On Monday, November the 18th, the theatre opened, and their career was for some time eminently successful as long, indeed, as the fine weather lasted; but no sooner did the rainy weather set in, than the manager discovered, to his horror and surprise, that the roof of the theatre, being in a dilapidated condition, was not waterproof. At length, one night towards the end of December, a very heavy rain coming down during the performance, actually drove the audience out of the house. The water descended in torrents into the pit and boxes: some people who were greatly interested in the performances put up their umbrellas, and others put on great coats and shawls; but at length it came down so heavily upon the stage, that the performers themselves were obliged to disappear. In a few minutes the stage was covered, the scenery soaked through, the pit little better than a well, and the boxes and gallery streaming with water.
This unforeseen occurrence threw both literally and figuratively a damp upon the performances which there was no recovering. From that time, with the single exception of one evening, the theatre was deserted. Tarpaulings, and all kinds of cheap remedies, were tried, but they all failed in producing their intended effect. They never kept the water out, or drew the company in. As to any thorough repair of the roof, it was wholly out of the question; for the Dibdins only held the theatre until March, and the necessary repairs under this head alone would have cost at the very least 200l.
In this state of things, Mr. Charles Dibdin was compelled to write to London for remittances wherewith to pay his company. Knowing exactly how he was situated, Grimaldi volunteered his services in the only way in which he could render them, and offered not to send to the treasury for his salary, but to leave it to be paid whenever the manager might appoint after their return to London. This offer, it is almost unnecessary to add, was gratefully accepted.
About the middle of January, Mr. Jones, the manager of the Crow Street Theatre, hearing how badly the Astley's people were doing, and yet finding that, bad as their business was, it injured his, made an offer to Mr. Dibdin to take his company off his hands at the terms upon which he had originally engaged them, and for the remainder of the time specified in their articles, and further, to make some pecuniary compensation to Mr. Dibdin himself. The manager assembled the company on the stage, after their having had the mortification of playing to an empty house, on Tuesday, January the 28th, and communicated this offer to them, and earnestly urged upon them the acceptance of the proposal, as the only means by which himself and his brother could hope to recover any portion of the losses they had already sustained. Grimaldi at once expressed his readiness to accede to the proposition, and used his utmost influence with the other members of the company to induce them to do the like. He succeeded, except in the case of two of the performers, who preferred returning at once to England.
When this was arranged to the satisfaction of all parties, Mr. Dibdin announced his intention to close the theatre on the next Saturday, February the 1st. Grimaldi took the opportunity of inquiring what was to become of his half-benefit which had been agreed upon. The manager replied, with a melancholy smile, that he might give him anything he liked for his half—twenty pounds would do, and he should have the entire house next Saturday. Grimaldi immediately paid the twenty pounds, and on the following morning commenced making preparations for his benefit, having barely four days in which to announce the performances, and sell his tickets.
He had borne an introductory letter to Captain Trench, whose unvarying kindness to him on every possible occasion he most gratefully acknowledged, and to this gentleman he first mentioned his intention of taking a benefit. He also mentioned it to his landlord. Their replies were characteristic.
"Let me have a hundred box-tickets," said Captain Trench: "keep the two centre boxes for me. If I want any more tickets I'll send for them; but here's the money for the hundred."
"Give me a hundred pit-tickets," said the landlord. "If I can sell more, I will; but here is the money for them."
He had his bills printed and well circulated, but did no more business until the Saturday morning, which made him uneasy; though the fact simply was, that the people were waiting to see how the weather would turn out; very well knowing that if it were a wet night, the theatre would be the very worst place in which to encounter the rain. Fortune, however, was propitious; the day was cloudless, fair, and beautiful; and the result was, that after having at nine o'clock in the morning no one place taken except the two boxes bespoken by Captain Trench, at one o'clock in the afternoon not a single place remained unlet. At one time, when there was no doubt of the weather remaining dry, there were no fewer than sixteen carriages standing before his door, the owners of which were all anxious to obtain places, and all of whom he was reluctantly compelled to disappoint.
The receipts of the house amounted to one hundred and ninety-seven pounds nineteen shillings, not to mention a variety of presents, including a magnificent gold snuff-box, from Captain Trench, which was worth, in weight alone, more than thirty pounds sterling.