Benefit Performances

A theatrical 'benefit' is a performance from which the financial proceeds are given to one, or at most a small group of person's (or more lately a charity or other organisation).

The earliest type of 'benefit' performances were ones by which the author of a particular play would be paid for his work. In Elizabethan times, the rights in a play would be purchased from the author outright before the play was produced, or the playwright himself would be part of the stock-in-trade cooperative producing the play and sharing in the profits. But, by the mid-eighteenth century, it had become commonplace for authors to be paid for their work by turning over to them, after deduction of expenses, the entire proceeds of one or more nights performances. The third, sixth, and tenth nights of any play became traditionally 'author's nights' for this purpose (although few plays actually reached even a sixth performance at that time).

The first performer to be given a 'benefit' is reckoned to have been Elizabeth Barry (1658-1713), who, towards the end of her career, had so impressed King James with her merits that he commanded a benefit to be given in her behalf. What commenced as a special reward, however, soon passed into custom and for a time became the main method by which performers were paid. In the old stock companies, a system arose whereby performers would receive very little from the regular weekly play receipts, relying instead for the bulk of their income on the proceeds of an annual benefit night. This was, however, a very pernicious system, as it kept the actor in a constant state of financial uncertainty. What they might expect to receive on their benefit night would depend very much on the popularity of the play the company was performing at the time and, in the case of a touring company, what town they were playing in.

This system persisted in the provinces until the late nineteenth century, long after it had been abandoned in London in favour of the more equitable and, for the actor, more reliable system of contracts and salaries. The benefit, so far as the performer was concerned, then reverted to it's origin, whereby it might be accorded under exceptional circumstances to a performer at the end of a long and illustrious career, or one in misfortune or fallen upon hard times, or for the family of one recently deceased.

The benefit also became a method by which the theatrical profession contributed to charitable causes. For example, on June 27th, 1911, a special Gala performance was given at His Majesty's Theatre in celebration of the coronation of His Majesty, King George. The proceeds, a net profit of £4628, were used to set up a Pension Fund for aged actors and actresses. Two years later, it was decided to repeat the event with an all-star cast on an annual basis to maintain the fund.

Reproduced below are a collection of articles from period publications discussing the benefit system.

The Echo [London] - April 10th, 1889.
Editorial: "Plays and Playhouses" by Alceste

The subject most discussed in the theatrical world to-day is the Benefit question: It has its sentimental aspect and its commercial aspect. Let me take sentimentally first. Like a prosy preacher, I feel inclined to divide this sub-section of the subject under two heads. I should say that when an old and deservedly public servant - for assuredly the actor is a public servant, in the noblest sense, quite as much as any of those who serve us in Imperial or Municipal capacities - has fallen upon evil days, and from want of business tact - for artistic and commercial instincts are rarely allied - or circumstances over which he has no control - say physical infirmity or continued ill-luck - finds himself "thrown on his beam-ends," then he has a valid, honest claim to be "stood treat" by the profession and the public; and that in according him this privilege the profession only acts up to its honourable traditions as the most generous body in civilised communities. That Mr. Maddison Morton's first claims should fall on those who have profited very greatly by his necessities I do not deny. But he is a very excellent and deserving example of the beneficiare.

In this instance the benefit is, of coarse, charity. But there is another equally justifiable case, in which it is an act of gracious gratitude. The public loves its pet entertainers with an affection not accorded to others who serve it; and the profession are often indebted to the kindeartedness, helpfulness, and generosity of some of its leaders more than it can well express. From time to time it happens that one of these leaders has an event in his or her life. It may be a birthday, it may be a farewell performance prior to a foreign trip, a marriage, or an anniversary of a first appearance on the boards. The star may be making £2,000 a year - that has nothing to do with it. That is a matter of private and personal business between the actor or actress and his or her manager. The public and profession desire to give a testimonial, a thank-offering for the services rendered them. In this case the benefit is but the very graceful expression of the more intimate feelings of affection which stretch across the footlights. The best examples of this form of benefit are the "treats" given to Miss Nellie Farren or Mr. Charles Warner.

Amongst coming benefits, I see one threatened by Mr. Arthur Williams. He says the Press will be down on him. Probably. He has long been connected with the wonderfully successful Dorothy. Whether the introduction of the second class music-hall element into that delightul opera was in good, taste - whether fathers could sit out that performance by their daughters' side with quite the same satisfaction as at a Savoyard opera, is a matter Messrs. Cellier and Stephenson will do well to consider before next Saturday, when Doris takes the boards. One thing is very certain: Mr. Arthur Williams has long been in receipt of a very excellent salary. He told his interviewer the other day that he had lately lost money by incautious generosity. I feel that I must not hesitate to say that, if benefits are to become a premium upon the recklessness of actors, they will be a source of infinite hurtfulness to the profession.

