CHAPTER III.

On Tour with “Rep.”

We returned to England the following May, on the old “City of Berlin,” and the majority of us were re-engaged and drafted into various companies of Mr. D’Oyly Carte. I found myself in the No. 1 Repertoire Co. Hard work commenced then. We played “The Mikado,” “Yeomen of the Guard,” “Iolanthe,” and “The Gondoliers,” occasionally adding to the repertoire. Being made “understudy” for at least one big part in each opera, rehearsals were frequent, and I might say my real training commenced.

It was not always work though, for when it didn’t interfere with business we had plenty of outdoor recreation. The company formed a fairly strong cricket team, and matches were arranged with local clubs by our “agent in advance.” Officers in garrison towns would give us a, good time, and incidentally, as a rule, a good “licking.” Swimming matches were frequent, so we managed to keep ourselves fit. However, football was “barred” by the management, and one can quite understand it would not do for a “Strephon” to “go on” at night with his arm in a sling, or half a dozen choristers to appear marching with a limp. Some managers run greater risks. It used to be said of a (now) celebrated Shakespearian actor, who ran his own companies, that he didn’t mind, as long as the men he engaged were athletes. When interviewing an artiste his first questions were not “With whom have you been?” or “What parts have you played?” but “What’s your average? Do you play Soccer or Rugger? We want a good half-back. Are you a golfer? What handicap? Plus man? Good! Row? Stroke? What year were you up? Capital! Oh! just one other little question: any stage experience? Not much. Never mind, we shall soon overcome that little difficulty. Engaged.” Verb sap. However, it must not be supposed this company did not include some excellent actors. It was a splendid school, where experience, suggestive of the old stock days, was obtained. It has turned out some of our leading artistes. A good anecdote comes to mind, which was attributed to a leading gentleman in the company. In engaging supers on one occasion, it was found impossible to muster more than one “soldier.” B—— had not been apprised of this, and just as he was about to commence his invocation to war, stopped short, but instantly, and with admirable presence of mind, proceeded thus:—

The following also is rather good, whilst on the subject of supers. It was not, however, the same company that had the experience. At a certain Irish town “Julius Caesar” was being produced with more preparation and splendour—golden eagles and bawling plebeians—than are customarily found beyond the smoke of the “metropolis.”

Some score of “Connaught Rangers,” at the period stationed in the town, were drilled into sympathising citizens, and nightly clamoured for the production of Cæsar’s will. The tight Irish boys shouted “The Testament! The Testament!” with good emphasis and discretion in the right place, and flourished their shelalahs during three successful enactments; after which Julius rested “I’ th’ capitol” until “bespoke” by certain classical patrons of the drama for re-slaughter. So lately performed, it was not deemed necessary to rehearse the tragedy, and its scenic illustration proceeded with due solemnity to the eventful moment of Antony’s oration; at their well remembered “cue” the practised Hibernian citizens cried loudly for “the testament,” but superior duties having unfortunately claimed divers members of the original mob, several of their uninitiated successors (instructed only to do as their companions did and make a row), upon hearing their “brother Romans” shout for “the testament,” determined not to be outdone in zeal, and roared long and lustily for “the Bible! the Bible! the Bible!” Those sons of the Shamrock were assuredly not “United Irishmen.”

One can scarcely imagine a manager apologising to the audience nowadays for his (to give them their full title) supernumeraries. However, I imagine it has been done, possibly in the old stock days, for I came across a copy of an old speech lately, of which the following is an extract: “If I be not ashamed of my soldiers, I am a soused gurnet. I have misused the King’s press damnably, and now my charge consists of slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth. You would think I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals lately come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on the way and told me I had unloaded the gibbets and pressed the dead bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. Nay, the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on, for indeed I had most of them out of prison. There’s but one shirt and a half in all my company.”

