CHAPTER IV.

The “E”(verlasting) Company.

This company, I think, established a record of its kind. It was called the “Everlasting” by “the boys.” You will understand why, when I tell you it ran for about seven years without a vacation. A month’s was, I believe, the longest during the course of its existence. It was on tour summer and winter, and was essentially a repertoire company. The repertoire was not necessarily large, not more than four operas at a, time. When a new opera was produced at the Savoy, and we took it up, the other works were dropped for the “run” of the new one, which would probably be for several months on its own. Then, as business became slack, one of the old works was added, and the repertoire gradually “built” up again. During the years I was with the company we played the following operas: “The Mikado” (Gilbert & Sullivan), “The Gondoliers” (Gilbert & Sullivan), “Iolanthe” (Gilbert & Sullivan), “The Sorcerer” (Gilbert & Sullivan), “Patience” (Gilbert & Sullivan), “H.M.S. Pinafore” (Gilbert & Sullivan), “Utopia Limited” (Gilbert & Sullivan), “The Grand Duchess” (Offenbach), “Haddon Hall” (Grundy & Sullivan), “The Rose of Persia” (Hood & Sullivan), “The Vicar of Bray” (Soloman & Grundy), “The Lucy Star,” “Billy Taylor” (Soloman & Grundy), “Mirette” (Messager), “The Grand Duke” (Gilbert & Sullivan), “The Chieftain” (Burnand & Sullivan); and minor works for “front” pieces, such as “Trial by Jury,” “Captain Billy” “After All,” etc. We might drop a work for a year or so and revive it again, with others, when business dropped off with our usual repertoire.

When a new opera was to be produced, we rehearsed on tour in the day-time, playing at night from the current repertoire. The producer came down from London, with, sometimes, author and composer. All scenery and costumes were dispatched from town, and when ready, all “stuff” belonging to works we were “shelving” was returned to headquarters. Great excitement prevailed before the production of a new work as to the caste.

Mr. and Mrs. Carte would probably come down unknown to the members of the company and witness a performance. Nobody knew until after the curtain had dropped that they had been in the theatre; then there would probably be a “call” for “full company” next morning, with an order to “bring a song”—everybody would be heard sing; understudies would have to play their parts, and a “weeding out” process would be gone through. Grievances, if any, would be listened to—manager, musical director and stage manager would he seen with their “heads to-gether”—“The Holy Trinity,” the “boys” used to call them. When this “trio” were in “harmony,” “God help the rest!” used to be a saying; “They’ll get their own way.” A cantankerous chorister was, perhaps, complained about. Here is a sample:—

F.T., a magnificent baritone, was a far better singer than the principal; still, it was his duty to “understudy.”

The conductor, who rejoiced in the Christian name of Mozart, wished a certain phrase sung in a certain way, and “Ferdie” knew it wasn’t “good.” “Do as you’re told, sir, and don’t argue,” said the conductor. T. was stubborn. “No,” said he, “I can sing Wagner, I can sing ‘Handel,’ and I can sing Mozart, but I’ll be hanged if I can sing Mozart W—— (Smith).”

On one occasion T—— had to play a part, owing to the indisposition of a principal. After the first act, everyone was talking of his magnificent performance. However, F—— T—— said “If I look as big a fool as I feel, I’ll see them to blazes before I go on for the second act,” and nothing would induce him to finish the show. He was a bit eccentric, but possessed of a phenomenal voice. He once went to sing for a “shop.” “What are you?” asked the manager, “tenor or bass?” “Well, what do you want, guvnor” said Ferdie.

He had a habit, too, of observing his own tempos, apropos of which, he once said, it would be “a pretty degradation indeed if you were obliged to run after the fiddler—horsehair and cat’s guts. No; let him keep your time, and play your tune—dodge him.”

He was, on one occasion, requested to study a certain part, and, for the purpose of a few rehearsals, go to the conductor’s digs for a private “run through.” This he did more than once, without, however, getting any practice, the musical director being busy each time with something he was composing. T—— got very annoyed at last. “He sits there in his combined room,” said he, “expecting inspiration like an old rusty conductor, waiting for a flash of lightning.” I believe he got his simile from one of Tobin’s old comedies, but it was well applied.

