CHAPTER I.

The Apprenticeship. I Join the Profession.

“The Profession!” I have failed in many endeavours to ascertain why there is only one “profession.” We know there are many professional men and women, but fancy alluding to a doctor or a lawyer as a “professional,” to say nothing of Service people; or, stranger still, those connected with the Church. Yet I suppose they are equally entitled to be called “professionals.” But no! the actor and actress walking abroad is spotted, and it is, “Do you, know that woman?” “Yes; she’s a ‘professional.’ She went on the stage when that little bit of trouble occurred at home. Don’t you remember? Her father was the vicar. She wasn’t content with the trouble she caused her family, but ‘disgraced’ them still more by going into the profession.” Poor Profession! “Who’s he?” you hear. “Oh, he’s a ‘pro.,’ anyone can see that.”

Occasionally, it is He or She is “on the stage,” but more often they have “joined the profession,” so it is quite unnecessary to ask which one. I once, on a return visit to apartments, where I had often stayed, asked the landlady what had become of a daughter who had been in the habit of waiting on me. “Oh! Mr. Harman,” she said, “Lizzie’s gone on the stage.” “What for?” I innocently inquired, “to scrub it?” I don’t believe Ma ever forgave me. She certainly had a “bit of her own back” on the Saturday. Her bill was a “work of art.” Still she fell into line with custom, for the next time I visited the town she talked of little else but Lizzie and the “profession.”

Anyway, I joined. It was in 1889. I can hardly tell how it came about. I always liked playing. If I thought it was an easy way of getting through life, with a minimum amount of work, I have been undeceived since.

My father intended me for a commercial career, but at every chance of play I was not found wanting. I was captain of the Cycling Club of my native town, prominent footballer, interested in swimming and boxing, was a fair all-round athlete, and dabbled pretty well with everything that was worth “playing” at. My favourite hobby was singing; I had sung in the parish church choir from the time I was a tiny boy, and kept it up continually until I “joined the profession.”

I don’t want you to come to the conclusion that I was afraid of work, like the man who went to consult his doctor, and, in answer to questions, said that he could eat well, drink well, sleep well and felt no pain, but the moment he saw a bit of work, came out in a cold perspiration. No! I could work at my “play.” Anyway, I made a fair name for myself locally as an amateur singer. Perhaps my connection with the different institutions in my native town made me more popular with the public than my vocal efforts on the concert platform merited. Of course, I should not be human to admit such a thing, even were I to think it. Later experiences in life make me wonder. However, those youthful ones were not wasted in the matter of gaining confidence in public. The same may be said of a present leading Cabinet Minister, who used to recite “Billy’s Rose,” “The Lifeboat,” etc., at the same concerts. I don’t suppose Sir W—— had in mind at that time the possibility of, in years to come, holding forth in the House, to a vastly different audience. I was rather up on myself in those days, sported a fur-lined coat for special occasions, and thought I was “It.” I have since rather fought shy of a coat with “whiskers” on the collar and cuffs; in fact, I have been nearer seeing them sprout on the edges of my trousers.

So it came about that, being of an artistic and foolish temperament (music and painting were amongst my pursuits), I began to find that sticking to business was a mild form of “eating cinders,” and although I had no intention of giving it up then, I nevertheless looked about for every means of exploiting my hobby. I thought it would be a fine thing to join the chorus of a London company. I could, I imagined, leave after business, enjoy the work, gain experience by listening to good artistes, and at the same time be entitled to call myself “pro.” Oh! I was young then. I was advised by my singing master, the late Mr. F. Williams-Williams, to write to the late Mr. R. D’Oyly Carte, for an appointment to be heard to sing, with a view to an engagement; it was in the palmy days of Gilbert and Sullivan Opera. The appointment was duly made, and I was advised to bring a song. I cannot help contrasting the cool “cheek” I must have possessed then to the state of my feelings on similar occasions at a later period, when I had “learned something.” I was ushered in before others who had been waiting, because I was “swanking” about people not keeping their appointments punctually. A very pleasant gentleman, who turned out to be Mr. Francois Cellier, asked me whether I had had any experience, weighed me up, metaphorically speaking, and made copious notes.

I have often wondered since whether, amongst his remarks, he wrote “plenty of side,” for even while he was examining me, so to speak, I lit a cigarette. I blush now when I recall his smile. He did not require to be told I was a “greenhorn.” “What’s your voice, Mr. Harman?” “Bass,” I replied. “Sure? We don’t want baritones,” he said. “Can you sing a bottom F?” “Yes,” I replied; “a bottom, C if you like.” His look conveyed the impression don’t be silly. “Sing this scale,” he said. I did; I also sang a bass, song. My voice was considered a good one in those days. (I have left it in little bits in the provinces since.) However, its compass seemed to strike him, for I looked pretty youthful. He asked my age, gave me some advice re thinking seriously about quitting a certainty for a theatrical career, and ended by making an appointment for me to sing to Mr. Carte personally next morning.

The reason I am going into detail respecting my first engagement is partly to show aspirants how not to act, also to contrast the courteous manner of the Savoy management towards artistes with that of the majority of managers and agents. I will give a few specimens of interviews and voice trials when I have finished mine with Mr. Carte.

