AFTER so many years' association with Savoy Opera, it was a most refreshing and novel situation in which I found myself on approaching the revival of The Gondoliers, the opera which marked my return to the Savoy fold after my disastrous experience as a manager in 1888.

My figure having become, as it were, more regal than of yore naturally suggested the inference, from a Gilbertian point of view, of its unsuitability for the part of a King, and I therefore surrendered my original character of Giuseppe to Harry Lytton, whose regality is more a figure of speech than one of reality.

I made this act of renunciation with the greatest of pleasure, having had, from the very first production of the opera, an intense desire to see what I could do with Don Alhambra, the Grand Inquisitor, to my mind quite one of the best character parts which Gilbert has written, for one reason because he is consistent throughout and, for another, because he has two of the best songs ever penned. My wish was to do away entirely with the "dour" atmosphere in which it was originally played and make him a bland, light-hearted old nobleman who practised all his cruelties with a most engaging and debonair personality. At the earlier rehearsals, before the advent of the Great Man, this new view of the part thoroughly upset all the tradition-bound members of the company, and reduced the worthy stage manager to a state of nervous uncertainty as to whether I should be executed or he lose his billet. After the remonstrances his sense of duty impelled him to make, and which in no way altered my ideas, he washed his hands of me with the remark, "Well, Sir William will decide the matter when he comes," which Sir William later on did, in my favour, as I had anticipated, and with some very complimentary remarks on "the new reading" which I had not entirely anticipated but was extremely pleased to hear.

On one of the Mikado nights, about this time, I heard a laugh that seemed familiar to me coming from one of the boxes, and a careful side-glance (we never looked at the audience at the Savoy) confirmed my suspicions that my old friend George Grossmith had come to see how his original part of Koko was being played, and, incidentally, to laugh at his old friend Pooh Bah if he could. I had not met George since the publication of my first volume of reminiscences, when he kindly sent me a telegram of congratulation with the very characteristic conclusion: "but why seven and six when Ellen Terry, Dan Leno and George Grossmith are only a bob?" I wrote and told him that it was the fault of my publisher, who had refused sternly to consider my modest request for a sixpenny book, and he forgave me, also by letter, but still expressing disapproval. He came round to tell me what he thought of my performance, after the first act, and in discussing my book told me that I had left out a lot of good things, a fact of which I was already painfully aware, and then proceeded to remind me of one of them, which I had not only forgotten but cannot realise ever happened. He told me that in a private box, quite close to the stage, there was a lonely man, one night, who had lost interest in the opera to such an extent (possibly because his lady had failed him) as to spend the entire evening in reading a newspaper; that I expressed myself as greatly annoyed by this, and that I had finally gone as near to the box as I could, and to the great amusement of the audience had inquired of the lonely non-spectator, "What won the Lincolnshire Handicap?" I cannot help thinking that George's imagination must have been at work, as I should not only have remembered the incident but probably also have had cause to do so.

About this period I attended an exhibition of the then fashionable "Directoire" dresses, which I found extremely pretty, if somewhat "discovering." The exhibition in question was held unheralded by any advertisement at the Savoy Hotel one Sunday night in the restaurant, where I was bidden to dine with two charming American ladies and Bertie Sullivan as our host. We had previously motored down to Grim's Dyke to lunch at Sir William Gilbert's, and play croquet, at which Gilbert is quite an expert, and the contrast between the restful country-house party and the babel of the restaurant was very vivid. I was rather puzzled by a request from the lady whom I had the pleasure of taking in to dinner, to walk closely in front of her all through the long approach to the restaurant; of course I did so, but could not restrain my curiosity as to the necessity for this apparent rudeness on my part, which she kindly satisfied, when we were seated, by telling me she had forgotten to change her shoes in the hurry of dressing, and was wearing black walking boots, which she feared might be much in evidence owing to the scantity of gown about her feet.

I had another charming invitation about this time from two sweet little ladies, Felicity and Ivy Tree, to the dress rehearsal of Pinkie and the Fairies, a lovely show, which I attended with great pleasure, only marred by the impossibility of thanking my young hostesses, who were so occupied with several teddy-bears in their box as to be oblivious of almost everything else. Since the days of Water-Babies at the Garrick I have never seen a more delightful assembly of delightful children.

