An Edwardian Night at the Theatre

The Gaiety

• A First Night impression from the Gallery (period article)
• Costs of Attending the Theatre

The audiences for the West End shows came from all over London and the suburbs. The distances they would travel would vary greatly, as would their mode of transportation, but they all came with but a single purpose. Not merely to be entertained, but to be whisked away into a whole new world of mystery and adventure, gaiety and laughter. They were off to spend a night at the theatre during an era when theatre ruled supreme, unsurpassed by any other form of entertainment.

Those of modest means might have walked to the theatre, and/or ridden on a horse drawn omnibus or electric tram, or even one of the new petrol driven omnibuses that were just starting to become commonplace. If they were coming from further afield, it may have involved a ride on one of the underground lines that had recently opened in London, some of which were electrified. Although they mave have travelled some distance by modes of transportation that were generally slower than those we are accustomed to today, they would not have suffered the same hold-ups caused by congestion that we are so familiar with. They would be sure to arrive early, in order to queue outside to get tickets for the best seats. Alternatively, those who could afford it would hire a messenger boy to queue for them so that they might arrive only shortly before the doors opened. For the best shows it might be necessary to arrive some hours early so they would come equipped with reading matter; classic novels, penny dreadfuls, newspapers, periodicals and the like. Or they would pass the time chatting with those around them - friends and strangers alike. They would discuss other plays they had seen recently, and extoll the merits of their favourite performers. Many a friendship was founded in those queues, and more than a few marriages also.

There was also entertainment to be had outside of the theatre in the form of street buskers. These consisted mainly of vocalists, instrumentalists, dialogists, and certain 'novelty' acts. For the most part, they far exceeded in enthusiasm what they had to offer by way of talent, but still they would attract a shower of coppers for their efforts. Their activities were frowned upon by the police, and when the local beat Bobbie appeared from around the corner they would suddenly melt away only to reappear as soon as he had passed. This would go on until sounds coming from inside the theatre gave notice that the doors were about to open. Books and magazines would be put away and the queue would close up as all strained to hear the most welcome sound of all - that of bolts being withdrawn and the woody creak of the doors opening. Then commenced something of a rush to find the best positions in the unreserved seating. By the time these early comers were settled in their seats there was probably still a half-hour or more to wait before the curtains opened, but this was perhaps the best time of all. You had arrived safely, secured a good seat, and the whole evenings entertainment was yet to come. With mounting antipation, you waited for the show to start.

Theatregoers of more extravagant means and tastes would arrive at the theatre differently. They would have hired a horse drawn carriage or a motor car for the evening to transport them privately to and from the theatre. Some would have travelled in their own carriages or motor vehicles and would have found places in the theatre district ready and capable of looking after either for the duration of the evening. Nor need they worry about queuing since their tickets for reserved seats in the circle or balcony would have been booked for them in advance. Many of them ran accounts with ticket agents assuring they always got the best seats for the best shows. Since they need not queue at the theatre they had ample time to dine first and this they would do at the best restaurants. They would of course arrive at the theatre fashionably late, so that the lady might better draw attention to her outfit (bought specially for the occasion) when the patrons already there were disturbed by the commotion of their arrival.

Once safely in their seats, the early arrivals would pass the time until the raising of the curtain by studying their programmes for the evening. These may have cost a few coppers in the foyer but oftentimes, especially in the earlier part of the Edwardian era, they were free, given away as part of the evenings entertainment. Most programmes contained little editorial content and were mostly made up by pages of advertisements (which no doubt paid for the printing). But they invariably contained a cast list, essential for identifying new performers who caught the eye. Of course there was distraction before the raising of the curtain in the form of a musical selection from the resident orchestra. This was all part of the evenings entertainment and would often be billed in the programme, for example the following preceded the production of "Monsieur Beaucaire" at the Comedy Theatre in 1902:

For those in the cheap seats, gazing at the 'toffs' in the private boxes and orchestra stalls was all part of the show. The ladies in their finery, full evening dress, elaborate hairstyles, long gloves and fine jewellery were a sight to see, and all part of the show.

Sometimes there would be a curtain raiser, a simple one-act play with no changes of scene and only a few character parts. This was put on for the early arrivals and would play to a half empty theatre. Still these were often surprisingly good and deserved a better airing than they got. The cast for these pieces were generally drawn from the understudies so they served the dual purpose of giving young actors and actresses a chance to prove themselves and earn a full part in the main feature.

To sustain them through the performance there were attendants selling boxes of chocolates which were purchased and consumed in great quantities. And at the interval there were bars serving all manner of beverages, alcoholic and otherwise.

When the show ended and the final curtain had fallen, the patrons would make their way out of the theatre to reverse their journey home, many of them by way of the many bars still open. Some would form a throng by the stage door waiting to catch a final glimpse of their favourite actor or actress leaving the theatre before dashing for the last train or omnibus that would carry them home. There would be eager young men among them who had an engagement for supper with a lady of the chorus for there was glamour in being an actress, at any level, and they were always beautiful so that any young gallant would be assured of envious glances to be seen leading one away on his arm.

The richer patrons would leave the theatre to find their carriages already waiting for them outside. It was common practice for the theatres to advertise the closing time of their productions for this purpose, "Carriages at Eleven" was the common parlance. The carriage folk, who had dined before the show, would round off the evening in the same way. Many restaurants in and around the theatre district would stay open to provide suppers to the theatregoers after the various shows had ended.

