Gilbert and Sullivan.
"Then I can hum a fugue, of which I've heard the music's _din
afore_, and whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense,
_Pinafore_."
_The Pirates of Penzance_.
I played in comparatively few amateur theatrical performances--half
a dozen, at the outside. I played John Chodd, jun., in _Society_, at
the old Gallery of Illustration, in 1868; and, singularly enough,
one of my critics was Mr. W. S. Gilbert, who, under the heading of
"The Theatrical Lounger," in _The Illustrated Times_, said: "Mr.
Grossmith has comic powers of no mean order; and his idea of John
Chodd, carefully modelled on Mr. Clarke, had, nevertheless, an
amusing originality of its own." The after-piece was a burlesque on
_No Thoroughfare_, written by my father, in which I danced and sang
more than I acted. This performance was repeated once.
I then essayed the part of Paul Pry, in Poole's comedy of that name,
at the Gallery of Illustration, in 1870, and played in the afternoon
a burlesque of which I was part author. These performances went off
very well, and we were very much complimented (as all amateurs are),
and declared our attempts to have eclipsed our neighbours (as all
amateurs do). But such a thought as going on the stage never entered
my head for a moment; I refused several offers, including a good one
from Mr. E. P. Hingston to appear in the comic opera _La Branche
Cassee_, at the Opera Comique, the very theatre at which I was
destined to make my _debut_.
After entertaining all over the country for seven years, I made a
rather important discovery; viz., that my income was as rapidly
_de_creasing each year as my family and household expenses were
_in_creasing. I disliked being away so long from London; for there
is nothing so valuable to any public singer or actor as the constant
appearance of his name in the entertainments or theatrical columns
of the metropolitan daily papers.
I had begun my autumn and winter tour with my father for 1877-8,
when, in the November of 1877, I received the following letter:
"Beefsteak Club,
"King William Street, W.C.
"Tuesday Night.
"Dear Mr. Grossmith,--Are you inclined to go on the stage for a
time? There is a part in the new piece I am doing with Gilbert which
I think you would play admirably. I can't find a good man for it.
Let me have a line, or come to 9 Albert Mansions to-morrow after 4,
or Thursday before 2.30.
"Yours sincerely,
"ARTHUR SULLIVAN."
The great compliment which I considered the letter conveyed filled
me with more delight than I ever could express. I think I read the
letter over twenty times. I was not thinking of the offer of the
engagement, for I was immediately under the impression that I should
decline it. My father never had a good opinion of my amateur acting,
and I valued his judgment so highly that his opinion was in a great
measure shared by me.
Arthur Sullivan had only heard me sing once, after a dinner party,
and it was evident, from his letter, I had created some sound
impression; hence my extreme delight at his offer. I remember, after
the said party, Sir Arthur (he was then Mr.) kindly asked me back to
his rooms, with a few other friends, including Alfred Cellier, the
composer, and Arthur Cecil, to whom I was (and still am) much
indebted for the most valuable hints he had from time to time given
me respecting the style of sketch and song suitable for "smart"
drawing-room work, and who had taken great interest in me. At
Sullivan's, that evening, we all sang, played, and chatted till an
early hour in the morning; and I, as a comparatively "new" man, was
especially "drawn out."
Following Arthur Sullivan's letter, with its complimentary offer,
came a long one from Arthur Cecil (who, it appears, had suggested my
name to Sullivan), pointing out the _pros_ and _cons_, with an
additional "summing up" of both, worthy of a judge--and a good
judge, too.
Cecil told me afterwards that Sullivan both writing letters at the
Beefsteak, when the former said, "I can't find a fellow for this
opera."
Arthur Cecil said, "I wonder if Grossmith----"
Before the sentence was completed, Arthur Sullivan said, "The very
man!"
I was then communicated with. I am much indebted to these two
Arthurs. I reverence the name of Arthur; and if ever I am blessed
with another son---- But there! as they say in novels, "I am
digressing."
Then came a week of awful anxiety. Should I cancel the provincial
engagements which I had already made, and which were, of course, a
certainty, in favour of a new venture, which was not? My father
said, "Not." He did not think I had voice enough. Arthur Sullivan,
however, thought I had. I went to consult him, and he struck the D
(fourth line in treble clef, if you please), and said, "Sing it out
as loud as you can." I did. Sullivan looked up, with a most humorous
expression on his face--even his eye-glass seemed to smile--and he
simply said, "Beautiful!" Sullivan then sang, "My name is John
Wellington Wells," and said, "You can do that?"
I replied, "Yes; I think I can do that."
"Very well," said Sir Arthur, "if you can do that, you can do the
rest."
Then off I went to W. S. Gilbert, at Bolton Gardens, to see what the
part itself was like. Mr. Gilbert was very kind, and seemed pleased
that I meditated accepting the engagement. [A few months beforehand
I had played the Judge, in _Trial by Jury_, at the Hall in Archer
Street, Bayswater, and the rehearsals were conducted by Mr. Gilbert,
who himself coached me for the first time.] Gilbert read me the
opening speech of J. W. Wells, with reference to the sale, "Penny
curses," &c., with which, of course, I was much amused, and said he
had not completed the second act yet; but the part of Wells had
developed into greater prominence than was at first anticipated. I
saw that the part would suit me excellently, but I said to Mr.
Gilbert, "For the part of a Magician I should have thought you
required a fine man with a fine voice."
I can still see Gilbert's humorous expression as he replied, "No;
that is just what we don't want."
