A Society Clown.
funny fellows, comic men and clowns of private life,
They'd none of them be missed--they'd none of them be missed."
_The Mikado._
One dull day during the end of the year 1873, the Police Court
having adjourned, I went into a ham and beef shop at the corner of
Bow Street to get a sandwich. I generally did this when I had not
sufficient time to get a proper lunch, so presume I must have been
occupied in the very arduous duties of taking notes of an important
case, and jotting down suggestions for a new song or sketch at the
same moment--at all times a difficult task, involving a deal of
confusion. While purchasing my modest meal a little dog entered the
shop. Its very tall and slim owner (for he was very slim in those
days) whistled to the dog to come out. I presume the dog had reasons
for staying in the shop, so the owner had no other option than to
walk in and carry the animal out bodily. The owner and I greeted
each other:
"How do you do, Mr. Grain?"
"How do you do, Mr. Grossmith?"
We did not know each other so well in those days as we do now, and
were naturally a little formal in our method of address.
I enquired, as a matter of course, how his new song was going at the
Gallery of Illustration? He enquired how mine was going at the
Polytechnic? He then told me that he was preparing sketches, for the
purpose of giving professionally at private houses during the
forthcoming season. I had no idea that this sort of thing was done
(I must have been very ignorant, I fear), and in reply to my
questions he enlightened me on many points which were of the utmost
interest, and subsequent importance to me. I remember asking him if
the work was agreeable, and if the people were nice. His answer, I
recollect, was very characteristic of him. "Very," he said; "and,
what is more important, it pays well." He also told me that John
Parry used to sing professionally at private houses. This decided
me; for I knew that what was good enough for John Parry and Corney
Grain, was more than good enough for me.
"Well," I said, "I think I shall try it, Mr. Grain."
"I certainly should if I were you," he replied.
We said the usual "good-bye at the door;" he departed with his dog
into Covent Garden, and I departed with my sandwich into Bow Street.
It so happened that I was going, a few evenings afterwards, to a
large musical party near Harley Street, and I decided, if I sang, to
try the whole of "The Silver Wedding," the sketch I was then giving
at the Polytechnic, instead of the plain comic song which I had
generally "obliged with." The hostess, when the time came for me to
volunteer, expressed herself much delighted at my proposed
innovation. The grand piano was turned as I wanted it, and a little
table (supposed to represent the supper table), with wine decanter
and glass, was placed to my right. All these preparations, instead
of causing the proceedings to flag as one would naturally suppose,
only increased the excitement--such as there was, or could be at a
private party. I was more than pleased at the result--I was
astonished. For instance, I felt sure the imitation after-supper
speeches would lose their entire effect from the want of a platform
and footlights. The sketch lasted quite half an hour, which I feared
would have been thought too long. To my surprise, I was asked if I
would mind giving another. However, I let well alone and did not
give any more that evening, but took the hint I received from Corney
Grain, and began to prepare some sketches specially.
At my next parties I tried "The Puddleton Penny Readings," and
"Theatricals at Thespis Lodge," with the same result.
I then went to Mr. George Dolby, who had been Charles Dickens's
agent and manager in America, and who had at that time offices in
Bond Street, and told him I intended trying the private work. He
said it was a capital idea, and he would, in all probability, be
able to get me several engagements during the following June and
July, which was the busy time for private concerts, &c.
In the meanwhile a clergyman, from Windsor, communicated with me
through one of the musical libraries in Bond Street, and secured my
services for an evening party at his house; and it is with great
satisfaction that I record the circumstance that I was recommended
by Corney Grain, who was first applied to, but unable, for some
reason, to accept for himself. After my recent conversation with him
on the subject, I thought it most kind of him to perform an action
which I should never have dreamed of asking him to do.
The next two seasons I was occupied in forming and increasing a
connection. George Dolby sent me several engagements in London, when
he found the first one I fulfilled for him passed off without
complaint! Then, in time, came the best sign of all that I was
progressing; viz., the people began to write to me personally. At
first I found it terribly uphill work. If the people do not know the
singer they wont listen, on the paradoxical principle that they
sometimes wont listen if they _do_ know him. Some are wonderfully
well-known and have a facility for clearing the room almost as
remarkable as have some reciters. The "chandelier-shaker" is
invariably a "room-clearer." If in my earlier days (or even now for
the matter of fact) people displayed no anxiety to hear me, I felt
thankful if they did quit the room. Such conduct is preferable to
that of the more fashionable people who stop in and talk.
