Chapter VI · (continued 2)

“Ah, Mr. Mathews! how d’ye do? Glad to see you. Have a glass of sherry.”

“No, thank you. I want a couple of hundred pounds to-morrow.”

“Certainly, with pleasure. How long do you want it for? Have a glass of sherry?”

“Say three months.”

“What security?”

“None.”

“Very good—I must have a warrant of attorney.”

“Of course.”

“All right, Mr. Mathews; look in at twelve o’clock to-morrow, and I’ll have it ready. Do have a glass of sherry!”

Mathews had no belief that the money would be ready at the time named, though the impecunious actor kept the appointment. He knew that the money-lender was gratified by the frequent appearance of a brougham at the door.

“Well, Mr. Mathews, I find I can’t manage the £200. I can only let you have £150. I had no idea I was so short at my bankers. Amount actually overdrawn. But I’ve got a friend to do it for you; it’s all the same. He’ll be here directly. Bless me, how long he is. Have a glass of sherry? Are you going back to the theatre? I’ll bring him with me in half-an-hour.”

Neither money-lender nor his friend appeared at the theatre. On Friday Mathews again made application for the money.

“Didn’t come till too late; but all right—you don’t want it till to-morrow, you know. What’s your treasury hour?”

“Two.”

“Be here at twelve and it shall be ready.”

The actor was there, punctual to the moment.

“All right. Have a glass of sherry? My nephew Dick has gone to the city for the cheque.”

“But the time is getting on.”

“Never mind. I’ll be with you as the clock strikes two.”

Four o’clock arrived, and neither usurer nor money was forthcoming, the salaries of the company of course remaining unpaid. A note forwarded announced that the money-lender would be with Mathews at six to the moment. At seven the long-expected gentleman rushed in breathless.

“Such a job Dick’s had for you, Mr. Matthews! But here I am with the money. My friend disappointed me, but I managed without him. My nephew will read over the warrant of attorney.”

“But I’m just going on the stage; there’s no time now.”

“Won’t take five minutes. Dick, read the warrant. Now, here is the money. Let’s see, £15 left off the old account.”

“Oh, pray don’t deduct that now.”

“Better, Mr. Mathews, keeps all square. That’s £15, then the interest three months, £17 10s., and £15, £32 10s. Warrant of Attorney £7 10s., that’s £40. Then my nephew’s fee, £1 1s., and my trouble, say £1, £42 10s. Here’s 15s., that’s £42 16s. Dick, have you got 4s.?”

“I’ve got 3s. 6d.”

“That will do; I’ve got 6d., that’s £43; and £7 cash makes the £50.”

“Yes; but I only get £7 odd.”

“Never mind, keeps all square. Now the £100. Here is a cheque of Gribble and Co. on Lloyd’s for £25 10s.”

“What’s the use of a cheque at this time of night?”

“Good as the bank, good as the money; you can pay it as money. Fifty sovereigns makes £75 10s., and a ten-pound note makes £85 10s.—stay, it ought to be £95 10s. Here’s another ten pound note. I forgot—there you are, £95 10s.—only wants £4 10s. to make up the £100. You haven’t got £4 10s. about you, have you Mr. Mathews, you could lend me till the morning, just to get it straight, you know.”

“I believe I have; there are four sovereigns and ten shillings in silver.”

“That’s all right; £4 makes £99 10s. and 10s.—stop, let’s count them—count after your own father, as the saying is—four and five’s nine, and three fourpenny pieces; all right. Stop—one’s a threepenny. Got a penny, or a post-office stamp? Never mind, I won’t be hard upon you for the penny. There you are, all comfortable. Good evening.”

Mathews paid away the cheque “as money.” Two days afterwards he got an indignant note, stating that the cheque was dishonoured. Out of temper, Mathews sent for the discounter, and he appeared with alacrity.

“Not paid! Gribble’s cheque not paid—some mistake—it’s as good as the Bank. Here, give it to me, I’ll get it for you in five minutes. How long shall you be here?”

“An hour.”

“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

Mathews saw no more of the discounter or the cheque, the scoundrel entirely disappearing with the only proof in his pocket. But sometimes biters were bit, for an entry in one of the actor’s diaries, dated January 1843, states, “called on Lawrence Levy to pay him £30, but borrowed £20 of him instead.”

On one occasion a very gentlemanly man waited on Mathews.

“I’m sorry to trouble you,” he quietly said, “but I’ve a duty to perform, and I am sure you are too much a man of the world to quarrel with me. I have a writ against you for a hundred pounds, and must request immediate payment, or the pleasure of your company elsewhere.”

“Quite impossible,” said Mathews, “at this moment to meet it; but I will consult with my treasurer, and see what can be done.”

“Excuse me,” said the sheriff’s officer, “but I cannot lose sight of you; and whatever is to be done, must be done here. Come, pay the money, and there’s an end.”

“It can’t be done,” said Mathews.

“Why didn’t you get him to renew the bill?” replied the other.

“He wouldn’t renew it; nothing would induce him.”

“Nonsense,” said he, “accept this bill for the same amount, and put your own time for payment, and I undertake to get you his receipt.”