I then went to Mr. R. D'Oyly Carte, who had hit upon the idea of
comic opera, by English author and composer, and interpreted by
English artists, and who formed the Comedy Opera Company Limited,
for the purpose of starting the venture at the Opera Comique. I
asked Carte if he could give me a day or two to think of it. The
request was granted, apparently to oblige me; but I imagined, from
his look, that D'Oyly Carte also required a day or two to think of
it.
I afterwards learned that the directors of Comedy Opera Company, to
a man, were adverse to my engagement. One of them sent the following
telegram to Carte: "Whatever you do, don't engage Grossmith." I
myself personally was being tossed on the terrible billows of
indecision. I had a certain amount of confidence in myself, but
thought that if the piece failed--and the Opera Comique had been an
unlucky theatre--I should practically be thrown out on my beam ends,
having cancelled all my provincial engagements; and they were not
many.
I thought, however, that the advertisement of being associated with
W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan would be invaluable; and, in spite
of the entreaties of all my friends, I decided to write and accept
the engagement. I informed my father of my decision, and he did not
hesitate to express his disappointment, not to say disapproval. To
my great joy and relief, I received the following letter from Mrs.
Howard Paul, whose opinion on all professional matters I esteemed
most highly, and who had always given me so much encouragement:
_Private_.] "17 The Avenue,
"Bedford Park,
"Turnham Green.
"My dear Brother George,--May I claim the privilege of an old
friend, and be impertinent enough to make a suggestion and give my
opinion?--which is as follows: First, that, under any circumstances,
and at some sacrifice, you do not fail to accept the part of the
'Magician' in Gilbert and Sullivan's new play. It is a splendid
part--better than you think, I fancy--and the 'patter song' is great
in its way. Make your time suit them, or theirs suit you, if
possible. I have sacrificed a week's business engagements. This is
only a hint to you. I think, if you will arrange, it will be a new
and _magnificent introduction_ for you, and be of very great service
afterwards. I'm sure the part will suit you exactly. Don't think me
impertinent in writing this; but I want to see your name in the
cast. If I have any influence with you, now's the time to prove it.
. . . I suppose you know Mr. Barrington and self play in the
aforesaid piece. Write me per return, with love to you all, believe
me,
"Yours affectionately,
"ISABELLA HOWARD PAUL."
This was a great comfort to me--in fact, to all of us. I wrote Mrs.
Howard Paul that I had decided to take the engagement; and on the
5th November, 1877, she, Barrington and myself, and a few others,
celebrated the event in the back garden at Bedford Park with a
display of fireworks.
Messrs. Gilbert, Sullivan, and Carte backed up the engagement with
me, and the directors, though in the majority, were, happily for me,
defeated.
Then came the business part of the matter with D'Oyly Carte, which
was amusing. As I had sacrificed my country engagements, I wished
Carte to guarantee me a month's salary. That request he acceded to,
but not to the amount of salary I required. He was instructed "only
to go to a certain amount," which happened to be three guineas a
week less than I asked for. The discussion, such it was, was quite
pleasant, as, in fact, all my future negotiations with him were
destined to be. I have been associated with Mr. D'Oyly Carte for
over ten years now, and am pleased to say I have never had anything
approaching a disagreeable word with him.
I said to Carte: "Look at the risk I am running. If I fail, I don't
believe the Young Men's Christian Associations will ever engage me
again, because I have appeared on the stage, and my reputation as
comic singer to religious communities will be lost for ever."
Carte said, "Well, I dare say I can make that all right." Then a
sudden idea occurred to him. "Come and have some oysters."
I did!! I shall ever regret it! A lunch off oysters and most
excellent Steinberg Cabinet infused a liberality into my nature for
which I shall never forgive myself. Carte again broached the
subject--_after lunch_--of the salary; and in the end, with a
cheerful smile, I waived the extra three guineas a week.
I calculate that, irrespective of all accumulative interest, that
lunch cost me, up till now, about £1,800.
One dark night in that very November I fulfilled my last provincial
institution engagement (at Dudley), and went back to stay the night,
or what was left of it, at the Guest Hospital, with Dr. Orwin, my
old schoolfellow, with whom I had the pugilistic encounter at the
preparatory school on Haverstock Hill. He called me up at five
o'clock the next morning, which was, if possible, darker than the
night before, and packed me off to London to attend my first
rehearsal, which was held in the refreshment saloon (without
refreshments) at the Opera Comique.
The course adopted with reference to the Gilbert and Sullivan
rehearsals is as follows: The music is always taken first. The
principal singers and the ladies and gentlemen of the chorus are
seated in a semi-circle on the stage. A cottage piano is in the
middle, and we are rehearsed as an ordinary choir would be. Sir
Arthur Sullivan usually first composes the difficult choruses,
especially the finale to the first act--an elaborate score.
The quartettes and trios arrive next, and the duets and songs last.
I have sometimes only received the tunes of my songs the week before
production. The song in the second act of _Princess Ida_ was
re-written, and I only got the music two nights before the
performance. The difficulty then was, not in learning the new tune,
but in _un_learning the old one.
The greatest interest is evinced by us all as the new vocal numbers
arrive. Sir Arthur Sullivan will arrive hurriedly, with a batch of
MSS. under his arm, and announce the fact that there is something
new. He takes his at the piano and plays over the new number. The
vocal parts are written in, but no accompaniment.
Mr. Francois Cellier listens and watches; and how he can remember
for future rehearsal, as he does, the elaborate accompaniments and
symphonies, with the correct harmonies, &c., from simply hearing Sir
Arthur play the pieces over a few times, is to me astonishing.
