Joseph Grimaldi

1812 to 1816.

A Clergyman's Dinner-party at Bath—First Appearance of Grimaldi's Son, and Death of his old Friend, Mr. Hughes—Grimaldi plays at three Theatres on one night, and has his Salary stopped for his pains—His severe illness—Second journey to Bath—Davidge, "Billy Coombes," and the Chest—Facetiousness of the aforesaid Billy.

Two days after his arrival in Bath he appeared at the theatre, where he was fortunate enough to elicit the warmest applause and approbation from a crowded audience; nor was he less successful at Bristol, the theatre being completely filled every night he performed. He remained in this part of the country during five weeks, playing four nights in every week at Bath, and the remaining two at Bristol. By this trip he realized 287l.-125l. for salary, and 162l. for benefits; but although it was a lucrative expedition, it was by no means a pleasant one, the weather being exceedingly inclement, and he being compelled to return to Bath every evening after the performances at Bristol were over. The nightly rides at that season of the year were by no means agreeable; he suffered very much from colds, and, upon the whole, was very far from sorry when his engagement terminated.

During his stay at Bath a little incident happened, developing, in a striking point of view, a very repulsive trait of discourtesy and bad breeding in a quarter where, least of any, such an exhibition might have been looked for.

Higman, the bass-singer, who was then in great repute, and was afterwards the original Gabriel, in Guy Mannering, but is since dead, was invited with Grimaldi to dine with a reverend gentleman of that city. They accepted the invitation, and upon their arrival found a pretty large party of gentlemen assembled, the clerical host of course presiding. The very instant the cloth was removed, this gentleman commanded, rather than asked, Higman to sing a song. Not wishing to appear desirous of enhancing the merit of the song by frivolous objections, he at once consented, although he had scarcely swallowed his meal. It was deservedly very much applauded and complimented, and the moment the applause had ceased, the reverend doctor turned to Grimaldi, and in the same peremptory manner requested a song from him. He begged leave to decline for the present, urging—what was indeed the truth—that he had scarcely swallowed his dinner. The observation made by the host in reply rather astonished him.

"What, Mr. Grimaldi!" he exclaimed, hastily, "not sing, sir! Why, I asked you here, sir, to-day expressly to sing."

"Indeed, sir!" said Grimaldi, rising from the table: "then I heartily wish you had said so when you gave me the invitation; in which case you would have saved me the inconvenience of coming here to-day, and prevented my wishing you, as I now beg to do, a very unceremonious good-night."

With these words he left the apartment, and very soon afterwards the house.

It may appear to a great many persons a remarkable circumstance that a pantomime Clown should have been called upon to read a lesson of politeness and common decency to a reverend divine. The circumstance, however, happened literally as it is here narrated. A somewhat similar story has been told of another well-known actor; but this rudeness, whether it arose in ignorance or intention, was offered to Grimaldi by the reverend gentleman in question, whose name he well remembered, but which we abstain from mentioning.

The Christmas pantomime at Covent Garden was entitled "Harlequin and the Red Dwarf, or the Adamant Rock:" it was entirely successful.[61] On Easter Monday, 1813, the melodrama of "Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp," written by Mr. Farley, was acted for the first time, Grimaldi playing the character of Kasrac, a dumb slave, which became one of his most popular characters.[62] The Sadler's Wells season merits no further notice than that, as usual, it was very profitable, and that Grimaldi produced a dance, called "Fun and Physic," which was performed every night.

Covent Garden re-opened in September; and this year he was in constant requisition before Christmas, as well as after, Aladdin being found an extremely profitable piece. "Harlequin and the Swans, or the Bath of Beauty," was produced at Christmas,[63] and followed at Easter by "Sadak and Kalasrade," in which Grimaldi played Hassan.

