CHAPTER VI.

I Become a “Blinder.”

It was about the time of Sir Arthur Sullivan’s death, towards the end of 1900, that I made up my mind to make a change.

I was playing a part in the “Rose of Persia,” and had been approached several times by secretaries of amateur operatic societies, with whom I had come in contact, to produce for them.

One definite offer being made, I asked Mrs. Carte if she would release me for three or four weeks. Not seeing her way clear, I decided to “take the plunge,” and gave my notice in. One can understand with what mixed feelings I did so, after having been under the same management for over eleven years.

I received a little presentation from the “girls and boys,” wishing me the best of luck. It is a souvenir that, needless to say, I still prize more highly than any of the numerous presents I have received since.

My first production was “The Gondoliers” at Northampton. Strangely co-incident, seeing it was the first work I was associated with in the profession. It bid fair to be a big success; splendid notices appeared, and the bookings were record, but just as I was about to “ring up” on the second night, the news came to the Mayor, who occupied one of the boxes, announcing the death of Queen Victoria.

Needless to say we did not play, and closed for the rest of the week. This looked like an ill omen for me. However, I was wired for the next day to go to Plymouth for the same opera. I went, returning a month later to Northampton to pilot the reproduction through. Several engagements followed, taking me up to the summer.

An amusing incident was told me in connection with my Plymouth engagement. The members of the society were mostly “members of Society.” I was not known to any of them. There was accordingly some nervousness amongst those on the committee as to what kind of individual this “pro.” might be.

I was to meet them at the theatre at eleven a.m. I had travelled all night, so after a bath and breakfast, accompanied by my dog “Mick,” (who, by the way, as usual, “paid his own fare”), I sallied forth to keep the appointment.

I wondered why they smiled, and were so gushing to me. They seemed jubilant about something, and almost fell “on my neck.” The secretary (one of them) explained to me afterwards, when I told him how I appreciated their cordial reception. This was his story.

He is the manager of a bank, and had happened to be in his private office with two or three of the committee on the previous afternoon to my arrival, when he was informed by one of his clerks that a gentleman wished to see him. He went out to interview the stranger, but suddenly. rushed back into his office, for he had beheld a gentleman of rather seedy appearance, with long hair, wearing a fur-lined coat, with a distinct tinge of red about his nasal organ.

“My G—d, gentlemen. Harman has turned up,” he said, sinking into a chair. “He’ll never do. Good Lord— we must pay him off at once. Shall we have him “on the carpet” together and get it over?” “No,” said the others; “you go out and face him.” He says that after pulling himself together, and putting on his best managerial air, he approached the stranger. “Your business, sir?” “Oh,” replied the latter, “I am the Dean of ——; would you be so kind as to cash this cheque for me?” He admits the relief was so great that in his excitement he said “With pleasure, my dear sir,” and really believes he added “and God bless you.”

An excellent offer from Sir George Dance, as stage manager for the “Chinese Honeymoon” followed. This musical comedy was at the height of its phenomenal success. It was in this company I had the pleasure of rehearsing Miss, Jose Collins in her first understudy part (Mrs. Pineapple). A brilliant little girl of seventeen summers then, good cricketer and swimmer, with a lovable disposition, she afterwards became not only Lady —— in private life, but what I predicted at the time, one of our leading London musical comedy artistes. There were two or three others, all about the same age, just from school, who have since made brilliant successes in their profession.

I was out several tours with this comedy, producing it later for five of Mr. Charles Macdona’s companies, on one tour playing the leading comedy part (“Pineapple”) as well as stage-managing.

The position of a stage manager is not altogether to be envied. His duties are not always of a pleasant nature. However, he possesses the satisfaction of knowing that he invariably has the “powers at headquarters” behind him. He is invested with a great amount of authority. On the other hand, a great deal is expected of him.

I had on one occasion (after repeated warnings) to fine a principal a sovereign for “gagging.” There was a rumpus about it, as he was a “star,” and the business manager, inclined to remit his fine, approached headquarters on the subject.

