An Introduction and Apology

If, having scanned these pages—that is, supposing you ever think of wading through to the end—you have failed to find amusement, I pray you pity, rather than condemn me; for be it known that nothing but the repeated requests of my numerous friends in the amateur operatic world would have induced me to inflict this little volume upon the public.

It has often happened that, whilst relating some little anecdote, these good folk have said, “Oh, Mr. Harman, why don’t you write a book of your experiences? It would surely be amusing.”

I have quite agreed there, although the idea struck me in a somewhat different light. Yet I have occasionally thought that many of the little incidents which have occurred during my thirty years’ connection with the light opera stage (especially, perhaps, during the last twenty, devoted almost wholly to amateurs and their productions) would raise a few laughs. I have, therefore, at last, reluctantly, most reluctantly, consented, and that, mark you, gentle reader (now bearing with my lack of fine language) not until the aforementioned friends had frequently vowed that they would certainly buy a copy of the book. It is somewhere writ, “He is much condemned who bath an itching palm.”

But, oh! what sordid notions inspired me, although the actor, be it said, harbours no such thoughts. He has no use for filthy lucre, being wedded to his art, and having no time to worry about financial matters. He certainly is not credited with being associated with that illusive commodity. You doubtless know the “chestnut” of the landlady trying to tap the old “pro.” for a “bit on account.” “Money, Mrs. Stiggins,” said he; “money, what is money? Is it a herb?”

Again, overheard in a post office. Actor: “Postal order for sixpence, Miss.” Miss: “Yes, sir. Limerick, sir?” Actor: “Limerick? No, madam, wife and family.”

I myself once listened to some snatches of dialogue in a railway carriage. It went something like this: “Yes, there were three of us; I hadn’t any cash left; my friend was ‘broke,’ and the other chap was an actor.”

Combined exchequers resembling a rimless cipher, with a minus sign after it. I have seen it.

But, I digress. These dear good friends having prevailed, I have made up my mind to do my best to recollect a few reminiscences, having now shifted the responsibility upon their precious shoulders. I must crave pardon for literary faults; there will be many, I expect, of which I shall prove myself guilty. I must also apologise beforehand for the unavoidable use throughout of the detestable first personal pronoun. After these frank confessions I feel I can commence my task with a clear conscience.

I had also thought an apology in advance to an esteemed contemporary might not be out of place, lest I trespass on his preserves. The mention of preserves reminds me of a gentleman with whom I was destined to be associated for so long. W.S.’s estate adjoined one belonging to a well-known manufacturer of marmalade, jams and pickles. This latter individual, whom I shall call P.K. was a self-made man of the “Middlewick” type. He was rich, proud and arrogant, posing as a “somebody” in the country. He had some shooting on his estate, and W.S.’s men had made a practice of taking a short cut across a corner of one of the covers to the main road. P.K. wrote an indignant letter to W.S. complaining of this constant trespassing. W.S. replied to the effect that it should not occur again, and that he was sorry his men had trespassed on Mr. P.K.’s preserves, with an apology for using the word preserves. “Biting trenchant sarcasm—the rapier, not the bludgeon.”

I must take leave of my friends the amateurs for a while, and go back to the time when I gave up being one myself to join the profession. This was in 1889, and I was destined to have nearly twelve years of comic opera without a break under one management, that of Mr. R. D’Oyly Carte, of the Savoy Theatre. This period, for want of a better name, I shall call my apprenticeship, for I had no idea then how valuable the experience gained during that time was to prove during subsequent years as a stage director for professional companies, also as producer and coach for the principal operatic societies throughout the kingdom.

A fairly long “apprenticeship,” yet one that has enabled me to make hundreds of friends in all parts of the country, many of whom have become very dear to me. Of them, more anon. Meanwhile I am sure they will forgive me for playfully alluding to a few of their idiosyncrasies during the recital of these reminiscences. In every case I shall endeavour to “gild the philosophic pill.” To you, reader, and others not directly interested or perchance versed in things operatic, I crave for indulgence, at the same time praying that you are in a happy mood such as will enable you to wade through these pages without feeling bored.

The Gilbert and Sullivan Archive  |  A Comic Opera Life

Page modified 16 September 2020