The company I was a member of included that inimitable artiste, Mr. George Thorne. Although I have used the word “inimitable,” perhaps the paradox may be excused, when I am forced to add that he has been imitated and copied by his successors who have profited by his genius, yet I repeat—inimitable— surpassingly excellent; few who have witnessed his “Ko-Ko” (Mikado), “Bunthorne” (Patience)—(George Bunthorne he used to be called)—or his “Lord Chancellor” in “Iolanthe,” will ever forget his masterful performances, nor could they ever, his wonderful portrayal of “Jack Point” in “The Yeomen of the Guard.” George was an all-round sportsman, and “backed the boys” in anything that was going. A little bit of mischief didn’t come amiss. He had a great sense of humour, and was fond of a practical joke. On one occasion we had to cross from Liverpool to Belfast at night. We got on board after the performance. Supper over, the fellows retired to the smoke-room for a chat or a game of cards before turning in. To their horror, though, the steward had closed the “bar,” and refused to supply any drinks. There were few passengers besides ourselves on board. A “council of war” was held, and soon afterwards a shriek from some girls was heard and a great commotion took place, as a huddled form came rolling down the main staircase leading to the saloon. “Help! Help! Quick! He’s in a fit!” could be heard on all sides. “Brandy! Brandy! sharp!” shouted Long Bishop. “Steward! can’t you see who it is?” The girls were busy unfastening his collar, bathing his temples, etc. George Thorne was a household name, and the steward was in a quandary; he hesitated, and was lost. He turned the key of his department—the confusion was great— “Bish” pounced on a bottle of brandy— “Never mind, we’ll knock the neck off.” Two bottles of whisky were annexed, and those, with the brandy, found their way to the smoke-room. George soon “recovered” and was “sorry for the commotion he was responsible for”—tipped the steward handsomely, and “rather than get the boys into trouble” insisted on paying for the liquor. He entered the smoke-room a little later with a grin on his face— “Think I’ll join you—didn’t work badly, did it, boys?”

Two of the members were married at St. Ann’s Cathedral, Belfast, during a subsequent visit, and George gave the bride away. When the crucial moment arrived, and the clergyman asked “Who gives this woman,” etc., George stepped forward with the usual “I do.” At the same time, he nudged the bridegroom, put a small packet in his hand, and whispered “with this.” The groom was a little embarrassed, naturally, thinking it was an unusual place to give a fellow a present. He slipped it into the tail pocket of his frock coat, and forgot the incident until driving away from the church; he then related it to his bride, who, with feminine curiosity, asked what the packet contained. Together they opened it, and discovered the lady had been given away with a quarter of a pound of tea. The bridegroom happened to be the author.

This brings to mind a later incident of a couple who, knowing they were to be domiciled in a certain town for a month, thought it a good opportunity to tie the nuptial knot.

Accordingly they sought out the Vicar and explained matters. “Oh! I understand,” said the good man; “so you’ve come to give notice of the banns.” “Oh! there won’t be any bands,” replied the budding Benedict; “we may have a bit of a smoker and sing-song after the show.”

Whilst playing at Aberdeen we received a command from the late Queen Victoria, to perform “The Mikado” at Balmoral Castle. It was an unique experience for us. We started at six o’clock in the morning, by special train. Arriving at Ballater, we found brakes awaiting us, and a delightful seven miles drive over the beautiful Highlands brought us to the Castle. We played in the ballroom, which necessitated a special stage being fixed up, also curtains, lights, and other accessories being improvised. On this account a rehearsal was arranged soon after arrival, the policy of which will be obvious when I relate the fact that, at the first “Yo! Heave ho!” of the chorus, the stage (which, by the way, was only about two feet six inches in height) collapsed, to the amusement of those concerned, also of several members of the Royal Family, who were strolling in and out, seemingly enjoying the fun, and evidently being highly interested in the rehearsal. They did us the honour to mix freely, and chat with the members of the company. I overheard a remark from an exalted personage; she was talking of Sir Arthur Sullivan to his niece (the late Miss Rose Hervy), our prima donna. “Yes, he has often been here! We’re so fond of him.” We, who knew him, even in “business,” could quite understand it. We were given carte blanche to practically make ourselves at home, wander about the grounds, and amuse ourselves generally. It was a couple of hours before the stage was ready for us to resume rehearsal. Our orders were, that, owing to the number in the company, and taking into consideration the size of the ballroom, the opera was to be given almost pianissimo. One can quite imagine how difficult a matter this was to us. However, at night, after the curtain had been up five minutes, things went as usual and in the excitement every-body “let it rip.”

