Apart from criticism the theatre is in daily touch with the papers, for one of the greatest expenses in connection with a theatre is the “Press Bill.” From four to six thousand pounds a year is paid regularly for newspaper advertising, just for those advertisements that appear “under the clock,” and in those columns announcing plays, players, and hours.
The distribution of “paper” is a curious custom, some managers prefer to fill their houses by such means, others disdain the practice, especially the Kendals, who are as adverse to “free passes” as they are to dress rehearsals, and who always insist on paying for their own tickets to see their friends act. An empty house is nevertheless dispiriting—dispiriting to the audience and dispiriting to the performers—so a little paper judiciously used may often bolster up a play in momentary danger of collapse.
“Stalls full.” “Dress Circle full.” “House full.” Such notices are often put outside the playhouse during a performance, and in London they generally mean what they say. In the provinces, however, a gentleman arrived at an hotel, and after dinner went off to the theatre as he had no club. He saw the placards, but boldly marched up to the box office in the hope that perchance he might obtain an odd seat somewhere.
“A stall, please.”
“Yes, sir, which row?” When he got inside he found the place half empty, in spite of the legend before the doors.
A well-known singer wired for a box in London one night—it being an understood thing that professional people may have seats free if they are not already sold. She prepaid the answer to the telegram as usual. It ran:
“So sorry, no boxes left to-night.”
The next day she met a friend at luncheon who had been to that particular theatre the night before. He remarked:
“It was a most depressing performance: the house was half empty, and the actors dull in consequence.”
Then the singer told her story, and both had a good laugh over the telegram.