I.
YOUTH AND ROMANCE.
_Apologia--Early Misfortunes of Management--Stage Debut in
Schoolboy Dramatics--St. Mark's, Chelsea--The School's Champion
Pugilist--The Sale of Jam-Rolls--Student Days with W. H.
Trood--An Artist of Parts--A Fateful Night at the Theatre--The
Schoolboy and the Actress--A Firm Hand With a Rival--Three
Months' Truancy--Our Marriage and Our Honeymoon in a Hansom--The
Dominie and the Married Man--First Engagement with D'Oyly
Carte--Dilemma of a Sister and Brother._
Eight-and-thirty years on the stage!
Looking back over so long a period, memory runs riot with a thousand
remembrances of dark days and brighter, and of times of hardship which,
in their own way, were not devoid of happiness. It has been my good
fortune to own many valued friendships, and it is to my friends that the
credit or the guilt, as it may happen to be, of inspiring me to begin
this venture belongs. Not once, but many times, I have been asked "Why
don't you write your reminiscences, Lytton?" The late Lord Fisher
strongly urged me to write them when I paid my last visit to his home a
few months before he passed to the Great Beyond. So great was my respect
for Lord Fisher, one of the noblest Englishmen of our age, that I felt
bound to adopt his suggestion, and it is thus partly in homage to his
sterling qualities and gifts that I begin now to reveal these "Secrets
of a Savoyard." This much let me say at the very beginning. Naught that
is written here will be "set down in malice." Searchers for those too
numerous chronicles of scandal will look here for spicy tit-bits in
vain. For what it is worth this is the record of one who has lived a
happy life, whose vocation it has been to minister to the public's
enjoyment, and whose outlook has inevitably been happily coloured by
such a long association with the gladsome operas of the old Savoy.
I cannot say that my love of the footlights was inherited, but at least
it began to show itself at a very early age. One of my earliest
recollections is concerned with a little diversion at the village home
of my guardian. No doubt my older readers will remember the old gallanty
shows which were in vogue some forty or fifty years ago. Explained
briefly, these were contrived by use of a number of cardboard figures
which, with the aid of a candle, were reflected on to a white sheet, and
which could be manipulated to provide one's audience with a rather
primitive form of enjoyment. Well, I do not recall where I had been to
get the idea, but I decided to have a gallanty show at the bottom of the
garden, and to invite the public's patronage. This ranks as my first
venture in managerial responsibility. I rigged up a tent--a small and
jerry-built contrivance it was--and an announcement of the forthcoming
entertainment in my bold schoolboy's hand was pasted on to the outer
wall of the garden. The charges for admission were original. Stalls were
to be purchased with an apple, lesser seats with a handful of chocolates
or nuts, while a few sweets would secure admission to the pit. The boys
of the village, having read the notice, turned up and paid their nuts
and sweets in accordance with the advertised tariff, but the sad fact
has to be related that the show did not please them at all, and by
summarily pulling up the pole they brought the tent and the
entertainment to grief. In other words, I "got the bird." Nor can I say
that was the end of the tragedy. Under threats I had to repay all that
the box-office had taken, and as most of the lads claimed more than they
had actually given, the stock of nuts and sweets was insufficient to
meet the liabilities. So in the cause of art I found myself thus early
in life in bankruptcy! My partner in the enterprise proved to be a
broken reed, for when the roughs of the village got busy he showed a
clean pair of heels and left me alone with the mob and the wreckage.
Seeing that this is an actor's narrative, I ought to place on record at
once that my first appearance on any stage was in schoolboy dramatics in
connection with St. Mark's College, Chelsea. Of St Mark's I shall have
much to say. I played the title role in "Boots at the Swan." Except that
I enjoyed being the cheeky little hotel "Boots" and fancied myself not a
little in my striped waistcoat and green apron, I don't remember whether
my performance was held to be successful or not, but unconsciously the
experience did give me a mental twist towards the stage.
St. Mark's was regarded in those times--and I am glad to know is still
regarded--as an excellent school for young gentlemen. But certainly my
name was never numbered amongst the brightest educational products of
that academy. What claim I had to fame was in an entirely different
sphere. I was the school's champion pugilist! In those days I simply
revelled in fighting. A day without a scrap was a day hardly worth
living. Occasionally the older lads thought it good sport to tell the
new-comers what an unholy terror they would be up against when they met
Lytton. In most cases this was said with such vivid embellishments that
the youngsters got a heart-sinking feeling. But there was one lad who
was more adroit. He argued that it was all very well for the school
champion to fight surrounded by and cheered on by his friends, but that
this must put the challenger at a distinct disadvantage. He also
considered that no harm would be done if he measured up this much-boomed
light-weight before the time came for him to stand up publicly as his
antagonist. Luring me, therefore, into a quiet corner one day, he
commanded me in so many words to "put 'em up." Now while it is the
privilege of a champion to name his own time and conditions, it really
was too much to tolerate the pretensions of such an impudent upstart. So
we set to in earnest, and very speedily the new boy was giving me some
of his best--a straight left timed to the moment--and it needed only two
such lefts to make me oblivious of time altogether. Certainly he
succeeded in instilling into my mind a decided respect for his prowess.
