ON my return to town I combined for a short time the pleasure of playing nightly at the Tivoli with the stress of rehearsals for the anglicised version of Die Geschiedene Frau, and within a week or so I realised that the long-threatened German invasion was an accomplished fact.

The presence of Victor Leon, the author, Leo Fall, the composer, their interpreters, agents and personal suites, and later on Herr Kapellmeister Stier who was to be the conductor, imparted quite an international character to the proceedings, and, largely owing to their inability to speak English and ours to speak German, led to complications which occasionally had their amusing side, but which of necessity made for an appalling waste of time in rehearsing numbers and effects which were destined to ultimate elimination.

The Czar of all the Russias is scarcely more autocratic than is George Edwardes in the matter of the plays he produces, but, however much one may deprecate the omission of some pet bit of music or scene, the result is almost invariably a confirmation of his judgment, and whatever may have been excised is rarely reintroduced though frequently supplemented with something new; as, however, the necessity for these, often radical, alterations can only be discovered at rehearsal, it follows naturally that a considerable amount of time is cut to waste in rehearsing material eventually to be pronounced unsuitable, thus producing a weariness of the flesh in the poor artist who only appears in the second act and may attend for a week without even speaking.

The fact of no one being put forward as the author of the English version of the play considerably added to the atmosphere of doubt as to whom one should apply for advice on certain points or instruction as to method of procedure, and even when, eventually, a well-known author made a short series of appearances, of a somewhat tentative description, the presence of George Edwardes at the same time induced a certain hesitation in saddling his shoulders with the burden of guilt.

I look upon the piece as a kind of reversion to the old style of entertainment of a comedy with music, or, to give it its condensed title, a vaudeville; the first act, with its very occasional numbers, certainly bears out my argument, which would be sustained in Act II. but for one number which differs from the rest as not being evolved entirely out of "the situation." While there are many who find great pleasure in this form of piece there are undoubtedly just as many who prefer the irresponsibilities of musical comedy, and it has amused me to find opinions so much at variance as to, on one hand, condemn the second act for a faulty elucidation of the story, and on the other to recommend an entire abstention from the first!

The manager who has the savoir faire so to manipulate his entertainment as to retain the patronage of a clientèle of such diverse requirements is evidently possessed of an insight little less than miraculous.

The strong resemblance of the first act to Gilbert and Sullivan's Trial by Jury was undoubtedly the cause of my being engaged for the part of the President of the Divorce Court, and on my first interview with George Edwardes he only considered it necessary to read me that act to give me sufficient inducement to play the part – the fact that at this time the second act was not written, or rather adapted, not affecting the matter – in which supposition he was quite correct.

I travelled up from Hull, where we were finishing the tour of The Walls of Jericho, to attend my first musical rehearsal, and was rather surprised to find that the Judge's music was inclined to be conspicuous by its absence, in fact I travelled all those miles and back again to rehearse one concerted number, my share of which was limited to certain interjections such as "Who did?" "Who was?" etc., and even these were spoken, and not sung – but I mention this in no spirit of complaint, it being one of those little trials which are almost unavoidable during the early rehearsals of a new piece.

Huntley Wright had meanwhile been hard at work learning the music of the part of Van Tromp, the father of the heroine, and it was not until my reappearance at rehearsal a week later that I was met with the proposition to exchange parts with him, considerably to my disappointment.

Although there can be no question, I hope, that the President of the Court would have been as safe in my hands as in his, I can readily enter into the desire of a comedian to shine in two acts in preference to one, and I was able to appreciate the humour of the solution of the change as offered to me – namely, that the author required a younger man in the part, this reason being I fancy ascribable to a faulty translation of some wish expressed in German, as the two are alluded to in the play as contemporaries.

There was a duet for the two men in Act II which threatened to partake of the character of a topical number, but on consideration it was thought wiser to avoid such a procedure, for the main reason that while it is comparatively easy for a solo singer to write and sing verses practically on a moment's notice, it is manifestly unfair to expect the same readiness of his partner in a duet.

In the endeavour to get away if possible from the beaten track I had George Edwardes' permission to approach the composer with any idea that might occur to me, which I did, but the difficulties proved absolutely insurmountable.

