Will you do me the favour to accept the accompanying
walking-stick as a token of my appreciation of your excellent
performance of the part of _Robin Oakapple_, undertaken, as it
was, at a very few hours' notice, and without any adequate
rehearsal.
Faithfully yours,
W. S. GILBERT.
H. A. Henri, Esq.
Let me explain here that, in consequence of the "brother and sister"
deception, when I joined the D'Oyly Carte organisation just after my
marriage, I adopted my wife's name and was known as H. A. Henri during
the early part of my career. It was on Gilbert's own suggestion that I
made the change.
It was true, as Gilbert said, that I had no adequate rehearsal when I
was bidden to step at short notice into George Grossmith's shoes, but
during the next few weeks it was my good fortune to be under the
playwright's personal coaching. Subsequently I shall have to tell many
reminiscences of Gilbert, who in after years gave me the privilege of
being both his friend and confidant, but at this moment I want to refer
to advice he gave me while "putting me through my paces" in "Ruddigore."
In my anxiety I was rather hurrying the speech I was supposed to address
to the picture gallery of my ancestors. He pulled me up.
"Let me tell you something, young man," he began. "That speech, 'Oh! my
forefathers!' is now a short speech, but originally it consisted of
three pages of closely-written manuscript. I condensed and condensed.
Every word I could I removed until it was of the length you find it
to-day. Each word that is left serves some purpose--there is not one
word too many. So when you know that it took me three months to perfect
that one speech, I am sure you will not hurry it. Try to remember that
throughout your career in these operas." Later on he also gave me this
sound counsel, "Always leave a little to the audience's imagination.
Leave it to them to see and enjoy the point of a joke. I am sure you are
intelligent," he went on to say, "but believe me, there are many in the
audience who are more intelligent than you!"
Now, if an actor in these operas has to be careful of one thing above
everything else, it is that of avoiding forcing a point. Gilbert's wit
is so neat and so beautifully phrased that it would be utterly spoilt by
buffoonery. The lines must be declaimed in deadly seriousness just as if
the actor believes absolutely in the fanciful and extravagant thing he
is saying. I can think of no better illustration of this than the scene
in "Iolanthe" where _Strephon_ rejects recourse to the Chancery Court
and says his code of conduct is regulated only by "Nature's Acts of
Parliament." _The Lord Chancellor_ then talks about the absurdity of "an
affidavit from a thunderstorm or a few words on oath from a heavy
shower." What a typical Gilbertian fancy! Well, you know how the "comic"
man would say that, how he would whip up his coat collar and shiver at
the suggestion of rain, and how he would do his poor best to make it
sound and look "funny." And the result would be that he would kill the
wittiness of the lines by burlesque. The _Lord Chancellor_ says the
words as if he believed an affidavit from a thunderstorm was at least a
possibility, and the suggestion that he does think it possible makes the
very idea, in the audience's mind, more whimsical still. Imagine, again,
in "Patience" how the entire point would be lost if _Bunthorne_ acted as
if he himself saw the absurdity of his poem "Oh! Hollow, Hollow,
Hollow!" _Grosvenor_, in the same opera, is intensely serious when he
laments sadly that his fatal beauty stands between him and happiness. If
he were not, the delightful drollery of the piece would, of course, be
destroyed.
Gilbert, by the way, gave me two other hints which should be useful to
those just beginning their careers in the theatre, and they are hints
which even older actors may study with profit. He held that it was most
important that the artiste who was speaking and the artiste who was
being addressed should always be well to the front of the stage. "If you
are too far back," he said to me, "you not only lose grip over the
audience, but you also lose the power of clear and effective speech."
Then there is that old trouble--nearly every novice is conscious of
it--as to what one should do with one's hands when on the stage. Somehow
they do seem so much in the way, and one does feel one ought to do
something with them, though what that something should be is always a
problem. I mentioned this matter to Gilbert. "Cut them off at the
wrists, Lytton," was his quick reply, "and forget you've got any hands!"
Every young professional and young amateur should remember this. So long
as one worries about one's hands or one's fingers, one is very liable to
be nervous and to do something wrong, and so the only sound rule to
follow is to forget them entirely.
For a good reason I am going to digress here to tell a story of Sir
Henry Irving. It was my good fortune once to be in the wings at the
Lyceum when he was playing _Shylock_ in the "Merchant of Venice." The
power of his acting upon me that day was extraordinary. Every word I
listened to intently until at last, in the trial scene, he had taken out
his knife to cut the pound of flesh. I knew, of course, that he was
never really going to cut that pound of flesh, but the sharpening of the
knife, the dramatic gleam in the great tragedian's eyes, the tenseness
of the whole situation, was all too vivid and all too like reality. I
hated the sight of bloodshed, and in the shock of anticipation, I
fainted.
When I came round I was in the green room, and a little later, amongst
those who came to see me, was Irving himself. I was deadly white, and if
the truth must be told, rather ashamed. But Irving was immensely
pleased. He took it as a compliment to the force of his acting. Learning
that I was a young actor, he declared that my emotionalism was a good
omen, and said that my sensitive and highly-strung nature would help me
in my work enormously. Then he went on to give me many hints that should
be valuable to every aspirant for success on the stage. One hint I have
never forgotten. "See to it," he said, "that you always imagine that in
the theatre you have a pal who could not afford the stalls, and who is
in the back of the pit or the gallery. Let him hear every line you have
to say. It will make you finish your words distinctly and correctly."
If it is true, as friends have often told me, that one of the chief
merits of my work is the clearness of my elocution in all parts of the
house, it is due to the advice given to me in those early days by two of
the greatest figures connected with the stage, Gilbert and Irving.
Seeing that these operas are now being played by hundreds of amateur
societies each year, I want to pass on to those who perform in them this
golden rule: Always pitch your voice to reach the man listening from the
furthest part of the building. Since Gilbert's death I have often had
the feeling that someone is still intently listening to me--someone a
long way away!
But now I must proceed with my story. When George Grossmith returned to
the cast, I was sent out as a principal in one of the provincial
companies, and in this work continued for years. Sometimes we played one
opera only on tour--the opera most recently produced in town--and
sometimes a number of them in repertory. It was towards the end of 1888
that I first played what is, I need hardly say, the favourite of all my
parts, _Jack Point_, in the "Yeomen of the Guard," the opera which was
Gilbert and Sullivan's immediate successor to "Ruddigore." And in
connection with this part let us finally clear up a "mystery." It has
been a frequent source of enquiry and even controversy in the
newspapers.
When at the close of "Yeomen" _Elsie_ is wedded to _Fairfax_, does _Jack
Point_ die of a broken heart, or does he merely swoon away? That
question is often asked, and it is a matter on which, of course, the
real pathos of the play depends. The facts are these. Gilbert had
conceived and written a tragic ending, but Grossmith, who created the
part, and for whom in a sense it was written, was essentially the
accepted wit and laughter-maker of his day, and thus it had to be
arranged that the opera should have a definitely humorous ending. He
himself knew and told Gilbert that, however he finished it, the audience
would laugh. The London public regarded him as, what in truth he was, a
great jester. If he had tried to be serious they would have refused to
take him seriously. _Whatever_ Grossmith did the audience would laugh,
and the manner in which he did fall down at the end was, indeed,
irresistibly funny.
So it came about that while he was playing _Jack Point_ in his way in
London I was playing him in my way in the provinces. The first time I
introduced my version of the part was at Bath. For some time I had
considered how poignant would be the effect if the poor strolling
player, robbed of the love of a lady, forsaken by his friends, should
gently kiss the edge of her garment, make the sign of his blessing, and
then fall over, not senseless, but--dead! I had told the stage manager
about my new ending. From time to time he asked me when I was going to
do it, and then when at last I did feel inspired to play this tragic
denouement, what he did was to wire immediately to Mr. Carte: "Lytton
impossible for _Point_. What shall I do?"
I ought to explain that any departure from tradition in the performance
of these operas was strictly prohibited by the management. Thus, while I
might demur to the implication that my work was impossible, the fact
that he should report me to headquarters was only consistent with his
duty. But the sequel was hardly what he expected. The very next day Mr.