Mr. Gilbert will attend all these musical rehearsals: he takes
mental notes of the style of composition, time, rhythm, everything,
and goes home and invents his groups and business. For every piece
he has small stages constructed--exact models of the Savoy
Theatre--with set scenes. The characters are represented by little
bricks of various colours, to distinguish chorus from principals,
and ladies from gentlemen. Many a time he has shown me some future
intended grouping, entrance, or general effect; and I must say it
has been most interesting. No expense is spared to get the requisite
accuracy; and I believe the little model of a ship, for the recent
revival of _H.M.S. Pinafore_, cost £60.
It is well known that Mr. Gilbert is an extremely strict man, and on
all matters of stage business his word is law. All the arrangements
of colours and the original groupings, with which the frequenters of
the Savoy are so well acquainted, are by him.
Sir Arthur Sullivan is also very exact with reference to the
rendering of the music; and it is perfectly understood between
author and composer that no business should be introduced by the
former into the chorus so as to interfere with a proper performance
of the music.
For example, in the original rehearsals of _The Mikado_, Mr. Gilbert
arranged a group of the chorus to "bow down" to his Majesty as he
entered, with their backs to the audience. Sir Arthur Sullivan came
down, and, the moment he saw this, said that the voices could not be
well heard from the front, as the faces of the singers were turned
towards the back of the stage. Mr. Gilbert immediately altered the
business; and as his powers of invention are apparently unlimited,
the present effective grouping in a semi-circle on the right-hand
side and back of the stage was substituted.
I have said that Sir Arthur Sullivan is strict with the music. Every
member of the chorus has to sing the exact note set down for him or
her; and often, in the midst of the rehearsal of a full chorus
_double-forte_ we have been pulled up because a careless gentleman
has sung a semi-quaver instead of a demi-semi-quaver, or one of the
cousins, sisters, or aunts has failed to dot a crotchet.
One of the most prominent and popular members of our company was
remarkably quick in picking up the music by ear--a method of
learning music by no means advisable. One day he was singing a solo
allotted to him which he had learned in the way mentioned, and he
occasionally sang (let us say) two even crotchets instead of one
dotted and a quaver, and he made one or two slight deviations from
the melody. Sullivan listened, with a most amused expression, and,
at the conclusion, said: "Bravo! that is really a very good tune of
yours--capital! And now, if you have no objection, I will trouble
you to sing mine."
The music is generally given to us before the piece is read by Mr.
Gilbert; so we are often in complete darkness as to the meaning of
the words we are singing. In the opera of _Princess Ida_ we were
rehearsing the whole of the concerted music of the first act. My
song, "I can't think why," sung by King Gama, was not composed, and
the whole of my share in the rehearsals was the following three bars
and a half of recitative:
"_King Gama_ (recitative): Must we till then in prison cell be
thrust?
"_Hildebrand_: You must.
"_King Gama_: This seems unnecessarily severe."
At one of the rehearsals, after singing this trifling bit of
recitative, I addressed the composer and said:
"Could you tell me, Sir Arthur, what the words, 'This seems
unnecessarily severe,' have reference to?"
Sir Arthur Sullivan replied:
"Because you are to be detained in prison, of course."
I replied: "Thank you. I thought they had reference to my having
been detained here three hours a day for the past fortnight to sing
them."
The result was, that Sir Arthur liberated me from the remainder of
the first act rehearsals; and as I had not to put in an appearance
in the second act, and had only one unwritten song in the third, I
had, for a wonder, a pretty easy time of it.
The musical rehearsals are child's play in comparison with the stage
rehearsals. Mr. Gilbert is a perfect autocrat, insisting that his
words should be delivered, even to an inflection of the voice, as he
dictates. He will stand on the stage beside the actor or actress,
and repeat the words with appropriate action over and over again,
until they are delivered as he desires them to be. In some
instances, of course, he allows a little license, but very little.
He has great patience at times; and, indeed, he needs it, for
occasionally one or other of the company, through inaccurate ear or
other cause, will not catch the proper action or inflection. From
the beginning it has been the custom, if possible, to allot some
small part to a member of the chorus. The girls have nearly always
benefited by the chance, and some have risen to the foremost ranks.
The men are not so fortunate, I regret to say. They do not seem to
be so quick. Gilbert has nearly been driven frantic (and so have the
onlookers for the matter of that) because a sentence has been
repeated with a false accent.
The following sketch, founded on fact, is an example of what I mean:
Suppose Mr. Snooks has been promoted from the chorus, and allotted a
very small part, on account of his suitable voice, slimness,
stoutness, gigantic proportions, or the reverse. He has one
line--let us say, _The King is in the counting-house_. The first
thing Mr. Snooks does when his cue arrives is to make the most of
his opportunity by entering with a comic slow walk, which he has
evidently been studying for past few days in front of a
looking-glass. The walk is the conventional one indulged in by the
big Mask in a pantomime.
_Mr. Gilbert:_ Please don't enter like that, Mr. Snooks. We don't
want any "comic man" business here.
_Mr. Snooks:_ I beg your pardon, sir; I thought you meant the part
to be funny.
_Mr. Gilbert:_ Yes, so I do; but I don't want you to _tell_ the
audience you're the funny man. They'll find it out, if you are,
quickly enough. Go on, please.
Mr. Snooks enters again with a rapid and sharp
catch-the-six-thirteen-Liverpool-street-local-train kind of walk.
_Mr. Gilbert:_ No, no, no, Mr. Snooks. This is not a "walking
gentleman's" part. As it is only a short one, there is no necessity
to hurry through it like that. Enter like this.
Mr. Gilbert proceeds to exemplify what he requires, and after a
trial or two Mr. Snooks gets it nearly right.