Having now none of those amusements which in former years had served to employ his idle hours having lost his flies, given up his pigeons, removed from Finchley, sold his house, and resigned his garden, he devoted the whole of his leisure time to the society and improvement of his son. As he could not bear to part with him, and was wholly unable to make up his mind to send him to any great boarding-school, he was partly educated at the same school at which his father had been a pupil, and partly by masters who attended him at home. The father appears to have bestowed great and praiseworthy care upon his education. Although at this time he was only twelve years old, he had not only quite mastered the common rudiments of learning, but had become well acquainted with French literature, and wrote the language with ease and propriety. He had at a very early age manifested a great fondness for music, especially the violin, and had acquired great proficiency on that instrument, under the tuition of one of the first masters in the country.

As he was a very clever boy, was an excellent dancer, and displayed a great fondness and aptitude for the stage, his father finding that his inclinations lay irrevocably that way, determined to encourage them, and accordingly proceeded to instruct him in melodrama and pantomime. He fancied that in his old age, when his own heyday of fame and profit was over, he should gather new life from the boy's success, and that old times would be called up vividly before him when he witnessed his popularity in characters which had first brought his father before the public, and enabled him gradually, after the loss of his property, to acquire an independent and respectable station in society. The wish was a natural one, and the old man cherished it dearly for many years. It was decreed otherwise; and although in his better days the blight of this hope caused him great grief and misery, he endeavoured to bear it with humility and resignation.

On the 26th of April[64] he resumed his labours at Sadler's Wells. He acted in a drama called the "Slave Pirate," which was successful. His first benefit brought him 216l., and his second 263l. 10s.; the last-named being the best he ever had at that house.

The great attraction of this benefit of 1814[65] was the first appearance on any stage, of his son, who performed "Friday" in "Robinson Crusoe," Grimaldi playing the latter part himself, and thus introducing his son to the public in the same piece in which his father had brought him forward thirty-three years before. For six weeks previous to the dÉbut, the pains he had taken to render him master of the character, and the drillings he gave him were innumerable, although they rather arose from the nervousness of the father than from any lack of intelligence on the part of the son, who not only rapidly acquired the instructions communicated to him, but in many instances improved upon them considerably. His intended appearance was kept a profound secret until within a week of the night on which he was to perform; and when the announcement was at length made, the demand for tickets and places was immense. The result was, that the benefit not only turned out, as has already been mentioned, the best Grimaldi ever had, but the reception of the son was enthusiastic, and his exertions were both applauded by the public and commended in the newspapers. It may appear a mere matter of course to say that the father considered the performance the best that he had ever seen; but long afterwards, when the boy was dead, and censure or praise was alike powerless to assist or harm him, Grimaldi expressed, in the same strong terms, his high opinion of his abilities, and his conviction that had he been only moderate and temperate in the commonest degree, he must in a few years have equalled, if not greatly excelled, anything which he himself had achieved in his very best days.

On the 20th of December following, he sustained a severe loss in the death of his constant and sincere friend, Mr. Richard Hughes, who had been his well-wisher and adviser from infancy, and whose relationship to his first wife gave him a strong and lasting claim on his regard. As another instance of the severe and mental trials which an actor has to undergo, it may be mentioned that during the time his friend was lying dead, he was engaged for many hours each day in rehearsing broadly humorous pantomime, and that, as if to render the contrast more striking, the burial being fixed for the 26th of the month, he was compelled to rehearse part of his Clown's character on the stage, to run to the funeral, to get back from the churchyard to the theatre to finish the rehearsal, and to exert all his comic powers at night to set the audience in a roar.

This pantomime was founded upon the story of Whittington and his Cat, and had a very extended run. On the night of its production, his spirits were so affected by the calamity he had sustained, that it was with great difficulty he could go through his part, in which he had very nearly failed. He succeeded by a strong effort in finishing the piece; and although his health paid very dearly for this and other efforts of the same nature, the constant bustle and excitement of his professional duties aided in recovering him, and enabling him to act with his accustomed vivacity.