Carte, unknown to me at the time, came down to Bath. He watched the
performance and, after the show, the company were assembled on the stage
in order that, in accordance with custom, he could express any
criticisms or bestow his approval. What happened seemed to me to be
characteristic of this great man's remarkable tact. He first told us
that he had enjoyed the performance. "For rehearsals to-morrow," he went
on, "I shall want Mr. So-and-so, Mr. So-and-so, Miss So-and-so, Miss
So-and-so," and several others. The inference was that there were
details in their work that needed correcting. Then he turned to me,
shook me most warmly by the hand, and just said very cordially, "Good
night, Lytton." And then he left. No "Excellent"--that might have let
down the stage manager's authority--but at the same time no
condemnation. It was all noncommittal, but it suggested to me, as it
actually transpired was the case, that he was anything but displeased
with my reading.
Gilbert and I, when we had become close friends, often had long talks
about this opera, and particularly about my interpretation of the
lovable Merryman. I told him what had led me to attempt this conception,
and asked him whether he wished me to continue it, or whether it should
be modified in any particular way. "No," was his reply; "keep on like
that. It is just what I want. _Jack Point_ should die and the end of the
opera should be a tragedy."
For the sake of fairness I must mention that a fortnight after I had
introduced this version of the part, another popular artiste, who was
out with one of the other provincial companies, played the role in just
the same way. It was entirely a coincidence. Neither of us knew that the
other had evolved in his mind precisely the same idea, even down to the
minutest details, and still less had either of us seen the other play
it.
One little detail in my make-up for this part may be worth recording.
Whenever kings or noblemen in the old days were pleased with their
jesters they threw them a ring. For that reason I invariably wear a ring
when I appear as _Jack Point_. Simple ornament as it is, it was once
owned by Edmund Kean and worn by him on the stage, and another treasured
relic of the great tragedian that I possess is a snuff-box, also given
to me by my old friend, Charles Brookfield.
One of the finest compliments ever paid to me as an artiste occurred at
Hanley. We were playing "Yeomen." Many of our audience that night were a
rough lot of fellows, some of whom even sat in their shirt sleeves, but
there could be no question but that they were keenly following the play.
Everywhere we had been on that tour there had been tremendous calls
after the curtain. At Hanley when the curtain fell there was--a dead
silence! It was quite uncanny. What had happened? Were they so little
moved by the closing scene of the piece that they were going out in
indifference or in disgust? Gently we drew the edge of the curtain
aside, and there, would you believe it, we saw those honest fellows
silently creeping out without even a whisper. He was _dead_. _Jack
Point_ was _dead_!
[Illustration: THE LATE SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN.]
I changed in silence myself. The effect of the incident had been so
extraordinary. And when I went down to the stage door a crowd of these
rough men were waiting. Somehow they knew me for _Point_. "Here he is!"
they shouted. "Are you all right, mister, now?" Then, as I walked on,
they turned to one another and I overheard one of them say: "He _wasn't_
dead, after all." As they saw the end of the opera they verily believed
something had gone wrong. Such a thing in the theatre may possibly be
understandable, but that the illusion should have lingered after the
curtain had dropped, and even after they had left the theatre and come
really to earth in the street, seemed to me extraordinary.
The "Yeomen of the Guard" was staged again the following night, but this
time the audience must have been told by their pals that they had
actually seen me afterwards, and that it was "only a play." _Jack_
didn't die--not really. It was only "pretended."
That Hanley audience rather overdrew the gravity of things. Some
audiences, on the other hand, go to the opposite extreme and they have
their biggest laugh when and where I least expect it. I remember once
playing the _Pirate King_ in the "Pirates of Penzance," and as a result
of a slip (a physical one) I was the sorry figure in one of those
incidents which I might catalogue as "laughs I ought not to have got." I
had to come in, armed to the teeth, high up on the stage. By some
mischance I slipped down the rocks, and encumbered with all those
knives, pistols and cutlasses about me it was a pretty bad drop. The
audience, of course, thought my undignified entrance a capital joke. I
didn't--it hurt. But I turned the mishap to account, first picking up a
dagger and putting it between my teeth, then groping round for the other
weapons, and all the while cowing my pirate swashbucklers with a vicious
look that suggested "Come on at your peril; I'm ready." That incident
was not in the book.
Lovers of "Patience" will recall that little diversion where _Lady Jane_
picks up _Bunthorne_ in her arms and carries him off. Well, when Miss
Bertha Lewis was playing with me in this scene quite recently, she did
something quite unauthorised. She dropped me--it was a terrible
crash--and the audience thought it a "scream." In the shelter of the
wings I remonstrated with her, pointing out that this was a distinct
departure from what Gilbert intended. All the sympathy I got was, "Well,
I've dropped you only twice in eight years!" Scarcely an effectual
embrocation for bruises!
When we were doing "Ruddigore" in Birmingham, some years ago, I broke my
ankle in the dance with which the first curtain fell. Somehow I finished
the performance, but when I went up to my dressing-room to change I
fainted. When I came to I found that my foot had swollen enormously,
that the top boot I was wearing had burst, and that they were doing
their best to cut it away. The speediest medical aid to be found was
that of a veterinary surgeon, and although the pain was awful it was
nothing like the feeling of doom when I overheard him saying, "He may
not walk again!" Luckily his fears were altogether unfounded, but
although the accident has not affected my dancing, the ankle has never
been quite right to this day.
Once, in the "Yeomen," I kicked one of the posts near the executioner's
block. It dislocated my toe, but what a happy accident it was I did not
realise until some weeks later, when we were playing "The Mikado," and
when I was doing the dance in the "Flowers that Bloom in the Spring," I
trod upon a tin-tack, and instinctively drew my toe away, as it were,
from the pain. From the audience there came a tremendous roar of
laughter. For a moment I could not understand it at all. Looking down,
however, I was amazed to find that big toe upright, almost at right
angles to the rest of the foot. With my fan I pressed it down--then
raised it again. This provoked so much merriment among the audience that
I did it a second time, and a third. All this time the theatre was
convulsed. I confess that to myself it seemed jolly funny. Here, indeed,
was a quaint discovery.
This "toe" business has ever since been one of _Ko-Ko's_ greatest
mirth-provokers in the "Flowers that Bloom in the Spring." The
explanation of its origin shows that it is not a trick mechanical toe
nor, as some people suppose, that it is done with a piece of string. The
fact is simply that the toe is double-jointed.
Now that I have made a brief reference to dancing, I think it may be
well to correct a legend which has grown up about my age, and which
usually turns up when we have been encored a first or a second time for
a dance or some boisterous number, especially in "Iolanthe" or "The
Mikado." "Isn't it a shame?" I know some dear kind friends say, "making
him do it again. Poor old man! He's well over seventy." Others declare,
"Isn't he a marvel for sixty-five?" Well, if a man is as old as he
feels, then my age must still be in the thirties, and certainly there is
no intention on my part of retiring just yet. But if we have to go by
the calendar, and if it is necessary that there should be "no possible
shadow of doubt" in the future as to my age, I had better put on record
the fact that I was born in London on January 3rd, 1867. The rest, a
small matter of arithmetic, may be left to you. At all events I am still
some distance from the patriarchal span.
The stage is a wonderful tonic in keeping one healthy and strong. Not
once, but many times, I have gone to the theatre in the evening
suffering from neuralgia, but the moment my cue comes the pain has
entirely disappeared. No sooner, worse luck, have I finished for the
night than it has returned!
IV.
LEADERS OF THE SAVOY.
_Memories of Gilbert--His instinct for stagecraft--Stories of
rehearsals--Jack Point's unanswered conundrum--The craze for the
Up-to-Date--Gilbert's experiments on a miniature
stage--Nanki-Poo's address--The Japanese colony at
Knightsbridge--The geniality of Sullivan--A magician of the
orchestra--The cause of an unhappy separation--Only a
carpet--Impressions of D'Oyly Carte--Merited rebukes and
generous praise--D'Oyly Carte and I rehearse a love scene--A
wonderful business woman--Mrs. Carte's part in the Savoy
successes--Our leader to-day._
Sir William Gilbert I shall always regard as a pattern of the fine old
English gentleman. Of that breed we have only too few survivors to-day.