It is a very easy thing for the ordinary drawing-room amateur comic
singer to make a success. He has only to watch his opportunity. He
will wait, perhaps, till his audience and himself have had supper,
and all are in the mood to be amused. But let him go professionally
to a dull after-dinner party, where no one knows him, and he finds
eight or nine elderly ladies yawning and wondering _when_ the
gentlemen will come up and join them. Let him try that audience. If
he can amuse them, he will not only be satisfied at receiving his
cheque, but will be conscious of the fact that he has thoroughly
earned it. I feel a special delight in persevering in waking up an
audience like that. I resort to all sorts of measures by which I can
do so.
Once I was singing at a private house in the country to an odd
assortment of people. I was informed that the party followed a
wedding which had taken place in the morning. If it had followed a
funeral, it would have accounted for the general depression and
gloom which prevailed. I played the piano and the fool for
three-quarters of an hour, and anything more dismal than the result
it would be impossible to imagine. A temptation seized me suddenly,
and I said:
"Ladies and Gentlemen,--I am going to reveal to you a secret. Pray
don't let it go any further. This is supposed to be a comic
entertainment. I don't expect you to laugh at it in the least; but
if, during the next sketch, you would only once oblige me with a
Society smile, it would give me a great deal of encouragement."
The audience for a moment were dumbfounded. They first began to
titter, then to laugh, and actually to roar, and for a time I could
not proceed with the sketch. They were transformed into a capital
and enthusiastic audience; and the hostess told me that both her
guests and herself were most grateful to me.
I am frequently asked if I like giving my entertainments in private
houses, and I answer most emphatically that I do. I never feel so
much in my element as when I have a nice piano on a dais, and a
seated audience of educated and well-dressed people, in a handsome
drawing-room. It is a pleasure to me to sing to them; and although I
occupy an hour and a half--sometimes more--over the three musical
sketches which I usually give, I feel quite sorry when I have
finished.
I have never received unkindness from anyone--quite the reverse. So
much hospitality and good-will have been extended towards me by
people who are utter strangers, and whose associations with me have
been purely of a business character, that I often have wondered what
I have done to deserve it all.
There are the usual "four to seven" afternoon parties. I have a
little dread of what is known as the "smart" evening parties in
London. The large suites of rooms will be comparatively empty at
eleven o'clock; but in a quarter of an hour the guests will stream
in in hundreds. Then they block up all the rooms and staircases,
while thirty or forty will crowd round the grand piano and exclude
the rest from any chance of seeing or hearing the unfortunate
singer. In half or three-quarters of an hour the rooms will be empty
again. But I must say a "smart" party is at all times an interesting
sight: the beautiful dresses, the array of diamonds, the stars and
garters, especially if a Royal function is taking place the same
evening, so that people are "going on" or "have come on from." Yet
with all this grandeur it does seem such an anomaly, among so much
greatness, so much wealth, to hear such a babel of idiotic
conversation even from the mouths of the most able representatives
of the Houses of Lords and Commons. The greater the people, the
smaller the talk.
Music on such an occasion is quite out of place, and I never can
understand why the hostess arranges to have any. A grand reception,
I take it, is a reception, and not a concert. It is impossible to
combine the two. I do not blame the people on these occasions for
talking: they cannot even get into the room where the music is.
Sometimes, by adopting the fashionable process of spitefully digging
your way through people, you may get near the piano, and even a
glimpse of the singer. Yes, there he is--a well-known drawing-room
tenor, perhaps, who has received fifty guineas to sing a couple of
songs. You see him simply indulging, apparently, in a dumb-show
performance. The windows are open behind him, and there is a perfect
din of the "clinking" of the harness of hundreds of horses in the
road outside, intermingled with lusty shouts from the linkmen, with
trombone voices, far and near: "Lady Peckham Rye's carriage next;"
"Col. Waterloo Rhodes's carriage stops the way;" "Mrs. Bompleton's
servant," "Coming out," "Coming in," "Baron Bosch's carriage--no
servant."
Fortunately I cannot arrive at such parties until about a quarter to
twelve at night (having, of course, my usual engagement at the Savoy
to fulfil), and by that time the rooms have cleared a little, either
through departure of guests for another party or for supper below.
The chairs are suddenly produced in a semi-circle round the piano,
and I am turned on to wind up the evening, having previously wound
up myself. And I do wind up myself sometimes, even to the extent of
getting the livelier and more juvenile members of the aristocracy,
as the end of my entertainment approaches, to join, without
invitation, in the chorus of "The Duke of Seven Dials," "See me
Dance the Polka," or "The Happy Fatherland," according to the
jingling nature of the song.