Having evolved the idea of "Memories," I interviewed author, composer, interpreter and suite, also making a gallant if ineffectual attempt to present my wishes in their own vernacular, and was received with a consideration and urbanity perfectly charming, but, owing to the departure of the composer for his native land, the time only allowed him to write an air before receiving the lyric, an inversion of the recognised method of procedure, and attended, in this instance, with the unsatisfactory result of a tune more resembling in character the Dead March than anything else, and therefore not affording the requisite inspiration for the verses.

I was more fortunate in dealing with a song for Evett, written also by Herr Fall at the last moment, and which lent itself very easily to treatment as a love lyric, the mode of progression being chosen as being shorter than the alternative, which was, firstly to write a lyric, secondly have it translated into German, thirdly composed, and fourthly retranslated into English; but after all this song has not been used, up to the present.

No one who has not tried it can have any conception of the difficulty of setting words to music already written; to maintain the sense is of course easy enough, but to give grace to the metre and rhyme is a difficult task.

In the days of old adaptations of French light operas, such as Olivette, Mascotte and the like, the principle of keeping the sense only was followed, with the result that some of the so-called lyrics are appalling in their baldness, but people have grown more exigeant with time, and it is not unusual nowadays to find a supposedly brainless patron of the stalls offering the criticism: "I like the tune, but the words are rotten!" thereby displaying a more delicate sense of art than grammar.

 

Everyone is aware that to criticise in any way a case which is sub judice is a grave breach of etiquette, if not something worse, and, as the run of a play may be taken as placing it in the position of sub judice I do not propose to analyse its chances of a lengthy run; the first-night criticism is of a different nature, in that the merits of the play, per se, are set forth much as a merchant, who must announce certain goods for sale, brings them to the notice of his patrons. That the initial success of The Girl in the Train was very marked is an undeniable fact, and only the future can decide whether the customary procedure of dropping in new numbers and scenes will prove as acceptable in a vaudeville as in that frankly confessed hotch-potch known as a musical comedy.

This method most certainly did not obtain in the cases of the light operas to which I have alluded, their popularity and duration of attraction being entirely maintained by the work as originally presented. I am not aware who was the originator of this scheme of "second editions," but it can hardly have been the author, who is in some cases called upon for sufficient material to supply the nucleus of at least two pieces, although, presumably, at a commensurate increase in fees.

It is a somewhat sorrowful reflection that our chief London manager should be compelled to seek successes in the foreign manufactories, but the fact remains that The Merry Widow, The Dollar Princess, The Girl in the Train and, if report speaks truly, The Count of Luxembourg have done more than anything else to remove the stigma which has hitherto attached to everything "made in Germany."

I have heard the explanation put forward that the Germans have very carefully studied our modus operandi in light opera, extracted therefrom all the best points and applied them to their own scheme (with the additional advantage they seem to possess of plot-finders) for years past, with the happy results exemplified in the pieces I have mentioned; but there is more in it than this, and I fear it is an incontrovertible fact that they are ahead of us in the matter of abundance of composers.

Still, waltzes are not the be-all and end-all of music, though there is no denying their attractiveness, as there is equally no denying the German pre-eminence of composition, as far as they are concerned – if, indeed, one might not almost say, in connection with musical plays, only as far as they are concerned – and a piece in which the numbers consist of a succession of waltzes is apt to become a trifle boring, all of which fosters the hope that, under more fortuitous circumstances, our native composers may once again dominate the market and introduce a few bars' rest into the seemingly interminable melodious jingle of English gold trickling into foreign pockets in the shape of fees.

The more fortuitous circumstances are to be found, I would venture to suggest, in some new author, or authors, who would supply pieces of the type of The Arcadians or, to go back a little, The White Chrysanthemum, plays which interest the mind without fatiguing it, as well as please the eye and ear, and with these pieces forthcoming, composers like Leslie Stuart, Howard Talbot and some two or three more would be found equal to the occasion.