However, matters were made worse, and the artiste not only just missed losing his engagement, but was told that had they at the “office” been consulted first, he would have been less leniently dealt with.

The management were asked “what they supposed a stage manager was for.” I only mention this incident in order to introduce an extract from a letter, sent at the time, which states in no unmistakable language the position of stage manager.

“The stage manager is solely responsible for it everything “behind the curtain. If an actor ‘gags’ or introduces anything into his performance which should not be there, the actor will not be blamed, but the stage manager. If the dresses are torn, the wardrobe mistress will not be called over the coals, but the stage manager. If the scenery or properties are dirty, or broken, it is the stage manager’s affair and not the carpenter’s or property master’s.

“Absolute power is placed in the stage manager, and he “alone is responsible, and not those under him.”

Of course, there were times when even the “Blinder” had a “dust up” with headquarters. One fellow I knew, whilst rehearsing a company, was called to the telephone, and the management “put him through it” for something or other that he had done, or left undone.

Not only were they very discourteous, but wound up with “You’re no stage manager; and if there weren’t ladies at this end of the ’phone I’d tell you what I think of you.” The offended one replied: “Mr. —— there are no ladies at this end of the ’phone, so I’ll tell you what I think of you,” and he did, concluding with “Now come down and rehearse your own ‘blinking’ company; I’m going out.”

He certainly justified his sobriquet.

Still, as a rule, a stage manger has little to complain of in the matter of support. I believe it was the late Mr. D’Oyly Carte who once said “When my stage manager is in the right he can look after himself. It is time for me to uphold him when he is in the wrong.”

This may not be substantially correct, but it speaks volumes for the way a stage manager’s authority was backed.

It is very necessary, too, considering he has to teach and control people whose salaries are possibly many times bigger than his own, or than he is ever likely to earn in that capacity. I imagine this is one of the few walks of life where this occurs.

“Do what you are told, and don’t argue,” was the lesson inculcated. “Besides, that is what you are paid for.”

It will be readily understood that entirely different tactics are necessary in producing for amateurs. An inexhaustible stock of patience combined with extreme tact is necessary to get successful results.

One has to deal with the material “served up,” and seldom has a voice in the selection of a caste. Consequently a stage manager frequently has to deal with cases of “square pegs in round holes.”

It handicaps him severely at times. Besides, with amateur productions a stage manager is in the paradoxical position of having to “boss his own bosses.”

I knew a well-known producer, who on the first night’s rehearsal of all amateur company, when the principal baritone came forward, turned to some members of the committee and said quite audibly “Gawd, gentlemen, where did you find it?” Now I dare say the “naughty pet” alluded to was scarcely a professional manager’s idea of what the character demanded in appearance, but he happened to be the president of the society, and the stage manager was not re-engaged for future productions.

Another amusing story I heard was of a stage manager running through a part privately with a youthful prima donna. Her fond parent afterwards expressed the hope that this “pro.” was a “nice” individual, etc. “Oh! I am sure he is nice,” replied the youthful one; “in fact, I think he is a very religious gentleman.” “What makes you imagine that?” queried mother. “Well,” said the budding Bernhardt, “the whole time I was reciting that prologue he walked up and down the room, and I could distinctly hear him say quietly ‘Oh! my G—d, oh! my G—d!’”

Comparatively few people, not directly interested, know what a number of operatic societies exist throughout the country. There are over five hundred affiliated to the National Operatic and Dramatic Association, and the Scotch societies have a federation of their own. Apart from that, nearly every town, and many villages throughout the kingdom boast of an operatic society, and several two.

In large cities like Glasgow there are quite a number. A few aspire to grand opera. There is an excellent Grand Opera Society in that city, for whom I produced “Faust” and “Martha.”

However, the majority confine themselves to the works of Gilbert & Sullivan, Offenbach, Planquet, Cellier and German.

Quite a number of musical comedies are also being performed now, and I am inclined to think it is scarcely a good omen. Better-class works are a source of education to the members, apart from other interests. Besides the magnificent choruses, only met with outside the profession, are entirely wasted from a musical standpoint.

It was with a view of raising the standard of productions that I seriously devoted myself to this branch of the profession.