We hadn’t many quarrels amongst the artistes themselves; minor squabbles, perhaps, a few cutting remarks here and there. One, I remember, from a prima donna to a chorister, concluding with “You’re a pretty young lady indeed!” “And you’re neither one nor the other,” retorted the perky young miss.

Le M—— was a good-natured and amiable fellow, noted for never getting into a temper. He had, however, a most annoying habit of taking opposite views, and contradicting people on every conceivable occasion. B—— once, in a fit of exasperation, threw a glass of beer in his face. Le M—— quietly took out his handkerchief, and, with great coolness, said, “This is digression; now for the argument.”

Many similar incidents come, to mind, but I feel very like a friend of mine, an old bachelor, and celebrated club man, who, in answer to many a question as to why he didn’t write a book of his reminiscences, invariably replied, “Because I should have to give too many of my pals, away.”

I have, therefore, used initials, and occasionally altered a name, for some of my friends of the old days, who were choristers then, are now London “stars.” I regret to say the reverse is the case in some instances, although happily these are few and far between, probably owing to the strict training we received. Strange to say, at the time it was considered, in the profession, a bad school to get into. Mr. Gilbert (as he was then) used to say, “I don’t want actors and actresses, but intelligent people, who will do what they’re told. If I had a chorus of all £20 a week artistes they would ruin the production.” That is, to a great extent, why, if the business is thoroughly drilled by a competent stage manager, the Gilbert & Sullivan operas are so suitable for amateurs.

It was in 1892 or 1893, during the unfortunate break between the two famous collaborators, that a rather alarming accident occurred, that might have turned out more seriously than it did. We had “shelved” most of the operas and were playing Grundy & Sullivan’s “Haddon Hall.” It happened at the Theatre Royal, Eastbourne, during the “storm overture,” while the front scene of Act II was being “struck.” The scene suddenly changes from the exterior “Dorothy Vernon’s Door” to the “Long Gallery” of “Haddon Hall,” showing Sir George and Lady Vernon in state with the guests dancing a minuet.

Two “cloths” were invariably lowered—the storm cloth and a plain one — between which the men worked the lightning. The second cloth was simply for the convenience of the company assembled (ready with partners), the flashes being unpleasant to the eyes. I was playing the small part of Major Domo, and stood ready to sing a short recit., when I saw a piece of ivy lying near the centre of the cloth. It had evidently been knocked off the exterior, and I had just stooped to pick it up, when a terrific explosion took place, sending me on my back. I was momentarily stunned. Looking up I saw the cloths ablaze, girls struggling over one another, and everything in a state, of chaos. All lights in the theatre were blown out, and the top of the piano in the orchestra blown off.

It appeared afterwards that the man working the lightning had been too lazy to make up his flashes, as he should have done, but had gone in with an old-fashioned lamp, and taken with him a stage-hand, who carried a concertina-box full of pyrotechnic powder, out of which he dipped with a teaspoon, dropping a little at a time into a special lamp, whenever he required a flash. A spark from one evidently got into the box. The two poor fellows were terribly hurt, and taken off to the hospital. One, I regret to say, never completely recovered. The girls’ costumes were drenched with blood, and the scenery blown in all directions. The explosion was heard at the Fire Station, a considerable distance off; consequently, everything there was ready before they were even “rung up.”

The strange part was that there was no alarm amongst the audience, coming, as it did, during lightning, thunder, and storm effects, to the accompaniment of music.

A piece of the lamp had to be cut out of the front of the dress circle afterwards. Colonel Majendie, the Government expert, held an inquiry, and said some of us probably owed our lives to the fact of its happening between two cloths, as the force of the explosion was directed upwards, and right and left.

A few words from the manager to the audience, and the curtain was kept down for half an hour, whilst the water from the fire hose was being mopped up and a fresh stage cloth laid. The performance was then resumed and we were all glad when it was over.

The reaction came afterwards, and for quite a week some of us involuntarily “jumped” if a door banged. I have produced the opera several times since, but take good care to use modern methods for lightning flashes.