It was at a reception of this sort at a ducal mansion that I
overheard a rather rude enquiry respecting myself. I arrived after
my performance at the theatre, and I was leaving the drawing-room
with her Grace in order to arrange for a slight alteration of the
position of the piano, which had been placed so that only back of my
head could be seen, and I am willing to confess that I have not much
expression there. The Duke, who is tolerably well-known for his
brusque and autocratic manner, addressing her Grace in my presence,
said, "Has that fellow arrived yet?" The Duchess looked terribly
confused, and glanced at the Duke and myself alternately, but I did
not answer. As the Duke repeated the question with the amount of
severity that a husband is always privileged to use towards his
wife, I replied politely, "Yes, your Grace, that fellow has
arrived." With that I walked away and directed the servants to move
the piano, and out of revenge I determined to exert my utmost to
make my entertainment go well. Although his Grace was rude to his
wife, of course he did not intend to be rude to me; for immediately
the first sketch was over he came and told me how pleased he was
with it.
Although I have never been treated with any rudeness, still I have
been often amused by the peculiarities of people.
A gentleman wrote to me for the purpose of engaging me, and, rightly
or wrongly, asked me if my sketches were quite _comme il faut_, as
he had several young daughters. I was so immensely tickled by this,
that, also rightly or wrongly, I replied that my entertainments
_were_ as they should be; for I was recently married, and hoped
myself to have several young daughters. He wrote thanking me for
this assurance, and I was to consider myself accordingly engaged.
I never like arriving early at these afternoon engagements; and if I
arrive late, my hostess gets naturally anxious. It depresses me to
have to stand in a drawing-room which has been cleared of every
stick of furniture for the occasion, and to watch the arrival of the
solemn-looking ladies and their daughters, who generally attend such
gatherings early. The young men never turn up till about five or
half-past. In order to avoid this, I write to my hostess to tell her
of the time I shall arrive, which I fix at about half or three
quarters of an hour after the hour for which her invitations have
been issued. The consequence is that when I arrive the room is full;
people have warmed themselves into a general conversation, and I
walk straight to the piano and commence my first half-hour without
more ado.
Sometimes--very rarely--a lady will politely request me to arrive a
little before the time: of course I comply with this request, and
make the best of it, but during the latter part of June and the
first few weeks in July it is no joke. I have arrived punctually at
a "four to seven" party, and have not commenced my first sketch till
a quarter to six; the day having been fine and the guests all
driving in the park. During those months people do not arrive until
five, and then they appear to have one eye on me and the other on
the tea. The audience is composed almost entirely of ladies--but I
like them.
Some years ago I was most particularly requested by one anxious and
evidently very nervous lady to arrive punctually on a certain
afternoon. I arrived, and was received most cordially by the
hostess, who, to my delight, had the room arranged with chairs so
that the people could sit down; but on my arrival only one chair was
occupied, and that was by a boy in an Eton jacket, who was seated
himself at the extreme end of the room. I waited a full
three-quarters of an hour before a single person arrived. In the
meanwhile the lady handed me a little pink envelope enclosing what
Sir Digby Grant, in _The Two Roses_, designates "a little cheque." I
placed it hastily in my pocket, and was much amused by the lady
approaching me shortly afterwards and saying, "Have you got it quite
safe?"
I enquired what?
She replied, "The little envelope."
I said, "Oh yes, thank you."
"Oh, that is all right," she said. "It seemed to me you placed it
rather carelessly in your pocket."
"Oh, it was not carelessness," I assured her; "only bashfulness."
At a quarter to five two ladies arrived, and at five the hostess,
addressing me, said:
"Would you mind commencing now? Some of the audience have been here
nearly an hour."
This, I presume, had reference to the Eton boy at the back of the
room, who came before time.
"With pleasure," I remarked. I opened the grand piano and commenced
the first item. I had not been at it more than ten minutes when the
two ladies got up, and, shaking hands with the hostess, said they
were so sorry they could not stay any longer, but they had to meet
some friends at another party before half-past five. I therefore
continued the next twenty minutes of the sketch to the solitary boy,
whose totally immovable face gave me no idea as to whether he was
enjoying the entertainment or not. The room soon began to fill with
extraordinary rapidity. At the conclusion of the entertainment the
hostess again, in a whisper, asked if I still had the envelope quite
safe. I pulled it half-way out of my breast coat-pocket, and said,
with a smile and a nod, "It's all right, you see."
She laughed and replied:
"Oh, yes; I see it's all right."
At the foot of the stairs I encountered the Eton boy with the
serious face. He had stayed till the very last. I said:
"Well, weren't you bored with all the rot I've been talking?"