Not being too richly endowed with pocket money, I conceived the idea
that to set up in business as the school pastrycook would serve a
"long-felt want." Strictly cash terms were demanded. Each day I bought a
number of rolls at 1/2d. each and a pot of jam for 41/2d. With these I
retailed slices of most appetising bread and jam at a penny a time and
made an excellent profit. If the truth must be told the smaller boys got
no more than a smear of jam on their bread and the bigger boys rather
more than their share, but on the average it worked out fairly well, and
the juniors had sufficient discretion not to complain.
[Illustration: Sincerely Henry A Lytton]
If I had any bent in those days--apart from fighting and selling jam
rolls--it was in the direction of painting. For water-colour sketches I
had a certain aptitude, and painting remains one of my hobbies, taking
only second place to my enthusiasm for golf. For tuition I went to W. H.
Trood at his studio in Chelsea. Trood in his time was an artist of
parts. He had a fine sense of composition and painted many beautiful
pictures. If he had not been deaf and dumb he would have made a great
actor, for his gift of facial expression was extraordinary. Clubmen are
familiar with a well-known set of five action photographs representing a
convivial card-player who has gone "nap." Trood was the subject of those
photographs.
For some time I attended St. Mark's during the day and went to the
studio each evening. I realised very early that there was no money in
painting and that it was of little use as a profession. We students were
a merry band, and though we had little money, we made the most of what
we had to spend. Our studio was only a garret, and it was a common thing
for each of us to buy a tough steak for no more than fourpence, grill it
with a fork over the meagre fire, and make it serve as our one
substantial meal for many hours. It was a Bohemian existence and I have
remained a Bohemian ever since.
Trood and I were more than master and pupil. We were, if not brothers,
then at least uncle and nephew. From time to time we contrived to visit
the theatre, for although he could not hear, he loved to study the
colour effects on the stage, and had an uncanny talent for following the
course of the plot. And one of these nights out was destined to be most
fateful for me in my future career. We had gone together into the
gallery at the Avenue Theatre (now the Playhouse). The attraction was a
French opera-bouffe called "Olivette." And I must confess that my
susceptible heart was at once smitten with the charms of a young lady
who was playing one of the subsidiary parts. From that moment the play
to me was _not_ the thing. Eyes and thoughts were concentrated on that
slim, winsome little figure, and I remember that at school the following
day the sale of jam rolls was pushed with redoubled vigour in order that
I might have the wherewithal to go to the theatre and see my charmer
again.
I am getting on delicate ground, but the story is well worth the
telling. It was clear I could not go on worshipping my fair divinity
afar from the "gods." We must make each other's acquaintance. So to Miss
Louie Henri I addressed a most courteous note, paying her some exquisite
compliments, and inviting her to meet her unknown admirer at the stage
door after the performance one night. And my invitation was accepted. I
ought to mention here that I was then scarcely seventeen years of age.
Louie Henri, as it afterwards transpired, was the same.
Well, I bedecked myself in my best and marched off in good time to the
trysting place at the stage door. I spent my last sou on a fine box of
chocolates. Nothing I could do was to be left undone to make the
conquest complete. But first there came a surprise. Another St. Mark's
boy was at the stage door already. He, too, had a box of chocolates, and
it was bigger than mine.
"Who are those for?" I demanded. The tone of my voice must have been
forbidding I already had my suspicions.
"Louie Henri," answered the lad. Seemingly he thought it wise to be
truthful.
I had a rival! Crises of this kind have to be met with vigour and
thoroughness.
"Give them to me," I insisted, "and hook it." The command was terrible
in its severity. More than that, I was not the school's champion
light-weight for nothing. The rival almost threw the chocolates into my
hands and vanished like lightning. When Louie came out there I was with
a double load of offerings! She was sensibly impressed.
From time to time further delightful meetings took place. Luckily the
jam roll trade was flourishing, and so it was seldom the youthful swain
met his lady-love empty-handed. Only once did the rival attempt to steal
a march on me again. I discovered him loitering round the stage door,
but when he saw my fists in a business-like attitude, he apparently
realised that discretion was the better part of valour and bolted into
the night. All of which proves anew that "faint heart never won fair
lady."