Mr. Lindsay Harman as "The Mikado"

But to revert. Rehearsal over, we lunched, and spent the remainder of the day “doing Balmoral.” It goes without saying that we had to be on our best behaviour. One incident known behind the scenes was rather funny. We had in our company an old Italian chorister; he had fought under Garibaldi, sung in grand opera, travelled all over the world, and was quite a character in his way. He had evidently been “doing himself well,” and was getting a little excited. We found him about four o’clock in the afternoon, actually strolling on the lawn, wanting to peep into the windows to get a glimpse of Her Gracious Majesty. “Where dis Queene it vos?” said he; “she been very good to poor Galli” (he called himself by the name the boys had given him). Needless to say, the management arranged that poor “Galli” should not “show” that night. He found himself quietly ensconced in comfortable quarters until the performance was over. He was a very witty old fellow. Asked if he had ever been to Cork, he said he had not, but had “seen plenty drawings of it.” Having a bad attack of gout once, he was advised to go to Harrogate and take the waters. “Me take de Harrogate vaters!” exclaimed Galli; “vot’s wrong vid the Burton vaters?”

We commenced the performance between nine and 9-30 p.m. At the appointed time the guests and household were in their seats; silence reigned supreme as Her Majesty came down the prompt side of the stage to go to the front. The wings were masked with a thin art fabric of some kind; we could see through it as she passed, and as most were curious, she actually brushed our faces in doing so. I often wonder what would have happened had one of the members, in a fit of idiotic playfulness, pinched her arm. We were in darkness, so the culprit would probably have remained undetected. Her Majesty took her seat in the centre, immediately behind the place that is usually occupied by the musical director. She was not more than eight or ten feet from the stage. The conductor and small orchestra were in the corner of the room on stage right. It was a most enjoyable performance to all of us; there was no reserve, we were in a private place, playing amongst an audience of friends. Everything was encored, some numbers twice over, and the laughter was terrific. What an experience for us who had never beheld the beloved Queen’s face, except in portrait, or on State occasions when wearing a look of profound dignity. It is with solemn respect that I give my impressions of our late Sovereign Lady. She laughed audibly, clapped her hands, and seemed to enjoy every point in the dialogue, which she followed minutely. To us, who had eyes—sideways—for none other, (scarcely even the conductor), she seemed to be leading the encores.

“What a dear little lady!” was whispered on all sides by the members.

“Isn’t she sweet?” the girls were saying. At the finish of the opera, the National Anthem was sung. There was no mezza voce about it. At the fall of the curtain we remained still until Her Majesty had left, and the guests had filed out. The Queen sent for the principals and said how she had enjoyed the performance, and thought it wonderful that the company had managed so splendidly on so small a stage—wished good-night and a safe journey. She gave her stick to an Indian servant, leaned on his arm, and was just departing as Mr. Fred Billington said “Goodnight, and God bless your Majesty.” The Queen stopped, turned, and said with fervour, “And God bless YOU.” I might mention that, beside the seat just vacated by Her Majesty was a small table with pen, ink, and a small bouquet which she left. I plead guilty to the theft of the quill pen, and some of the flowers, which were quickly divided amongst the members and retained as souvenirs. I think it was 12-30 or 1 a.m. before we sat down to a substantial supper, after which we had our return drive to Ballater, and thence to Aberdeen, arriving in the “small hours.”

We were feeling tired out, and, knowing that two performances had to be given that day, it being Saturday morning, the prospect was not a cheerful one, for if there is anything a “pro.” hates it is a matinee.

