There was talk that I micht gae to America lang before the time came.
I'd offers--oh, aye! But I was uncertain. It was a tricky business,
tae go sae far frae hame. A body would be a fool to do sae unless he
waur sure and siccar against loss. All the time I was doing better and
better in Britain. And it seems that American visitors to Britain,
tourists and the like, came to hear me often, and carried hame
reports--to say nothing of the scouts the American managers always
have abroad.
Still, I was verra reluctant tae mak' the journey. I was no kennin'
what sort of a hand I'd be for an ocean voyage. And then, I was liking
my ain hame fine, and the idea of going awa' frae it for many months
was trying tae me. It was William Morris persuaded me in the end, of
course. There's a man would persuade a'body at a' tae do his will.
He'll be richt sae, often, you see, that you canna hault oot against
the laddie at all. I'm awfu' fond o' Wullie Morris. He should ha' been
a Scot.
He made me great promises. I didna believe them a', for it seemed
impossible that they could be true. But I liked the man, and I decided
that if the half of what he said was true it would be verra
interesting--verra interesting indeed. Whiles, when you deal w' a man
and he tells you more than you think he can do, you come to distrust
him altogether. It was not so that I felt aboot Wull Morris.
It was a great time when I went off to America at last. My friends
made a great to-do aboot my going. There were pipers to play me off--I
mind the way they skirled. Verra soft they were playing at the end,
ane of my favorite tunes--"Will ye no come back again?" And so I went.
I was a better sailor than I micht ha' thought. I enjoyed the voyage.
And I'll ne'er forget my first sicht o' New York. It's e'en more
wonderfu' the noo; there's skyscrapers they'd not dared dream of, so
high they are, when I was first there. Maybe they've reached the
leemit now, but I hae ma doots--I'm never thinking a Yankee has
reached a leemit, for I've ma doots that he has ane!
I kenned fine that they'd heard o' me in America. Wull Morris and
others had told me that. I knew that there'd be Scots there tae bid me
welcome, for the sake of the old country. Scots are clansmen, first
and last; they make much of any chance to keep the memory and the
spirit of Scotland fresh in a strange land, when they are far frae
hame. And so I thought, when I saw land, that I'd be having soon a bit
reception frae some fellow Scots, and it was a bonny thing to think
upon, sae far frae all I'd known all my life lang.
I was no prepared at a' for what really happened. The Scots were oot--
oh, aye, and they had pipers to greet me, and there were auld friends
that had settled doon in New York or other parts o' the United States,
and had come to meet me. Scots ha' a way o' makin' siller when they
get awa' frae Scotland, I'm findin' oot. At hame the competition is
fierce, sae there are some puir Scots. But when they gang away they've
had such training that no ithers can stand against them, and sae the
Scot in a foreign place is like to be amang the leaders.
But it wasna only the Scots turned oot to meet me. There were any
number of Americans. And the American reporters! Unless you've come
into New York and been met by them you've no idea of what they're
like, yon. They made rare sport of me, and I knew they were doing it,
though I think they thought, the braw laddies, they were pulling the
wool over my een!
There was much that was new for me, and you'll remember I'm a Scot.
When I'm travelling a new path, I walk cannily, and see where each
foot is going to rest before I set it doon. Sae it was when I came to
America. I was anxious to mak' friends in a new land, and I wadna be
saying anything to a reporter laddie that could be misunderstood. Sae
I asked them a' to let me off, and not mak' me talk till I was able to
give a wee bit o' thought to what I had tae say.
They just laughed at one another and at me. And the questions they
asked me! They wanted to know what did I think of America? And o' this
and o' that that I'd no had the chance tae see. It was a while later
before I came to understand that they were joking wi' themselves as
well as wi' me. I've learned, since then, that American reporters, and
especially those that meet the ships that come in to New York, have
had cause to form impressions of their ain of a gude many famous folk
that would no be sae flattering to those same folk as what they
usually see written aboot themselves.
Some of my best friends in America are those same reporters. They've
been good tae me, and I've tried to be fair wi' them. The American
press is an institution that seems strange to a Briton, but to an
artist it's a blessing. It's thanks to the papers that the people
learn sae much aboot an artist in America; it's thanks tae them that
they're sae interested in him.
I'm no saying the papers didn't rub my fur the wrang way once or
twice; they made mair than they should, I'm thinking, o' the jokes
aboot me and the way I'd be carfu' wi' ma siller. But they were aye
good natured aboot it. It's a strange thing, that way that folk think
I'm sae close wi' my money. I'm canny; I like to think that when I
spend my money I get its value in return. But I'm no the only man i'
the world feels sae aboot it; that I'm sure of. And I'll no hand oot
siller to whoever comes asking. Aye, I'll never do that, and I'd think
shame to masel' if I did. The only siller that's gude for a man to
have, the only siller that helps him, i' the end, is that which he's
worked hard to earn and get.
