I've had a muckle to say in this book aboot hoo other folk should be
acting. That's what my wife tells me, noo that she's read sae far.
"Eh, man Harry," she says, "they'll be calling you a preacher next.
Dinna forget you're no but a wee comic, after a'!"
Aye, and she's richt! It's a good thing for me to remember that. I'm
but old Harry Lauder, after a'. I've sung my songs, and I've told my
stories, all over the world to please folk. And if I've done a bit
more talking, lately, than some think I should, it's no been all my
ain fault. Folk have seemed to want to listen to me. They've asked me
questions. And there's this much more to be said aboot it a'.
When you've given maist of the best years of your life to the public
you come to ken it well. And--you respect it. I've known of actors and
other artists on the stage who thought they were better than their
public--aye. And what's come tae them? We serve a great master, we
folk of the stage. He has many minds and many tongues, and he tells us
quickly when we please him--and when we do not. And always, since the
nicht when I first sang in public, so many yearst agane that it hurts
a little to count the tale o' them, I've been like a doctor who keeps
his finger on the pulse of his patient.
I've tried to ken, always, day in, day oot, how I was pleasing you--
the public. You make up my audiences. And--it is you who send the
other audiences, that hae no heard me yet, to come to the theatre. To-
morrow nicht's audience is in the making to-nicht. If you folk who are
out in front the noo, beyond the glare of the footlights, dinna care
for me, dinna like the way I'm trying to please you, and amuse you,
there'll be empty seats in the hoose to-morrow and the next day.
Sae that's my answer, I'm thinking, to my wife when she tells me to
beware of turning into a preacher. I mind, do you ken, the way I've
talked to audiences at hame, and in America and Australia, these last
twa or three years. It was the war led me to do it first. I was
surprised, in the beginning. I had just the idea of saying a few
words. But you who were listening to me would not let me stop. You
asked for more and more--you made me think you wanted to know what old
Harry Lauder was thinking.
There was a day in Kansas City that I remember well. Kansas City is a
great place. And it has a wonderful hall--a place where national
conventions are held. I was there in 1918 just before the Germans
delivered their great assault in March, when they came so near to
breaking our line and reaching the Channel ports we'd held them from
through all the long years of the war. I was nervous, I'll no be
denying that. What Briton was not, that had a way of knowing how
terrible a time was upon us? And I knew--aye, it was known, in London
and in Washington, that the Hun was making ready for his last effort.
Those were dark and troubled days. The great American army that
General Pershing has led hame victorious the noo was still in the
making. The Americans were there in France, but they had not finished
their training. And it was in the time when they were just aboot ready
to begin to stream into France in really great numbers. But at hame,
in America, and especially out West, it was hard to realize how great
an effort was still needed.
America had raised her great armies. She had done wonders--and it was
natural for those folk, safe at hame, and far, far away frae all the
turmoil and the stress of the fighting, to think that they had done
enough.
The Americans knew, you'll ken, that they were resistless. They knew
that the gigantic power of America could crush half a dozen Germanys--
in time. But what we were all fearing, we who knew how grave the
situation was, how tremendous the Hun's last effort would be, was that
the line in France would be broken. The French had fought almost to
the last gasp. Their young men were gone. And if the Hun broke through
and swept his way to Paris, it was hard to believe that we could have
gathered our forces and begun all over again, as we would have had to
do.
In Kansas City there was a great chance for me, I was told. The people
wanted to hear me talk. They wanted to hear me--not just at the
theatre, but in the great hall where the conventions met. There was
only the one time when I could speak, and I said so--that was at noon.
It was the worst time of all the day to gather an audience of great
size. I knew that, and I was sorry. But I had been booked for two
performances a day while I was in Kansas City, and there was no
choice.
Well, I agreed to appear. Some of my friends were afraid it would be
what they called a frost. But when the time came for me to make my way
to the platform the hall was filled. Aye--that mighty hall! I dinna
ken how many thousand were there, but there were more than any theatre
in the world could hold--more than any two theatres, I'm thinking. And
they didna come to hear me sing or crack a joke. They came to hear me
talk--to hear me preach, if you'll be using that same word that my
wife is sae fond of teasing me with.
I'm thinking I did preach to them, maybe. I told them things aboot the
war they'd no heard before, nor thought of, maybe, as seriously as
they micht. I made them see the part they, each one of them, man, and
woman, and child, had to play. I talked of their president, and of the
way he needed them to be upholding him, as their fathers and mothers
had upheld President Lincoln.