Some who know him superficially have pictured him as a martinet, but
while this may have been true of him under the stress of his theatrical
work, it fails to do justice to the innate gentleness and courtesy which
were his great and distinguishing qualities. Upright and honourable
himself, one could never imagine that he could ever do a mean,
ungenerous action to anyone, nor had any man a truer genius for
friendship.
Gilbert, it is true, had sometimes a satirical tongue, but these little
shafts of ridicule of his seldom left any sting. The _bons mots_
credited to him are innumerable, but while many may be authentic there
are others that are legendary. He was a devoted lover of the classics,
and to this may be attributed his command of such beautiful English.
Nimble-witted as he was, he would spend days in shaping and re-shaping
some witty fancy into phrases that satisfied his meticulous taste, and
days and weeks would be given to polishing and re-polishing some lyrical
gem. But when a new opera was due for rehearsal, the libretto was all
finished and copied, and everything was in readiness.
Few men have had so rare an instinct for stagecraft. Few men could
approach him in such perfect technique of the footlights. Up at Grim's
Dyke, his beautiful home near Harrow, he had a wonderful miniature stage
at which he would work arranging just where every character should
enter, where he or she should stand or move after this number and that,
and when and where eventually he or she should disappear. For each
character he had a coloured block, and there were similar devices, of
course, for the chorus. Thus, when he came down for rehearsals, he had
everything in his mind's eye already, and he insisted that every detail
should be carried out just as he had planned. "Your first entrance will
be here," he would say, "and your second entrance there. 'Spurn not the
nobly born' will be sung by _Tolloller_ just there, and while he sings
it _Mountararat_ will stand there, _Phyllis_ there," and so on.
When the company had become familiar with the broader outlines of the
piece, he would concentrate attention upon the effects upon the audience
that could be attained only by the aid of facial expression, gesture and
ensemble arrangement. Not only did he lay down his wishes, but he
insisted that they must be implicitly obeyed, and a principal who had
not reached perfection in the part he was taking would be coached again
and again. I remember once that, in one of those moods of weariness and
dullness that occasionally steal over one at rehearsals, I did not grasp
something he had been telling me, and I was indiscreet enough to blurt
out, "But I haven't done that before, Sir William." "No," was his reply,
"but I have." The rebuke to my dullness went home! It was Durward Lely,
I think, whom he told once to sit down "in a pensive fashion." Lely
thereupon unmindfully sat down rather heavily--and disturbed an
elaborate piece of scenery. "No! No!" was Gilbert's comment, "I said
pensively, not ex-pensively." That quickness of wit was very typical.
George Grossmith once suggested that the introduction of certain
business would make the audience laugh. Gilbert was quite unsympathetic.
"Yes!" he responded in his dryest vein, "but so they would if you sat
down on a pork pie!" Grossmith it was, too, who had become so wearied
practising a certain gesture that I heard him declare he "had rehearsed
this confounded business until I feel a perfect fool." "Ah! so now we
can talk on equal terms" was the playwright's instant retort. And the
next moment he administered another rebuke. "I beg your pardon," said
the comedian, rather bored, in reference to some instructions he had not
quite understood. "I accept the apology," was the reply. "Now let's get
on with the rehearsal."
You will remember that in "The Yeomen" poor _Jack Point_ puts his
riddle, "Why is a cook's brainpan like an overwound clock?" The
Lieutenant interposes abruptly with "A truce to this fooling," and the
poor Merry-man saunters off exclaiming "Just my luck: my best conundrum
wasted." Like many in the audience, I have often wondered what the
answer to that conundrum is, and one day I put a question about it to
Gilbert. With a smile he said he couldn't tell me then, but he would
leave me the answer in his will. I'm sorry to say that it was not found
there--maybe because there was really no answer to the riddle, or
perhaps because he had forgotten to bequeath to the world this
interesting legacy.
Sir William not only studied the entrances and exits beforehand, but he
came with clear-cut ideas as to the colour schemes which would produce
the best effect in the scenery, laid down the methods with which the
lighting was to be handled, and arranged that no heavy dresses had to be
worn by those who had dances to perform. No alterations of any kind
could be made without his authority, and thus it comes about that the
operas as presented to-day are just as he left them, without the change
of a word, and long may they so remain!
I ought, perhaps, to answer criticisms which are often laid against me
when, as _Ko-Ko_ in "The Mikado," I do not follow the text by saying
that _Nanki-Poo's_ address is "Knightsbridge." I admit I substitute the
name of some locality more familiar to the audience before whom we are
playing. Well, it is not generally known that Knightsbridge is named in
the opera because, just before it was written, a small Japanese colony
had settled in that inner suburb of London, and a very great deal of
curiosity the appearance of those little people in their native costumes
aroused in the Metropolis. Gilbert, therefore, in his search for "local
colour" for his forthcoming opera, had not to travel to Tokio, but found
it almost on his own doorstep near his home, then in South Kensington.
A Japanese male-dancer and a Geisha, moreover, were allowed to come from
the colony to teach the company how to run or dance in tiny steps with
their toes turned in, how to spread or snap their fans to indicate
annoyance or delight, and how to arrange their hair and line their faces
in order to introduce the Oriental touch into their "make-up." This
realism was very effective, and it had a great deal to do with the
instantaneous success of what is still regarded as the Gilbert and
Sullivan masterpiece.
[Illustration: THE LATE MR. RICHARD D'OYLY CARTE.]
But to return to the point about Knightsbridge. When "The Mikado" was
produced at the Savoy, the significance of the reference to a London
audience was obvious and amusing enough, but it was a different matter
when the opera was sent into the provinces. Gilbert accordingly gave
instructions that the place was to be localised, and there was and
always is something very diverting to, say, a Liverpool audience in the
unexpected announcement that _Nanki-Poo_, the great Mikado's son, is
living at "Wigan." In the case of Manchester it might be "Oldham" or in
that of Birmingham "Small Heath." What I want to make clear is that, so
far from any liberty being taken on my part, this little variation is
fully authorised, and it is the only instance of the kind in the whole
of the operas.
Sir Arthur Sullivan I knew least of the famous triumvirate at the Savoy.
I was under him, of course, at rehearsals, and we had pleasant little
talks from time to time, but my relations with him were neither so
frequent nor so intimate as they were with the other two partners. We
had a mutual friend in Francois Cellier, about whose work as conductor I
shall have more to say, and it was through him that I learned much about
the fine personal and musical qualities of the composer.
Certainly Sullivan was a great man, intensely devoted to his art, and
fame and fortune never spoilt a man less. A warm-hearted Irishman, he
was always ready to do a good turn for anyone, and it was wonderful how
the geniality of his nature was never clouded by almost life-long
physical suffering. Sullivan lived and died a bachelor, and I believe
there was never a more affectionate tie than that which existed between
him and his mother, a very witty old lady, and one who took an
exceptional pride in her son's accomplishments. Nor is it generally
known that he took upon himself all the obligations for the welfare and
upbringing of his dead brother's family. It was to Herbert Sullivan, his
favourite nephew, that his fortune was bequeathed.
Of Sullivan the musician I cannot very well speak. I have already owned
that I have little real musical knowledge. But at the same time he
always seemed to me to be something of a magician. Not only could he
play an instrument, but he knew exactly what any instrument could be
made to do to introduce some delightful, quaint effect into the general
orchestral design. "No! No!" he would say at a rehearsal to the double
bass, "I don't want it like that. I want a lazy, drawn-out sound like
this." And, taking the bow in his fingers, he would produce some
deliciously droll effect from the strings. "Oh, no! not that way," he
would say to the flutes, and a flute being handed up to him, he would
show how the notes on the score were to be made lightsome and caressing.
Then it would be the turn of the violins.