Oh, gi'e'n a body's sick, or in trouble o' some sair sort, that's
different; he deserves help then, and it's nae the same thing. But
what should I or any other man gie money to an able bodied laddie that
can e'en work for what he needs, the same as you and me? It fashes me
to ha' such an one come cadging siller frae me; I'd think wrong to
encourage him by gi'e'n it the him.
You maun work i' this world. If your siller comes tae you too easily,
you'll gain nae pleasure nor profit frae the spending on't. The things
we enjoy the maist are not those that are gi'e'n to us; they're those
that, when we look at, mean weeks or months or maybe years of work.
When you've to work for what you get you have the double pleasure. You
look forward for a lang time, while you're working, to what your work
will bring you. And then, in the end, you get it--and you know you're
beholden tae no man but yourself for what you have. Is that no a grand
feeling?
Aweel, it's no matter. I'm glad for the laddies to hae their fun wi'
me. They mean no harm, and they do no harm. But I've been wishfu',
sometimes, that the American reporters had a wee bit less imagination.
'Tis a grand thing, imagination; I've got it masel, tae some extent.
But those New York reporters--and especially the first ones I met!
Man, they put me in the shade altogether!
I'd little to say to them the day I landed; I needed time tae think
and assort my impressions. I didna ken my own self just what I was
thinking aboot New York and America. And then, I'd made arrangements
wi' the editor of one of the great New York papers to write a wee
piece for his journal that should be telling his readers hoo I felt.
He was to pay me weel for that, and it seemed no more than fair that
he should ha' the valuable words of Harry Lauder to himself, since he
was willing to pay for them.
But did it mak' a wee bit of difference tae those laddies that I had
nought to say to them? That it did--not! I bade them all farewell at
my hotel. But the next morning, when the papers were brought to me,
they'd all long interviews wi' me. I learned that I thought America
was the grandest country I'd ever seen. One said I was thinking of
settling doon here, and not going hame to Scotland at a' any more! And
another said I'd declared I was sorry I'd not been born in the United
States, since, noo, e'en though I was naturalized--as that paper said
I meant tae be!--I could no become president of the United States!
Some folk took that seriously--folk at hame, in the main. They've an
idea, in America, that English folk and Scots ha' no got a great sense
of humor. It's not that we've no got one; it's just that Americans ha'
a humor of a different sort. They've a verra keen sense o' the
ridiculous, and they're as fond of a joke that's turned against
themselves as of one they play upon another pairson. That's a fine
trait, and it makes it easy to amuse them in the theatre.
I think I was mair nervous aboot my first appearance in New York than
I'd ever been in ma life before. In some ways it was worse than that
nicht in the old Gatti's in London. I'd come tae New York wi' a
reputation o' sorts, ye ken; I'd brought naethin' o' the sort tae New
York.
When an artist comes tae a new country wi' sae much talk aboot him as
there was in America concerning me, there's always folk that tak' it
as a challenge.
"Eh!" they'll say. "So there's Harry Lauder coming, is there? And he's
the funniest wee man in the halls, is he? He'd make a graven image
laugh, would he? Well, I'll be seeing! Maybe he can make me laugh--
maybe no. We'll just be seeing."
That's human nature. It's natural for people to want to form their own
judgments aboot everything. And it's natural, tae, for them tae be
almost prejudiced against anyone aboot whom sae much has been said. I
realized a' that; I'd ha' felt the same way myself. It meant a great
deal, too, the way I went in New York. If I succeeded there I was sure
to do well i' the rest of America. But to fail in New York, to lose
the stamp of a Broadway approval--that wad be laying too great a
handicap altogether upon the rest of my tour.
In London I'd had nothing to lose. Gi'e'n I hadna made my hit that
first nicht in the Westminster Bridge Road, no one would have known
the difference. But in New York there'd be everyone waiting. The
critics would all be there--not just men who write up the music halls,
but the regular critics, that attend first nichts at the theatre. It
was a different and a mair serious business than anything I'd known in
London.
It was a great theatre in which I appeared--one o' the biggest in New
York, and the greatest I'd ever played in, I think, up tae that time.
And when the nicht came for my first show the hoose was crowded; there
was not a seat to be had, e'en frae the speculators.
Weel, there's ane thing I've learned in my time on the stage. You
canna treat an audience in any verra special way, just because you're
anxious that it shall like you. You maun just do your best, as you've
been used to doing it. I had this much in my favor--I was singing auld
songs, that I knew weel the way of. And then, tae, many of that
audience knew me. There were a gude few Scots amang it; there were
American friends I'd made on the other side, when they'd been
visiting. And there was another thing I'd no gi'en a thocht, and that
was the way sae many o' them knew ma songs frae havin' heard them on
the gramaphone.