Louie and I got on famously together, and although we were but children
it was not long before we had decided to become engaged. The course of
true love was complicated by the fact that while I was at St. Mark's in
the daytime she at night had to play her part in "Olivette." So it
occurred to me that the only thing was to give up school. I accordingly
wrote a letter, in my guardian's name, saying that I was being taken
away from St. Mark's for a three-months' holiday, and posted it to the
headmaster at Chelsea. Then followed the rapture of sweetheart days. Our
pleasures were few--there were no funds for more than an occasional ride
on a 'bus--but into the intimacies of those blissful times there is no
need to enter.
We were married late in 1883 at St. Mary's, Kensington. Louie and I
certainly never realised the responsibilities of married life, and
love's young dream was not spoiled by anxious reflections about the
problem of ways and means, as may be gathered from the fact that our
funds were exhausted on the very day of the marriage. I remember that,
after the fees at church had been paid, the cash at our disposal
amounted to eighteen-pence. The question then was how far this would
take us in the matter of a honeymoon. Strolling into Kensington Gardens
we decided that we would spend it on the thrills of a ride in a
hansom-cab, and the driver was instructed to take us as far as he could
for eighteen-pence. The journey was not at all long. I rather think that
if the cabby had known the romantic and adventurous couple he had picked
up as fares he would have been sport enough to give us a more generous
trip.
Our plan of action after this honeymoon in a hansom had already been
decided upon. My wife went to the theatre for the evening performance.
I, on my part, had arranged to go back to school and put the best face
on things that was possible. During my absence, of course, it had become
known that my guardian's letter was a deception and that my three
months care-free existence was truancy. Where I had been the headmaster
did not know. What I had done he knew even less. But the delinquency was
one which, in the interest of school discipline, had to be visited with
extreme severity. The Dominie took me before the class and commenced to
use the birch with well-applied vigour.
When at the mature age of seventeen one is made a public exhibition of
one can have a very acute sense of injured dignity. The rod descended
heavily.
"Stop it!" I shouted. "You can't thrash me like this. Do you know what
you are doing? _You're thrashing a married man!_"
"_You_ a married man! You lie!" The birching, bad as it had been, was
redoubled in intensity. The master declared that he would teach me a
lesson for lying.
"But I _am_ a married man," I yelled. "I was married yesterday."
But even the dawn of truth meant no reprieve. The explanation put the
offence in a still more lurid light. It was bad enough to tell a lie,
but a good deal worse to get married, and the headmaster whacked me all
the more severely as an awful example to the rest of the boys.
Following the thrashing, I enjoyed a fleeting notoriety in the eyes of
my school mates, who crowded round to see the interesting matrimonial
specimen. "Look who's married!" they shouted. "What's it like?" I'm
afraid at the moment that, smarting under the rod, the joys of married
life seemed to me to be, as Mark Twain would say, "greatly exaggerated."
And worse was to come. Next day the master, considering my knowledge of
life made me too black a reprobate to remain in his school any longer,
terminated my career as a pupil. For a married man to be in one of the
lower classes was too much of an absurdity.
Here was a pretty how-d'ye-do! A bridegroom in sad disgrace, and finding
himself on the day after his marriage with no work, no prospects, no
anything! Louie it was who came to the rescue. "Princess Ida" had just
been produced at the Savoy, and she had been engaged for chorus work in
the company which was being sent out on a provincial tour, commencing at
Glasgow. My wife contrived to see Mr. Carte, and she faithfully followed
the strategy that had been decided upon. Seeing that theatrical managers
were understood to dislike married couples in companies on tour, she was
to ask him whether he would engage her brother for the tour, pointing
out that he had a good voice and was "fairly good looking." The upshot
was that I was commanded to wait on Mr. Carte. Later in life I came to
know him well and to receive many a kindness from him, but this first
interview remains in my mind to this day, because it was destined to put
my foot on the first rung of the theatrical ladder.
"Not much of a voice," was the conductor's comment--not a very
flattering compliment, by the way, to one who had been for a long time
solo boy in the choir of St. Philip's, Kensington. "Never mind," replied
Mr. Carte; "he will do as understudy for David Fisher as _King Gama_."
And as chorister and understudy I was engaged. Each of us was to have L2
a week, and in view of our circumstances the money was not merely
welcome, but princely. Our troubles seemed to have vanished for ever.
One of our difficulties was that, having entered the company as brother
and sister, that pretty fiction had to be kept up, and for a devoted
newly-married couple that was not very easy. For a brother my
attentiveness was almost amusing. The role was also sometimes
embarrassing. Louie's charms quickly captivated a member of the company
who afterwards rose very high in the profession--it would hardly be fair
to give his identity away!--and one night he gave me a broad hint that
my dutiful watchfulness was carried too far. "Leave her to me," he
whispered, affably. When I told him I had promised mother I would not
leave her, or some such story, a compromise was arranged whereby after
the show, when we were going home, I should drop back and give him the
opportunity for playing the "gallant." To have refused would have
aroused suspicions that might have led to the discovery of our secret.
