CHAPTER VII.

Amateur Operatics.

I frequently come into touch with folk, especially people in the profession, who avow they have a decided aversion to amateurs and consider the latter help to take the bread out of the mouths of those who have to earn their living on the stage.

I presume the great majority were amateurs at one time, and in many cases it is difficult to know exactly where the amateur leaves off and the professional starts, especially where talent is the criterion. One would wonder still more, perhaps, were they able to attend one or two voice trials in town.

Now, of the five hundred operatic societies affiliated to the National Operatic and Dramatic Association, I wonder what proportion of their number have taken to the “boards” for a livelihood—a very small percentage.

They have given their annual performances for various charities, and handed over the substantial sum of something like £170,000 between them. These are known figures, however, it doesn’t by any means represent the total amount, as many prefer not to publish their donations.

The following societies and the amounts given by them may interest readers: Glasgow (Orpheus) £6,506, Leicester £4,765, Bradford £4,000, Sheffield (Teachers) £3,450, Ashton-under-Lyne £3,200, Leeds £3,650, Bury £3,685, Wigan £3,183, Bingley £3,000, Blackburn £3,1.00, Huddersfield £2,845, Wrinston £2,400.

Many others over £2,000, and twenty-six societies between one and two thousand pounds each. Several, in addition to having subscribed these amounts, maintain beds and cots at their local institutions.

Now, the majority of members are great patrons of the theatre, so the loss of the “Temple” to the profession for one week in the year, or even two or three in big cities like Glasgow, where there are more societies than one is well counter-balanced.

I can’t see why one should deprecate amateur performances, which are a source of education to the players, and a way of amusing themselves and their friends; for this method of raising money for charity, as long as it is not calculated to bring into the profession respectable young people who would be more happy and much more respected behind a desk or counter.

I have produced for forty societies during the last twenty years, having recently completed my 200th operatic production, and out of these thousands of pupils, I am sure there have not been fifty that drifted into the profession, though even as I write I am reminded of one, by a fine notice, in my morning’s paper of Mr. Appleton Moore, now appearing with the Carl Rosa Opera Company at Covent Garden. His being introduced to the artistic world as “The Singing Painter” may very possibly lead to misconception.

In Glasgow, some years ago, I produced “The Petticoat Prince,” an original comic opera. Mr. Moore played a leading part; not only did his splendid bass voice strike me then as being something exceptional, but in his deportment, general acting, and refinement in the part of the King, I recognised an artiste with a big future.

Of course, the operatic is only one branch of the profession, and singing isn’t everybody’s taste. I was reminded of the fact quite recently.

I was producing at a large music hall the following week. It was Saturday night, after my first rehearsal in the afternoon, and the manager asked me to come along to the “first house.” Having nothing better to do, I went, and was literally bored with the items, but marvelled at the audience, which simply revelled in the knockabouts, whose efforts at being funny were confined to cracking “gags” with a double entendre. How the elder folk tolerated the rubbish and listened to the ungrammatical twaddle astonished me.

At last came a “turn” which fully compensated for sitting it out as long as I had done. A well-known artiste from one of our leading grand opera companies appeared.

She was brilliant. I was enjoying her second song, when the manager tapped me on the shoulder, and, with an apologetic air, said, “I always have to put on a turn like this, old man, for the sake of the bars.”

Reverting to amateurs drifting into the profession. It goes without saying that I have had a great many requests for advice at various times, both from stage-struck girls, and also their parents. To the former mine has invariably been the same as Punch’s to those about to marry. To the latter—well, there are times when we must leave warmth of parental anger to relax at leisure.

However, I have often pointed out, what I thoroughly believe, that stage mania invariably strengthens by opposition. Perhaps, though, I am opening up a subject for controversy, a thing I decidedly wish to avoid, so it were best to let the matter rest, and devote myself to a few of my friends’ faux pas and amusing mistakes.

I am glad to say the following took place at a rehearsal and not at a performance. The lines were “I see a house,” and the artiste gave what seemed very like “I see a n’ouse,” His brother comedian, relishing the joke, exclaimed, “No! it ain’t, it’s only a n’ut,” (hut), which No. 3 clinched with “Yes! yes! It’s a n’abitation.” Over-anxiousness will sometimes do it.

I was truly sorry for one lady who, in her excitement, after a really fine delivery of Princess Ida’s speech in Act II of that opera, came down stage and continued : “Who lectures in the ’all of (H)arts to-night?”