It wasna till after I'd been in America that I made sae many records,
but I'd made enough at lime for some of my songs tae become popular,
and so it wasna quite sicca novelty as I'd thought it micht be for
them to hear me. Oh, aye, what wi' one thing and another it would have
been my ain fault had that audience no liked hearing me sing that
nicht.
But I was fairly overwhelmed by what happened when I'd finished my
first song. The house rose and roared at me. I'd never seen sic a
demonstration. I'd had applause in my time, but nothing like that.
They laughed frae the moment I first waggled my kilt at them, before I
did more than laugh as I came oot to walk aroond. But there were
cheers when I'd done; it was nae just clapping of the hands they gie'd
me. It brought the tears to my een to hear them. And I knew then that
I'd made a whole new countryful of friends that nicht--for after that
I couldna hae doots aboot the way they'd be receiving me elsewhere.
Even sae, the papers surprised me the next morning. They did sae much
more than just praise me! They took me seriously--and that was
something the writers at hame had never done. They saw what I was
aiming at wi' my songs. They understood that I was not just a
comedian, not just a "Scotch comic." I maun amuse an audience wi' my
songs, but unless I mak' them think, and, whiles, greet a bit, too,
I'm no succeeding. There's plenty can sing a comic song as weel as I
can. But that's no just the way I think of all my songs. I try to
interpret character in them. I study queer folk o' all the sorts I see
and know. And, whiles, I think that in ane of my songs I'm doing, on a
wee scale, what a gifted author does in a novel of character.
Aweel, it went straight to my heart, the way those critics wrote about
me. They were not afraid of lowering themselves by writing seriously
about a "mere music hall comedian." Aye, I've had wise gentlemen of
the London press speak so of me. They canna understand, yon gentry,
why all the fuss is made about Harry Lauder. They're a' for the Art
Theatre, and this movement and that. But they're no looking for what's
natural and unforced i' the theatre, or they'd be closer to-day to
having a national theatre than they'll ever be the gait they're using
the noo!
They're verra much afraid of hurting their dignity, or they were, in
Britain, before I went to America. I think perhaps it woke them up to
read the New York reviews of my appearance. It's a sure thing they've
been more respectful tae me ever since. And I dinna just mean that
it's to me they're respectful. It's to what I'm trying tae do. I dinna
care a bit what a'body says or thinks of me. But I tak' my work
seriously. I couldna keep on doing it did I not, and that's what sae
many canna understand. They think a man at whom the public maun laugh
if he's to rate himsel' a success must always be comical; that he can
never do a serious thing. It is a mistaken idea altogether, yon.
I'm thinking Wull Morris must ha' breathed easier, just as did I, the
morning after that first nicht show o' mine. He'd been verra sure--
but, man, he stood to lose a lot o' siller if he'd found he'd backed
the wrang horse! I was glad for his sake as well as my own that he had
not.
After the start my first engagement in New York was one long triumph.
I could ha' stayed much longer than I did, but there were twa reasons
against making any change in the plans that had been arranged. One is
that a long tour is easy to throw oot o' gear. Time is allotted long
in advance, and for a great many attractions. If one o' them loses
it's week, or it's three nichts, or whatever it may be, it's hard to
fit it in again. And when a tour's been planned so as to eliminate so
much as possible of doubling back in railway travel, everything may be
spoiled by being a week or so late in starting it.
Then, there was another thing. I was sure to be coming back to New
York again, and it was as weel to leave the city when it was still
hard to be buying tickets for my show. That's business; I could see it
as readily as could Wull Morris, who was a revelation tae me then as a
manager. He's my friend, as well as my manager, the noo, you'll ken; I
tak' his advice aboot many and many a thing, and we've never had
anything that sounded like even the beginnings of a quarrel.
Sae on I went frae New York. I was amazed at the other cities--Boston,
Philadelphia, Washington, Baltimore, Chicago, Pittsburgh--in a' o'
them the greeting New York had gi'en me was but just duplicated. They
couldna mak' enough of me. And everywhere I made new friends, and
found new reason to rejoice over having braved the hazardous adventure
of an American tour.
Did I tell you how I was warned against crossing the ocean? It was the
same as when I'd thought of trying ma luck in London. The same sort of
friends flocked about me.
"Why will you be risking all you've won, Harry?" they asked me. "Here
in Britain you're safe--your reputation's made, and you're sure of a
comfortable living, and more, as long as you care to stay on the
stage. There they might not understand you, and you would suffer a
great blow to your prestige if you went there and failed."
I didna think that, e'en were I to fail in America, it would prevent
me frae coming back to Britain and doing just as well as ever I had.
But, then, too, I didna think much o' that idea. Because, you see, I
was so sure I was going to succeed, as I had succeeded before against
odds and in the face of all the croakers and prophets of misfortune
had to say.