Then it was home, with fond memories of the nights events and the cherished theatre programme as a memento. For the carriage set it was a routine which might be repeated every weekend. For those of more modest means it might be repeated less often, but cherished all the more because of that.
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A First Night Impression from the Gallery.

Outside the theatre everything is bustle. Motor-buses and a plethora of other vehicles rush by, while a ceaseless throng of business men and women pass and repass. It is mid-day, and on the gallery steps stand and sit patient waiters-waiting for seven-thirty, the hour at which the theatre opens. These people, although a class by themselves, are essentially individuals. They live in a world of drama, yet not in an unreal world, for the majority of them are what is mysteriously termed "intellectuals."

The drama that is their particular cult is that which teaches and which "holds mirror up to nature." They know no particular class or creed; they have no standard of age. Here, at the top of the stairs is an old man of about eighty speaking in a slightly French accent to a young "flapper." Their subject? Why, of course, the drama.

They exchange impressions and ideas while every now and then the old man, who looks almost too feeble for a wait of ten hours on the stairs, breaks in with reminiscences. "When Kean played 'Richard the Second' at the Princess', Shakespearean-productions were revolutionised," and with a facility of memory that is amazing he will pass from the famous parts of Fechter, Phelps to Macready, whose Macbeth, he says, created a standard for future generations, and Henry Irving. The "flapper" can boast of no outstanding actors, so she takes to the authors, and talks enthusiastically of them. And so they while away the long vigil; and every now and then the pale-faced youth behind them who is so carelessly dressed, and who has in his hand a volume of Spencer's Philosophy, chimes in and imparts knowledge on a hazy point.

Just below is a whist party. Two are seated on campstools, while the others sit on the cold, hard stairs. One of the players is a stout woman of about two score years, while the others, who by their faces are undoubtedly Hebrews, are quite young. Thus they sit and the time passes quickly. Still further below is another party of three, chatting. Two of them are obviously clerks; the third sports a silk hat and morning coat. For twenty-two years be has attended first nights-always in the gallery, and the obvious fact that he has risen in the world makes no difference, he still goes in the gallery. Here is no room for snobs.

Three o'clock strikes, and the crowd by this time numbers twenty-five, quite half of whom cannot be of independent means. How they manage to get the time from business to wait here no one knows-perhaps a large number of grandmothers have conveniently died, or perhaps they have discovered a new excuse-but suffice to observe they are there, whether by hook or crook.

Now the card-party leave together for the purpose of getting tea. In a gallery queue on a first night exists a perfect spirit of cameraderie, for the places of those who leave for tea are kept and they are allowed to take them up again when they return. Then others leave, and this continues until all who desire have had tea, and this without losing their original places in the queue.

Time passes quickly. The crowd is now more rapidly augmented, and already the queue stretches like a long black snake as far as the stage door. Then seven-thirty o'clock arrives, the unbarring of doors is heard, and the public slowly file in and take up their seats. For a time interest centres in the occupants of the stalls, circle, and boxes. All celebrities are instantly recognised. "Look, there is Bernard Shaw!" some one cries. Then there is a roar of applause as Miss Ellen Terry, an inveterate first-nighter and always the darling of the gods, takes her seat. She is as popular with the new generation as with the old; and invariably receives an ovation.

This must be an important first night, for the elite of the artistic and Bohemian world are present. Then there is a hush as the lights go out, and from now on the silence is only broken by a laugh at a particular sally or clever witticism. Very few of the real first-nighters applaud during the play. They give their decision in no uncertain way at the close. The curtain at last descends on the final act amid almost a cold silence. Here and there in the stalls can be heard clapping, but already it can be seen that the play is a failure. Friends of the management applaud now to the full, and the curtain is raised again and again, but amid it all there is the spirit of falseness. Be careful! Ah, it is too late. The gallery is angered at the sham applause and there arises a loud and vigorous boo, and should the curtain rise again the boo is joined by cries of "Rotten!" and "Lights!"

Then at last up go the lights, and slowly the theatre empties. In the precincts and around the stage door are groups of the gallery critics, discussing the play, and finding reasons for its dismal failure. Here, too, can be heard remarkably accurate prophecies of the length of its run. Gradually the groups break up and take their various ways, not a few to the headquarters of the Gallery First-Nighters' Club in Maiden Lane, and the first night is over.

By Victor Ewart Cope. (First published in Playgoer and Society Illustrated, Vol 9 No. 51 - 1913).
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Costs of Attending the Theatre

The above costs are all based on actual prices advertised in period publications. The total equates to three pounds, two shillings and two pence. This does not include any consideration for the Lady's outfit which might have been specially purchased for the occasion. A private box for the evening at Daly's would have cost between two pounds twelve shillings and five pounds five shillings depending on size and location.

At the lower end of the scale, the cost would have been more modest. A few coppers on the tram then two shillings and sixpence for an unreserved seat in the pit, or one shilling for a seat high up in the gallery. A few more coppers for refreshments throughout the night would have brought the total cost to something probably between two and four shillings per person altogether.

NB: For those too young to remember pre-decimalisation currency, there were twenty shillings in a pound and twelve pennies in a shilling (making 240 pennies in a pound rather than todays 100).
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