The harlequinade of "The Talking Bird" was produced at Sadler's Wells this season, in which he first enacted the Bird and afterwards the Clown. During the run of this pantomime he performed the remarkable feat of playing three very heavy parts (two of them Clowns) at three different theatres on the same night. He was intimately acquainted with a Mr. Hayward, who, being married to a clever actress at the Surrey, one Miss Dely, begged him as a great favour to act for her at that theatre on her benefit night. He asked and obtained permission from the proprietors of Sadler's Wells, but could not do the same at Covent Garden, as Mr. Harris was absent from town. He did not think it a point of any great importance, however, inasmuch as he had not been called upon to act for some time, and nothing was then announced in which it was at all likely he would be wanted. Unfortunately, on the very night of the benefit, "La Perouse," in which he acted, was advertised at Covent Garden. In this dilemma, he hurried over the water, explained the circumstance, and pointed out the impossibility of his performing at the Surrey.

But the Surrey people who had advertised him stoutly contending that there was no impossibility in the case, assured him that all would be right; that he should play there first, then go to Sadler's Wells, and then to Covent Garden to finish the evening. To the end that he should be in good time at each house, it was proposed that a chaise, with the best horses that could be procured, should be provided, and held in readiness to carry him at the greatest possible speed from place to place.

Not having the heart to disappoint the parties interested, he consented to this arrangement. At the Surrey, he played with Bologna in the pantomime; the moment it was over, he jumped into a chaise and four that was waiting at the door, and started for Sadler's Wells. Bologna accompanied him to see the issue of the proceeding, and, by dashing through the streets at a most extraordinary pace, they reached Sadler's Wells just at the commencement of the overture for the pantomime. Hurrying to re-paint his face, which had been very much bedaubed by the rain, which poured upon it, as he looked out of the chaise-window entreating the postboys to drive a little slower, and thrusting himself into the dress of the "Talking Bird," he was ready at the instant when the call-boy told him he was wanted. There still remained Covent Garden, and towards the close of the pantomime he grew very anxious, looking constantly towards the sides of the stage to see if Bologna was still there; for as he was the Perouse of the night, and was wanted a full half-hour before him, he felt something like security so long as he remained. At length the pantomime was over, and once more taking their seats in the same chaise, they drove at the same furious pace to Covent Garden, and were ready dressed and in the green-room before the first bars of the overture had been played. This change of dress assisted greatly in recovering him from his fatigue, and he went through the third part as well as the first, feeling no greater exhaustion at the close of the performances than was usual with him on an ordinary night. The only refreshment which he took during the whole evening was one glass of warm ale and a biscuit. He plumed himself very much on this feat; for although he had played clown at two theatres for twenty-eight nights successively, he considered it something out of the common way, and triumphed in it greatly.

He had a specimen next day of the spirit which Fawcett still cherished towards him, and which, but for the kindness of Mr. Harris, might have injured him severely on many occasions. Applying as usual at the treasury for his weekly salary of ten pounds, he was informed by the treasurer, with great politeness and apparent regret, that he had received orders from Mr. Fawcett to stop it for that week. He instantly posted off in search of that gentleman, and upon finding him, requested to know why his salary was not to be paid.

"Because, sir," replied Mr. Fawcett,—"because you have thought fit to play at the Surrey Theatre without mentioning the matter to us, or asking our permission."

Grimaldi whistled a little to express his total unconcern, and, turning away, muttered, "For us and for our tragedy, thus stooping to your clemency, we beg your hearing patiently." In crossing the stage to the door, he met Mr. Harris, who had that instant entered the theatre, having arrived in town not ten minutes before. He shook him kindly by the hand, and inquired how he was.

"Why, sir," said Grimaldi, "I am as well as can be expected, considering that my salary has been stopped."

"Why, what have you been about, Joe?"

"Played for Mrs. Hayward's benefit at the Surrey, sir."

"Oh! without leave, I suppose?"

"Why, sir," answered Grimaldi, "there was no one in the theatre who was, in my opinion, entitled actually to give or refuse leave; you were out of town: with Mr. Fawcett I have nothing to do—he has neither connexion with nor influence over my line of business, nor do I wish him to have any; Mr. Farley is the only gentleman under yourself whom I consider myself obliged to acknowledge as a superior here—and to him I did name it, and he told me to go, for I should not be wanted."