He replied:
"No; it was awfully jolly. I wish there had been more of it."
There was no affectation about the boy, and his simple answer gave
me much satisfaction.
If I had not spoken, he would have said nothing. How very different
from the lady who has been talking on the staircase at the top of
her voice, who has never once listened or even glanced towards the
piano, but who, on seeing you pass by, greets you with:
"What a wonderful man you are! How _can_ you think of all these
things? You are quite too delightful!"
I have frequently been amused at the amount of diffidence displayed
by people when handing me the honorarium. Sometimes the hostess will
thank me profusely, and, in shaking hands, squeeze the little
envelope into my palm.
Some ladies will say loudly, "Good-bye, and thank you so much." Then
softly, "I will write you to-morrow."
Some ladies will whisper mysteriously, "You will hear from my
husband to-morrow." This at first sounds rather awful; but the
husband's communication is pleasant and most welcome.
The _Pall Mall Gazette_ published a most amusing sketch of an
elderly gentleman paying me in specie in the middle of the room, and
dropping the sovereigns all over the floor.
A very wealthy gentleman drove up to my father's house, about
fifteen years ago, in a carriage and pair and with gorgeous livery,
for the purpose of securing my services. I was out of town at the
time; so my father mentioned my fee, which was not very exorbitant
in those days. The gentleman was not inclined to give more than
half; so my discriminating parent "closed" with him. I do not mean
in the pugilistic sense of the word, but that he accepted the terms
on my behalf. I fulfilled the engagement; and when I saw the lovely
mansion, with its magnificent drawing-room, I wondered a little at
my host having suggested a reduction in the fee. I do not wonder
now: I have experienced still more wonderful things since then. The
gentleman himself was very kind, as far as I remember. I was only a
beginner, and in all probability he did not even know my name
perfectly. He paid me on the first landing, and a shilling slipped
through his fingers and rolled down the staircase. I was about to
roll down after it, when he stopped me, saying:
"Please don't trouble; here's another."
As I went out of the door I beheld my host and about four liveried
servants hunting for the lost coin.
As far as my own feelings are concerned, I experience no particular
delicacy as to the manner in which I am paid. I prefer the cheque to
be sent on a day or two after; and I least like the medical-man
custom of slipping the fee into the hand as you depart. You cannot,
under such circumstances, shake hands naturally or with comfort; and
there is always the chance of a sovereign falling on the oilcloth,
to say nothing of the risk of banging your heads together as you
both politely dive after it. Why should I be bashful, when I see
members of the aristocracy selling goods over a counter, and taking
the money and giving change in exactly the same manner as the
ordinary tradesman?
A young gentleman once called upon me. He explained that he was
acting as a sort of ambassador for a friend of his, Mrs. ----, of
Mayfair, who wished me to dine at her house. I replied that I had
not the honour of the lady's acquaintance, and, though appreciating
her kind invitation, did not exactly see how I could very well avail
myself of it. He said that Prince Somebody-orother and La Comtesse
de Soandso would be dining there, and Mrs. ---- would be so pleased
if I would join the party, and sing a little song after dinner.
"Oh," I said, "if Mrs. ---- wishes to engage me professionally, that
is another matter, and, if I am at liberty, I will come with much
pleasure."
"Oh," said the ambassador, "I fancy Mrs. ---- is under the
impression that if she includes you in her dinner-party, it is an
understood thing that you sing afterwards."
"I am afraid I do not understand that," I said. "It would not pay me
to do so. I only consume about ten shillings' worth of food and
wine, and my terms are more than that."
Sometimes, at private houses, I am retained to take part in a
concert, and not give the entire entertainment myself; and it is
astonishing to what expense a hostess will sometimes go to entertain
and amuse her guests.
I used to be engaged every year by a lady who lived in quite a small
house, in a street turning out of Lowndes Square. Beyond a choice
collection of old china, there was no outward display of wealth. Her
guests at her afternoon parties I should not imagine exceeded forty
in number, and these were always made to sit down. She declared she
would not have her entertainments spoiled by a crowd, and she was
perfectly right.
One afternoon when I was singing there she had a well-known soprano,
tenor and pianist, a lady and gentleman who gave recitals in
costume, and Senor Sarasate, the violinist. On another occasion she
engaged several well-known singers, also Madame Norman Neruda (who,
I remember, played exquisitely on that occasion), while the comic
element was supplied by Miss Fanny Leslie and myself. On neither of
the above afternoons could the entertainment have cost the hostess
much less than £150.
Sometimes I am engaged with only one singer, who, the host will
explain, will be able to effectually fill up my intervals of rest.