The duet "Memories," to which I have already referred, although a fairly pronounced success on the first night, did not altogether satisfy George Edwardes' ideas of what was wanted, not perhaps entirely for the situation but also for the general brightness of the play, it being, as its name implies, more a medium for artistic and subdued effects and not containing the elements of bustle and movement which he considered desirable. After some ten weeks, therefore, and as the result of much cogitation on the part of Huntley Wright and myself, I wrote an entirely new number, which dealt with dancing "ancient and modern," with dialogue between the verses; the assistance of Doctor Hugo Felix was secured and the happy result arrived at of a duet which satisfied the powers that be and certainly appears to appeal more strongly to our audiences than did the former and more reposeful one. I have not seen this number, and possibly may never do so, but I have a slight feeling of regret at the loss of its predecessor, together with the hope that I may not be alone in my point of view. The number of nails which the coffin of "the artistic" seems capable of receiving without being entirely destroyed is truly marvellous, but, on the other hand, it is a very difficult matter to decide to what extent the standard of art may be frayed without becoming torn out of all semblance.

In this connection it is somewhat instructive to read a criticism in Munsey's Magazine, wherein the writer attacks our actors and audiences as follows:– "Apropos of the foolery that seems to elicit mirth in an English theatre, the musical comedy just now prevalent in London furnishes striking examples. It is as if the usually staid Britisher, once he makes up his mind to go to the play for amusement's sake, leaves all his ordinary standards of common-sense outside the theatre, and is prepared to laugh at any and every sort of nonsense that the comedians may please to offer him." This rather sweeping condemnation is probably to some extent deserved, but is qualified in the same article by an allusion to The Girl in the Train as follows:– "Its success was instantaneous, and this time on sheer merit of piece and presentation alone, for there is practically no interpolated horseplay."

This seems to indicate that, given the material, we can and do maintain our standard of art, so that it all comes back to the difficulty of finding the material, of which no American importation, as far as my memory serves me, has proved exceptionally remarkable for durability or artistry of texture.

Although the word "horseplay" is somewhat inapplicable to the situation, the difference between the two duets I have written for Huntley Wright and myself is almost sufficiently strongly marked to warrant its use, and it has proved no small consolation to me to have met many who preferred the more quiet humour of "Memories," both in words and business, to the necessarily extravagant burlesque of The Merry Widow waltz, but, as there is no room for doubt as to the latter effort meeting with a far larger meed of applause and laughter than the former, there is presumably an end to all argument as to which is the better.

The pathetic little song which Clara Evelyn sang at the piano, and of which I was also the guilty author, shared the same fate as the first duet, and was replaced by an effort at mingling humour with pathos (also mine) of which I felt by no means proud, but which invariably secures an encore – yet another proof of the sagacity of George Edwardes in the knowledge of "what the public wants," but this desirable result was not achieved until after a second song of a sentimental character, with a waltz refrain, had been given a fair trial.

I cannot help thinking that there are indications that the waltz numbers, of which at the present time there would seem to be somewhat of a plethora, are gradually losing their undoubted attraction in consequence of the over-supply.

The rise of the waltz, especially the Fall waltz – in which remark there seems to lurk a musical joke – has been most remarkable, but the English is hardly such a waltz-loving nature as is the German, and there are not wanting signs of a desire to hear love and passion sung of in a different metre, possibly a less sensuous one.

Owing to the success of our "dancing" duet, the quartet which followed it was somewhat discounted and the places of the two numbers were changed in consequence; this reminded me of one of my olden-time topical songs, which proved so "popular" as to upset most that succeeded it, and George Edwardes asked me if I would mind it coming almost at the end of the play; I suggested that I should sing it after the final curtain, but the idea did not appeal to him, and it was left undisturbed.

In spite of many vicissitudes, in the form of absence from the cast of many of the principals, either from illness or other causes, we have already celebrated our two hundred and fiftieth performance and the running gear seems to work as if wound up for an indefinite time.

Owing to the absence of Clara Evelyn, through illness, we had a very strenuous day on one particular Wednesday. There were certain alterations to go in, which had been rehearsed, and there was a "call" for the new lady, which occupied us until the time the doors opened for the matinée, and the performance which followed was rather an ordeal, most of us spending our time in the wings in a state of uncertainty as to the new positions of certain scenes and songs, which, added to the nervous feeling of a new artist in one of the parts, eventually provoked a sensation of great satisfaction that all had gone off with no serious contretemps.