At the earlier rehearsals it was often difficult for the principals to
get the tune of their songs. The stumbling block was the trickiness of
rhythm which was one of the composer's greatest gifts. Now, although I
cannot read a line of music, my sense of rhythm has always been very
strong, and this has helped me enormously both in my songs and my
dancing. Once when Sir Arthur was rehearsing us, and we simply could not
get our songs right, I asked him to "la la" the rhythm to me, and I then
got the measure so well that he exclaimed "That's splendid Lytton. If
you're not a musician, I wish there were others, too, who were not."
One story about Sullivan--I admit it is not a new one--well deserves
telling. Standing one night at the back of the dress-circle, he
commenced in a contemplative fashion to hum the melody of a song that
was being rendered on the stage. "Look here," declared a sensitive old
gentleman, turning round sharply to the composer, "I've paid my money to
hear Sullivan's music--not yours." And whenever Sir Arthur told this
story against himself he always confessed that he well deserved the
rebuke.
Gilbert and Sullivan were collaborators for exactly twenty-five years.
It was in 1871 that they wrote "Thespis," a very funny little piece of
its kind that was produced at the Gaiety, and it was this success that
induced Mr. Richard D'Oyly Carte to invite them to associate again in
the writing of a curtain-raiser destined to be known as "Trial by Jury."
From that time until 1889 they worked in double harness without a
break, and it was in that latter year, after the most successful
production of "The Gondoliers" that there came the unfortunate
"separation." It lasted four years. When, in 1893, the two men re-united
their talents, they gave us that delightfully funny play, "Utopia
Limited." But with "The Grand Duke" in 1896--and the superstitious will
not overlook that this was the thirteenth piece they had written
together--the curtain finally came down upon the partnership.
It may be expected of me that I should say something about the cause of
the famous "separation." It is a matter I should prefer to ignore,
partly because the consequences of it were so very unfortunate to the
cause of dramatic and musical art, and partly because the reason of it
was trivial to a degree. Slight "tiffs" there may have been between the
two from time to time--that was inevitable under the strain of
rehearsals--but these minor differences were mended within a day or a
night. What caused the rift was--would you believe it?--a carpet! This
Mr. Carte, who under the contract was responsible for furnishings, had
bought for L140, as a means of adding to the comfort, as he believed, of
the patrons of the Savoy. Seeing this item in the accounts, Mr. Gilbert
objected to it as a sheer waste of money, arguing that it would not
bring an extra sixpence into the exchequer. The dispute was a mere
"breeze" to begin with, but Gilbert and Carte had each a will of his
own, and soon the "breeze" had developed into a "gale." And that
miserable carpet led at last to the break-up of the partnership.
Sullivan, whether he agreed with the purchase or not, did his best to
put an end to the quarrel, but as in the end he had to adhere to one
side or the other, he linked himself with Mr. Carte. This, then, was the
sole cause of the breach, and by none was it more regretted than by the
principals. Gilbert, I know, felt this severance from his old friend
very acutely, though in our many talks in after years he was always
inclined to be a little reticent as to this subject. Sullivan, too,
though he went on composing, was not at all fortunate in his choice of
lyrical writers, none of whom had the deftness and quaint turn of fancy
of the playwright with whom he had worked so long and so successfully.
Before I leave Sullivan, I think students of music will be interested to
hear what Cellier once told me as to the composer's methods in writing
his beautiful songs. With Gilbert's words before him, he set out first
to decide, not what should be the tune, but the rhythm. It was this
method of finding exactly what metre best suited the sentiment of the
lyric that gave his music such originality. Later, having decided what
the rhythm should be, he went on to sketch out the melody, but it was
seldom that he set to work on the orchestration until the rehearsals
were well under way. In the meanwhile the principals practised their
songs to an accompaniment which he vamped on the pianoforte. Sullivan,
who could score very quickly, had a mind running riot with musical
ideas, and he could always pick out the idea for a given number that
fitted it like the proverbial glove. "I have a song to sing O!" he
regarded, I have been told, as the most difficult conundrum Gilbert ever
set him, and musicians tell me that, in sheer constructive ingenuity, it
is one of the cleverest numbers in the "Yeomen of the Guard."
Now I must turn to Mr. D'Oyly Carte. From time to time in this book I
have given indications as to the manner of man that he was, but although
much is known about his capacity as a business manager, the world knows
very little indeed of his kindly generosity. It was impossible, of
course, for him to take into the company every poor actor who was down
on his luck, but certain it is that he never sent him empty away. Seldom
did he leave his office without seeing that his pockets were well laden
with sovereigns. Out in the Strand, as he knew, there would be some waif
of our profession waiting for him, always sure that under cover of a
handshake, Mr. Carte would press a golden coin upon him with a cheery
"see you get yourself a good lunch," or "a good supper."
Mr. Carte, as I have said before, was a man of few words and of a rather
taciturn humour, but it would be wrong to think that he was not fond of
his joke. First, however, let me tell the story of a small youthful
folly of mine, in "The Mikado." It happened in the second act where
_Ko-Ko_, _Pooh Bah_ and _Pitti Sing_ are prostrate on the floor in the
presence of the _Emperor_. We three had to do our well-known "roll-over"
act in which I, like _Pitti Sing_ herself, had to bear the weight of the
20-stone of dear old Fred Billington. Well, an imp of mischief led me
one night to conceal a bladder under my costume, and when Fred rolled
over it exploded with a terrible "bang." Billington had the fright of
his life. "What's happened Harry?" he whispered anxiously, his nose
still to the floor, "What have I done?"
I am afraid that in those days I had an incurable weakness for practical
joking. One night I went for dinner into a well-known hotel in the
Strand. Soon after I had entered the restaurant I was roughly grasped by
one would-be diner, who was obviously in a very bad temper, and who
demanded to know why no one had been to take the order for himself and
his guests. Well, if I was to be mistaken for a waiter, it would be just
as well to play the part. "Pardon, monsieur!" I exclaimed, dropping at
once into a most deferential attitude, and immediately getting ready to
write down his order on the back of a menu-card that was handy. The
diner, still in the worst of humours, recited the courses he had
selected. "And wine, monsieur?" I asked. Yes, he wanted wine as well,
and that order also was faithfully booked. Then I went to the far end of
the room to join my own party of friends. What combustible heat the
diner developed when he found that his wishes were still unattended to,
and what verbal avalanche the real waiter had to endure when he had to
ask that the order should be repeated, are matters upon which no light
can be thrown--by myself! But to return to the story of the "explosion"
in "The Mikado."
My little bit of devilment was duly reported to the management. Mr.
Carte summoned me before him and looked very grave. Unauthorised
diversions of this kind would never do--and certainly not when
perpetrated by a leading principal. "I think it is about time you
stopped your schoolboy pranks," was his rebuke.
But a different side of Mr. Carte was seen in connection with a certain
incident at the Savoy. The point to remember is that it had reference to
something that did not involve any liberties with the performance, and
this fact put it, in his eyes, in an entirely different category. We had
in the company a man who was always telling tales about the rest to the
stage manager. So one night some of us got hold of him, ducked his head
in a bucket of dirty water, and kept it there as long as we dare.
Naturally he reported us, and in due course we were summoned to attend
and explain our conduct to Mr. Carte. We were bidden to enter his room
one by one. I, as one of the ring-leaders, was the first to go in. "This
is very serious," said Mr. Carte, but having heard my explanation of the
incident, and still looking exceedingly severe, he warned me that "this
sort of thing must not happen again." Then, as a smile stole over his
face, he added "All the same I might have done it myself!"
With that he told me, when I went out of the room, to put one hand on my
temple and, with the other stretched out in the air, to exclaim "Oh!
it's terrible--terrible." What the effect of this melodramatic posture
was on those anxiously waiting outside may well be imagined. It could
only mean instant dismissal for all of us. Then Mr. Carte had another
culprit before him, and having formally rebuked him, commanded him to
make his exit in much the same way. It was an excellent joke--except for
those at the end of the queue.