_Mr. Gilbert_ (encouragingly): That'll do capitally. Go on, please.
_Mr. Snooks:_ The King is in the counting-_house_.
_Mr. Gilbert:_ No, no, Mr. Snooks; he is nothing of the sort. He is
in the _counting_-house.
_Mr. Snooks:_ The King is in the counting-_house_.
_Mr. Gilbert_ (very politely): I am afraid I have not made myself
understood. It is not counting-_house_, but _counting_-house. Do you
understand me?
_Mr. Snooks:_ Yes, sir.
_Mr. Gilbert:_ Very well; try again, please.
_Mr. Snooks:_ The King is in the counting-_house_.
_Mr. Gilbert_ (still politely): Mr. Snooks, don't you appreciate the
difference between the accent on "counting" and the accent on
"house"? I want the accent on "counting"--_counting_-house. Surely
you have never heard it pronounced in any other way? Try again, and
_please_ pay attention.
_Mr. Snooks_ (getting rather nervous): The King is in the
counting-HOUSE!
Mr. Gilbert twitches his right whisker, and takes a few paces up and
down the front of the stage. Eventually he comes to a standstill,
and calmly addresses Mr. Snooks:
"It is my desire to assist you as far as I possibly can, but I
_must_ have that sentence spoken properly. I would willingly cut it
out altogether; but as it is essential to the story, that course is
impossible. If you cannot speak it with the right accent, I shall be
reluctantly compelled to give the words to someone else who _can_.
Go back, please, and _think_ before you speak."
_Mr. Snooks_ (endeavouring to think he is "thinking"): The King
(pause) is (pause) IN the . . . (very long pause) _counting_ . . .
(with a violent effort) HOUSE!!!
_Mr. Gilbert_ (bottling up his fury): We won't bother about your
scene now, Mr. Snooks. Get on with the next. Grossmith! Grossmith!!
(To Seymour, the stage manager): Where's Mr. Grossmith?
_Mr. Grossmith_ (a very small man, with a still smaller voice): Here
I am.
_Mr. Gilbert:_ Oh! there you are. I'm sorry to have kept you
waiting. We'll go on with your scene. Do you want to try your song?
_Mr. Grossmith:_ Not unless you want to hear it!
_Mr. Gilbert:_ No; I don't want to hear it. (Roars of laughter from
the company.) Do you?
_Mr. Grossmith:_ No!
Good humour prevails, and the rehearsal proceeds. At its termination
Mr. Gilbert approaches Mr. Snooks, who is absolutely wretched in the
corner.
_Mr. Gilbert_ (privately to Mr. Snooks): Don't worry yourself about
that. Go home, and think it over. It will be all right to-morrow.
On the morrow, perhaps, it is _not_ all right; but Mr. Gilbert will
pass it over, and by dint of perseverance (which is, of course,
appreciated), and the chaffing he gets from his fellow-choristers at
the theatre, and the bullying from his wife at home, Mr. Snooks, in
the course of a week, gets it actually right; but the word is always
pronounced to the end with a certain amount of doubt.
The performer frequently gets the credit which is due to Mr.
Gilbert, and to him absolutely. As a rule, the little midshipmite in
_H.M.S. Pinafore_ is supposed to be a perfect genius. There have
been scores of midshipmites in town and "on tour," but they are all
geniuses.
Some, of course, are naturally clever, and I should be grieved to
disparage any child; but if admiration, cheers, and applause on the
stage are at all times dangerous to the mind of man, what must be
the effect on children!
A little boy, with a pretty voice, who played in the performance of
the _Pirates of Penzance_ by children, came to me some time back in
despair. His vanity had been touched by the approbation of the
public, and his eyes fascinated by the glare of the footlights and
limelights. They were all he thought of. His voice had gone, or, to
be more accurate, had cracked. He was too old to act as a child, and
too young to act as a man; and he "pooh-poohed" any idea of an
ordinary situation. All the credit of his success his friends
attributed to his own talent, and not to his stage manager.
It is such a case as this, and this only, that induces me to say
that I have seen Mr. Gilbert instruct a little boy in the part of
the midshipmite for an hour or so at a time, simply how to walk
across the stage. The boy has been absolutely stupid even for his
age; but has been selected because he happened to be smaller than
the others who had come up for competition. Through constant
drilling the child developed into a mechanical toy, and received the
approbation of the generous public, as if he merited it instead of
his tutor, when he had no more done so than the little canary who
walks the tight-rope on a barrow, fires a gun, or drives a tandem
drawn by a couple of sparrows.
One of these little lads, besides his wages, received extra presents
of shillings and half-crowns that in the course of a week amounted,
most likely, to the limited salary given to the chorus man who had
devoted the greater part of his life to his vocation, and who had a
wife and large family to support out of it.
_Apropos_ of the chorus, they are picked from hundreds who first
sing before Mr. D'Oyly Carte on approval. They generally have some
daily occupation or situation. Some of them sing and act so well in
the groups that they have been retained from the very commencement
of the operas.
When _Iolanthe_ was produced, Gilbert decided that the peers should
all have the upper lip shaven, and wear "mutton-chop" whiskers, and
a little tuft under the lower lip. They were also to wear wigs bald
at the top of the head. The effect was ultimately most successful;
but there was a semblance of a "strike" beforehand, owing to the
objection of some of the gentlemen to shave off the moustache.