I have preserved the following cutting from a Society paper which appeared at the, time. It may interest:—

“By the way, the austere Court Newsman must have felt a thrill of horror when commanded to insert in the Court Circular the dramatis personæ who played before Her Majesty at Balmoral in ‘The Mikado.’ And it certainly does look odd to see the Right Rev. the Moderator James Macgregor, D.D., figuring in the same column with Katisha (an elderly lady in love with Nanki Poo) and Yum Yum, Pitti Sing, and Peep Bo (three sisters, wards of Ko Ko). We should not be surprised if this inaugurates a new era in Court Circularism. We are going to be taken a little more behind the scenes. We shall learn not only that the Queen drove out this or that afternoon, but what coloured horses she drove with, and what was the name of the coachman.”

“We shall hear, too, whether Her Majesty has turtle soup or cold mutton for lunch, how many glasses of dry champagne she managed to get outside of, how many letters she wrote, and the names of her correspondents; what time she retired to rest and the nature of the Royal ‘nightcap.’ Any of these things the unfortunate Court Newsman may be, called upon to insert at any moment. But nothing will astonish him more since he received the order to give a list of the members of a wandering company on his sacred page. ‘Strolling Vagabonds!’ he will have said. ‘Who would have thought of seeing them here?’”

Anyway, the “Strolling Vagabonds” had an enjoyable experience.

I often look back on those days and think of the happy life of a chorister; free from responsibility, and no worrying about his voice being a bit off colour. It was about this time that I went on for my first part, viz., “Pish Tush” in “The Mikado,” at the Royalty Theatre, Glasgow—this was in 1891. I little knew then that I was destined later to play the part continuously for over three years. I presume it was on account of my being found useful, and a quick study, that I was drafted to the “E” Company to understudy the leading parts, and play small ones.

The companies were called A., B., C., D., E., etc. This did not, however, signify that “A” Company was the first, or more important; in fact, it was just the reverse. It depended upon one’s self to a great extent, of course, whether one was happy in a company. However, the management had a great deal to answer for; one can realise that a bully of a stage manager, or an autocratic musical director, could make life somewhat unpleasant. Of course, there were squabbles occasionally, and as members of different companies were in touch, we knew pretty well what was going on. This accounted for a little quotation the “boys” used in the dressing-rooms, which was appropriate at the time. It is from “The Mikado,” and will be easily recognised:—

Also from the “Yeomen”: “Is the little E(ase) sufficiently uncomfortable?”

Grievances were always most patiently enquired into by Mrs. Carte, and I think she must have known the personal history of half of her people; “I shall write and tell Mrs. Carte” was constantly heard. Even their domestic troubles were made an excuse for writing to the “office.” On this account poor Walter Summers used to playfully allude to that estimable little lady as the “Great White Mother”; there was one thing, however, the management at headquarters strongly objected to; that was, being worried with telegrams: these were invariably ignored. I recall to mind a couple of instances though where wires brought replies. One was from a chorister who was the understudy for the principal tenor. His message ran: “Rackstraw off tonight, X—— being put on, who am I?— G—— T——.” Reply: “Don’t know; who are you?” Oh, those tenors! The other was from a stage manager. He had become impatient with a principal soprano who had just been sent to join the company. So his lordship wired “Prima donna no good, send another. F—— L——.” The return message ran: “Rehearse the lady and mind your own business.” Another: “You say we shall hear from you shortly; as short as you please.”

One member, wishing to air a grievance, thought he would “steal a march” on the touring management and “get one in” first. He accordingly caught the midnight train to town. Unable to get nearer the sanctum than the outer office, he had to content himself with an interview with Mr. H——, the secretary. Asked on his return to the company how he found the gentleman, he replied: “Placid, sir, placid—he’d pick his teeth whilst his house was burning, if the fire occurred after dinner.” This method of trying to steal a march on the local management seldom resulted to the advantage of the individual “trying it on.” The reverse was generally the case, for leaving the company without permission was, in itself, strictly against rules.

Some years later, under another management, a highly nervous little artiste did the same thing. The “Gov’nor” was very bombastic, but poor little W—— had primed himself well for the interview. The “boss” greeted him loudly, before a roomful of people, with “What the devil do you want here?” W—— shouted back, “I came up t-t-talk business (gradually getting courage), b-b-but if it’s a swearing match you want, I’ll swear your b-b-blink-ing head off.”