And they rose to me--aye, they cheered me until the tears stood in my
een, and my voice was so choked that I could no go on for a space. So
that's what I'm meaning when I say it's no all my fault if I preach,
sometimes, on the stage, or when I'm writing in a book. It's true,
too, I'm thinking, that I'm no a real author. For when I sit me doon
to write a book I just feel that I maun talk wi' some who canna be wi'
me to hear my voice, and I write as I talk. They'll be telling me,
perhaps, that that's no the way to write a book, but it's the only way
I ken.
Oh, I've had arguments aboot a' this! Arguments, and to spare! They'll
come tae me, good friends, good advisers. They'll be worried when I'm
in some place where there's strong feeling aboot some topic I'm
thinking of discussing wi' my friends in the audience.
"Now, Harry, go easy here," I mind a Scots friend told me, once during
the war. I was in a town I'll no be naming. "This is a queer place.
There are a lot of good Germans here. They're unhappy about the war,
but they're loyal enough. They don't want to take any great part in
fighting their fatherland, but they won't help against their new
country, either. They just want to go about their business and forget
that there's a war."
Do you ken what I did in that town I talked harder and straighter
about the war than I had in any place I'd talked in up to then! And I
talked specially to the Germans, and told them what their duty was,
and how they could no be neutral.
I've small use for them that would be using the soft pedal always, and
seeking to offend no one. If you're in the richt the man who takes
offence at what you say need not concern you. Gi'en you hold a
different opinion frae mine. Suppose I say what's in my mind, and that
I think that I am richt and you are wrong. Wull ye be angry wi' me
because of that? Not if you know you're richt! It's only the man who
is'na sure of his cause who loses his temper and flies into a rage
when he heard any one disagree wi' him.
There's a word they use in America aboot the man who tries to be all
things to a' men--who tries to please both sides when he maun talk
aboot some question that's in dispute. They call him a "pussyfooter."
Can you no see sicca man? He'll no put doon his feet firmly--he'll
walk on the balls of them. His een will no look straight ahead, and
meet those of other men squarely. He'll be darting his glances aboot
frae side to side, looking always for disapproval, seeking to avoid
it. But wall he? Can he? No--and weel ye ken that--as weel as I! Show
me sicca man and I'll show you one who ends by having no friends at
all--one who gets all sides down upon him, because he was so afraid of
making enemies that he did nothing to make himself freinds.
Think straight--talk straight. Don't be afraid of what others will say
or think aboot ye. Examine your own heart and your own mind. If what
you say and what you do suits your ain conscience you need ha' no
concern for the opinions of others. If you're wrong--weel, it's as
weel for you to ken that. And if you're richt you'll find supporters
enough to back you.
I said, whiles back, that I'd in my mind cases of artists who thocht
themselves sae great they need no think o' their public. Weel, I'll be
naming no names--'twould but mak' hard feeling, you'll ken, and to no
good end. But it's sae, richt enough. And it's especially sae in
Britain, I think, when some great favorite of the stage goes into the
halls to do a turn.
They're grand places to teach a sense of real value, the halls! In the
theatre so muckle counts--the play, the rest of the actors,
reputation, aye, a score of things. But in a music hall it's between
you and the audience. And each audience must be won just as if you'd
never faced one before. And you canna be familiar wi' your audience.
Friendly--oh, aye! I've been friendly wi' my audiences ever since I've
had them. But never familiar.
And there's a vast difference between friendliness and what I mean
when I say familiarity. When you are familiar I think you act as
though you were superior--that's what I mean by the word, at least,
whether I'm richt or no. And it's astonishing how quickly an audience
detects that--and, of course, resents it. Your audience will have no
swank frae ye--no side. Ye maun treat it wi' respect and wi'
consideration.
Often, of late, I've thocht that times were changing. Folk, too many
of them, seem to have a feeling that ye can get something for nothing.
Man, it's no so--it never will be so. We maun work, one way or
another, for all we get. It's those lads and lassies who come tae the
halls, whiles, frae the legitimate stage, that put me in mind o' that.
Be sure, if they've any real reputation upon the stage, they have
earned it. Oh, I ken fine that there'll be times when a lassie 'll
mak' her way tae a sort of success if she's a pretty face, or if she's
gained a sort of fame, I'm sorry to say, frae being mixed up in some
scandal or another. But--unless she works hard, unless she has
talent, she'll no keep her success. After the first excitement aboot
her is worn off, she's judged by what she can do--not by what the
papers once said aboot her. Can ye no think of a hundred cases like
that? I can, without half trying.
Weel, then, what I'm meaning is that those great actors and actresses,
before they come to the halls to show us old timers what's what, and
how to get applause, have a solid record of hard work behind them. And
still some of them think the halls are different, and that there
they'll be clapped and cheered just because of their reputations.
They'd be astonished tae hear the sort of talk goes on in the gallery
of the Pav., in London--just for a sample. I've heard!