Now, take the benefit commercially. For an instance we need not go farther back than last week, when Mr. Lonnen cleared, it is said, £400 at the Gaiety. Mr. Lonnen is a very hard-working and intelligent young actor who, by tact, industry, and good fortune has risen from a very humble to a comparatively elevated place in the profession. I remember him well in the provinces, and also that very charming and prudent little coryphee, Miss Inman, now his wife. To Mr. Lonnen, therefore, his present salary must be a robe of fur-lined affluence. But he was candid and courageous to his interviewer to a degree. The business benefit is a pure misnomer. Nothing worse. It suits the lessee of a theatre, for purposes of advertisement, to give a leading actor the use of his theatre. It suits his fellow-actors, also, for the purposes of advertisement, or because there is a proverb about playing with your playmates, to give their services. It suits the public to stew for hours, in the middle of the day, in an overheated house, witnessing a confused hodge-podge of scraps from favourite entertainments; and a hurry-scurry scramble of popular favourites chasing one another across the stage. The whole business is simply an isolated private financial adventure on the part of an actor who generally contents himself with walking up to the "treasury" weekly and pouching his pay. In such straightforward light did Mr. Lonnen regard his matinee. As long as actors find it pays to give their services - that they regard it merely as a matter of business is shown by the fact that frequently those who haughtily refuse assistance whilst the success of a matinee is doubtful, positively petition to be allowed to participate when it is assured; as long as the public is tickled by these patchwork affairs, so long will they continue. And if the benefited one does not directly or indirectly bore, or even expect, his friends to take seats, there is no reason why they should not. It is simply a question of supply and demand. It is not, in any sense, the business of the Press. Only let our theatrical dictionaries contain a proper equivalent for the word "Benefit."

from 'The Stage Door,' edited by Clement Scott
George Routledge and sons, London.
Benefits
By Lionel Brough

No-one but an actor who has gone through the provincial "mill," and has regularly "served his time," can possibly have any idea of what a benefit, and the art of benefit making really means.

A London actor who appears in a piece, which runs for many hundreds of nights, and perhaps only plays two parts in as many years, takes his annual benefit as a matter of course, pockets the receipts, and waits until his "date" comes round again to repeat the "dose." This is all very easy in London and in the present state of theatrical "runs;" but, twenty years ago, more particularly in the provinces, this could not have happened. In those days, a run of thirty nights was a thing to be talked about. How then were benefits made? I will endeavour to explain. When a stock country actor signed his engagement for a year, or a season, (which then meant about nine months) he expected benefit terms-which were usually a clear half, or third of the receipts-or perhaps to share after the ordinary expenses.

His first move was then to get as near the date as he possibly could, and then get to work. Perhaps he would have seven or eight months to "make" his benefit. From this moment benefit "making" was his fixed idea, and this was never lost sight of, for to him it was of vast importance, meaning new clothes for his business, something for out-door wear, a new wig or two, fresh tights, perhaps a pet sword, which had met his admiring gaze in a second-hand shop - the clearing up of the few odd debts necessarily incurred - and (if a married man) a week or two out of town for his wife and children; and last, but not least, the means of keeping him free from debt, whilst out of an engagement.

These items, which may seem small now, were all-important at the time I speak of, for there were actors of position (and none but such ever had benefits), who rarely, if ever, received a salary upon which they could do more than live respectably and pay their way. I repeat, how, then, was this all-important benefit to be made? Often by considerable sacrifices of dignity, much hard work, and a settled determination that the benefit had " to be made."

All through the engagement the actor was compelled to work his hardest, so as to make himself popular with the general public; next his chance customers-people who hardly know him off the stage, must be allowed to pat him on the back and call him by his Christian name, and be generally familiar, but he must take no offence; next, he must never refuse an invitation, no matter how inconvenient it may be to him to accept; when in society he must make himself as agreeable as he possibly can; he must deal with as many tradesmen as he possibly can, taking care to offend none of the old ones, and yet making friends with the new; he must never receive a letter, the address of which is not put down in his note-book for a circular to be sent at the proper time; next, he must play at as many benefits as he possibly can, so as to get a constituency from the other theatres; in fact, he"? must leave nothing undone to make himself as popular as possible both in and out of the theatre.