Clifford Harrison (the most talented and most popular of
drawing-room reciters) and I, have been engaged together--a
combination which has been most agreeable to me. I have also been
engaged on two or three occasions with Corney Grain, which was a
case (as he humorously put it) of "one down, the other come on."
Once I received a letter saying, "Besides yourself, I have secured
an _ocarina_."
I do not know if I have spelt it properly, but, for the life of me,
I could not tell what an ocarina was. I found it was an oval-shaped
instrument, of jet black, which emitted sounds the notes of a flute
with a very bad cold. The performer looked, while playing it, as if
he were eating a large potato.
Perhaps the most interesting professional engagement I have ever
fulfilled in private was at the residence of Mr. John Aird, M.P.,
Hyde Park Terrace, on the 17th June, 1887.
It was Jubilee year, and the amiable and generous host was evidently
determined to treat his guests to a novel entertainment. He wanted
something that had not been done before, and instructed his friend,
Rutland Barrington, to look out for an original entertainment. A
suggestion came eventually from Mr. Fred Leslie, the clever actor,
that the screen scene from _The School for Scandal_ should be
performed in a dumb show. Barrington and Leslie discussed the
matter, and it was arranged that there should be no costumes, and
that the silent actions of the performers should be described by a
lecturer. Mr. Aird was delighted with the idea, and determined that
the piece should be well cast. I feel sure the reader will be
interested to know who took part in the performance; so I append the
cast:
Sir Peter Teazle ... ... ... Mr. ARTHUR CECIL.
Joseph Surface ... ... ... Mr. FRED. LESLIE.
Charles Surface ... ... ... Mr. CORNEY GRAIN.
Servant ... ... ... ... Mr. DURWARD LELY.
Lady Teazle ... ... ... Mr. GEORGE GROSSMITH.
Lecturer ... ... ... ... Mr. RUTLAND BARRINGTON.
At the Piano ... Mr. MUNROE COWARD.
The skit had been carefully rehearsed several times, and Mr. Aird
("our manager," as we called him) attended all the rehearsals in the
most business-like manner, and gave some valuable suggestions. The
performance, which lasted about twenty-five minutes, went with a
roar of laughter from beginning to end.
I thought it stood a chance of being successful, but had no idea it
would succeed so well as it did. Barrington's introduction and
description were very funny. He commenced by explaining that a
dramatic license had at the last moment been refused us, and we were
not, therefore, permitted to speak any dialogue; but he would stand
at the side and explain the plot and performance as they proceeded.
He also added that another disappointment had been experienced by
the non-arrival of the costumes, and apologised for the screen being
a glass one, but it was the only one he could get. Although our
actions were at times extravagant, still we played with great
seriousness. There was no ridiculous "mugging," which always spoils
a burlesque performance. There was no conventional comic walk,
strut, or pantaloon gait. We discarded the usual knowing grin which
always seems to say, "I'm the funny man; prepare to laugh." An
audience never requires to be told in this fashion that a man is
funny; they are quite capable of discovering the fact for
themselves. A carroty wig and a red nose can no more make a comedian
than a coat can make a man. It was the extreme seriousness of the
opening scene between Leslie and Cecil, as Joseph and Sir Peter,
that set the audience off at the very beginning. Fred. Leslie was
simply immense. His natural look of extreme horror when Sir Peter
indicated he suspected Charles Surface simply convulsed the people.
Arthur Cecil was excessively funny in his relation of his quarrels
with her ladyship. He was as melancholy as all the Sir Peters ever
played put together; and the following was the climax:
_The Lecturer_ (Barrington): Sir Peter will now express that in
their last quarrel, Lady Teazle almost hinted that she should not
break her heart if he was dead.
Arthur Cecil did a little dumb-show action, then quietly rose from
his chair and lay at full length on the stage, on his back.
When the servant entered, and Charles Surface was announced,
Barrington said:
"Joseph Surface says, ''Sdeath, blockhead! I'm not within.'"
[Suitable action by Leslie.]
_Lecturer:_ Joseph Surface says he is "out for the day." Observe,
ladies and gentlemen, how Joseph describes being out for the day.
Here Leslie put on his opera-hat, seized an imaginary partner, and
began waltzing round, _a la_ Rosherville Gardens.
Charles Surface was eventually introduced.
_Lecturer:_ Charles Surface now enters. Please observe, ladies and
gentlemen, that Charles Surface is "fast."