A thing I try to discourage is taking “calls” in front of the curtain. It invariably leads to jealousy, even if the proper order of “call” is posted and adhered to.

It was at a performance of “The Mousme,” in the Midlands; the curtain had just dropped at the finale of Act II on the earthquake scene, which is not only spectacular, but a clever piece of stagecraft, entailing careful manipulation by stage assistants, limelight-men, and all concerned.

There was continued applause from the audience. “Ain’t the principals going to take a ‘call,’ sir?” said the stage carpenter, and, finding they were not, said, “Then I will; I reckon this is my part of the show,” and before one could realise it he had stepped in front of the “act drop” in his shirt-sleeves and apron.

I have always been pleased to encourage understudies, but it is a difficult matter as a rule to get them to work up their parts thoroughly. They invariably maintain that it is useless, as they’ll never get a show. No use to talk of discovering hidden talent, and of the unexpected usually happening. If it is not the former excuse, it is that they consider themselves far more capable than the principals, and should have been cast for the parts.

On a certain occasion, one had to go on at a moment’s notice to “save the show.” The part was “Blind Murphy” in “The Emerald Isle.” He sang well, simulated blindness, and got on very favourably to a certain point. Then suddenly taking out his libretto, said apologetically: “I shall have to read the rest.”

I had a capital little Phoebe in “The Yeomen of the Guard” once, who made a laughable faux pas.

It occurred during her scene with Wilfred Shadbolt in Act II. The dialogue runs thus: Wil: “Ah! should it be this Fairfax! (Phoebe starts). It is! It is this accursed Fairfax! It’s Fairfax who—”

Phœbe: “Whom thou hast just shot through the head, and who lies at the bottom of the river.”

So intent was she on the quick “cut-off” that she “brought the house down” by putting the “cart before the horse.”

It was the Fairfax in the same company who trotted out: “Now, Elsie, thou art free to choose again, so behold me, I am young and well flavoured.” (favoured).

It is rarely that a performance is interrupted by exclamations from the front of the house, but when a good-humoured one comes out, it invariably causes laughter to both artistes and audience.

As, for instance, when Grosvenor in “Patience” is suddenly surrounded by clinging maidens, he, being a popular footballer in the district, is greeted with shouts of “Off-side, Jimmy.”

It was at Paisley once. The opera was “The Mikado.” Yum-Yum had commenced the lines “Yes, I am indeed beautiful,” when a voice from the front observed “Then ye’re no frae here oneavy.”

Later during the opera, Ko-Ko had just delivered the lines, “Katisha! for years I have loved you,” when a woman’s shrill voice rang out from the gallery: “Oh! ye wee leeayr, ye.”

Ko-Ko himself made a laughable slip by substituting the word “child” in the line, “My little bride that was to have been.”

It was at a rehearsal of an original work that the author was greatly tickled by the artiste delivering the lines (learned, she protested, from very indifferent manuscript):

“Does he still retain his influence at the India House?”— “Does he still maintain his infants at the India House?”

I was producing “Merrie England” at West Hartlepool, and early one morning, went for a round of golf on Old Hartlepool course. There, thought I, I shall be “far from the madding crowd,” unknown, and perhaps forget opera.

I was advised by my youthful caddy not to use a brassie for a certain shot. However, fancying the club, and ignoring his proffered advice, a rather finer shot than I anticipated, or the caddy expected, was the result; so much so that I exclaimed to the latter, “What’s the matter with that, anyway?”

“Not so bad, sir!” was the reply; “not so bad, but (replacing a lump of turf) just a bit too much of Merrie England.”

It was from this town that I received the following extraordinary reply to a letter I had written to a “professional” landlady, whose address I had been supplied with. I asked in mine whether there was a piano, also a bathroom in the house, and her answer—in the postscript—was: “P.S.—Kind regards to the wife—also the piano—re bath, kindly have one before you come.”

I found afterwards that she was a decent old soul, and should have conveyed the fact that her bath had recently been re-enamelled, and was not quite in condition for immediate use.

Here, also, I came in touch with an individual, indirectly connected with the society, who was a candidate for municipal honours.