There were very few professional stage managers available, and the majority of societies used to produce as well as they could, without professional help.

However, the public are educated so well in things theatrical nowadays that they will not make the excuse for amateurs they used to. The patrons and subscribers expect their money’s worth. They are there to criticise. This they invariably do pretty severely. Of course, there is a certain amount of mutual admiration, but occasionally I hear a refreshing piece of friendly criticism. I overheard one quite, recently.

I was producing “The Pirates of Penzance,” and after the fall of the curtain certain “friends” came round to the dressing-rooms. “My dear old chap,” said one to an artiste, “hearty congratulations; you’re fine, really magnificent. You’ve certainly missed your vocation.” “Thanks, old man,” replied the flattered one; “then you think I should make a decent actor.” “No,” exclaimed his pal, “policeman.”

It would take too long to speak of the excellence of many of our leading operatic societies, but there are some that are equal to first-class professional companies, and have been established many years. I kept the records of over a hundred of my own productions before the novelty of collecting wore off, and, looking through them, I find a few societies for which I have produced ten seasons in succession.

One, the Glasgow (Orpheus Club). This society I have piloted through eighteen annual productions, and it has handed over £6,000 to various charities. Huddersfield, Newcastle, Leeds, Bradford, Wakefield, and Halifax are amongst the foremost for the excellence of their performances.

So much depends upon the musical director in the matter of this excellence that I think it is not altogether out of place to devote a few lines to this important individual.

It is generally understood that the producer and musical director invariably “fight.” Speaking personally, I have usually got on extremely well with my conductors, always bearing in mind that we are joint producers. Tact is required occasionally, and I often think professional musicians move in a somewhat narrow groove.

The temperament of the man with the “stick” is reflected so much in the performance. I have known Mus. Doc.’s and Mus. Bac.’s drill their people perfectly, but get far less out of them at the actual performance than might be expected, there being a lack of life, or “ginger” as we call it, about the show; plainly reflecting old “sober sides,” organist at the cathedral, or a “Methodist monarch” at the harmonium in his ordinary capacity.

On the other hand, perhaps, an enthusiastic amateur musician, with no great amount of ability, and little more than a rudimentary knowledge of orchestral work, will, by his jovial disposition, bring about a “fifty per cent.” better result. You get a real live show, your dances go with a swing, and are not “murdered” by a temperament used to church work. In fact, there is “ginger” and crispness about the show. A comic opera and not an oratorio.

I knew such an one, who had a great deal of experience, albeit he was anything but a perfect conductor. What had caused the remarks I know not, but I overheard the following between some musicians as they were coming out of the orchestra:—

First Fiddle: “Well, boys, what are we going to do about it?”

Drummer: “I vote, if he doesn’t stand us a gallon, we follow his blooming beat.”

That drummer had evidently heard of "letting the punishment fit the crime."

Although I mentioned that I had enjoyed the experience of having piloted through many productions without friction with my musical directors, it mustn’t, however, be concluded that there have been no trying periods—moments where tact has been necessary.

The most ignorant ones are generally those who require saving from themselves. The most annoying one I ever came in contact with was, by profession, a village schoolmaster. He had had no previous experience of the interior of a theatre nor conducting an orchestra.

Conceited and autocratic to a degree, with his own idea of tempos, he was always bullying and upsetting the artistes. On the opening night of the production, when it was time for him to go into the orchestra, he went in front of the curtain.

Thinking be was about to make an announcement of some kind, I was astonished to hear the overture commence. He had, it appears, arranged privately for a pair of steps to be placed for himself, his explanation being that he considered it infra dig. for the conductor to come into the orchestra from under the stage with the other musicians; so behold this specimen of “Art” appearing, mightily pleased with himself, in an old-fashioned dress suit, a family relic that had done service at many an annual village function, “flower garden” in the lapel of his coat, not forgetting the red silk handkerchief tucked conspicuously in his waistcoat, and, to crown all (“sole,” perhaps, is the most suitable word), wearing the heavy pair of muddy boots he had walked to the theatre in.