There was one little girl in the stalls behind me, with her mother, whose eyes were fairly dancing with anticipation of delight to come, and I looked forward to the pleasure of hearing her laugh; her mother gave me the opportunity, by removing her hat and very carefully pinning it into the back of my stall with a long hat-pin. I immediately gave a violent shudder and emitted a piano shriek as if badly wounded, whereupon the little girl exclaimed in a horror-struck voice "Mummie!" The mother leant over and expressed her regret, and of course I confessed the truth, that I was absolutely untouched, upon which she remarked: "Oh, well – if you are a humbug –" She could get no further, being interrupted with a peal of delighted laughter from the little one which was good to hear.

On Christmas Eve we played the Pirates of Penzance and, as a concession to tradition, I made up for the Sergeant of Police with a red nose, but to my great disappointment the subtlety of the idea totally escaped recognition, even on the part of two visitors I had while making up, and who were lost in admiration at my skill in painting on a pair of black whiskers, the reason for this being that my face had become sore from the spirit gum used in fastening on the genuine article. On one occasion I did this painting-on with black grease-paint, with disastrous results to the face of Jessie Rose, who embraces the Sergeant as a reward for valour; she eliminated the caress, much to my regret, after, this blackening of her fair face.

On Boxing Day I was forcibly reminded of the extraordinary way in which Fate fails to reward true unselfishness; I had intended to go to Kempton Park Races, but a snowstorm intervening I determined to travel some little distance to see an invalid brother and, incidentally, lunch with him; on arrival I found he had left home for a week and my sacrifice was in vain. A hasty return to town and the cheerfulness of the club was the only remedy, promptly put into practice, but the cheerfulness resolved itself into the presence of one solitary member who had missed a train going somewhere, and we played the most depressing game of billiards I ever remember; the centre of the depression only moving on the advent of a man who had been to Kempton and backed a ten-to-one winner in three runners, which we suggested must have been brought about by a "dope," from which we drew a natural inference to our own advantage in the matter of spirits.

At the first rehearsal of The Gondoliers it was very odd to watch Harry Lytton rehearsing the part I originally played, and to add to the quaintness of the situation the daughter of the original Don Alhambra, W. H. Denny, who was now in the chorus, I observed frequently studying me with something of the same kind of interest that I was manifesting in Lytton.

I have always had a rooted objection to sitting down and seriously studying my different rôles, with the exception, of course, of any very lengthy speeches they may contain which make such a course imperative. This feeling, or perhaps it may be called idiosyncrasy, proceeds very much from the fact that the nature of the different situations, in a well-written play at least, invariably suggests the lines which apply to them, but I most cheerfully admit that the system has its drawbacks, one of them being that other artists concerned do not always get correct cues, thereby increasing their difficulties in learning; this habit of mine has also afforded Gilbert many opportunities of letting fly at me one of his good-humoured cynical shafts, one of which I received full in the brain at an early rehearsal of this opera; I was concerned in a long scene, all of my part of which was read to me from the prompt-book (the other artists being word-perfect), and at the conclusion of it Gilbert turned to Cellier and remarked, "You know, we could play this to-night!" The situation and joke were highly appreciated by the company at large, and the nervous stage manager in particular; I myself was no more upset by it than was Gilbert, both of us being well aware that "it would be all right at night," as it was.

Owing, so I was told, to the manner in which the part of Giuseppe had been played on the occasion of some former revival, Gilbert was very firm on the exclusion of all gags which I had introduced originally, and which he had himself legalised. This upset Harry Lytton (the present exponent) most terribly, and he appealed to me, as the responsible party, to intercede with Gilbert for their reinstatement, which, I need hardly say, he was quite as likely to accomplish as myself; however, I did as he asked me, with the result that Gilbert kindly sanctioned the use of all the gags with one exception, and on my reminding him that he had not formerly made this exception he gravely stated as his reason for not doing so that "he was afraid of me!"

This remark made me feel for the moment rather conceited, but on due reflection, combined with an intimate knowledge of the character of the remarker, I came to the conclusion that he could not be advancing his real reason; however, I left it at that, and eventually it was a case of "objection overruled." Meanwhile, when the interval for lunch arrived, Gilbert suggested that I should join his party at the Savoy, which I was naturally very pleased to do, hoping to hear more on the subject; but on arriving there I found he had gone to lunch elsewhere, leaving Lady Gilbert and four other ladies in my charge, as it was their intention to return for the second rehearsal. The feast was of necessity a short and light one, in view of the work to follow, and though I was for a moment dismayed to find they were all "on the water waggon," I was soon consoled, on joining the temperance league, by finding that I had achieved an utterly undeserved reputation for Moderation in the face of duty.