It was Mr. D'Oyly Carte, by the way, who once did me the compliment of
saying, "My dear Lytton, you have given me the finest performance I have
ever seen of any part on any stage." Strange as it may seem to-day, the
role which I was playing then, and which drew those most cordial words
from one whose praise was always so measured and restrained, was that of
_Shadbolt_ in the 1897 London revivals of "The Yeomen of the Guard." It
was impossible for a small man to play the part just as the big men had
played it, and so my interpretation of it was that of a creeping,
cringing little dwarf who in manner, in method and in mood was not
unlike Uriah Heep. This seemed to me to be consistent with the
historical figure from which the part was drawn. Gilbert, it is not
generally known, took him from a wicked, wizened little wretch who, in
the sixteenth century, so legend says, haunted the Tower when an
execution was due, and offered the unhappy felon a handful of dust,
which was, he said, "a powder that will save you from pain." For reward
he claimed the victim's valuables.
[Illustration: MR. RUPERT D'OYLY CARTE.]
When, by the way, Mr. Carte told me that mine was the best performance
he had ever seen on any stage, I was so flattered by the compliment that
I asked him if he would write his opinion down for me, and he readily
promised to do so. Within a day or two I received a letter containing
those words over his signature, and it remains amongst my treasured
possessions. Only once did I know him to be guilty of forgetfulness, and
that was when, meeting me in London, he said: "Oh! I think I can offer
you an engagement, Lytton." I had to point out to him that I was
actually playing in one of his companies. We were, I think, at Greenwich
at the time, and I was making a flying visit to London.
Mr. Carte was a great stage manager. He could take in the details of a
scene with one sweep of his eagle eye and say unerringly just what was
wrong. Shortly before I was leaving town for a provincial tour he
noticed that _Ko-Ko's_ love scene with _Katisha_ might be improved, and
so we went together for an extra rehearsal into the pit bar at the
Savoy. Mr. Carte said he would be _Katisha_ and I, of course, was to be
_Ko-Ko_. Now, to make love to a bearded man, and a man who was one's
manager into the bargain, was rather a task but we both entered heartily
into the spirit of the thing. "Just act as you would if you were on the
stage," was his advice, "though you needn't actually kiss me, you know!"
For this scene we had an audience of one. Little Rupert D'Oyly Carte was
there, and before the rehearsal commenced I lifted him on to the bar
counter, where he sat and simply held his sides with laughter watching
me making earnest love to his father! I imagine he remembers that
incident still.
That "eye" for stagecraft, which in Mr. Richard D'Oyly Carte amounted to
genius, has been inherited in a quite remarkable degree by his son, Mr.
Rupert D'Oyly Carte. He, too, has the gift of taking in the details of a
scene at a glance, and knowing instinctively just what must be corrected
in order to make the colours blend most effectively, the action move
most perfectly, and the stage arrangement generally to be in balance and
proportion. I need not say that in all this he most faithfully observes
all the traditions which have stood so well the test of time.
So far I have given in this chapter my random reminiscences of the chief
three figures--the triumvirate, as I have called them--at the Savoy. But
there was also a fourth, and it would be a grave omission were I not to
mention one who, in my judgment, was as wonderful as any of them. I
refer to Miss Helen Lenoir, who, after acting for some years as private
secretary to Mr. Carte, became his wife. There was hardly a department
of this great enterprise which did not benefit, little though the wider
public knew it, from Mrs. Carte's remarkable genius. It was not alone
that hers was the woman's hand that lent an added tastefulness to the
dressing of the productions. She was a born business woman with an
outstanding gift for organisation. No financial statement was too
intricate for her, and no contract too abstruse. Once, when I had to put
one of her letters to me before my legal adviser, though not, I need
hardly say, with any litigious intent, he declared firmly "this letter
_must_ have been written by a solicitor." He would not admit that any
woman could draw up a document so cleverly guarded with qualifications.
Mrs. Carte, besides her natural business talent, had fine artistic taste
and was a sound judge, too, of the capabilities of those who came to the
theatre in search of engagements. The New York productions of the operas
were often placed in her charge. Naturally enough, the American managers
did not welcome the "invasion" any too heartily, and her
responsibilities over there must have been a supreme test of her tact
and powers of organisation. Yet the success of these transatlantic
ventures could not be gainsaid.
When her husband died Mrs. Carte took the reins of management entirely
into her keeping, and it was one of her most remarkable achievements
that, notwithstanding constant pain and declining health, this
wonderful woman should have carried the operas through a period when,
owing to the natural reaction of time, they were suffering a temporary
eclipse. Long before she died in 1913 they had entered upon a new lease
of life, and to-day we find them once more on the flood tide of
prosperity, loved alike by those who are loyal to their favourites of
other days and no less by those of the younger generation who have been
captivated by all their joyous charm of wit and melody.
Our leader to-day is Mr. Rupert D'Oyly Carte. Of him I find it difficult
to speak, as is bound to be the case when one is working in constant
association with one who has the same cause at heart, and sharing with
him the earnest intention that the great tradition of these operas shall
be worthily and faithfully upheld. Upon Rupert D'Oyly Carte's shoulders
has fallen the mantle of a splendid heritage. Speaking as the oldest
member of his company, and no less as one who may claim also to be a
friend, I can assure him that the happy family of artistes who serve
under his banner, and who play in these pieces night by night with all
the more zest because they love them for their own freshness and grace,
will always do their part under him in keeping alight the "sacred lamp"
of real English comedy that was first kindled into undying fires within
the portals of the Savoy.
V.
ADVENTURES IN TWO HEMISPHERES.
_Actors in real life--Reminiscences of my American visit--A
thrill in Sing-Sing--The detective and the crook--Outwitting the
Pirates--In "The Gondoliers" in New York--A cutting Press
critique--Orchestral afflictions--Our best audiences--Enthusiasm
in Ireland and a short-lived interruption--Exciting fire
experiences--Too realistic thunder and lightning--"Hell's
Full."_
"Lytton," said a well-known man of affairs to me, "we are all actors.
You are an actor. I am an actor. Come with me to a meeting at which I am
to make a speech and I will show you a real-life drama truer than ever
you will see or hear on the stage. The audience would kill me if they
dare. They would rend me limb from limb. And yet in half-an-hour--mark
my words, in half-an-hour!--they will be shaking me by the hand and
everything will be ending happily."
We were in Holborn at the time and we took a short cab-ride into the
City. My friend had to meet the shareholders of a company which he had
promoted and which had not been prospering. No sooner had he entered the
meeting room than he was met with a hostile reception. Epithets of an
unequivocally abusive kind were flung at him from every side. Men shook
their fists in his face. When he reached the platform the demonstration
was redoubled, and at first he was not allowed to speak. Solidly he
stood his ground waiting for the storm to subside. Eventually they did
allow him to speak, and first to a crescendo and then to a diminuendo
of interruption he told them how the failure of things could not be his
fault at all, how he was ready to stand by the venture to the very end,
how he would guarantee to pay them all their money back with interest,
and how he would work the flesh off his bones to put the company right.
Here, indeed, was real drama--and at a company meeting. Here was a man
fighting for his commercial existence, and by the force of wits, sheer
self-confidence and personal magnetism gradually winning. Just after the
meeting closed a number of those infuriated shareholders were on the
platform shaking him by the hand and telling him what a fine fellow he
was. Towards the end of his speech I had seen him look at his watch and
flash a significant glance in my direction. "Well," he said, when he
rejoined me, quite calm and collected, "I did it under half-an-hour--in
fact, with just a minute to spare."
It is an incident like this which proves that histrionics is no
theatrical monopoly. I once met another actor in real life--this time in
America. I had gone to New York to do the _Duke_ in "The Gondoliers."
Amongst the many delightful people I met there was General Sickles.
Sickles was a "character," and also a man of influence. Only a few weeks
before he had met Captain Shaw, the chief of the London Fire Brigade,
whom Gilbert has immortalised in the Queen's beautiful song in
"Iolanthe." Shaw had argued with the General that America's
fire-fighting methods were not as speedy as they were in England.
"Oh! aren't they?" was the reply. "Come and see." Forthwith the General,
who was not a fire chief himself, but who had been Sheriff of New York
and was thus a powerful individual, ordered out the New York Fire
Brigade. No sooner had a button been touched than the harness
automatically fell on the horses, the men came flying down a pole right
on to the engine, and in so many seconds the brigade was ready. Long
since, of course, all these methods have been adopted in this country,
and I believe I am right in saying that the improvement followed this
visit of Captain Shaw to the United States. I myself saw a turn-out of
the brigade and thought their swiftness astonishing.