So like _Jack Point_, I had to walk behind while the other fellow
escorted my bride and paid her pretty compliments. It seemed less of a
joke at the time than it does to-day.
Naturally, the little bubble was bound to explode before long, and it
exploded when everything seemed to be going splendidly. It happened when
one of the assistant managers, who also admired my wife, somehow induced
us to invite him to visit our "digs."
"Nice rooms, these," he commented, taking them in at a glance. "What do
you pay?"
"Sixteen shillings."
"Only sixteen shillings? Three rooms for sixteen shillings!"
"No! Only two----." The fatal slip! Truth at last had to out.
We told him that we had been afraid that, if we had said we were man and
wife, we should not have got the engagement, and we were in too much of
a dilemma to be sticklers for accuracy. Our "marriage lines" were then
and there produced.
"Well," said the manager, "you _are_ remarkably alike; no wonder you
easily passed for brother and sister." That, in fact, was true. Our
marriage, he went on to tell us, would not have been a handicap in the
D'Oyly Carte Company. Most managers, he said, did not care for husband
and wife to travel together, but that was not the case with Mr. D'Oyly
Carte.
The news quickly spread through the company, and on every hand we
received congratulations. Only one of our colleagues considered that he
had a grievance. He was the usurper who had insisted that I should allow
him to escort my alleged sister from the theatre to our lodgings. "What
a fool you've made of me," he complained. "Why I was going to propose! I
did think she would make such a nice little wife!"
Long after this it was Mr. Carte's custom, when making enquiries as to
my wife, to say dryly, "And how's your sister, Lytton?" Similarly,
whenever he spoke to my wife, there was invariably a twinkle in his eye
whenever he asked after the welfare and whereabouts of her "brother."
[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AT THE AGE OF TWENTY.]
II.
VAGABONDAGE OF THE COMMONWEALTH.
_L. s. d. on Tour--The Search for Independence--The Old Showman
of Shepherd's Bush--Not the "Carte" I Wanted--The
Commonwealth--Our Repertory and Our Creditors--"Well, Mr.
Bundle"--A Thirsty Situation and a Melodramatic Finale--A
Stammerer's Story--Comradeship in Adversity--Roaming the
Country--Back in London and the Search for Work--Diverse
Occupations and Little Pay--A Savoy Engagement at
Last--Understudy to Grossmith--A Real Opportunity._
The "Princess Ida" tour, as I have said, opened at Glasgow. It ran for
about a year, with enthusiasm and success wherever the company played,
though unluckily for me, my services as understudy were never required.
The D'Oyly Carte companies then, as now, were always a happy family, the
members of which were always helpful to one another and always
remarkably free from those petty jealousies that distinguish some ranks
of the profession.
Looking back on those romantic times, my wife and I often marvel how,
with all our inexperience in housekeeping, our slender finances
withstood the strain of our extravagance. Whenever we moved on to a new
town we had the usual fears as to what sort of a landlady we were to
get. In these times landladies do not always look on actors as their
legitimate "prey." But then they were extortioners, though there were,
of course, some pleasant exceptions. I remember, for instance, that in
some places we were charged 5s. a week for potatoes, and in others only
6d. On the whole, on that tour, we must have been in luck.
Notwithstanding that we had lived fairly well--and we did indulge odd
tastes for luxuries--we found that at the end of the 52 weeks'
engagement we had saved L52.
Following the "Princess Ida" tour, we were sent out into the provinces
again with other productions, and in this way we served under the
Gilbert and Sullivan banner for the best part of two years. But they
were not continuous engagements. From time to time we would find
ourselves idle and our tiny resources steadily dwindling. Luckily,
during this period we always managed to secure a fresh engagement before
we had spent our last sovereign, though we were hardly as fortunate in
the dark days that were coming.
I remember receiving at this time the advice of a dear old friend, a Mr.
Chevasse, of Wolverhampton. "The turning-point in your career," he said
to me, "will come when you have got 'independence.'" "What," I asked
him, "do you mean by that?" "Get L100 in the bank," was his answer, "and
in your case that will bring the sense of independence. It will put you
on a different footing with everyone you meet, and you will know that at
last you are beginning to shape your career yourself. Save everything
you can. Save a shilling a week, or two shillings a week, but save
whatever happens." And he was right. Later, when I had that L100 stored
away, I found myself in a position that enabled me to assert my claim
for principal parts, and I was sent out into the provinces to take three
leading roles--_Ko-Ko_, _Jack Point_, and _Sir Joseph Porter_.