This gentleman possessed a face as near like a prize porker as any property master could turn out, with bones well upholstered to match his features. He called on an acquaintance to solicit the latter’s vote, and on entering the office discovered the gentleman newly rigged out in a very light grey lounge suit. “Good morning!” said the prospective candidate. “You do, look nice! So summer has come.” “Yes! and if you had an orange in your mouth,” retorted his friend, “folk would think Christmas had come.”

Apropos of “Homes from Home.” It was one morning at breakfast, before a departure, that the sleepy-looking maid, after serving porridge, asked D—— R——, a thorough joker, what he would like to follow.

“Two fried eggs, one done on one side and one on the other,” was the order. The girl came back in a few minutes.

“Would you mind repeating your order, sir?” “Two fried eggs, one done on one side and one on the other,” snapped the wit, his face buried in the morning paper.

After a somewhat longer interval the lass returned slowly and sorrowfully, her hair rumpled, cap all askew, and face scratched. “I’m really very sorry sir! but would you mind having boiled eggs? I’ve been having some words with the cook.”

I am generally present (ex officio) at committee meetings, frequently called after a rehearsal, matters being sometimes discussed in which my advice is necessary.

The particular business I am about to mention, however, did not concern me, and although of a private nature, I really cannot resist giving it away, even though doing so should be catalogued with other “injustices to Ireland.”

It was a smart little society in County Down—the year of grace 1921. I had previously produced three or four Gilbert & Sullivan operas for them, and although the productions had been highly successful, expenses were very heavy.

It was therefore resolved to approach Mr. D’Oyly Carte with a view to getting him to reduce his fees for the playing rights.

This, it seems, Mr. Carte could not see his way clear to do, and, after still further negotiation, definitely refused.

At this particular meeting the secretary had read the minutes of the last, and several items of business had been dealt with, when the Chairman said, “Now, Mr. Secretary, touching the matter of these playing fees?”

The latter then read the correspondence which had passed between himself and Mr. Carte, shewing a negative result.

It was then suggested that, as a certain member of the committee was going to London on business the following week, he should be deputed to arrange a personal interview with Mr. Carte, and see whether that would bring about a favourable result.

At this point a prominent member arose and chipped in with “Ach! What’s the good of bothering about D’Oyly Carte at all, at all, Let’s take up the matter wid Gilbert and Sullivan.”

Speaking of the Emerald Isle reminds me that the last time I crossed over I met an old professional whom I hadn’t seen for years, and amongst other experiences he related one that happened to himself and a mutual acquaintance.

Now I must first explain that companies playing in Cork or Dublin finish with a matinee on Saturdays, for if they are opening in England on a Monday they have to cut out the night performance in order to catch the boat, there being no Sunday service.

This happened during the war. They were a couple of “old birds” in the profession, and it will suffice if I call them by the fictitious names of Horace and Claud.

Now between the matinee and the time of the “boat call,” this precious pair managed to sample many brands of larynx moisture—so much so that they lost count of time—and on their arrival at the docks, found the company had departed.

After trying the various offices, and finding they were stranded, they approached the harbour-master. “Claud” acted as spokesman. “Surely, laddie, there must be some cargo boat crossing?” “Nothing, gentlemen,” was the reply. However, I’ll do my best to, find out for you.”

He rang up different places, and even resorted to the use of the megaphone, through which he shouted to various small craft lying in the harbour—all to no purpose. Not to be daunted, Claud, in deep, tragical tones, explained that they were “ important personages” who had to appear before the British public on Monday—“Was there no boat carrying ballast even?”

Again, using his megaphone, the harbour master got in touch with a small craft and explained the situation to the skipper, who in his turn reported the fact that he was crossing, but, considering the nature of his cargo, was afraid the experience would be anything but pleasant for the gentlemen.

However, there was no help for it, so towards midnight our heroes were comfortably—or rather uncomfortably—ensconced on board. The aroma from the ballast, and the rolling of the boat, made life a misery.

To crown all, as dawn began to break, the periscope of a submarine was sighted. The evil-looking craft rose to the surface and signalled their boat to haul to, and something like the following dialogue between the captains (each shouting through their megaphones) took place, and was listened to by the two passengers.

“What craft’s that? Where bound for? What’s your cargo?” “Manure.” “That all?” “Manure and actors!” “What?” (louder). “Manure and actors.” Horace “What’s he say?” Claud: “He says manure and actors.” Horace (sorrowfully): Laddie! laddie! Shall we ever top the bally bill?”

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