The results of this spell of hard labour are as varied as the means by which they are obtained. Sometimes the weather is fine, there are numerous out-door attractions, or, the manager "puts up his name" when there is some great attraction at a rival house, or (if in a manufacturing district) one of those unforeseen serious depressions in trade occur, and the results are "nil," or worse, a decided loss, so that after all the anxiety, labour, self-sacrifice, and expense he is left with nothing, and sometimes a considerable debt. This, of course, is only one side of the story, and perhaps rather an exceptional one; for, on the other hand, many popular country actors can depend upon an addition of nearly a hundred pounds a year to their incomes by the profit of their benefits.

The smaller "fry" of the profession often arrange with their managers for a benefit in the form of a "ticket night;" by this arrangement (which entirely secures them from loss) they are entitled to one half of the money obtained by the sale of tickets sold by their own exertions, and printed at their own expense. Of these "ticket nights," and also of "benefits," there are many stories well known to most members of the profession, but, as they may be new to the outer world, I will retail one or two of them.

In Liverpool, some few years ago, we had a very popular clown (now, alas ! gone over to the majority), one "Ben" M'Cormack, "a fellow of infinite jest." On the occasion of his benefit, he asked Mr. S. M. Harrison, a well-known local author, to write a speech for him. The speech began with "Motley is my only wear," etc., etc., and through the speech the word "motley" occurred very often. After the benefit, "Ben" was asked by the author how the speech went. "First rate, Mr. Harrison," said Ben; "they liked it very much, but there was a deuce of a lot about Mr. Motley in it, but not a word about poor Ben M'Cormack."

This is not a bad story about a ticket night benefit. A very impecunious member of a company in Dublin was about to have a "ticket" night (one half of all the tickets he sold to be his share). Hearing that there was to be a great billiard match between two well-known members of Trinity College, our friend thought this might prove a good chance for the sale of a few tickets. Wrapped in an old piece of newspaper, he had twelve dress circle, five upper boxes, ten pit, and about twenty gallery - the remaining stock of tickets he had had printed, and which he had not been able to sell, or even leave upon sale or return. Waiting patiently until the conclusion of the match, he rushed up to the victor, and after sundry congratulations, mentioned "that his benefit came off on Thursday," and that he "thought Mr. -- might like a ticket or two."

"What tickets have you?" asked the elated Irishman. "How many would you require?" said the actor. "Give me the lot," said the student; "how much are they?" "The whole lot!" inquired our friend: "why, they come to four pounds eight shillings!" "Here, then," said the victor, throwing down a five-pound note, "that'll make us square, I can't come, so I'll put 'em on the fire," doing so as he spoke. The actor gave a yell, and rushed to try and save them, but too late, and sitting down with a look of despair on his face, he said, "Good gracious. sir! do you know what you've done? Why, I haven't paid for the printing of them yet!"

He could not at the time realize that the entire five-pound note was his, minus the cost of printing - about one shilling. Another, and perhaps better, story of burning benefit tickets, is told of a low comedian, who was very popular in one of the midland towns. At the time I speak of the company only played three times a week. On the "off" nights some of them spent their time at a "free and easy" at the principal hotel, and sang and recited, and generally tried to make themselves popular. Our friend the low comedian was an especial favourite with the frequenters, and when his benefit was about to take place, he was asked to bring some tickets.

The Chairman for the evening then opened a list, and soon a goodly number of tickets were sold. The Chairman then rose and said, "Gentlemen, I believe Mr. -- whom we all so much admire, is bound to have a crowded house, therefore I propose that we (who have all taken tickets) should let him have the entire benefit of our small assistance - instead of letting the manager have half - I therefore propose that we one and all put the tickets on the fire." Upon which, amidst loud applause, he said, "There goes my ten shillings' worth." "There goes my five," said another; and so it went round the entire room. "Gentlemen," said the low comedian in a voice broken with emotion, "I hardly know how to thank you, but - I will not be outdone in generosity. You have destroyed seven pound ten's worth of my tickets, I will do the same. "Upon which he counted out a packet of shilling tickets (only worth the pasteboard and printing) and throwing them on the fire left the room amidst loud applause. But listen to this about a poor old clown. A clown, for sake of his popularity and as an advertisement) is bound to take a benefit - in fact, it is always in his engagement. One poor fellow I met looked particularly radiant after his benefit. I asked him if I might congratulate him on the result of his benefit. He said, "You may, laddie; it's the best I've had for four years. I only lost twenty-seven shillings."

And now one more to finish. Actors always like playing a part out of their usual line of business upon their benefits, therefore you often find a "heavy man" playing "light comedy" upon that especial occasion, and vice versa. Upon one occasion two men who played in Dog Pieces determined to change parts for this night only. But it ended in disaster - for whenever the "good young man" of the piece came on the dog flew at his throat, and when the villain was in the act of committing some dreadful crime the dog would insist upon licking his hand, and playfully wagging his tail.