These were called, for the purpose of giving their reasons for
objecting to comply with the order. Some of the excuses were most
amusing. One said he was a town traveller; and if he took off his
moustache, he would look so young that shopowners would not listen
to him. Another said he was a "spirit leveller," and it was most
unusual (I am not sure he did not say unprecedented) for a "spirit
leveller" _not_ to have a moustache. The excuse for another
gentlemen-was, that he was paying his addresses to a young lady who
was not much impressed with his personal appearance; and if he took
off his moustache, his hopes would be completely blighted. In the
end, however, they all consented to obliterate the ornament, with
the exception of one, who absolutely declined. In his case the
moustache stayed on, but he did not.
I never remember, before the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, to have
seen an entire chorus shaved. The peers looked wonderfully
characteristic when they first appeared over the bridge, and their
entrance brought down the house. Again, what could be more effective
than the shaven faces in _The Mikado?_
The most amusing incident with regard to shaving was during the run
of _Ruddygore_. A rather good-looking young fellow, a new comer, was
requested to shave (the others being already shaven) a fortnight
before the production of the piece, in order that his photograph in
costume might be taken by Messrs. Barraud. The portraits that hung
in the picture gallery of Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd were painted from
the photographs previously taken of all the chorus gentlemen. This
new recruit, whom we will call Mr. X., was a concert singer, who,
like many others, finding that "concert singing is not what it was,"
accepted the offer made to him to join the ranks of the Savoyards as
a chorister, and make sure of a certain income. Mr. D'Oyly Carte met
him one day, and said:
"Have you been to Barraud's, Mr. X.?"
"No, sir; I go to-morrow morning. I have shaved."
"So I observe," said Carte.
Two days after, Carte saw him with his moustache on again; but,
taking no particular notice, said:
"Let me see, have you been to Barraud's?"
Mr. X. said: "Yes, sir; I went yesterday."
D'Oyly Carte thought it seemed rather odd, for he made sure he had
seen Mr. X. two days previously without the moustache. Now he had a
full-grown one, with the regular platform singer's waxed ends.
D'Oyly Carte, being a busy man, walked away, and was soon thinking
of other matters.
The first dress rehearsal took place, and Mr. X. had no moustache.
Mr. Carte met him again next day in the street, and, lo and behold!
there was the moustache on again. Actors are frequently in the habit
of "soaping" down their moustaches; but such a one as Mr. X.
supported could not be soaped down. Carte was so puzzled that he
said to Mr. X.:
"I thought you had shaved your moustache?"
Mr. X. replied: "So I have, sir; but when I sing at concerts, or
'do' Bond Street, I stick on one for a little while. Nobody would
notice it was not my own, and I look so much better with a
moustache."
"Do you make yourself up, Mr. Grossmith?"
As this question is so frequently asked of me, I will satisfy the
curious by saying that I always do. No one has ever touched my face
but myself. I select my own colours, powders, rouges, and try
several effects of complexions, before finally deciding on one. I
have a little dressing-room to myself--the only one who has at the
Savoy. Being short-sighted, I make up with a hand-glass in my left
hand. My dressing-table is very high, and I have several bright
electric lights thrown on my face. I do not think the painted lines
on the face should ever be seen, even from the stalls. I think no
make-up should be detected from the front, and I have no hesitation
in saying that the ghastly white faces, pink cheeks, and scarlet
lips indulged in, even by the ladies of our theatre, are simply
hideous.
Mr. Barrington has often come into my room just as I am going on the
stage, and chaffingly said, "Why don't you make up?" I regard this
rather as a compliment than otherwise.
I want to look like a First Lord, a fleshly poet, Major-General, or
Japanese, not to _show_ how I look like one.
The walls of my dressing-room are covered with prints, engravings,
and sketches, of no particular value, but of interest to myself and
many who visit me.
A capital pen-and-ink sketch, from memory, by Mr. Heather Bigg, of
Corney Grain and myself playing a duet on the piano, amuses those
who see it. A slight sketch by Frank Holl, R.A. (a great and
esteemed friend of mine), of myself, fishing in the daytime and
doing the Lord Chancellor's dance at night, is, of course,
interesting.
There is also a water-colour sketch of myself in the costume of King
Gama, _minus_ the heavy cloak and wig, and the tunic preserved by a
lawn-tennis jacket. I used to sit in this comfortable way during a
long wait of one hour and forty minutes; and my appearance so
tickled the fancy of Viscount Hardinge that he painted his
impression of it, and sent it to me.
There is also an admirable sketch, by Alfred Bryan, of John Parry; a
signed photograph of Mrs. Howard Paul; full-page drawings in the
_Graphic_, &c., from my brother's pictures exhibited in the Royal
Academy; some old playbills, in which my uncle figures prominently;
clever sketches of singers, by Harper Pennington; and, what is more
useful than any of the above, a comfortable couch, on which I can
throw myself after having been encored two or three times in some
extravagant dance.
The rules behind the scenes at the Savoy are very strict. No
visitors, thank goodness, are allowed to be hanging about the stage
or standing at the wings. There are separate staircases for the
ladies and gentlemen. We are all a very happy family; jealous
feeling and spirit are conspicuous by their absence; and the
"understudies" experience no difficulty in getting every help and
support, if required, from the principals whose parts are to be
played in case of absence or illness.
There are no mashers waiting at the stage-door. Presents and
love-letters are few and far between; in fact, during the ten years
I have been on the stage I have only received one. I confess I am a
little hurt by the notion; but, perhaps it is just as well. The
letter referred to was not well worded, and the spelling certainly
might have been better. The lady, I am sure, was quite sincere in
her expressed adoration of me, and I appreciated her candid
confession that she had no prejudice against my "calling"; but the
_postscript_ was certainly disappointing. It ran thus:
"P.S.--Next Sunday is my Sunday out."