"Joe," said Mr. Harris, after a moment's pause, "go to Brandon, and tell him to give you your money. And, mind, I've entered into an arrangement for you to go and see Dimond again in October, upon the same terms as before: so mind you go, and I'll take care you are neither fined nor wanted."

For this double liberality he expressed his best thanks, and returning to the treasury, with the manager's message, received his salary, and departed.

On the 15th of the next month, his first benefit for that season took place at Sadler's Wells. He sustained the part of Don Juan; and his son, J. S. Grimaldi, played Scaramouch, being his second appearance. He acted the part capitally, and had a great reception, so that his father now in good earnest began to hope he would not only support the name of Grimaldi, but confer upon it increased popularity. The receipts of this night were 231l. 14s. Three months afterwards his second benefit occurred: Monday, the 9th of October, was the day fixed for it, but on the preceding Saturday he was suddenly seized with severe illness, originating in a most distressing impediment in his breathing. Medical assistance was immediately called in, and he was bled until nigh fainting. This slightly relieved him; but shortly afterwards he had a relapse, and four weeks passed before he recovered sufficiently to leave the house. There is no doubt but that some radical change had occurred in his constitution, for previously to this attack he had never been visited with a single day's illness, while after its occurrence he never had a single day of perfect health.

On the Monday, finding it would be impossible for him to play, he procured a substitute, and immediately had bills printed and posted outside the theatre. His absence made a difference of about fifty pounds in the receipts; but as his son played Scaramouch, and played it well, he sustained no greater pecuniary loss, and had the satisfaction of hearing from all quarters that his son was rapidly improving.

After the lapse of a month Grimaldi became tolerably well, and as it was now time for him to keep his engagement with Dimond, he went to Bath in November, and remained there until the middle of December, occasionally acting at Bristol. The profits of this trip were two hundred and ninety-four pounds.

It was either during this provincial trip, or about this time, that he first became acquainted with Mr. Davidge, the late lessee of the Surrey Theatre. He was then the Harlequin at Bath and Bristol, and although he afterwards became a round and magisterial figure, was then a very light and active pantomimist.

In the pantomimes Davidge was the Harlequin, and Grimaldi of course the Clown. They were accustomed to call the Pantaloon, who was a very indifferent actor, by the name of "Billy Coombes,"—why, they best knew, but it seems not to have been his real name. This worthy had given both Davidge and Grimaldi mighty offence upon several occasions, possibly by making his appearance on the stage in a state of intoxication. Grimaldi forgot the precise cause of affront, but, whatever it was, they deemed it a very great one; and Davidge, upon several occasions, took opportunities of hinting, in speeches fraught with determination and replete with a peculiar variety of expletives, that he was resolved some time or other to be revenged upon that Billy Coombes.

One evening, while the pantomime was in progress, and the two friends were exciting much mirth and applause, Davidge pointed to a chest which was used in the piece, and whispering that there was a lock upon it with a key, remarked that Billy had to get into it directly, and asked whether it would not be a good joke to turn the key upon him. Grimaldi readily concurred, and no sooner was the unconscious Billy Coombes beneath the lid of the chest, than he was locked in, amidst the plaudits of the audience, who thought it a capital trick. There were but two more scenes in the pantomime, which Davidge had to commence. Just as he was going on the stage, Grimaldi inquired whether he had let out the Pantaloon.

"No," he replied hastily, "I have not, but I will directly I come off." So saying, he danced upon the stage, followed by Grimaldi, and the usual buffeting ensued with the accustomed effect. The pantomime was over a few minutes afterwards, and Grimaldi, who felt very tired when he had gone through his part, in consequence of his recent illness, went straight home, and was in bed a very short time after the curtain fell.