But this is anticipating my story. Before that time came there were dark
days to pass through, days when we did not know where the next meal
would come from, and days when we tramped the country as strolling
players, footsore and weary. When our modest savings had been exhausted
during one prolonged period of "resting," I remember being driven by
sheer necessity to apply for an engagement at the booth of an old
showman at Shepherd's Bush. I had to do something. So I walked up to the
showman, who was standing outside the tent in a prosperous-looking coat
with an astrakhan collar, and asked him for a job. What did I want to
be? I wanted, I told him, to be an actor, and would play anything from
melodrama to low comedy.
"All right," said the showman. "Go over there and wash that cart!"
I went "over there" and started the washing. But it was no use. Sorry as
things were with us, I just could not come down to that, and off I
bolted. That was not the sort of "_Carte_" I wanted.
Our next venture was very interesting. It brought us no fame, precious
little money, a great deal of hardship, and yet a host of pleasant
remembrances to look back upon in the brighter days. "We were seven" and
one and all down on our luck. Failing to obtain any engagements in town,
we decided to band ourselves together as fellow-unfortunates, and to
seek what fortune there was as entertainers in the villages and small
towns of Surrey. It was to be a Commonwealth. Whatever profits there
were made were to be divided equally. One week this division enabled us
to take 7s. 10d. each! That was the record. What ill-success our
efforts had was certainly not due to any want of "booming." The services
of a bill-poster were obviously prohibitive. So at the dead of night we
used to put our night-shirts over our clothes to save these from damage,
creep out into the streets with our paste-bucket and brush, and fix our
playbills to any convenient hoarding or building. It had to be done in
double-quick time, but we had spied out the land beforehand, and
generally we made sure that our notices were pasted where they would
prominently catch the public eye.
Our repertory consisted of a striking drama entitled "All for Her," a
touching comedy called "Masters and Servants," and an operetta known as
"Tom Tug the Waterman." In addition, we did songs and dances, and as it
happened these were the best feature of the programme. We had no capital
available to spend on dresses and scenery. What we did was to take some
ramshackle hall or barn, and then to make a brave show with our posters,
though the printer was often lucky if he got more than free tickets for
all his family to see our performance. Generally our creditors
considered that, as there was small chance of getting any money from us,
they might as well have an evening out for nothing. Our costumes were
improvised from our ordinary attire. The men figured as society swells
by using white paper to represent spats or by tucking in their
waistcoats and using more white paper to indicate that they were in
immaculate "evening dress." As to scenery all we had was our own crude
drawings in crayons and pencil.
We presented our plays by what is known as "winging." By that I mean
that only one manuscript copy of the play was usually available, and
each player had to get an idea of the lines which he or she had to speak
after each entrance, though the actual words used on the stage were
mainly extemporised. "Winging," even when one has theatrical experience
behind one, is not at all easy. I know that in "Tom Tug" I dreaded the
very thought of having to go on and make what should have been a long
speech designed to give the audience a more or less intelligent idea of
the plot. I was so uncertain about it that I took the book on with me in
the hope of getting furtive glimpses at it as we went along.
"Well, Mr. Bundle," I began.
"Well?" Mr. Bundle responded.
"Well," I stammered again.
"Well?"
"Well."
The next "Well" did not come from the stage; it came from the audience.
"Well?" it yelled, accompanied, so to speak, by a tremendous note of
interrogation. "Well?" it echoed again. "Say _something_, can't you?"
This was too much. In confusion I rushed off the stage. Even that was
not all. I should, as I have said, have outlined the course of the
story, but not only did I not do this but in my confusion I left behind
me the book of words on which we were all depending. From the others in
the wings there came anguished whispers. "Where's the book?" "You've
left the book on the table!" So I had to put the best face on things and
walk on to get it. But the audience had had enough of me that night.
"Get off" they shouted--and I did.
"Tom Tug" was also once the occasion of a painful fiasco. Instead of
dashing on to the stage where my wife was playing the part of a simple
fisher-girl, and greeting her like the jolly sailor-man I was with a
boisterous "Here I am my darling," I found myself, standing behind her
in such a state of stage-fright that I was absolutely "dried up." I
could not utter a word. I simply stood behind her limp, speechless and
motionless, and no amount of prompting would induce me to go on with the
wooing. So there was nothing for it but to ring down the curtain, and
for the rest of the evening we had songs and dances, with which we made
amends.
"All for Her" was a drama of a desert island that should have melted
hearts of stone. We were all dying of thirst (at least, according to the
plot). Nowhere on that desert island was water to be found. They sent me
out to explore for it while they rolled about the stage moaning and
groaning in agony. During my absence from the stage I sat near a
fire-bucket in the wings. Then came my cue to reappear.
I staggered on famished and weary. The quest had been in vain. "Not a
drop," I croaked in a parched, dry voice; "not a drop of water
anywhere."
