain in our village?’
‘Maybe a week longer, or maybe two,’ answered the child; ‘it all depends on the “take” we have. We were six weeks in Pound’s Place; but we’ve only made enough these two nights here to pay the company, and had nothing for ourselves. We are often hungry, Jim and me.’
‘Do you like being an actress, and wearing all those bright dresses, and singing for people who applaud and praise you?’
‘O no, lady; I hate the life,’ she replied; ‘and the audience are cross often, if they don’t like the piece and what we do; and then I get frightened. Then father sings a comic song, and they all mostly like that.’
‘How do you manage to take the tent, its fittings, and your wardrobe about from place to place?’
‘We have a big wagon as holds everything, and the horse and the donkey they draw it. Then father hires a car for us, and another for the company, and we travel from village to village that way. We go to the towns in winter. Our theatre is well known; and in some places we make six pounds, and maybe seven or eight, in one night. Other times we might only take—as we’ve done here—ten shillings. We never go in debt,’ she added. ‘Mother sells our wardrobe when we are very poor, and then she asks kind ladies to help us by giving us their old clothes. Anything does for the stage so long as it’s bright. Once mother got a dress from a lady all over silver stars, and she wore it when she is the Queen. I doesn’t mean she is a real queen, but one in the play. But that’s worn out now,’ she added sadly.
‘I must be going now,’ Mary said, getting up; ‘and I’m very thankful entirely, lady. Maybe you would send the servants to-morrow night to the theatre, for Jim is having his benefit. We don’t have any real ladies come, or I’d be real glad to see you,’ she concluded ingenuously.
Accordingly, I sent the servants; and from them I heard that the theatre was the most wretched place imaginable. A small tent, in many places broken and saturated with rain, which had been falling heavily, was pitched in the principal street in the village. A few forms served as reserved seats; whilst those who could not afford this luxury, stood in groups behind. The stage was raised some three or four feet from the ground by means of some barrels, on which long planks of wood were arranged in rows to form a platform. A few candles placed along the edge of it served for footlights; whilst large gaudy ‘cuts,’ representing some specially attractive character in the several plays acted, formed the scenery, as Mary had stated; and on the occasion in question, when singing and dancing were the only entertainments provided, the audience were asked if they wished to come upon the stage and dance an Irish jig or horn-pipe. One man accepted the invitation, and danced both so well and with such a will, amusing the people so effectually, that fully half an hour’s respite was enjoyed by the tired, weary company of the travelling theatre.