Before engaging anybody at the theatre, Mr. D'Oyly Carte hears them
sing, or "tries their voice." It is a standing joke between him and
myself that I never kept the appointments made by him to "hear my
voice."
At one of our pleasant annual theatre suppers, at which both
gentlemen of the orchestra and chorus are present, in returning
thanks for having my health proposed, I said I attributed the
pleasure of being associated with them to the fact that, in the
first instance, I would _not_ let Mr. Carte have the opportunity of
testing my vocal powers; for, if I had done so, I should never have
effected my present engagement.
During D'Oyly Carte's visits to America, Mr. Michael Gunn, the
lessee of the Dublin Theatre, and a great friend of both Carte and
myself, used to act as our manager.
On one occasion Mr. Gunn had to try the voices of some candidates
for the chorus. One gentleman, who called himself Signor Concertini,
or some such name, sang all right; but he spoke with an affected
broken-English accent, which I have found quite common amongst
English foreign singers.
Mr. R. Barker, a kind but rather brusque stage-manager, addressing
Signor Concertini, said:
"Look here, my boy, that accent won't do for sailors or pirates.
Just give us a little less Mediterranean and a little more
Whitechapel."
Mr. Gunn turned to the man and said: "What nationality are you? You
don't sound Italian."
Signor Concertini suddenly dropped his accent, and, addressing Mr.
Gunn in a broad Irish brogue, said:
"Sure, Mr. Gunn, I'm from the same country as yourself."
If any of the members of the chorus are absent through illness, they
are supposed to bring a doctor's certificate the next day; but their
word is usually taken.
One of the chorus gentlemen, a tenor, who had not distinguished
himself by any great ability, but deemed his presence of infinite
importance, sent a telegram to the stage manager: "Suffering from
hoarseness; cannot appear to-night." I ascertained that he had
informed several of his colleagues, confidentially, that he was the
future Sims Reeves. I must confess, with the exception of the above
telegram, I had detected no resemblance to the great tenor.
During the revival of _H.M.S. Pinafore_ at the Savoy, I received a
dreadful snub from one of the "Marines." The Marines were what is
theatrically known as "extra-gentlemen." They are not engaged to
sing, and therefore do not hold such a good position as the chorus.
If they have voices and can sing, they look forward naturally to
promotion. One of them asked me if I would hear him sing the "Ruler
of the Queen's Navee." I made an appointment with him to sing at my
house. After he finished the song, I said:
"I presume you desire me to recommend you to Mr. Carte for the
chorus?"
"Oh no, sir," he replied. "Mr. Carte has heard me, and says I'm not
good enough for the chorus; so I thought you could recommend me to
him to play _your_ parts on tour."
Singers, prima donnas especially, are, I believe, renowned for
little airs and graces; but these have little weight with Gilbert
and Sullivan. Conventionality is not recognised by them. One of the
many Josephines, during the first run of _Pinafore_, objected to
standing anywhere but in the centre of the stage, assuring Mr.
Gilbert that she had played in Italian opera, and was accustomed to
occupy that position and no other.
Gilbert said, most persuasively:
"Oh! but this is _not_ Italian opera; this is only a low burlesque
of the worst possible kind."
Gilbert says this sort of thing in such a quiet and serious way that
one scarcely knows whether he is joking or not.
During the revival of _The Mikado_, he was directing the
dress-rehearsal from the middle the stalls, as is his wont, and
suddenly called out:
"There is a gentleman in the left group not holding his fan
correctly."
The stage manager, with his prompt-book and tall hat, immediately
appeared on the stage at the left side, and, calling to Mr. Gilbert,
said:
"One gentleman is absent through illness, sir."
"Ah!" said Gilbert, perfectly seriously, "that is not the gentleman
I am referring to."
Yet another instance. The second act of _The Pirates of Penzance_
represents the interior of a ruined abbey by moonlight. Near the end
of the play General Stanley's daughters run on to the stage in
_peignoir_ and with lighted candles. This is the cue for turning up
the footlights and boarders.
_Mr. Gilbert_ (from the stalls): Mr. Seymour--Mr. Seymour!
_Seymour_ (the stage manager, appearing at the wings): Yes, sir.
_Mr. Gilbert:_ Don't let them turn the lights on the back cloth!
_Seymour:_ We have turned up all the lights, sir.
_Mr. Gilbert:_ Then don't do so. As much light in the front as you
like. Candles on the stage have a wonderful effect, I know. They
would light up the abbey, no doubt; but even stage candles wouldn't
light up the heavens beyond.
A great objection was taken, both by the press and a large section
of the public, to the title of _Ruddygore_, and the opera itself was
not favourably criticised. About a week after its production,
Gilbert turned up at the Savoy and said:
"I propose altering the title of the piece, and calling it
_Kensington Gore; or, Not so Good as The Mikado_."
Gilbert very properly objects to any business being interpolated
without his sanction, especially if its sole object is merely to
raise a laugh, and thereby stop the action of the piece. In _The
Mikado_, Miss Jessie Bond and I were kneeling side by side, with our
heads on the floor, and she used to give me a push, and I
accordingly rolled completely over. Gilbert asked me if I would mind
omitting that action on my part.
I replied:
"Certainly, if you wish it; but I get an enormous laugh by it."
"So you would if you sat on a pork-pie," replied he.
It is a very easy thing to get a laugh on the stage, and a very
difficult thing to sacrifice it. It has amused me intensely when
some of the gentlemen who play my parts on the country tour inform
me of certain laughs which they get when _they_ play. Some of them
have even kindly advised me of "new business" which they have
inserted.