“Agreed,” answered the actor, accepting the bill, which, without another word the sheriff’s officer took up, threw down the receipt, and walked towards the door.

“Stop,” said Mathews, “you said you couldn’t leave me without the money. What does all this mean?”

“It means that I paid your debt as I knew you couldn’t, and now you owe it me instead. Be punctual, and I’ll do as much again.”

The sheriff’s officer just described was not the only one who befriended the luckless manager. A kindred functionary of the law, having been struck by the cruel conduct of a vindictive tradesman, actually paying the bill himself, and receiving the money back from Mathews in instalments of ten pounds.

Instances grave and gay might be multiplied of the actor’s unfortunate position and the financial entanglements that, like heavy fetters, constrained him at every step. He said that the results of the Covent Garden speculation were for the first season sowing, for the second hoeing, and for the third owing. On his debts being called in, to his dismay he found that including rent the responsibilities amounted to the sum of £30,000. Mathews when he learned the fact was aghast, and his only remedy was the Insolvent Debtors’ Court. Things were made easy for him, and he passed a week in an elegantly fitted chamber above the Porters’ Lodge of the Queen’s Bench Prison. He was not unacquainted with that prison, having had residence there soon after his first notorious American trip, and during that imprisonment he took advantage of the old rules pertaining to the liberties of the Bench, and played an engagement at the Surrey Theatre. The theatre being a few yards beyond the boundaries of the Queen’s Bench liberties, Davidge, the Surrey lessee, and Cross, lessee of the Surrey Zoological Gardens, gave extra bail to enable Charles Mathews to have the day rule extended through the evening. A tipstaff was stationed at his dressing-room door and at each wing of the stage, to watch the actor, who, though out of the Bench, was in custody. When absolutely free from his Covent Garden liabilities he with a sense of honour that did him credit gave securities for what he considered purely personal debts, making himself still liable to the amount of about £4000, anticipating that the creditors would treat him with consideration and thoughtfulness. He was mistaken, and for years he still had the millstone round his neck. During his lesseeship of the Lyceum he was in the same straits as he was in the Old Covent Garden days. Accumulated interest, law expenses for raising money, grew year after year and Mathews was still in his miserable plight of impecuniosity. At length in July 1856, while about to play at the Preston Theatre, he was arrested and imprisoned in Lancaster Gaol. He chafed under the incarceration, and he has left a touching account of the misery he felt on being separated from his wife, and of the melancholy influences of his prison-house. His imprisonment created much gossip, and ere he left “durance vile” a somewhat singular recognition of his circumstances took place. His fellow-prisoners in Lancaster Gaol communicated with him as follows:

Letter addressed to Charles J. Mathews, in Lancaster Castle, July 1856:—

“Illustrious Sir,

“Permit us to address you as a brother-debtor surrounded by oppressive circumstances akin to our own, which are rendered the more striking to one who like yourself has acquired a world-wide reputation as an artist and elocutionist; and whose uniform kindness and manly conduct has excited the admiration of those who now respectfully, through this medium, tender you what they consider to be a just meed of approbation.

“With the newspaper gossip relative to your alleged state of affairs, which has been extensively circulated we have nothing to do and we know not whether you are fiercely opposed or otherwise; we seek not to elicit any facts connected with your position, but we beg most earnestly and respectfully to compassionate you as one of the most ingenious amongst our common manhood; and having for the most part felt the pangs attendant upon the day and hour of tribulation, allow us to express the strength of our sympathetic feeling by stating that we heartily wish you a signal, complete, and honourable release from that load of embarrassment which so unhappily depresses us all, but which, by reason of your refined sensibility must necessarily press with great force upon your mental organization; and this feeling compels us to say, ‘Go on and conquer.’

“Signed on behalf of the members of the Long Room,

“John Harridge, “Chairman.”

Mathews thought that there was an odd flavour of Mr. Micawber about the foregoing epistle. Subsequently he did what he should have done years before, sought freedom from his liabilities under legal protection. Many droll scenes took place when the comedian was under Bankruptcy examination. On one occasion Mr. Commissioner Law asked him why he had kept a brougham, instead of taking a cab to and fro between his residence and the theatre; and the lawyer was told thereupon by the debtor, that the brougham was hired from the purest motives of economy.

“In a word,” said Mathews, “I really could not afford the price of cabs.”

“I should have thought that cabs were more economical than a private carriage,” replied Law.

“Not at all,” said Mathews. “Cabs take ready money, a precious article, to be carefully treasured and only parted with under absolute necessity, but a brougham can always be hired on credit.”

Mathews, free of his liabilities, became prosperous, and his latter days were marked by success and happiness.

Of his attractiveness on the stage it is almost superfluous to speak; it may be said with truth, “We shall not look upon his like again;” for though not a great actor, he was unapproachable in those light comedy parts that require dash and go. I remember seeing him play Dazzle in ‘London Assurance,’ at Melbourne, exactly thirty years, to the very day, from the date of its first performance; and though he was the oldest member of the company on the stage that night, he was in manner and appearance by far the youngest.