"Liar!" screamed the audience in unison. Our audiences, as you will have
gathered, were often critical folk who could sit with dry eyes through
our most anguishing scenes. It transpired that while I was sitting near
that fire-bucket the bottom of my Arab cloak had dipped into the water
and there it was dripping, dripping, dripping right across the stage!
The dramatic situation was absolutely spoilt.
The company included, besides my wife and myself, a young actress named
Emmeline Huxley, who after these hard times with us went to America and
there undoubtedly "made good." Then there was a "character" whom we
called "'Oppy." He was the general utility man who acted as conductor
and orchestra rolled into one, and then went behind the scenes to play
the cornet, to act as stage adviser, or at a pinch to take a small part.
He was an enthusiast who was here, there and everywhere. "'Oppy," in
addition to having a wall eye and a club foot, had a decided impediment
in his speech, but, strangely enough, he was entirely unconscious of
this disability. For that reason we often used to induce him to tell his
story of the lady who sang "Home, Sweet Home."
This story is bound to lose some of its effect when put into cold print.
As "'Oppy" told it the humour was irresistible. "Sh-sh-she wan-wan-ted
to go on the sta-sta-sta-stage," he used to say, "and the man-an-an-ager
he sa-a-a-aid to her, 'Wh-wh-wh-what can you sing?' And she said,
'Ho-ho-ho-home, Sw-we-we-we-weet Ho-ho-home,' And he told her to
sing-sing-sing it. And (here he could not keep a straight face over the
poor lady's misfortunes) she-she-she couldn't sing-sing-sing it
for-for-for stam-stam-stam-stam-stam-mering."
Never did "'Oppy" tell this story, of the ridiculousness of the telling
of which he seemed entirely unconscious, without his hearers exploding
with laughter. "Wh-what makes you all lau-lau-laugh so?" he used to
ask, incredulously. "You lau-lau-lau-lau-laugh altogether to-to-to-too
hearty. It's a good-good-good yarn, but I'm dam-dam-dam-damned if it's
as fun-fun-fun-funny as that."
Once he received an unexpected windfall in the shape of a postal order
from a relative for two or three shillings. "Come and have a little
dinner with me to morrow," he said to me and my wife. "I know you're
hungry." When we arrived we found his plate was already on the table and
empty. He apologised profoundly. He had been too hungry to wait for us
and had already eaten his dinner. So while my wife and I each enjoyed a
chop--the first square meal we had had for many a day--he sat by and
kept us entertained. Splendid fellow! Little did we guess that as he did
so he was suffering the pangs of hunger accentuated by the sight of our
satisfaction. Next day the landlady confided to us the fact that as our
friend's windfall had been insufficient to provide chops and vegetables
for three, he had smeared his plate with the gravy from the chops we
were to have, and then made us believe that he had satisfied his hunger
already.
What became of him later on I have never discovered. I only know that I
have tried hard to find him in order that that noble act of self-denial
might be in some generous manner repaid. Neither inquiries nor
advertisements, however, have ever revealed his whereabouts to me, and
it may be that already this honest fellow has gone to receive his
reward. God rest his soul!
Then there was Arthur Hendon. If ever a Christian lived it was that
sterling fellow. Time after time in those heart-aching days we were on
the verge of despair. Luck was dead out. Life was a misery. But Hendon,
though he was as sore of heart and as hungry as the rest of us, was
always ready with some cheery word, some act of kindness, some "goodness
done by stealth." Louie and I were rather small in size, and often as we
tramped from one place to another he carried one of us in turn in his
arms. For we had little food, and were tired, footsore and "beat." And
he, too, was "done." Only his great heart sustained him in those
terrible times as our "captain courageous."
The Commonwealth venture lasted for about three months altogether. As I
have shown it was one continual struggle against adversity and poverty.
For some time we were located at Aldershot. Our show ran as a rule from
six to eleven o'clock, and for want of better amusement the soldiers
gave us a fair amount of patronage at threepence a head. If we did not
please them they did not hesitate to fling the dregs of their pint pots
on to the stage. One night we felt ourselves highly honoured by the
presence of a number of military officers at our performance. "All for
Her," I am glad to say, went without a hitch on that gala occasion. Our
"theatre" was an outhouse owned by a publican, who was very considerate
towards us in the matter of rent, because he found that our presence
meant good business for his bar-parlour receipts.
From Aldershot we went on to Farnham, and from there to other hamlets
where we believed there was an audience, however uncouth and untutored,
to be gathered together. Eventually we reached Guildford. By then
matters were getting desperate. The Mayor or some other local public man
heard of our plight. He drove out to where we were playing, witnessed
part of our performance, and engaged us to sing at a garden-party. I
remember that, exhausted as we were, gratitude enabled us to give of our
very best as the only return we could make for his kindness. He told us
it was a great pity that such clever people should be living a
precarious existence in the country villages, and offered to pay our
train fares to London in addition to the fee for the engagement we had
fulfilled. This generosity we accepted with alacrity. The next morning
we were back in town again--each to follow his or her different way. So
ended the vagabondage of the Commonwealth. It was an experience which
none of us was ever likely to forget.
