“No. What was it?”
“George was sent down to Stony Stratford by the Daily News. When he woke up in the morning, he had forgotten the name of the place. He rang the bell, and desired the chambermaid to send ‘boots’ to him. When that menial appeared, George asked: ‘Wh-wh-what’s the n-name of this p-place?’ ‘Stony Stratford,’ answered ‘boots.’ ‘Ah!’ said Hodder, ‘you may well c-call it Stony Stratford—for I never was so b-b-bitten with bugs in the whole course of my l-l-life!”
Rockley’s was at best a cramped and pestiferous inferno, ill ventilated, and without a chair to sit down on. But its customers made long stays, notwithstanding, and I understood that a considerable amount of theatrical business was done on the premises. It was a sort of rialto of the “profession.” From Rockley’s, the actor and those who do business with him migrated to the new Gaiety bar opened in the Strand. This was a horseshoe-shaped bar next door to the theatre, much patronized by the Brothers Mansell, by Henry Herman, by the then unknown D’Oyly Carte, by several of the Nationalist Members of Parliament, and by many of the shapely members of the chorus from burlesque theatres in the immediate vicinity. It was leased by one “Bill” Bayliss, who in after-years, and during the Beaufort period, conducted Rule’s, in Maiden Lane. For some years the Gaiety bar remained a great afternoon centre for the actors—particularly those who happened to be out of an engagement and to retain an expensive thirst. During a Gaiety entr’acte I have smoked a cigarette in the place, but regret that I have had no great personal acquaintance with it. Its history for ten or twelve years from its opening would be well worth writing by a man possessing the requisite qualifications.
It was the last public-house meeting-place of stage people. There are clubs now to suit every grade of actor. And chorus girls are no more seen in bars. They affect the swagger restaurants—and I, for one, cannot blame them. A greater propriety in attire is observed by the actor of to-day. He no longer affects a Quartier Latin Bohemianism. He takes himself quite seriously as a social unit. And with reason. For just as every citizen of the United States is a possible President, so is every actor a possible Knight, and every actress a possible “my lady.”
To record the number of my theatrical acquaintances, and my recollections, pleasant and unpleasant, of our forgathering, would fill many chapters. The foregoing stray notes on my friends the players are remarkable for the omission of many names which I recall with the most lively sentiments of gratitude for many a dull hour enlivened, and for many a joyous moment heightened and prolonged.
CHAPTER XV
“THE ’ALLS”
To the patrons of the music-halls of my early days about town, and to the performers in them, those places of entertainment were never known as “halls,” but always as “’alls.” Nothing should more eloquently indicate the vast change that has taken place in their administration. In those days the “’alls” were held in general disrepute. To-day their repute in the land is sweet and sound. They have, indeed, ceased to be halls; they have become palaces. And they have evidently come to stay, always widening their sphere of influence, and proving, as time goes on, an increasing source of anxiety to those who have invested their capital in playhouses.
For the evolution of the theatre has been very gradual. No great departure has been made on the boards since the playgoer was taught to demand accuracy of detail in staging. That was effected by the Bancrofts in the sixties. Managers have since their day “gone one better” in the cost of a production, in the gorgeousness of scenery and properties, in the numerical force of their stage crowds. But nothing since their production has been more appropriately acted and staged than the Robertson series of comedies. And no reproduction—whatever it may have cost—has proved an artistic advance on the Bancroft presentation of the “School for Scandal.” We have better theatres, and we have more of them. The comfort of the auditorium has been immeasurably increased. The space devoted to the stage by our newspapers has quadrupled. The playgoing public has grown enormously. But the playgoer has been marking time all the while. And the dramatist, in this particular respect, has been following the brilliant example of the playgoer.
But if the drama has ceased to show itself progressive, if, according to some, it even exhibits symptoms of decadence, the evolution of the music-hall has been that of recovery, progress, and reform. The music hall has risen “on stepping-stones of its dead self to higher things.” And only those who can recall the utter unloveliness of that “dead self” can properly appreciate the privileges accorded to the patrons of the halls and palaces as they are conducted in this present year of grace.
To begin with, no woman of the period with which I am dealing, with any regard for her reputation, would think of entering one of these places of entertainment. She would run the inevitable risk of being affronted by the patrons of the hall, and being outraged by the words and gestures of the performers on the stage. Phryne swarmed in the auditorium—poor soul!—and by the bars lounged or swaggered the shameless males, Jew and Gentile of his kind, who lived on the exploitation of female beauty. The smaller halls, such as the Pavilion (it was a small hall in those days); the Trocadero, which rose on the ruins of the Argyll Rooms, and was run by old Bob Bignell; the Oxford in Oxford Street; and Weston’s in Holborn—all were hot, ill-ventilated, and stuffy interiors; and the moral atmosphere was as warm as the physical.