It was General Sickles who introduced me to Mr. Burke, a famous New York
detective of his day, who took me on a most interesting tour of
Sing-Sing Prison. He persuaded me to sit in the electric chair, and
having put the copper band round my head and adjusted the rest of the
apparatus, he took a big switch in his hand and said, "I've simply got
to press this and you're electrocuted--dead in a jiffy!" I'll own up I
did not share his affection for his plaything. The experience was not at
all pleasant.
Burke, as an additional thrill, asked me if I should like to meet a
notorious bank robber, whom I will call Captain S. It was arranged that
the three of us should have dinner together. Captain S., the other
real-life actor referred to, was at that time enjoying a spell of
liberty, and to me it was amazing how cordial was the friendship between
the great detective and the great "crook." When "business" was afoot it
was a battle of wits, with the bank robber bringing off some tremendous
haul and the detective hot on his tracks to bring him to justice, and
probably it was because each had so much respect for the other's
talents that socially they could be such excellent pals.
"Yes, Burke," I heard Captain S. say, "you've 'lagged' me before this
and I expect you'll do it again." I found him a delightful companion,
with a fund of good stories, and he played the violin for us most
beautifully.
Captain S. told us how he planned one of his earlier exploits. It was
his custom to pose as an English philanthropist, who was almost
eccentric in his liberality and who made himself _persona grata_ in
society. Even the most suspicious would have been disarmed by one so
benevolent both in manner and in appearance. In this particular case,
having decided on the bank he intended to rob, he took a flat over the
building. One part of the day was spent in preparing his gang for the
coup and the other part in performing kindly acts of charity. "I really
felt sorry," he told us, "when the time had come to do the trick. I had
been spending a lot of money and thoroughly enjoying myself. Luckily, we
had found that, although the bank had steel walls and a steel floor, it
had just an ordinary ceiling. That, of course, helped us enormously, and
we got away with a regular pile. I left a note on the counter: 'You must
blame the designer of the bank for this, not me.'"
I have not yet explained the circumstances that took me to America.
Shortly after "The Gondoliers" had been produced in London it was put on
in the States. No sooner had any new Savoy opera been successfully
launched in London than preparations were pushed forward for its
production on the other side of the Atlantic. This, in point of fact,
was done as a precaution. Gilbert, Sullivan and Carte had learnt the
need of that by bitter experience in their earlier ventures, which had
been exploited by "pirates." These nimble gentlemen, having secured a
rough idea of the new opera that was being produced in London, lost no
time in bringing out a miserable travesty of it under the identical
title that it was given at the Savoy. Thus not only did they trade on
the reputation of these operas, but they were able to prevent the
genuine production being given under its own title, inasmuch as this
would have transgressed the law of copyright. So the "pirates" had to be
forestalled by an immediate staging of the real operas, and in some
cases these were put on in America simultaneously with, and in one case
actually before, the productions in England.
[Illustration: THE LATE MRS. RICHARD D'OYLY CARTE.]
"The Gondoliers" in America was not a success. Mr. Carte, who was there
at the time, tried to mend matters by completely re-casting the play. I
was in York, and I received a cable "Come to New York." It was never my
custom to question my manager's requests. Whenever he commanded I was
ready to obey. So from York to New York I travelled by the first
available steamer and was soon playing the _Duke of Plaza-Toro_. During
my first interview with Mr. Carte after my arrival there occurred an
incident characteristic of the great manager. "Lytton," he said,
producing his note-book, "I believe you owe me L50." I admitted it--the
loan had been for a small speculation. "Well," was his reply, striking
his pen through the item, "that debt is paid." It was in this way that
he chose to show his appreciation of my action in responding to his
summons immediately.
What I remember most about "The Gondoliers" was the simply uproarious
laughter with which the audience greeted the line in the Grand
Inquisitor's song, "And Dukes were three a penny." It was quite
different to the smiles with which the phrase is received in England.
The significance of their merriment was the fact that no fewer than
seven men had taken the part of the _Duke of Plaza-Toro_! I myself was
there as the seventh! A Press critic, having drawn attention to this
rather prolific succession, proceeded to place the seven in the order of
merit--at least, as it appeared to his judgment. He gave six of the
names in his order of preference in ordinary type, and then came a wide
gap of space, followed by the last name in the minutest type. While I do
not remember where I stood I do know that mine was not the name in such
conspicuous inconspicuousness!
Speaking of Press criticisms, which in this country are almost
invariably fair and judicious, it was my curious experience once to go
into a barber's shop in a small town in which we were playing and to
find the wielder of the razor very keen about discussing the operas. He
then urged me to be sure to buy a copy of the _Mudford Gazette_. "I've
said something very nice about you," he said. I looked perplexed. "Oh!
I'm the musical critic, you know," explained the worthy Figaro.
Our "properties" in the small towns were sometimes a little primitive.
Once in "The Gondoliers" our gondola was made of an egg-box on a couple
of rollers, and we had to wade ashore. This was at Queenstown, where
there was a strike, and we could not get all our baggage from the liner
that had brought us from America. But often the chief affliction was
the orchestra. I remember one violinist whose efforts were woeful. "You
can't play your instrument," the conductor told him at last in
exasperation. "Neither would you if your hands were swollen with hard
work like mine," was his retort. "This job doesn't pay me. I just come
here in the evening." It transpired that he was a bricklayer. At another
place the musicianship of one instrumentalist was truly appalling. "How
long have you been playing?" asked the conductor. "Thirty years man and
boy," was the response. "It is thirty years too long," was the retort.
From time to time I am asked where our best audiences are found. Really
it is hard to say. Except for one big city--and why not there it is
impossible to explain--the company has a wonderful reception everywhere.
The Savoy audiences in the old days, of course, were like no other
audiences, and it was something to remember to be at a "first night."
Long before the orchestra was due to commence--with Sullivan there to
conduct it, as he usually was also at the fiftieth, the hundredth and
other "milestone" performances--it was customary for many of the songs
and choruses from the older operas to be sung by the "gods." And
wonderful singers they were.
The London audiences of to-day are also splendid. Our welcome in the
1920 season was a memorable experience. Gilbert and Sullivan operas
depend for their freshness and their spirit far more on the audience
than do any of the ordinary plays, and as it happens this enthusiasm on
both sides is seldom wanting. Yet now and then we find an audience that
is cold and quiet at the beginning and then works up to fever-heat as
the opera proceeds, whereas on the other hand there is the audience that
begins really too well and towards the end has simply worn itself out,
being too exhausted to let itself go.
The North, if not so demonstrative as the South, is always wonderfully
responsive to the spirit of the witty dialogue and the sparkling songs,
and two cities in which it is always a pleasure to play are Manchester
and Liverpool. And those who declare that the Scots cannot see a joke
would be disabused if they were to be at the D'Oyly Carte seasons at
Glasgow and Edinburgh. Our visits there are always successful. But if I
had to decide this matter on a national basis I should certainly bestow
the palm on Ireland.
Nowhere are there truer lovers of Gilbert and Sullivan than the Irish.
It may be that Gilbert's fantastic wit is the wit they best understand,
and it may be, too, that their hearts are warmed by the "plaintive song"
of their fellow countryman, Sullivan. Whatever the cause, we have no
better receptions anywhere. One feature of our Dublin and Belfast
audiences is, oddly enough, shared with those at Oxford and Cambridge.
They do not merely clap, but openly cheer again and again, throwing all
conventional decorum away. And when the Irish are determined to have
encores--no matter how many for a particular piece--there is no denying
them.
What we have found in the Emerald Isle--even during the unhappy times
during and after the war--was that they kept their pleasures and their
politics in watertight compartments. Sinn Feiners they might be outside
the theatre, but inside it they are determined to enjoy themselves, as
an interrupter found on one of our latest visits, when he tried to
protest against the song, "When Britain Really Ruled the Waves." "No
politics here," shouted someone from the stalls, and the audience
agreeing very heartily with this sentiment the protestor subsided into
silence.