Once more in London it would be idle to say that our troubles had
disappeared. It meant the dreary search again for employment. Mr. D'Oyly
Carte had no immediate vacancies. Other managers had nothing more to
offer than promises. Lucky is the actor--if he ever exists--who
throughout his career has been free from this compulsory idleness.
During this period I had to turn my hand to all sorts of things. Once I
called at a draper's shop and secured casual work as a bill distributor.
I had to go from door to door in a certain select part of Kensington. I
remember I looked at those gilded walls and those red-carpeted stairs
with a good deal of envy. Later on I was destined to visit some of those
very houses and walk up those same red-carpeted stairs as a guest--those
very houses at which to earn an odd shilling or so to buy bread I had
delivered those bills! Yes; and there was one house at which I called in
those humble days where they abruptly opened the door, showed me a
ferocious-looking dog with the most business-like teeth, and
significantly commanded me to "get off--and quick!" I had done nothing
wrong, and my body and my heart were aching. Years afterwards I became a
breeder of bulldogs--about that you shall hear later on--and sold one of
them to those very people. And, as if in poetic justice, that bulldog
bit them!
My training under Trood was turned to advantage during these empty days.
A fashion had just set in for plaques. I painted some scores of these
terra-cotta miniatures, and although it was not remunerative work, it
served to put bare necessities into the pantry. We were living about
that time in Stamford Street, off the Waterloo Road, and in those days
it was a terrible neighbourhood where one's sleep was often disturbed by
cries of "murder" and "police." Our baby's cradle was a travelling
basket--we could not afford anything better. I remember, in connection
with those plaques, that in after years I was dining at the house of a
well-known writer and critic, and he showed me with keen admiration two
beautiful plaques, which, he said, had been won by Miss Jessie Bond in a
raffle at the Savoy. She had made a present of them to him. "Yes," I
commented, "and I painted them." He was kind enough to say that that
enhanced their value to him considerably.
For a time I went into a works where they made dies for armorial
bearings. Here I had to do a good deal of tracing, and the work was
fairly interesting. I drew five shillings the first week--hardly an
imposing stipend for a family man--but the second week it was ten
shillings and the third twenty shillings. Singing at occasional smoking
concerts and running errands supplemented this money very acceptably.
The job at the die-sinkers might have continued, but the foreman wanted
me to clean the floors in addition to doing my artistic work, and at
that my dignity revolted. I left.
Some months went by in this flitting from one job into another, but it
is useless to attempt a full catalogue of my versatility, for it is
neither impressive nor very inspiring. During all this hand-to-mouth
existence I was calling on theatrical managers. Slender as the rewards
which the stage had thus far given me were--just a meagre livelihood and
precious little encouragement--the call to return to it remained
insistent and strong. Sooner or later I was bound to return, and whether
it were to be to good fortune or ill, the very hope buoyed me up. I had
worried Mr. Carte with ceaseless importunity. Every week at least I went
round to try and see him on the off-chance of an engagement. And at last
there came the turn of the tide.
It happened on the eve of the first London production of "Ruddigore."
Concerning this new opera, the producers had for good reasons maintained
an air of secrecy, and the unfolding of the mystery was thus awaited
with more than usual public curiosity. It was the talk of the town and
the subject of many skittish references in the newspapers. Calling once
again at Mr. Carte's office, I caught him, after a long wait, just
leaving his room and hurrying along a corridor. Without more ado I
button-holed him and asked him once again for an engagement. Mr. Carte
was not a man who liked that sort of conduct. "You should not interrupt
me like this," he said, in a tone that betrayed his annoyance. "You
ought to send up your name." Explaining that I had done so and had been
told he was out of town, I repeated my plea for an engagement. Hurrying
on his way Mr. Carte told me to go down to the stage. Success had come
at last! When Mr. Carte sent a man to the stage that man became _ipso
facto_ a member of the company. Later the news came through that Mr.
Carte had chosen me as understudy to Mr. George Grossmith as _Robin
Oakapple_. This was indeed a slice of good fortune. Understudy to Mr.
George Grossmith!
"Ruddigore" was produced for the first time on Tuesday, the 22nd
January, 1887, at the Savoy. Towards the end of that week Grossmith was
taken seriously ill with peritonitis. By an effort he was able to
continue playing until the Saturday. Then he collapsed and was taken
home for a serious operation. Upon the Monday morning I was told I was
to play his part--and play it that very night.