Next day at the appointed time (11 a.m.) I arrived. Of the throng of people with music under their arms there seemed to be no end. I waited all day, and during that time struck up an acquaintance with a fellow who was in business and similarly placed to myself. We went out to lunch together, and afterwards for a cup of tea. On returning from the latter I said to him, “I’m going to play steam.” I began to talk very loudly, and others shrugged their shoulders, as much as to say, “That’s not likely to get you an engagement.” However, just at that moment a little gentleman was coming along the passage. He stopped, and asked me what was the matter. I said “The firm seem to have a rotten way of doing business,” etc. “All right, all right!” he answered quickly; “I’ll hear you next.” It was the great D’Oyly Carte. Modesty (sic) had its own reward, evidently, for it “came off.” I told my friend to “stick close” by the door, and I would say I was waiting for him as soon as my interview should be over. After I had sung, Mr. Carte asked me if I would travel. I said “My idea was an engagement at the Savoy.” “I haven’t a vacancy at present,” said he; “will you go to America?” “That requires considering,” I replied. “Well, think about it,” he said; “I’ll engage you for chorus and understudy for the American tour of ‘The Gondoliers.’” (The opera was just a week old.) “And the salary?” I asked. “Same as the others: 15 dollars. I can let you have a dollar-and-a-half extra for a ‘one-line part’ and understudy. All expenses are paid, and you will travel saloon—even your steward’s tips are arranged. However, I will write you.” As I came out I gave my friend a gentle push and said “I’ll wait for you.” “What luck?” he enquired. I replied, “Offer for America.”

Next morning I received a letter from the Savoy, confirming the offer, and requesting me, in case of acceptance, to come up at once and be prepared to rehearse. “Well!” thought I, “it will be a jolly good holiday on the cheap, even if it leads to nothing else.” So I signed a contract, as did also my friend of the previous day, Mr. Albert Kavanagh (a well-known artiste since). It was our first engagement. We were “stable companions” on the tour, and he afterwards became my “best man” on a subsequent occasion. I was not by any means “stage struck,” but that is how I “joined the profession.”

In later years I had the opportunity of attending at more than one voice trial and contrasting them. At the Savoy, artistes that were not even worth considering were treated with the utmost courtesy; told they had “fine voices”—perhaps a trifle weak—required a little more training, etc. A card with the name of some well known professor was invariably handed to them, with the intimation that if they came in about twelve months’ time it would be a pleasure to bear them again. Whether there was a mark put against their names, the equivalent to “N.D.G.” (that I have known with some firms) or not, is a matter for speculation.

G.T., whom I became acquainted with later in one of Mr. Carte’s companies, possessed a good tenor voice. He related to me an experience of his. Wishing to do something better, he wrote to the late Carl Rosa. The appointment was duly made and kept. G.T. described to me the interview. He was ushered into a private room where sat Mr. Rosa at the piano. Not a word was spoken on either side. The great impresario held out his hand (for the music). G.T. was about to shake it, when it was withdrawn. The music was a dilapidated copy of “Come into the garden, Maud,” one that had been carried in the coat pocket, and had evidently done yeoman service. Rosa stuck it up in front of him. It fell forward on the, keyboard. He smoothed it out, glared at G.T., and played the symphony. Instead of coming in on the beat, G.T. cleared his, throat. Another glare, and Carl Rosa again played the opening bars. G.T. came in a beat too late. “Come into the—.” Rosa gave the vocalist a look of supreme contempt, and once again played the preliminary music. “Come into the—.” This time he started a beat too soon. Rosa took the music from the desk, threw it into the middle of the room, pointed to the artiste, then to the music, and finally to the door. G.T. picked up the scattered leaves, backed out as gracefully as he could, without a word having been spoken on either side throughout the interview.

Some years afterwards, at the close of a season, a time when actors go about “seeking whom they may devour,” I went with a couple of fellows (both professionals of experience) who had appointments to sing to “Poney” Moore at St. James’ Hall. The stage was crowded. “I don’t want any of yer d—— flakey tenors or tenorettes,” I heard him remark to the pianist. H—— sang a sentimental song. When he was half through he turned nervously and asked, “Second verse, Mr. Moore?” “Second verse! Second blazes! ’Op it,” said Poney. L.B.’s turn came, and he sang “Will o’ the Wisp” splendidly. The refrain goes, “I laugh ha! ha! and sing ho! ho!,” etc. Moore heard him through to the end. There had been some applause from artistes waiting. L.B. turned for the verdict. Moore said in a very dry voice, “You can laugh ha! ha! dance ha! ha! and sing ho! ho! but you’re no bally good to me ah! ah! Next!” And so it went on. As we left I heard him saying something about a fellow getting his tonsils manicured. I don’t wish to convey the idea that all managers are alike. Mr. Geo. Edwardes, for instance, treated his people as ladies and gentlemen. Perhaps it is not generally known that he was one of Mr. D’Oyly Carte’s managers prior to going into management on his own account. One would probably be told that there was “no vacancy just at present,” “You will probably hear from us,” etc.

I had no idea at the time of what I was laying myself open to; had I known, I am pretty well convinced I should never have become a “professional.”

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