Looking back on the reference earlier in this chapter to fire brigades,
I am reminded that I have more than once been on the stage at times when
events have occurred which might have had terrible results, though my
success as a panic-fighter is a distinction I would rather have
foregone. One incident of this kind was at Eastbourne when we did
"Haddon Hall." It will be remembered that in one part there are
indications of an oncoming storm of thunder and lightning. Nowadays the
authorities take care that effects of this kind are contrived with
absolute safety to all concerned, but in those times the lightning was
produced by a man in the wings taking pinches of explosive powder out of
a canister, throwing these on a candle flame, and so securing a vivid
flash over the darkening stage. Well, our man had done this so often
that he had grown contemptuous of danger, and this time he took such an
ample helping of the powder that the flash caught the canister, and
there was a tremendous explosion. The canister went right through the
stage and embedded itself in the ground.
In "Haddon Hall" I was _McCrankie_, dressed in a kilt and playing the
bagpipes when the explosion occurred. It plunged both stage and
auditorium into darkness. I could hear the injured stage-hand groaning
near the wings. Somehow I managed to grope my way to the man, pick him
up in my arms, and carry him to one of the exits from the stage. I
remember that a number of the chorus ladies, who could not find the door
in the darkness, were clawing the walls of the scenery, for in their
panic that was the only way they thought they could make their escape.
The strange thing was that the door was not a yard away.
Still dressed as a kilted Scot, I carried the injured man into the
street, and already a crowd had gathered in the belief that there had
been a terrible disaster. If not as serious as that, it had been quite
bad enough, and it was a miracle that there had not actually been a
calamity. In one of the boxes was one of those hardy playgoers who
attended our shows night after night. We had nicknamed him "Festive."
The concussion had lifted him out of his seat on to the floor. He
complained that the thunder had been far too realistic!
Fortunately we were able to go on with the performance, though many of
us were suffering from nerves very badly. The stage hand had been
speedily taken to hospital with serious injuries. It was typical of Mr.
Carte's kindness that, although the man had been guilty of a very grave
fault, he did not dismiss him from his service, but on his recovery made
him a messenger and afterwards gave him a pension.
Early in my career as a D'Oyly Carte principal on the provincial tours,
we had a fire on the stage at the Lyceum, Edinburgh. It was the week
before Henry Irving was due there to give his first production of
"Faust." I remember that because we had his great organ behind the
stage. Our piece that night was "Ruddigore" and while I was singing one
of my numbers I became aware that something was amiss. It proved to be
an outbreak of fire in the sky borders over the stage, and small
smouldering fragments were falling around me in a manner that was
entirely unpleasant. The steps at the back also caught fire, and it was
a lucky thing that, the piece being then a new one, the audience should
have taken it as a bit of realism added to the ghost scene. Otherwise
nothing could have avoided a panic.
I remember the stage manager shouting to me from the wings "Keep
singing, keep singing." It was not easy, I can assure you, to keep on
with a humorous number in circumstances like those, and with sparks
dropping over one's head, but I did keep on with the song until they
decided to ring down the curtain. Then I was told to run upstairs to
warn the girls, whose dressing-rooms were near the flies. Now, as a
young man I had made a reputation for myself as a practical joker, and
one of my favourite antics was to tell this person or that, quite
untruly, "You're wanted on the stage." Thus, when I rushed up to sound
the real alarm, it was treated as a cry of "wolf." I banged the doors
and entreated them to come out, but it was not until the smoke began to
creep into the rooms that the girls knew positively that there was a
fire, and promptly scurried for safety. Fortunately the outbreak was
speedily subdued and the performance proceeded.
A minor incident of this kind may be worth mentioning. We were in
"Erminie" at the Comedy, and at the close of one of the acts the chorus,
the ladies dressed as fisher girls and holding lighted candles, were
singing a concerted "Good Night." Suddenly I noticed that one of the
girls who was not paying much attention to her work had let the candle
ignite the mob cap she was wearing. If the flame had reached her
wig--and wigs in those days were cleaned with spirit--she must have been
seriously burnt. So I ran up and tore off her cap, only to be rewarded
with a haughty, "How dare you!" Later, when she realised what her danger
had been, her apology and thanks were profuse.
It may not, I think, be amiss if to these combustible reminiscences is
added just one more story, though in a much lighter vein. It occurred in
"The Sorcerer." _John Wellington Wells_, the "dealer in magic and
spells," disappears at last into the nether regions, as it were, through
the trap-door in the stage. One night the trap, having dropped a foot or
so, refused to move any further, and there was I, enveloped in smoke and
brimstone, poised between earth and elsewhere. So all I could do was to
jump back on to the boards, make a grimace at the refractory trap-door,
and go off by the ordinary exit. "Hell's full!" shouted an irreverent
voice from the "gods." The joke, I know, was not a new one, for legend
has it that a similar incident occurred during a performance of "Faust."
Whether it did or not I do know that it occurred in that performance of
"The Sorcerer."
[Illustration: HENRY A. LYTTON AS "JACK POINT" IN "THE YEOMEN OF THE
GUARD."]
VI.
PARTS I HAVE PLAYED.
_List of my Gilbert and Sullivan Roles--Parts in Other
Comedies--Excursions into Vaudeville--A Human Shuttlecock--When
Gilbert Appeared before the Footlights--Essays as a
playwright--A Burlesque of Shakespeare--Embarrassing
Invitations--A Jester's Hidden Remorse--My Life's Helpmate._
It is my melancholy distinction to be the last of the Savoyards. Numbers
of my old comrades, of course, are playing elsewhere or living in their
well-earned retirement, but I alone remain actively in Gilbert and
Sullivan. In all I have played thirty parts in the operas--no other
artiste connected with them has ever played so many--and it may interest
my innumerable known and unknown friends if I "put them on my list." In
the following table I give incidentally the date of the original
production of the comedies in London.
"Trial by Jury" (1875) _Judge_; _Counsel_; _Usher_.
"The Sorcerer" (1877) _Hercules_; Dr. _Daly_; _Sir_
_Marmaduke_; _John Wellington Wells_.
"H.M.S. Pinafore" (1878) _Dick Deadeye_; _Captain Corcoran_;
_Sir Joseph Porter_.
"The Pirates of Penzance" _Samuel_; _The Pirate King_,
(1880) _Major-General Stanley_.
"Patience" (1881) _Grosvenor_; _Bunthorne_.
"Iolanthe" (1882) _Strephon_; _Lord Mountararat_,
_Lord Chancellor_.
"Princess Ida" (1884) _Florian_; _King Gama_.
"The Mikado" (1885) _The Mikado_; _Ko-Ko_.
"Ruddigore" (1887) _Robin Oakapple._
"The Yeomen of the Guard" _Lieutenant of the Tower_;
(1888) _Shadbolt_; _Jack Point_.
"The Gondoliers" (1889) _Giuseppe_; _The Duke of Plaza-Toro_.
"Utopia Ltd" (1893) _The King._
"The Grand Duke" (1896) _The Grand Duke._
My connection with the D'Oyly Carte company falls into three periods.
The first of these was in 1884 and 1885, when I went on tour for twelve
months with "Princess Ida," to be followed by the heart-breaking time I
have recounted in the "Vagabondage of the Commonwealth." Then, in 1887,
I rejoined it to win my first success as George Grossmith's understudy
in "Ruddigore." That period was destined to continue almost without
interruption until 1901. For most of this time I was touring in the
provinces, though I was in London for many of the revivals, as well as
for several of the plays not by Gilbert and Sullivan produced by Mr.
D'Oyly Carte. Eventually this latter enterprise was brought to an end by
the death of Sir Arthur Sullivan in 1900, and by that of Mr. Carte
himself four months later in 1901. London saw the Gilbert and Sullivan
works no more until 1906, though the suburban theatres were sometimes
visited by the provincial company, which in the country kept alight the
flickering torch that was to burn once more with all its accustomed
brightness.