The entrance of Corney Grain, with his hat very much on one side,
and his thumbs stuck in his waistcoat, as emblems of fastness, may
be imagined better than described. In fact, it is quite impossible
to describe the performance. All I can say is, that it had to be
repeated; and, whether it was artistic or not, Mr. Luke Fildes,
R.A., and Mr. Marcus Stone, R.A., attended both performances.
It may be asked how we managed to conclude the performance. After
the screen was thrown down--for which, of course, there was no
necessity; for through the glass could distinctly be seen her
ladyship, with a plate of sandwiches and a glass of wine--the
Lecturer said:
"All having been satisfactorily explained--"
At this abrupt announcement, without any action to justify it, there
was continued laughter.
"According to the present fashion which prevails in revivals of old
comedies, a minuet _a la mode_ will be danced."
Munroe Coward arranged "Oh, the Jubilee!" a seasonable and popular
comic song, _a la_ minuet, in a most skilful manner; and to this we
danced and made our bows, with the exception of myself, who, arrayed
in an antimacassar, indulged in my very best _courtesy_.
Our host and hostess, whose reputation for kindness and hospitality
cannot be surpassed, placed everything in our way to help us, and
were so interested themselves that I know I can say, on the part of
the players, that our labour was one of love. Our audience showed
pretty plainly that they enjoyed the performance, and I know we did.
I have given entertainments at the houses of all sorts and
conditions of men, and all sorts of places. Once I sang at a large
christening party. I should think sixty or seventy people sat down
to lunch. The health of the baby was, of course, proposed, and the
baby was produced and handed round to all the guests to kiss. It
stood this trying ordeal with perfect good humour; but the darling
little boy was obliged to draw the line somewhere, and so he drew it
at me. He set up a series of howls which alarmed the whole
party--especially the nurse, who darted at me a look of unmistakable
indignation. If I had surreptitiously pinched the little treasure,
the look of the nurse could not have been more terrible. She
departed with the baby, and soothed it with the following pleasant
remark about myself:
"Was 'im frightened by an ugly man den?"
I am very fond of children, and I flatter myself that children are
fond of me, as a rule. But there are exceptions, of course; and I
will relate another of them.
A great friend of mine, whose country house is not a thousand miles
away from Twyford, has a bonny little boy, who, at the age of about
a year and a half, took a sudden dislike to my _pince nez_, and
began to squall the moment I entered the room. From a humorous
spirit of mischief, the fond mother in future held me up as a bogey
to the boy. If he was fractious, the following threat was held out
to him:
"If you are not good, _I will call Mr. Grossmith;_" or, "If you do
not eat your food, I shall send you into the room where _Mr.
Grossmith is_."
This always had the desired effect. I believe I have been useful in
a variety of ways, but this is the only time I have been required as
a bogey to frighten children. As a sequel to the story, I may say
the boy is a little older now, and we are very good friends; in
fact, the last time I saw him he, of his own accord, selected me as
his companion to spend an entire afternoon in the garden collecting
snails.
An amusing series of incidents was the result of an engagement which
I fulfilled at the residence of a gentleman in Kent. On going to the
Opera Comique one evening, I found a gentleman waiting for me at the
stage-door. He introduced himself as the head clerk of Mr. A----, a
distinguished manufacturer, who was desirous of obtaining my
services for an evening party, to be given in honour of the coming
of age of young Mr. A----, at the family mansion in Kent. I invited
the head clerk to my dressing-room; for, as we were about to close
the theatre for a short time, I knew there was a possibility of my
being able to accept the engagement. The clerk at once commenced the
conversation by saying that he did a little acting himself--"only as
an amateur, of course." I had no reason to doubt his statement,
seeing that he had shaved his moustache off and grown his hair to an
inordinate length behind.
"Now," said he, coming to the business point of the transaction,
"Mr. A---- wants to know how much you charge, first."
I enlightened him on that matter.
"Well, I dare say that'll be all right. Mr. A---- means to spare no
expense. But the great thing is--what sort of entertainment do you
give?"
I explained that I took my seat at the piano, and chatted, played,
and sang, after the manner of John Parry.
"Is there no change of costumes? Don't you require any scenery or
footlights?"
"No," I replied. "I'm simply like one of the guests, except that I
do something and they don't."
"Oh," said the clerk, a little puzzled, "one of the guests? I must
see Mr. A---- about that. I don't think he understands that."
"Well," I observed, "you had better see that he understands that
before we proceed any further."
The head clerk said, "Good-night," and left the room, with a gait
that seemed to hit the happy medium between the walk of Henry Irving
and the stride of a pantomimic policeman.
The next night he returned, with profuse apologies, stating that Mr.