At different times I have played with four Presidents, four Gonda Van der Loos, three Karl Van Burens and two Mrs Van Burens, not to speak of the minor parts, and I hold the enviable record of being the only member of the cast who has played at every performance, but even these drastic changes do not seem to have injured the vitality of the play.

Being a trifle envious of Huntley Wright's second-act costume of knee breeches I requested permission to array myself in ordinary evening dress, so as to secure some sort of distinctiveness; this was readily accorded to me, and proved so effective that the other men were very shortly clothed in the same manner, which leaves me where I was, and necessitates further thought.

The costume in which one appears has, I fancy, very much more to do with the success with which one meets, both from an acting and personal point of view, than is generally recognised, and influences to an appreciable extent the pleasure with which we watch our favourite performers.

For instance, the late Henry Neville, who did a large amount of fine work in his time, was essentially a "costume actor"; his Charles Surface was a long way the best within my recollection and was even an outstanding feature of a cast which included the late William Farren, a splendid Sir Peter, and John Clayton, equally good as Joseph Surface, but hamper Neville with modern dress and you destroyed a large part of his delightful distinction; with the costume went the gallant bearing belonging to it. To come to more modern examples, everyone knows and appreciates the charm of Charles Hawtrey in present-day clothing, and I would venture to assert that many of those who saw him in The Noble Spaniard felt a lack of something, the nature of which they were possibly unable to define, the fact being that it was "dear old Charlie," but hampered by a peculiar rig.

Then again, my young friend Harry Irving, whose portrait in negligé lends a characteristic thoughtful attention to the page he faces – as Hawtrey studiously regards his – is another case in point. The first occasion on which I saw him play was in The House Opposite, and in which he gave a masterly and refreshing rendition of a difficult part, in modern dress, and, having some curiosity to see whether costume was, to him, an aid or the reverse, I welcomed the opportunity of seeing him in Princess Clementine, when I found that, with the exception of some beautifully delivered love speeches, which would certainly have seemed incongruous if associated with frock-coat and trousers, he afforded me less pleasure than in the other play. Costume again.

Wyndham is undoubtedly one of the few men to whom no kind of costume comes amiss; Davy Garrick or The Candidate – as wide apart as the poles – make no shade of difference to his performance, or the pleasure with which we witness it, the manner of each being assumed with the dress of each, a fortuitous talent to possess.

These examples could of course be multiplied ad infinitum, but are perhaps sufficient to support my theory of the influence exerted on the actor by "costume."

The art of pitching the voice to suit the size of the theatre in which one is playing is only to be acquired by experience, by which I mean that it is only the experienced artist who can tell at once, in a strange theatre, what power of voice is necessary. Some have occasionally sent someone to the back of the gallery to report on the subject, not always with happy results, as I remember in the case of a lady at Daly's who had one line in the first act which ran, "Can anyone lend me a cow?" (It was a farmyard scene.) She sent her maid to listen, and on her return was told: "Yes, miss; I heard every word. You said: "Can anyone lend me a pound?"

The stage-hands are noted as a rule for a certain dry humour, of which the following is a fairly good example. There was a musical comedy billed at a theatre being run by a species of mushroom management, and the announcements ran: "Book by Sir A. B. Lyrics by Sir C. D. Music composed by Sir E. F." Two of the men were reading it out and one remarked: "Bill, we're gettin' aristocratic, ain't us? Three knights!" To which Bill replied: "Yus; that's about wot I give it!"

A book must have an ending, however much one may want to say more, but there is an always present danger of proving wearisome whatever the entertainment provided, a striking illustration of which was furnished me the other evening. I arrived at the Vaudeville for work at my usual time, and as I discharged my taxi it was engaged by a disappointed-looking gentleman of a kind of provincial exterior appearance, who had come out of the house as I drove up. He looked at me sternly as he saw me enter the theatre and said loudly to the driver: "Empire! Quick!" His exit was as abrupt as mine.

Page modified 3 February 2008