The fifteenth of January, which fell in this week, brought me a most memorable and exciting experience. It happens to be my birthday, as many hundreds of my self-styled "admirers,"in whose birthday-books I have written my name, have systematically forgotten. This particular birthday, however, was remarkable for the fact that, on the same night, thirty years before, I had appeared as the captain of the Pinafore, and in the rotation of revivals it chanced to be the opera selected for 15th January 1909. How the coincidence leaked out is difficult to determine, but I cannot help surmising that I must have unconsciously mentioned it to some friendly journalist – and indeed the majority of them are quite friendly when not in search of "copy" – for there was a "preliminary par" on the subject in The Telegraph, which gave rise to quite a little excitement; other papers alluded to "this interesting coincidence," and for some three or four evenings I was persistently pursued by interviewers, and finally bearded in my dressing-room by a flashlight photographer, who scoffed at my idea of a royalty on the picture, as indeed I find they always have done in my case.

This particular portrait, however, was never published, so I was not much out of pocket by his refusal, which, however, may have been the cause of its failure to prove attractive, as I had doubtless assumed a disappointed expression.

I have so frequently been rendered envious by the reports of the huge sums annually raked in by certain stage beauties as the result of the sale of their photographs that it has bred an intense desire to make my own face pay its way, as it were, but up to the present day the result has only taken the form of a firm conviction that my face is not my fortune; can it be that these sums have been visionary, or perhaps exaggerated?

The congratulatory telegrams I received on "the" evening were a most pleasant reminder of the friendly feelings entertained for me, not only by personal friends, but from many who were only "friends in front," and I thoroughly enjoyed myself during the performance, and almost persuaded myself that it was impossible that thirty years could have slipped away, between the two evenings.

I finished the celebration with a small supper-party at the Savoy, where I met with the only check to the gaiety of the occasion; not wishing to let my guests see how much they had cost me, I did as one frequently does in such cases: wrote my name across the account and gave it back to the head waiter, who returned in a few minutes with the request that I would "put my address as well"! This is fame!

I am naturally not so inexperienced in the ways of finance as to be unaware of there being another and less tactful reason for the non-immediate settlement of restaurant accounts, my knowledge even extending to an occasional personal application of such reason, but in this particular instance my motive was that which I have mentioned, and I added the address, "Savoy Theatre," with a species of humbly defiant manner, which I fancied would produce an apology, but which entirely failed in its effect.

The birthday merriment had not entirely evaporated by the time for the Saturday matinée of Mikado, and it was one of the most delightful I ever remember, the house being literally crowded with children, whose laughter was something to live for. It was a great incentive to be, if possible, more funny than ever, especially in the scene where Pitti Sing, Koko and Pooh Bah grovel before the Mikado, and the little shrieks of mirth which followed my elephantine antics were ample reward for being a trifle inartistic.

The stage manager remarked, as we made our exit, "Pantomime?" to which I replied, "Yes, for the children of course," but it was abundantly evident that their grown-up escorts enjoyed the fooling quite as much as their little charges.

The practice of taking children to the theatre appears to me to be largely on the increase, and of course is all the better for trade, but I often wonder who chooses the play to which they shall be taken. There has been quite a large percentage of children at the Vaudeville lately to see The Girl in the Train, eminently a play for an adult audience, with a first act almost entirely without movement or song, and which yet they appear to enjoy, although I cannot help the reflection that I hope they do not know what it is all about, but that this is not so in every case was clearly demonstrated one evening by a blasé youth of some seven years of age who laughed in all the right (or wrong) places.

These remarks must not be construed as reflecting on the morality of the play; but to educate the young idea in the modus operandi of, not to mention the cause for, a divorce case seems to indicate at least unnecessary haste. In the play itself, the innocence of the wrongfully accused heroine is never actually established; the inevitable "happy ending" being arrived at by simply accepting her assertion of innocence as the truth, and it is not difficult to imagine the embarrassment of a mother on being closely questioned by her child as to "what she had done?"

Page modified 2 January 2008