There was a call the next morning for the rehearsal of a few new pantomime scenes which Grimaldi had prepared to vary the entertainments. However, as the Pantaloon was not forthcoming, they could not be gone through with any useful effect. When Davidge arrived, Grimaldi mentioned the circumstance.

"I suppose," he said, "our victim has taken our conduct in high dudgeon, and doesn't mean to come this morning. We shall be in a pretty mess at night if he does not!"

"What do you mean?" said Davidge, with a look of surprise.

"This Billy Coombes, he is not come to the theatre to-day, and is not to be found at his lodgings, for we have sent a man there."

"By G——," said Davidge, "I never let him out of the box!"

On reflection, they had certainly finished the pantomime without him, although it did not strike them at the time, because, as he was no great actor, the business of the last two scenes had been arranged entirely between Davidge and Grimaldi. They lost no time in inquiring after the chest, and it was at length discovered in a cellar below the stage. On raising the lid, the Pantaloon was discovered, and a truly pitiable object he looked, although they were both not a little relieved to find he was alive, for, not knowing that the chest was perforated in various places, they had entertained some serious fears that when he did turn up, he might be found suffocated. Every necessary assistance was afforded him, and he never suffered in the slightest degree from his temporary confinement. He said that he had shouted as loud as he could, and had knocked and kicked against the sides of his prison, but that nobody had taken the least notice of him, which he attributed to the incessant noise and bustle behind the scenes. With the view of keeping the stage as clear as possible, everything used in a pantomime is put away at once; the chest was lowered by a trap into the cellar, notwithstanding the shouts from the Pantaloon, who, knowing that he would be released next day, went to sleep very quietly.

This was the version of the story given by the ingenious Mr. Coombes, and in this version Grimaldi was an implicit believer. We are rather disposed to think that Mr. Coombes might have thrown an additional light upon the matter by explaining that he had got into the chest that morning to turn the tables upon his assailants, the more so, as he received various little presents in the way of compensation for his imprisonment, with which he expressed himself perfectly satisfied.

This "Billy Coombes," or whatever the man's name may have been, once said a very ludicrous thing upon the stage, which convulsed the audience with laughter. The play was Romeo and Juliet, and he was cast to perform Sampson. The wardrobe of the theatre being very scanty, he was habited in a most absurd and ridiculous dress, every article of which had evidently formed a portion of a different suit, and which was, moreover, full three sizes too large for him, especially the coat, the cuffs of which, instead of ornamenting his wrists, dangled over his fingers' ends. In this disguise, "Billy," who waxed extremely wroth at the figure he cut, presented himself to the audience, and was, of course, received with a loud laugh.

Now, in the first scene of the play, Sampson, according to the stage-direction, has to bite his thumb at Abram, a servitor of the rival house, upon which the following dialogue ensues:—

"Abram. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

"Samp. (aside) Is the law on our side if I say ay?

"Gregory. No.

"Samp. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb sir."

Billy Coombes very coolly omitted biting his thumb at all but the actor who played Abram, desirous to carry on the business of the scene, thought it best to take it for granted that the stage-direction had been complied with, and turning indignantly round, said,

"Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?"

"No, sir," replied Billy Coombes, in a clear and loud voice; "I would, sir, with pleasure, only my master puts me into such a queer coat, sir," holding up one of the long sleeves, "that I can't get at my fist for the life of me."

The audience roared, the actors laughed, and for some minutes the stage-business was at a complete stand-still: Billy meanwhile making many apparently sincere and laboured attempts to uncover his hand, in which at last he thought proper to succeed, and giving the right cue, the play went on.

When Grimaldi returned to town, the rehearsals of "Harlequin and the Sylph of the Oak, or the Blind Beggar of Bethnal Green," commenced at Covent Garden. It was produced with great success at the usual time, and was followed, in April, 1816, by Pocock's melodrama of "Robinson Crusoe, or the Bold Buccaneer," in which Grimaldi played Friday, and Farley acted Crusoe. This was the most successful adaptation of De Foe's great story; it was played for a great many nights, and is still occasionally performed.[66]