"Gaw bli'me, Alf--'oo's this toff? Comes on next. 'Mr. Arthur Andrews,
the Celebrated Shakespearian Actor.'"
"Never heard on him," says Alf, indifferently.
And so it goes. Mr. Andrews appears, smiling, self-possessed, waiting
gracefully for the accustomed thunders of applause to subside.
Sometimes he gets a round or two--from the stalls. More often he
doesn't. Music hall audiences give their applause after the turn, not
before, as a rule, save when some special favorite like Miss Vesta
Tilley or Mr. Albert Chevalier or--oh, I micht as weel say it like old
Harry Lauder!--comes on!
And then Mr. Andrews, too often, goes stiffly through a scene from a
play, or gives a dramatic recitation. In its place what he does would
be splendid, and would be splendidly received. The trouble, too often,
is that he does not realize that he must work to please this new
audience. If he does, his regard will be rich in the event of success.
I dinna mean just the siller he will earn, either.
It's true, I think, that there's a better living, for the really
successful artist, in varieties than there is on the stage. There's
more certainty--less of a speculative, dubious element, such as ye
canna escape when there's a play involved. The best and most famous
actors in the world canna keep a play frae being a failure if the
public does not tak' to it. But in the halls a good turn's a good
turn, and it can be used longer than even the most successful plays
can run.
But still, it's no just the siller I was thinking of when I spoke of
the rich rewards of a real success in the halls. An artist makes real
friends there--warm-hearted, personal friends, who become interested
in him and his career; who think of him, and as like as not, call him
by his first name. Oh--aye, I've known artists who were offended by
that! I mind a famous actor who was with me once when I was taking a
walk in London, and a dozen costers, recognizing me, wished me good
luck--it was just before I was tae mak' my first visit to America.
It was "Good luck, Harry," and "God bless you, Harry!" frae them.
'Deed, and it warmed the cockles of my heart to hear them! But my
friend was quite shocked.
"I say, Harry--do you know those persons?" he said.
"Never saw them before," I told him, cheerfully.
"But they addressed you in the most familiar fashion," he persisted.
"And why not?" I asked. "I never saw them before--but they've seen me,
thanks be! And as for familiarity--they helped to buy the shoon and
the claes I'm wearing! They paid for the parritch I had for breakfast,
and the bit o' beef I'll be eating for my dinner. If it wasna for them
and the likes of them I'd still be digging coal i' the pit in
Scotland! It'll be the sair day for me when they call me Mr. Lauder!"
I meant that then, and I mean it now. And if ever I hear a coster call
out, "There goes Sir Harry Lauder," I'll ken it's time for me to be
really doing what I'm really going tae do before sae long--retire frae
the stage and gae hame to my wee hoose amang the heather at Dunoon tae
live!
I'd no be having you think I'm meaning to criticize all the actors and
actresses of the legitimate stage who have done a turn in the halls.
Many of them are among our prime favorites, and our most successful
artists. Some have given up appearing in plays to stick to the halls;
some gae tae the halls only when they can find no fitting play to
occupy their time and their talent. Some of the finest and most
talented folk in the world are, actors and artists; whiles I think all
the most generous and kindly folk are! And I can count my friends,
warm, dear, intimate friends amang them by the score--I micht almost
say by the hundred.
No, it's just the flighty ones that gie the rest a bad name I'm
addressing my criticisms to. There'll be those that accept an
opportunity to appear in the halls scornfully. They'll be lacking an
engagement, maybe. And so they'll turn to the halls tae earn some
siller easily, with their lips curling the while and their noses
turned up. They see no need tae give of their best.
"Why should I really _act_ for these people?" I heard one famous actor
say once. "The subtleties of my art would be wasted upon them. I shall
try to bring myself down to their level!"
Now, heard you ever sae hopeless a saying as that? It puts me in mind
of a friend of mine--a novelist. He's a grand writer, and his readers,
by the million, are his friends. It's hard for his publishers to print
enough of his books to supply the demand. And he's a kindly, simple
wee man; he ust does his best, all the time, and never worries aboot
the results. But there are those that are envious of him. I mind the
only time I ever knew him to be angry was when one of these, a man who
could just get his books published, and no mair, was talking.
"Oh, I suppose I'll have to do it!" he said. "Jimmy"--Jimmy was the
famous novelist my friend--"tell me how you write one of your best
sellers? I think I'll turn out one or two under a pen name. I need
some money."
Man, you can no even mak' money in that fashion! I ken fine there's
men succeed, on the stage, and in literature, and in every other walk
of life, who do not do the very best of work. But, mind you, they've
this in common--they do the best they can! You may not have to be the
best to win the public--but you maun be sincere, or it will punish
you.