Reverting to the “few words to the audience” reminds me, not only of how careful one has to be in making an announcement of any description likely to cause alarm, which might lead to panic, but also the necessity of letting someone with plenty of tact undertake the responsibility. Comedians are generally endowed with the combined gift of impromptu speech and fun, which inspires confidence. However, they may sometimes overstep the mark in the excitement of the moment, as a certain one did on an occasion similar to that I have just related. The fire took place in the scene dock, and the manager, being too nervous to go before the curtain himself, requested the principal comedian to go on and explain matters to the audience. The latter rushed on and made the following extraordinary announcement:—

“Ladies and gentlemen, for heaven’s sake don’t be frightened—don’t stir—keep your seats—the fire is almost extinguished—but if it was not, we have a reservoir of a hundred hogsheads of water over your heads that would drown you all in a few minutes.”

Whilst on the subject of storm-effects, a laughable incident occurred when “Haddon Hall” was being produced. The tale has since become a “chestnut,” and is invariably told of different stage managers, but I believe the original of it was the late John Ryder, during a rehearsal of “The Last Days of Pompeii.” However, whether original or not, it occurred this time, and is worth repeating. It was in the provinces, and I rather fancy at Portsmouth. After the opening night, Charlie Harris complained that the thunder could not be heard through the storm music, and called a special rehearsal for the stage hands. C.H. sat in the stalls with the curtain up. “Louder!” shouted he to the stage carpenter. Thunder sheets were rattled, a quarter of a ton of cobbles were let loose in the flies on an inclined plane of iron sheets, but still Charlie wasn’t satisfied. “Louder! More of it!” he yelled.

A summer storm had sprung up outside; the scene dock doors were open, and as the men were loading their barrels for another try, a peal of the “genuine article” shook the heavens. The carpenter couldn’t suppress a smile as C.H. shouted “Not a d—d bit like it!”

“It’s the real thing outside,” said the carpenter.

C.H. wasn’t to be nonplussed. “I don’t care,” said he; “it may be good enough for the Almighty, but it won’t do for me.”

Occasionally, when a new work was to be produced, it was arranged we should take it up when we were playing in what was called the “Outer Circle” (the theatres around London), in order that we could rehearse at the Savoy in the daytime.

Perhaps we would get a day or, two “out” immediately prior to the production. It was during these periods that we invariably got a chance of “going on” at the Savoy. Savoy choristers frequently had the offer of a good concert, “smoker,” or city dinner, where a guinea was to be picked up for a couple of songs. Many were the excuses made for getting off, even for an Act. On one, occasion a chorister of my acquaintance—now a stage manager—asked to be kindly let off after Act I—explaining why. “May I, sir?”

“Phew!” went Mr. Seymour. It was a peculiar noise like drawing in the breath when sipping a cup of hot tea.

“I should be so much obliged, sir,” said L——. Again “Phew!” “May I, sir?”

“Good G——, man,” said Seymour, “haven’t you been here long enough to know what ‘Phew!’ means?” So L—— went.

Mr. S. could be very sarcastic on occasions. It happened to be the same man, from whom Seymour received a note one night on arriving at the Savoy. The artiste wrote excusing himself from attending, on account of indisposition. The next night, whilst the overture was in progress, and the artistes assembled on the stage, Mr. S. was looking round. Presently his eye fell upon L——. “Good evening, L——,” said he. “Better?” “Yes, thank you, Mr. Seymour,” replied L——,. (A pause.) “Get an encore?”asked S.

He was a kind-hearted man—a gentleman—gone over to the great majority, alas! as indeed have so many of the old members. I occasionally see one that I have lost sight of for years, and if he, or she, should be in a crowd, or at the other side of the road, I have only to whistle:

and they will assuredly give the answer:

Let the reader try it near a batch of “pros.” in the Strand or elsewhere, and see whether any give the answer. It is the old “call” that a Savoyard never forgets; if he hears it, he will start, and look round for a certainty.

In the, dressing-room there was always “chaff,” if artistes tried their voices before a performance. “Help!” you would hear shouted from another dressing-room, or “Take something for it.” It didn’t matter whether it was the prima donna or principal tenor. If a person sang “I have a song to sing, oh!” everybody in the next room would sing “For G——’s sake don’t sing it, oh!” They were merry times. Whilst on the subject of “whistle,” I must mention a sarcastic one. Occasionally there was a subscription wanted for a charitable object; a general “whip round” for some purpose, and perhaps one or two would refuse to subscribe—or back out. Not a word would be said, but somebody in the room would be almost sure to whistle:

from “Les Cloches de Corneville.” All knew and associated it with Gaspard the Miser.