Shortly after my old chief had passed away, I closed my second period
with the company in order to throw in my lot with the musical comedy
stage, and it was my good fortune to play leading comedy parts under
several successful managements. Looking back on those years, I regard
them as amongst the most prosperous and happy in my career, and yet it
is no affectation to say that all other parts seemed shallow and
superficial when one has played so long in Gilbert and Sullivan. Shall
I say I was anxious to return to them? In a sense that would be true.
Certainly the yearning was there--if not the opportunity. Then, in 1909,
Sir William Gilbert earnestly invited me to rejoin the company, and I
relinquished a very profitable engagement in order to play once more the
parts I loved so well. Thus began my third period with the operas. This
period has still to be finished.
Sir William, I ought to say, was at this time an ageing man, and he had
retired with a comfortable fortune. Grim's Dyke and its beautiful
grounds gave him all the enjoyment he wanted, and to the end he had the
solace and companionship of his devoted wife, Lady Gilbert. He died in
1911. Following a visit to town, he had gone to bathe in the lake in his
grounds, and had a heart seizure whilst swimming. He was rescued from
the water and carried to his room, but there life was found to be
extinct. The curtain had fallen.
But to proceed. I propose to give a list of the comedies in which I
played between 1901 and 1909. Lacking a good memory for dates, I cannot
guarantee at all that the order in which they appear is correct, though
approximately this may be the case:--
Comedy. Part. Management.
"The Rose of Persia" _The Sultan_ D'Oyly Carte.
"The Emerald Isle" _Pat Murphy_ D'Oyly Carte.
"Merrie England" _Earl of Essex_ D'Oyly Carte.
"The Beauty Stone" _Simon_ D'Oyly Carte.
"The Lucky Star" _Tobasco_ D'Oyly Carte.
"His Majesty" _The King_ D'Oyly Carte.
"The Grand Duchess" _Prince Paul_ D'Oyly Carte.
"The Vicar of Bray" _The Vicar_ D'Oyly Carte.
"The Princess of Kensington." _Jelf_ D'Oyly Carte.
"The Earl and the Girl" _The Earl_ William Greet.
"The Spring Chicken" _Boniface_ George Edwardes
"The Little Michus" _Aristide_ George Edwardes
"My Darling" _Hon. Jack_
_Hylton_ Seymour Hicks.
"Talk of the Town" _Lieut. Reggie_ Seymour Hicks.
_Drummond._
"The White Chrysanthemum" _Lieut. R._ Frank Curzon.
_Armitage_
"The Amateur Raffles" _Raffles_ Music Halls.
"Mirette" _Bobinet_ D'Oyly Carte.
"The Chieftain" _Peter Grigg_ D'Oyly Carte.
"The Grand Duchess" _Prince Paul_ D'Oyly Carte.
"Billie Taylor" _Captain Flapper_ D'Oyly Carte.
In the opinion of many friends, my best piece of pure character acting
was that as _Pat Murphy_, the piper in "The Emerald Isle." Without a
doubt it _was_ a fine part. I had to be blind, and in contrast to the
manner in which most blind characters were played at that time, my eyes
were wide open and rigid. From the moment I entered I riveted my gaze
tragically on one particular spot, and my eyes never moved, no matter
who spoke or however dramatic the point. Naturally the strain was
tremendous. Then, at last, _Pat's_ colleen lover began to have
suspicions that he was not really blind--that the idle good-for-nothing
fellow was shamming. And when _Pat_ admitted it, the subterfuge had been
kept up so long that, both to those on the stage and to the audience,
the effect was marvellous to a degree. I loved playing the piper and
speaking the brogue. "The Emerald Isle," as is now generally known, was
the last work that Sir Arthur Sullivan composed, and on his lamented
death the music was completed by my gifted friend, Edward German. I
remember that when, later on, the piece was taken to Dublin, we had
doubts as to whether anything in it might offend the susceptibilities
of the good people of the "disthressful counthree." Strangely enough, no
objection of any kind was raised until the jig in the second act, and as
it was believed that this was not done correctly and that the girls were
lifting their heels too high, the dance was greeted with an outburst of
booing. This was quelled by the lusty voice at the back of the pit.
"Shame on ye," he shouted. "Can't ye be aisy out of respect for the
dead?" And another voice: "Eh, an' Sullivan an Oirishman too, so he
was!" The appeal was magical. The interruption died away and the
performance proceeded.
"The Earl and the Girl," the most successful of all the musical comedies
in which I appeared and the one which gave me my biggest real comedy
part, ran for one year at the Adelphi, and then for a further year at
the Lyric. When it was withdrawn I secured the permission of the
management to use "My Cosy Corner," the most tuneful of all its musical
numbers, as a scena on the music-halls, and with my corps of Cosy Corner
Girls it was a decided success.
One other venture of mine on the music-halls was in conjunction with
Connie Ediss when we had both completed an engagement at the Gaiety.
"United Service," in which we figured together, ran for fourteen weeks
at the Pavilion, and it provided me with one of the best salaries I ever
drew. The idea of this piece was a contrast in courtships. First we
would imitate a stately old colonel paying his addresses to an exquisite
lady, and then a ranker making love to the cook, with an idiom
appropriate to life "below-stairs." Eighteen changes of dress had to be
made by each of us, and the fun waxed fast and furious when the colonel
commenced pouring his courtly phrases into the ears of the cook, and
when, by a similar deliberate mishap, the soldier in his most ardent
vernacular declared his passion for m'lady.
Connie Ediss and I might have done as well with a successor to "United
Service." But the theatre, she said, "called her back," and accordingly
we went our separate ways in "legitimate."
Some reminiscences still remain to be told of my struggling early days
on the stage. One of these concerns my brief and boisterous connection
with the well-known Harvey Troupe. I was chosen as deputy for their page
boy, whom these acrobats threw hither and thither as if he were a human
shuttlecock, and a very clever act it was, however uncomfortable for the
unfortunate youngster. I scarcely relished the job, but old Harvey told
me "All you've to do is to come on the stage; leave the rest to us;
we'll pull you through." It was not a case of pulling me through. They
literally _threw_ me through. For half-an-hour I was thrown from one to
another with lightning speed, and that was about all I knew of the
performance. "You did very well," they told me afterwards, "didn't you
hear the laughs?" I am afraid I hadn't heard them. I had been conscious
only of an appalling giddiness and of feeling bruised and sore. Next day
I was black and blue, and unable to perform, but in those hard days,
when food was scarce, one had to be ready for anything.
It was about this time in my career that I secured a pantomime
engagement at the Prince's, Manchester, though my role was merely that
of standard-bearer, in the finale, to the "show lady," before whom I
walked with a banner inscribed, "St. George and the Dragon."
Unfortunately, in my nervousness, I marched on with the reverse side of
the banner to the front, and at the sight of this piece of tawdry linen
the audience laughed uproariously.
When the Second Demon was absent I was chosen as his understudy, and it
seemed to me to be a wonderful honour, because it gave me eight words to
speak. I had the comforting feeling of being a big star already. How
well I remember those lines:--
Second Demon (sepulchral and sinister): Who calls on me in
this unfriendly way?
Fairy Queen (in a piping treble): A greater power than yours;
hear and obey!
Coming to a much later date, I include in my list of memorable
theatrical occasions the benefit matinee given in the Drury Lane Theatre
for Nellie Farren, for many years the bright particular star at the
Gaiety. The stage was determined to pay the worthiest tribute it could
to the brilliant artiste who, once the idol of her day, was now laid
aside by sickness and suffering, and never had such a wonderful
programme been presented. King Edward, then Prince of Wales, gave the
benefit his gracious patronage, and it was in every way a remarkable
success. The D'Oyly Carte contribution to the entertainment was "Trial
by Jury." Gilbert himself figured in the scene as the _Associate_. It
was, I believe, his only appearance before the footlights in public, and
it was a part in which he had not a line to speak. I played the
_Foreman_. Amongst other benefit performances in which I have taken part
were those to Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Dacre and Miss Ellen Terry. We gave
"Trial by Jury" on these occasions also, and my part was _Counsel_.