Chosen to step into the shoes of the great George Grossmith! Faced with
such an ordeal to-day I verily believe I should shirk it. But then, the
audacity of youth was to carry me through. The supreme chance had come.
At all costs it had to be grasped.
III.
CLIMBING THE LADDER.
_The "Ruddigore" Success--Congratulations from everyone--My
First Meeting with Grossmith--Gilbert's Advice to a
beginner--Irving's wonderful Acting and its Effect--Speaking to
the Man in the Gallery--The Mystery of Jack Point--How My Tragic
Ending Was Introduced--Gilbert's Approval--A Memorable Hanley
Compliment--Laughter I ought not to have had--Bunthorne's
Fall--Accidents, Happy and Otherwise--Ko-Ko's Mobile Toe--Not a
Mechanical Trick--The Myth of the Poor Old Man of Seventy--Still
Youthful in Spirit and Years._
The Savoy Theatre had its usual large and fashionable audience on that
Monday night when I was to play my first big principal part either in or
out of London. What my sensations were it would be hard to describe.
Nervous I certainly was, and in the front of the house my wife was
sitting wondering, wondering whether the stage-fright fiasco in "All for
Her" was going to be repeated in this critical performance of
"Ruddigore." Both of us knew that here was my great opportunity. If I
won the future was assured. If I lost----! I knew the dialogue, and I
knew the songs, but during the previous week there had been all too
little chance for me to study Grossmith's conception of the part from
the "wings."
Then my cue came and I went on. The silence of the audience was deathly.
They gave me not the slightest welcome. The great Grossmith, the lion
comique of his day, was not playing! _Oakapple_ was being taken by an
unknown stripling! No wonder they were disappointed and chilling. First
I had a few lines to speak, and then I had a beautiful little duet with
Miss Leonora Braham, who was playing _Rose Maybud_. And when that duet,
"Poor Little Man" was over, and we had responded to the calls for an
encore, all my tremors and hesitation had gone. I knew things were all
right. With every number the audience grew more and more hearty. The
applause when the curtain fell was to me unforgettable. It betokened a
triumph.
Behind the scenes the principals and the choristers almost mobbed me
with congratulations. Up in my dressing-room there were many further
compliments. Sir (then Mr.) William Gilbert and Sir Arthur Sullivan came
to see me together. I heard afterwards that they had been very anxious
about the performance. Gilbert, as he shook me by the hand, declared
"To-night there is no need for the Lyttons to turn in their graves." Mr.
Carte, though always a man of few words, gave me to understand that he
realised that his confidence in me had not been misplaced. Cellier, who
had occupied the conductor's seat, told me that "From to-night you will
never look back." He and I remained fast friends for life.
The second act was no less successful. Since then I have come to know
how wonderful receptions can be, but never did applause fall more
gratefully than when as a young man under the first ordeal of a terrible
test, I was making that first appearance at the Savoy. Late as it is, I
should like to thank any who were there and who read these lines for
that sympathy and encouragement. It gave me confidence in myself and
helped me along. For every young artist who comes for the first time
before the footlights, may I bespeak always the same kindly feeling? It
does mean so much. The Press, to whom my debt has always been great,
also said many nice things about that performance. "Carte and Company,
it must be admitted," said one leading paper, "are wonderful people for
finding out hitherto unexploited talent."
Although George Grossmith was at first not expected to live, he made an
amazingly rapid recovery, and in about three weeks he was able to resume
his part in "Ruddigore." One of the first things he did was to send for
me. "Gee-Gee," as the older generation remembers, was in his day a
veritable prince of comedians, and in the theatre he was always paid the
deference due to a prince. Outside his dressing-room a factotum was
always on duty. None dare think of entering without permission. Thus,
when I, a mere member of the chorus, was summoned there into the great
man's presence, it was regarded by the company as an event, and everyone
wanted to know what it was like! Grossmith told me he had heard of my
success, gave me a signed copy of his photograph as a memento, and thus
laid the foundation of a friendship that was destined to grow very
intimate during the coming years.
Grossmith was a man of brilliant accomplishments, and as an artiste in
facial expression and in wistful fancy, perhaps we have not seen his
equal. Shortly after he left the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, he went on
tour with a repertory of charming songs he had himself composed, and in
that venture he made a good deal of money. For a reason theatre-goers
will understand--the desire to avoid becoming a pale imitation of a man
playing the same part as oneself--I was never a spectator "in front"
when he was in the cast at the Savoy.
[Illustration: THE LATE SIR WILLIAM S. GILBERT.]
Connected with my "Ruddigore" success I was proud to become the
recipient from Gilbert of a gold-mounted walking-stick that is still one
of my most treasured possessions, and the letter accompanying this gift
it may be well to reproduce:--
39, Harrington Gardens,
South Kensington,
22nd February, '87.