The following is a sample of one. L—— had advised one of the scene shifters at ——, who had met with an accident, to plan a subscription. A few days afterwards he asked for the list of names, which, when read over, he returned.

“Sir,” said the poor fellow, “won’t you give something?”

“Why, d—— it, man,” replied L——, didn’t I give you the hint?”

One thing used to annoy the members of the company, whilst en route, and that was to have strangers forcing their way into the reserved carriages. We invariably had special trains, those known in the profession as Theatrical Specials. Possibly two or three of these were linked up, conveying companies destined for other towns, but travelling part way with “ours.”

As a rule we had two or three to a compartment, and they were invariably the same companions throughout the tour. These trains were frequently attached to some “express,” or “ordinary,” and on such occasions strangers would sometimes demand to come in, and no amount of persuasion would stop their “cussedness.” The compartment being half empty, they considered they had a perfect right to enter.

Neither was it altogether selfishness on the part of the members to resent their intrusion, when one considers that our journeys were frequently of twelve hours’ duration.

I shall not forget one incident that occurred on a monotonous journey in Ireland, which, however, helped to break the monotony somewhat; I have often laughed since, when I recalled it to mind. We were travelling from Cork to Belfast, and two very disagreeable old ladies got into a compartment containing Jeff Barlow, B—— (whom I have mentioned before as “Bish”), and myself. We protested. The guard asked them to come out, but they were obdurate.

Now “Bish,” in a most courteous manner, after the train had started, said “I am rather sorry to say, madam, that my friend (indicating J.B.) is in a delicate state of health, and (lowering his voice) he is being removed to a ‘nursing home.’ We are his keepers; that is why the compartment was reserved. However, you need have no fear, for he is not really dangerous.” Now J.B. took the hint.

I must explain he was one of the most remarkable facial contortionists I have ever seen.

He sat opposite the ladies, but never took his eyes off them. His best friend couldn’t accuse him of being an Adonis. Well, in about five minutes his face commenced to work from the extreme imbecile look to the most demoniacal that can be imagined. He sat perfectly still, worked saliva out of the corners of his mouth, and looked positively terrible. The old ladies began to look frightened. I had the greatest trouble in the world to restrain from laughing, for I had seen him practising in the dressing-room many a time.

“I assure you,” said “Bish” in his most polished manner, “there’s no need for alarm, ladies. He has never been known to be violent.”

However, J.B. seemed to be going into a sort of fit, and one of the old girls, being unable to stand it any longer, positively shrieked, and I think would have pulled the communica-tion cord had not the train run into a station. I never saw such life as the two displayed as they hopped out of that carriage. They spoke to the guard whom we saw putting them into another carriage. He came and looked into our compartment, grinning, at the same time giving us a broad wink.

At Dublin, the two were on the platform, and we were going for some “liquid nourishment.” As we passed them, J.B. went quietly up and said “Can I get you a porter, madam?” A short shriek from one of them on recognising him induced us to make ourselves scarce to prevent unpleasant inquiries. I think it was at the town we had just left (the previous week) that we all went to the races. Our manager, Mr. H.B., one of the “chosen race,” was of the party. He used to “punt” on a horse very occasionally. However, on this special one there was a race in which only two horses were in it soon after the start (all the others having fallen at the jumps)—one a hot favourite, and the other a big outsider. B., out of cussedness, had had ten shillings on the latter because of the odds (40 to 1). I believe the bookie said “Thank yer, sir, and Gawd bless yer.” About a quarter of a mile from the winning post, however, for some unaccountable reason, the favourite, whilst leading by about the same distance, fell, injuring his jockey. The outsider practically walked home. B., in his excitement, shouted “There’s grand information for you.” He drew his winnings and took the boys into a refreshment room, saying “Come on, lads; I’ve won twenty pounds, what are you going to ’ave?—the Stout’s good.”

It was in this town that I was greatly interested in some very old play-bills; at the foot of one the following appeared:

“All in the Wrong, Road to Ruin, and the Devil to Pay, are in active state of preparation.

“N.B.—Many persons of distinction having caught cold from the dampness of the Theatre, occasioned by the extraordinary overflow of tears at the last performance of the Tragedy: the Sub-Committee have ordered waste pipes to be constructed in time for the next deluge, and the Treasurer of the Theatre, whose office has been docked as a sinecure, will have the superintendence of the drains.”

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