I quite agree with Mr. Gilbert in reference to the "pork-pie" method
of obtaining laughter; and I have often stated that my ambition is,
to play in a farce in which there is a bandbox placed carefully on
an arm-chair, and that the curtain should finally fall _without_ my
having sat on the box in question.
I have no intention of dwelling on the incidents attending the
production of each of the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, but mine has
been rather an odd career. I have been on the stage over ten years,
and have only played regularly nine parts, including the Judge in
_Trial by Jury_. At a great benefit _matinee_, I have sometimes
taken some small part, but that I count as nothing: but of the above
I have, in one or two of the pieces, played the same part night
after night, and two performances on Saturday, for a year and a
half; while Sir Joseph Porter, in _H.M.S. Pinafore_, I played
incessantly for nearly two years.
I have been asked if long runs affect the nerves. I do not think
they affect the nerves so much as they affect the performance.
Constant repetition begets mechanism, and that is a dreadful enemy
to contend against. I try hard to fight against it personally, and I
believe I succeed. There is one thing I always do--I always play my
best to a bad house; for I think it a monstrous thing that an actor
should slur through his work because the stalls are empty, and
thereby punish those who _have_ come for the fault of those who have
_not_.
Mrs. Howard Paul impressed so strongly upon me the importance and
the justness of playing one's best to a poor house, that I not only
have never forgotten her injunction, but have endeavoured to abide
by it.
To act without recognition, by applause, laughter, or tears, from an
audience is galling to an actor; but, fortunately, I have had a good
training in this respect in the private-house engagements, and have
got used to it.
In town, my audiences have sometimes displayed a want of enthusiasm,
which has been easily understood by everybody but myself; and in my
earlier days in the country I used to console myself with the fact
that if my entertainments did not _go_, the audience did, which was
a comfort and a relief.
I wonder if my friend Frank Thornton will be offended if I repeat an
oft-told story about him? I had the pleasure of knowing him in my
early entertaining days, and he himself was remarkably clever in
short sketches in character.
When I was first engaged at the Opera Comique to appear in _The
Sorcerer_, F. Thornton was "specially retained" to understudy me. I
believe he was very nearly engaged himself to play the part.
Fortunately for me, he was not.
During the first week he used to come to me each night, and ask how
I was. On my replying that I was "all right--never better," it
appeared to me that he departed with a disappointed look. His kind
enquiries were repeated, as I thought with extra anxiety; but still
I kept well, and showed no signs of fatigue. Then he began to insist
that I was not looking well; and I replied that, looks or no looks,
I felt perfectly well. Finally he came to me with a pill, which he
was certain would do for me. I was also certain that it would "_do_
for me," and declined to take it; I played nearly two hundred
consecutive nights of _The Sorcerer_, and nearly _seven hundred_ of
_H.M.S. Pinafore_, without missing a single performance.
About the third week of the subsequent piece, _The Pirates of
Penzance_, I was called away from the theatre through a domestic
affliction; and Frank Thornton, at literally a moment's notice, had
to don the Major-General's uniform and play my part. It goes without
saying that his was an excellent performance, as those who saw his
excessively funny impersonation of the cramped old aesthete in
_Patience_ will easily understand.
The domestic affliction referred to was the sudden death of my
father on April 24th, 1880. At the beginning of this book I stated
that I should not deal with the shadows of my life. Nor shall I,
beyond stating that the shock to me was so terrible that I often
wonder now whether I have quite recovered it. My poor darling mother
never did, and she followed him in a year and ten months after.
There was scarcely a paper in Great Britain and Ireland that did not
refer to him in the most affectionate terms. If his loss was felt so
much by people who knew him only slightly, what must it have been to
his two sons, who idolised the very ground he walked upon? His last
lecture was on "Dickens and his Works" (Dickens was his favourite
subject), and was delivered at Wrexham on April 22nd, two days
before his decease; and the kind clergyman who entertained him on
the occasion wrote one of the first and sweetest letters of sympathy
that I received.
I should like to say that my father was more than astonished at the
result of my appearances in _The Sorcerer_, _Pinafore_, and
_Pirates_, and was extremely proud of my stage appearances. He was
easily pleased, no doubt; but it was a great source of comfort to me
to know he _was_ pleased.
Soon after the first production of _The Sorcerer_ in 1887, I had
occasion to go one morning to Maidenhead by train. I occupied a
carriage with a lady and three gentlemen, all of one party. The
conversation, which I could not help hearing--and unfortunately
listeners never hear good of themselves--turned on Gilbert and
Sullivan's new and original form of opera. Suddenly, one of the
three gentlemen began to criticise my performance in no
complimentary terms. The lady, to my joy, differed with my critic,
and it appeared for a moment as if all would end happily. Not a bit
of it. The two other gentlemen joined in, and began to find fault
with my personal appearance as well as my voice (or want of it). The
lady still gallantly defended me, but in doing so she only added
fuel to the fire; and judging from the tone and manner in which the
two last-named gentlemen contradicted her, I could only come to the
conclusion that they were her brothers. I suppose I ought to have
stopped them; but for the life of me I could not think of a method
of doing so. The train, however, began to pull up at Slough; so I
determined to change carriages. I took out my card-case, and wrote
in pencil on one of my cards, "Thanks awfully," and placed it on the
seat beside the two gentlemen previously to making my exit from the
compartment. My only regret is, I am not in a position to describe
what followed.