A---- of course would receive me as a guest, and would feel honoured
at making my acquaintance.
This was rather going to extremes, I thought; but the fault was on
the right side. I booked the date, and eventually "attended the
evening party." I shall never forget it. I was received as a
guest--as _the_ guest, in fact--and no mistake about it. My
reception was enormous. Young Mr. A----, who had come of age, was,
comparatively speaking, nowhere. I was introduced to nearly
everybody--or, more strictly speaking, everybody was _presented_ to
me. My entertainments were never better received. They were given at
intervals during the dancing. I danced with the most attractive
dancers, whom the host compelled to dance with me.
I enjoyed it immensely.
I don't think they did, and am positive their displaced partners did
not.
Shortly after midnight the supper-rooms were thrown open, and I was
requested to take the hostess in to supper. No royal prince could
have been treated better than I was. An elderly clergyman quoted
from my entertainment in proposing the health of young Mr. A----, on
the auspicious occasion of his coming of age. Young Mr.
A---- followed the clergyman's example in returning thanks. Then, to
my utter surprise, Mr. A---- sen., proposed my health, and thanked
me for coming down.
I returned thanks; and as there was a risk of an anti-climax, I
rose--with an amount of consummate impudence which, I am sorry to
say, is a little characteristic of me--and proposed the health of
the host and hostess, on the plea that I was the oldest friend of
the family, and had known them all their lives. This observation was
received with continued roars of laughter. I did not, and do not
even now, think it funny; but please remember, after a good
champagne supper, people will roar at anything.
We returned to the drawing-room. I sang again, and then came the
hour for my departure, for I had to drive all the way to town.
Mr. A---- stood in the middle of the room and shouted:
"Silence for a moment. All those who have been delighted with Mr.
Grossmith, please hold up their hands."
Up went all the hands with the exception of those belonging to the
displaced partners. Mr. A----, with much forethought, for which I
mentally thanked him, refrained from appealing to the "noes."
Continuing his thanks, Mr. A---- said:
"We are all much obliged to you, Mr. Grossmith; and"--here he
fumbled in his right-hand pocket--"and if ever you want a little
rest, we shall give you a hearty welcome if you like to stay here;
and"--here he seized my right hand, and I felt an envelope being
forced into it--"and mind you come. Good-bye. I think you'll find
that right," referring to the cheque, of course.
On eventually examining the cheque, I found it was written for an
amount nearly double my fee.
I daresay many will think the cordiality extended towards me by Mr.
A---- was ostentatious, if not absolutely vulgar. All I can say is,
it was infinitely to be preferred to the reception I once received
from a lady of title who invited me to her party, who had not
engaged me professionally, but who welcomed me at the top of her
staircase with a vacant look and the following observation in her
most aristocratic tone:
"How late you are! Will you sing now?"
I need scarcely say there was no song; but there was a supper, of
which I took full advantage.
Yet another incident, which occurred in my dressing-room at the
Opera Comique, and which is indelible on my memory:
A laird sent his Scotch butler to me one evening to make inquiries
respecting my entertainment. The butler, an elderly, pompous, and
exceedingly stupid man, produced a piece of note-paper containing a
string of questions which he was instructed to ask me.
The first question was: "Can Mr. Grossmith give an entertainment at
Aberdeen on Jan.----?"
I replied that my nightly engagement at the theatre would totally
prevent my accepting an engagement at Aberdeen. I could only sing at
afternoon parties in town, or a short distance from it.
The butler, with a broad Scotch accent, which I need not imitate
here, said:
"Ye'll have the goodness to answer this question, please. 'Can Mr.
Grossmith give an entertainment at Aberdeen on Jan.----?'"
"No; I cannot," I replied.
The butler continued reading:
"'What will be his terms?'"
"But I cannot go," I argued.
"Ye'll save a deal o' time if ye'll answer the questions, please.
What'll be the terms?"
"Well, we will say a hundred guineas, as I can't go," I answered,
endeavouring to restrain myself from bursting out laughing in his
face.
The butler made a note of the terms, and continued:
"'Will the entertainment be consistent?'"
"What?" I ejaculated.
"'Will the entertainment be consistent?'"
"Consistent?" For the life of me, I could not see what he meant.
"Yes--consistent."
I thought a little, and then said:
"Would you kindly explain the question? I do not understand it in
the least."
The butler said:
"Well, you must know, the laird is a strict Presbyterian, and all
the guests will be strict
Presbyterians, and he wants to know if your entertainment will be
consistent."
"Now I understand you," I replied. "Certainly, my entertainment will
be quite consistent. I am always very careful, and shall only sing
_Presbyterian comic songs_."