Reverting to myself—I left the “C” for the (then) “E” and was destined to be connected with it for many years. In fact, with the exception of a few breaks, including another American visit, and a couple of short tours with “A” and “D” Companies, I was practically a member until I severed my connection with the D’Oyly Carte management, a period of over eleven years with various companies, with an occasional “show” at the Savoy which I shall allude to later.

I think it was on the last night of the tour, before I left for the “E,” that the gentlemen of the chorus had been accused by the “powers that be” of being a bit festive. They were highly indignant, but made up their minds to play up to the accusation. When the, heralds, pages, and pikemen made their entrance (Act II of “The Gondoliers”) titters began to go round the house until they matured into hearty laughter. The “Ducal party” made their appearance, wondering why they were greeted thus, until the “Duke” caught sight of the corner page with a very red nose, and, looking round, found all his attendants similarly “made up.” He quickly entered into the joke, and went round and “warmed his hands” at their noses. By this time the stage manager, the late James Scanlan, had made a note of the names of the gentlemen, and a threat of a fine of five shillings each was met with complacency, for the boys had already “touched,” and it was the last night of the tour.

Whilst on the subject I must relate another instance where the boys were “carpeted.” I forget what the occasion was, but they had evidently spent a pleasant, but alcoholic day, and although they had gone through the performance all right, the stage manager, J—— G——, kept them after the fall of the curtain and sent for the business manager, “Daddy M——.” The latter was a. man of the world, and broad-minded. He asked the stage manager what the complaint was, and was told that one or two of the fellows had been a bit “elevated” at the commencement of the performance. “Well,” said Daddy, “I witnessed the show through from the ‘front,’ and saw nothing wrong.” G—— said that some of the boys, naming them, were decidedly “fresh.” “Well,” said M——, “What have you to say, gentlemen?” Billy G—— acted as spokesman. Turning to the stage manager, he said, “Mr. G——, did we do our business all right?” “Yes, fairly so,” said G——, “but you were slack.” Daddy M—— said, “Gentlemen, you hear what your stage manager says; let’s hear from you.” Billy G—— spoke up: “Gov’nor,” said he, “Mr. G—— first accuses us of being tight, then of being slack, and it’s pretty evident we couldn’t have been both. We’ll plead guilty to the latter.”

“Daddy” laughed, and said Billy ought to have been a Q.C. “Now, Mr. G——,” said he, “you accuse them of being slack, and they plead guilty, so you have your remedy; call them for rehearsal in the morning, and make them ‘tight.’” I rather fancy some of the gentlemen were with Pope,

There’s a little anecdote of one member I can’t resist. Mr. Fred Billington, who played Pooh Bah in “The Mikado,” was known throughout the country to playgoers, but in describing the following incident it is necessary to recall to mind the elephantine appearance of this portly gentleman. It happened one night after a performance at the Gaiety Theatre, Dublin. “Billy” called a cab, and was just about to enter it when the stage manager, Mr. J. Scanlon, invited him into his, saying he was passing Billington’s hotel and would drop him on his way. The offer was accepted, so Billy tipped his own cabby a shilling, saying he would not require him. The cabby scratched his head, and hoped his honour would give him more than a shilling. “What, you scamp! when I never got into your cab!” said Billy. “But consider the fright your honour put us into—me and the old horse,” replied Pat.

Rather more subtle than the London cabby’s remark after two very stout old gentlemen got out of his “growler” in the Strand. The same amount was tendered to John—evidently all he was strictly entitled to. Cabby held it in his palm and soliloquised, loud enough for bystanders to hear, as the gentlemen moved off: “Gawd blimey, a tanner a ton.”

It cannot be of the least interests to readers to hear of the various towns and cities we visited, or of my own individual engagements; suffice it to say I have toured all the large and small towns of Great Britain, besides experiencing two American visits, and if I allude at all to any of them it will be for the sake of an anecdote or reminiscence. In fact, I can only give a disjointed string of events extending over a great many years. I have kept no diary and the only records are old “day bills,” photographs, and press cuttings. So, as I ramble on, I expect incidents will often be recalled that happened prior to the one I am relating, for it will be a constant case of “and that reminds me.”

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