This incident reminds me of another, an occasion on which I
indirectly denied myself. In 1878, when _H.M.S. Pinafore_ was first
produced at the Opera Comique, I always used to give a musical
sketch at the piano at the Saturday afternoon performances after the
opera. I had some appointment at Kensington, and went to the Temple
Station at the conclusion of the performance and got into a
first-class carriage of the Underground Railway. Opposite to me sat
a middle-aged gentleman with a good-looking lad. The gentleman
stared at me hard, and I saw at once that he had recognised me--an
easy matter, considering my sketches were, and still are, always
given _in propria persona_. He whispered to the boy, and the boy's
eyes also became riveted on me. I felt like one of Madame Tussaud's
waxworks; although, from the manner in which the gentleman and the
boy sat and stared, they really resembled the effigies more than I
did. At last the gentleman moved. He took from his pocket the book
of the libretto of _Pinafore_ and peered into it, taking good care
to hold the outside cover with title towards me, so that I might see
what he was reading. Of course, I took not the slightest notice of
his actions; but I had great difficulty in restraining a smile as
the boy began to whistle the air of "The Ruler of the Queen's
Navee." The gentleman was not to be defeated: he handed me the book,
and the following conversation took place between the Gentleman and
the Clown:
_Gent.:_ I beg your pardon; I fancy you must be well acquainted with
that play?
_Clown_ (turning over leaves of book casually): Oh! yes. I know it
very well.
_Gent.:_ Well, if _you_ do not know it well, I should like to know
who does?
_Clown_ (handing back book): I do not quite follow you?
_Gent.:_ I should have thought you knew it backwards.
_Clown:_ That I certainly do not.
_Gent.:_ You've heard it often enough?
_Clown:_ One cannot help that. It is on all the street bands.
_Gent.:_ And seen it too?
_Clown:_ No; I am going to see it next Wednesday.
[There was to be a morning performance of one of Mr. D'Oyly Carte's
country companies.]
_Gent.:_ Well, that's very odd. You'll excuse me, you are exactly
like George Grossmith.
_Clown:_ I knew you were going to say that. Do you know nearly
everybody takes me for Mr. Grossmith?
_Gent.:_ I am very sorry. I meant no offence.
_Clown:_ Pray don't mention it. I regard it as a great compliment.
_Gent.:_ Oh, I 'm very glad!
_Railway Porter_ (in distance): Sloane Square! Sloane Square!!
_Gent.:_ We get out here. Good afternoon.
_Clown:_ Good afternoon.
(_Exeunt_ Gentleman and Juvenile by the carriage-door, prompt side.
Clown, in spite of the printed warning in front of him, proceeded to
place his feet on the opposite cushions.)
A friend of mine, who is (or at all events was) a member of the
Scottish Club, mistook Mr. W. S. Penley, the popular actor, for me
once on the platform of Waterloo Station. My enthusiastic friend
slapped the "Rev. Mr. Spalding" on the back and said:
"Hulloa, Grossmith! How are you? Come and sup after the play next
Saturday at Dover Street?"
Penley replied, in the clerical tone characteristic of him:
"I beg your pardon, I'm not Grossmith; but I shall be very pleased
to have supper with you."
Another railway recognition story. I was coming up with a party of
friends from Ascot, and we were journeying by one of those
delightful trains on the S. W. Railway which not only stop at every
station, but between each station as well. We stayed at one place a
particularly long time; and as a serious-looking station-master
faced the window of the carriage in which we were, one of the ladies
begged of me to "chaff" him about the slowness of the train.
Chaffing is a vulgar habit; but, unfortunately, it is a habit to
which I am occasionally addicted. We all have our amusements; and it
is not my fault that I do not possess the brave spirit which induces
a man to hunt across country and torture a beautiful creature like a
deer until, through sheer fright, it takes a leap through the window
of a railway station. I prefer to torture one of my own
fellow-creatures; for he often stands a fair chance of getting the
best of it. The deer never does!
I saw that the serious and stolid station-master was a good subject
for chaff; but, as a matter of fact, the whim was not on me. But in
deference to the general wish of my friendly travellers, I addressed
the station-master as follows:
"I say, station-master, you ought to be ashamed of this line."
The serious official replied:
"So I am."
This scored the first laugh against me. Some of the ladies
encouraged me, and said, "Go on, go on;" "Get a rise out of him,"
&c. I tried again, and this time observed weakly:
"Why don't you get something better to do?"
My victim, never changing his serious aspect, replied:
"You mean, why don't _you_ get me something better to do."
This was a real knock-down blow. I came up staggering and a little
dazed. My victim, seeing his chance, led the attack:
"Anything more to say?"
I feebly answered:
"No. Have you?"
He said:
"No--except that you act a good deal better here than you do at the
Savoy."
The next day I thought of fifty good things I might have said. Alas!
how easily things go wrong!
In taking leave of my readers on the subject of my theatrical
career, I feel I ought, in justice to myself, to state that all my
first appearances are completely marred by uncontrollable
nervousness. I am more than nervous--I am absolutely ill.
The first night of _The Mikado_ I shall never forget the longest day
I live. It must have appeared to all that I was doing my best to
spoil the piece. But what with my own want of physical strength,
prostration through the numerous and very long rehearsals, my
anxiety to satisfy the author, the rows of critics (oh, please do
not be hard on me!), rendered _blase_ by the modern custom of half a
dozen ridiculous and senseless _matinees_ a week, I lose my voice,
the little of it there is, my confidence and, what, I maintain, is
the most valuable of all to me, my own individuality. In fact, I
plead guilty to what Mr. Richard Barker declared me to be on these
occasions, "a lamentable spectacle."
In concluding this chapter, let me offer my hearty thanks to Sir
Arthur Sullivan for having thought of me, to D'Oyly Carte for having
engaged me, to W. S. Gilbert for having advised me, and last, but
not least, to the generous public for having tolerated me.