Protest was all in vain; he said it was his one chance to show himself to the audience, as they would see nothing but his back during the rest of the evening.

Now it is not easy to get down over the footlights into the orchestra at any time, but he had the advantage of me on the first night, the lights being up in the front of the house, and the “foots” down, so on the Tuesday I had the footlights and sidelights suddenly switched on, and front lights taken off, just as he appeared in front of the curtain.

The effect blinded him, leaving nothing but Egyptian darkness to step into. He struggled to find the top step of the ladder with the aid of one of the musicians. Applause came from the audience, which he took to be complimentary, and ac-knowledged awkwardly. Immediately after he was seen to take a plunge into space, his Elizabethan feet landing on the tympani, the drummer using all the musical terms he could think of.

Needless to say, his lordship found it more convenient to enter the orchestra the proper way for the rest of the week.

He was the limit of anything I have ever met in the amateur conductor line.

Another “anxiety” was one of the dearest old boys, a perfect gentleman, and one of the most experienced conductors outside the profession. However, he was an expert at “lifting the elbow” in a double sense. He “liked it long and he liked it strong” from the glass, so on such occasions we had it long and had it strong from the “brass.”

So also were his tempos affected. If he felt drowsy everything was a “Barcarolle,” but during the middle of a number he would, suddenly realise, and with a loud double tap on his desk, and a “Have you all gone to sleep?” look, he would jump with a gallop, leaving his chorus a beat behind, until he felt comfortable again, and, metaphorically speaking, dropped off.

At such times the leader of the orchestra used to quietly carry on until the “dream was o’er,” and again he was the “King of Glory.” He was a lovable old soul though, took his liquor like a gentleman, and with a baton in hand and a full orchestra around him, wouldn’t have changed places with a monarch on his throne.

On such occasions (only), then, “More power to his elbow.”

Another alleged musical director I knew was so blest with a sense of the ridiculous, and enjoyed the jokes and business to such an extent that he laughed so much he had to stop conducting.

On such occasions he invariably scratched his ear with the hand containing the baton, bolding his side with the other. The musicians used to “keep going” in spite of their own laughter at the conductor (sic). I have invariably found that the assistant conductor or accompanist is a most useful man with a piano in the orchestra.

He is conversant with the tempos, having been right through all the rehearsals, and I have known this individual to have been the means of preventing a contretemps more than once.

One conductor I remember, has, on recognising somebody he knew coming into a box, deliberately stopped conducting, and with a little gushing gesture waved to his acquaintances; then, picking out the place the band had arrived at, would resume conducting with the same unconcern as the musicians had shown when they had continued playing without him.

One real smart musical director, who, by the way, thought he was “the last thing” in the art (and if energy was any justification he was “it”), gave a couple of stall tickets to a pal to “come and see his show.” A few days afterwards, meeting his friend, he enquired of him how he liked the performance. “Oh! I couldn’t come myself, so I gave the tickets to the maids,” was the reply. “They said they enjoyed it very much.” “And what did they think of me?” asked the amateur “Sousa.” “Oh!” replied his friend, “I asked them how they liked the conductor, and they said ‘Please sir, we, walked both ways.’”

One clever musical gentleman used to get very “festive,” and on an occasion let the show down very badly. This led to his “resignation being accepted.” It was afterwards asserted by his friends that he had awakened to a consciousness of the follies of part of his career, and resolved to adopt a course of life more consonant with respectability.

He was accordingly reinstated. But alas! the flesh was weak, and the spirit—strong enough at 30 u.p.

The opening night was a nightmare to us; on the second, however, he was all right, but didn’t turn up at all on the third. A “roasting” from the committee rather put him on his dignity than otherwise. I tried to act as peacemaker. He was not one to mince matters.

“Harman,” said he, “on Monday I was fresh, but appeared, and they didn’t like it; on Wednesday I was ‘fresh,’ so didn’t appear, and they didn’t like that—what the devil would they have?”

This Mus.Bac., Oxon., composer of more than one popular song, was conducting a small street band the last time I heard of him. Alas for the eccentricity of genius.

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