He made a note of my remark in the most serious way, and left,
saying:
"The laird himself will write to say if he can accept the terms."
That occurred nearly ten years ago, and the laird has not written
yet.
Giving entertainments in private houses is a constant source of
delight to me, and I feel both pleasure and pride in my work. I take
sometimes enormous pains in writing and composing the sketches, and
have often devoted several hours a day for a week or so in arranging
and composing a musical illustration which will only occupy a few
minutes in performance, and which may pass almost unnoticed by the
majority of the audience. But when the connoisseur picks that
illustration out from all the rest of the entertainment as his
choice, I feel am I more than rewarded for my trouble.
All sorts of stories about me appear from time to time in the cheap
weekly journals of the coloured paper or wrapper type, and I suppose
they are amusing to the readers. The amuse _me_ sometimes. I never
mind chaff.
My entertainments in private are capital scope for the smaller
journalists; and journalists, like other people, can be very small
sometimes. I read accounts of my own indignation at having been told
to go round to the servants' entrance; how a duchess was horrified
at discovering she was dancing with me instead of Lord Adolphus; my
injured feelings because a hostess did not shake hands with me; and
my having called upon the butler at Marlborough House, and spreading
the report that I had visited the Prince of Wales. These paragraphs,
though absolutely untrue, are inoffensive, and do good, inasmuch as
they do not hurt me, but supply the author with a few hard and
honestly-earned shillings.
Spiteful and really offensive paragraphs are regarded by me in a
different light. An offensive paragraph has the same effect upon me
as an anonymous letter. I feel the same sort of pity for the writer
as I do for the poor "Norfolk Howard," who can only do its work in
the dark, and cuts such a terrified figure when the light is
suddenly flashed upon it. The anonymous letter-writer is, perhaps,
the worst of the three; for his action is nearly always dictated by
a feeling of spite; whereas the "Norfolk Howard" and the "offensive
paragraphist" are actuated by a feeling of hunger: and _necessitas
non habet leges_.
There are exceptions to every rule, and I soon ascertained that
hunger was not the _raison d'etre_ of the following exceptional
notice in reference to my _debut_ in a weekly paper:
"* * * * * * * * * And something which was called an 'entertainment'
by a beardless boy, whose tones betokened his Cockney birth, and
whose sole ideas of humour seemed to be derived from an excessive
abuse of vulgar gesture, and the constant employment of such slang
terms as are heard in police-courts and penny gaffs. When Master
Grossmith was not vulgar, he was simply stupid; for which reason his
attempts at amusing an intelligent audience by a wretched imitation
of the Christy Minstrels and a badly-arranged rehash of Albert
Smith's 'Evening Parties' were, as they deserved to be, a dead
failure. The whole exhibition was most painful, and as far beneath
what we should have expected to see at the Polytechnic as a 'Penny
Dreadful' is from one of Thackeray's novels. Our advice to the
_debutant_ is, to tarry at Jericho till his beard be grown."
I was extremely hurt at this, but the direct allusion to the
police-court aroused my suspicions. I became a sort of amateur
detective; and the result was, I "received information" that the
article had been written by a gentle of position, who had just
beforehand been charged at Bow Street with a very serious offence,
and whose friends had not been successful in persuading me to "keep
the case out of the paper," or in "altering his name" beyond
recognition.
I owe very much to the Press, not merely for the favour extended
towards me, but also for improvements gathered from their adverse
criticism. But whenever I read a notice like the above, I am
consoled by the thought that its author, at some time or other,
without consent or consultation, has put in an appearance at Bow
Street Police Court during my reign as reporter.
In the foregoing chapter, I have dealt entirely with visits into
Society professionally. In the next, and last, I shall speak of the
non-professional invitations: for, strange as it may appear to the
uninitiated, I am _not_ always expected "to oblige with a song;" nor
is it a _sine qua non_ that if I accept an invitation to dinner, it
is on the distinct understanding that I should be funny. I can be a
very rational being when I choose; and any hostess who asked me to
her residence in the expectation that I should gratuitously amuse
her guests, would find me particularly prosaic.
Happily for all professional men and women, such hostesses are very
rare; and, fortunately, their reputations precede them. Still, there
_are_ people who cannot understand why I should appear _in propria
persona_ in a drawing-room; and a wealthy hatter of slight
acquaintance, meeting me at a "Mansion House" ball, said:
"Hulloa! Mr. Grossmith, what are you doing here? Are you going to
give us any of your little funniments--eh?"
"No," I replied. "Are you going to sell any of your hats?"