V.
ADVENTURES IN TWO HEMISPHERES.
Actors in real life - Reminiscences of my American visit - A thrill
in Sing-Sing - The detective and the crook - Outwitting the Pirates - In
"The Gondoliers" in New York - A cutting Press critique - Orchestral
afflictions - Our best audiences - Enthusiasm in Ireland and a short-lived
interruption - Exciting fire experiences - Too realistic thunder and lightning
- "Hell's Full."
__________
"Lytton," said a well-known man of affairs to me, we are all
actors. You are an actor. I am an actor. Come with me to a meeting at which
I am to make a speech and I will show you a real-life drama truer than
ever you will see or hear on the stage. The audience would kill me if they
dare. They would rend me limb from limb. And yet in half-an-hour - mark
my words, in half-an-hour! - they will be shaking me by the hand and everything
will be ending happily."
We were in Holborn at the time and we took a short cab-ride into the
City. My friend had to meet the shareholders of a company which he had
promoted and which had not been prospering. No sooner had he entered the
meeting room than he was met with a hostile reception. Epithets of an unequivocally
abusive kind were flung at him from every side. Men shook their fists in
his face. When he reached the platform the demonstration was redoubled,
and at first he was not allowed to speak. Solidly he stood his ground waiting
for the storm to subside. Eventually they did allow him to speak, and first
to a crescendo and then to a diminuendo of interruption he told them how
the failure of things could not be his fault at all, how he was ready to
stand by the venture to the very end, how he would guarantee to pay them
all their money back with interest, and how he would work the flesh off
his bones to put the company right.
Here, indeed, was real drama - and at a company meeting. Here was a
man fighting for his commercial existence, and by the force of wits, sheer
self-confidence and personal magnetism, gradually winning. Just after the
meeting closed a number of those infuriated share-holders were on the platform
shaking him by the hand and telling him what a fine fellow he was. Towards
the end of his speech I had seen him look at his watch and flash a significant
glance in my direction. "Well," he said, when he rejoined me,
quite calm and collected, "I did it under half-an-hour-in fact, with
just a minute to spare."
It is an incident like this which proves that histrionics is no theatrical
monopoly. I once met another actor in real life - this time in America.
I had gone to New York to do the Duke in "The Gondoliers."
Amongst the many delightful people I met there was General Sickles. Sickles
was a "character," and also a man of influence. Only a few weeks
before he had met Captain Shaw, the chief of the London Fire Brigade, whom
Gilbert has immortalised in the Queen's beautiful song in "Iolanthe."
Shaw had argued with the General that America's fire-fighting methods were
not as speedy as those in England.
"Oh! aren't they?" was the reply. "Come and see."
Forthwith the General, who was not a fire chief himself, but who had been
Sheriff of New York and was thus a powerful individual, ordered out the
New York Fire Brigade. No sooner had a button been touched than the harness
automatically fell on the horses, the men came flying down a pole right
on to the engine, and in so many seconds the brigade was ready. Long since,
of course, all these methods have been adopted in this country, and I believe
I am right in saying that the improvement followed this visit of Captain
Shaw to the United States. I myself saw a turn-out of the brigade and thought
their swiftness astonishing.
It was General Sickles who introduced me to Mr. Burke, a famous New
York detective of his day, who took me on a most interesting tour of Sing-Sing
Prison. He persuaded me to sit in the electric chair, and having put the
copper band round my head and adjusted the rest of the apparatus, he took
a big switch in his hand and said, "I've simply got to press this
and you're electrocuted - dead in a jiffy!" I'll own up I did not
share his affection for his plaything. The experience was not at all pleasant.
Burke, as an additional thrill, asked me if I should like to meet a
notorious bank robber, whom I will call Captain S. It was arranged that
the three of us should have dinner together. Captain S., the other real-life
actor referred to, was at that time enjoying a spell of liberty, and to
me it was amazing how cordial was the friendship between the great detective
and the great "crook." When "business" was afoot it
was a battle of wits, with the bank robber bringing off some tremendous
haul and the detective hot on his tracks to bring him to justice, and probably
it was because each had so much respect for the other's talents that socially
they could be such excellent pals.
"Yes, Burke," I heard Captain S. say, "you've 'lagged'
me before this and I expect you'll do it again." I found him a delightful
companion, with a fund of good stories, and he played the violin for us
most beautifully.
Captain S. told us how he planned one of his earlier exploits. It was
his custom to pose as an English philanthropist, who was almost eccentric
in his liberality and who made himself persona grata in society.
Even the most suspicious would have been disarmed by one so benevolent
both in manner and in appearance. In this particular case, having decided
on the bank he intended to rob, he took a flat over the building. One part
of the day was spent in preparing his gang for the coup and the other part
in performing kindly acts of charity. "I really felt sorry,"
he told us, "when the time had come to do the trick. I had been spending
a lot of money and thoroughly enjoying myself. Luckily, we had found that,
although the bank had steel walls and a steel floor, it had just an ordinary
ceiling. That, of course, helped us enormously, and we got away with a
regular pile. I left a note on the counter: 'You must blame the designer
of the bank for this, not me.' "
I have not yet explained the circumstances that took me to America.
Shortly after "The Gondoliers" had been produced in London it
was put on in the States. No sooner had any new Savoy opera been successfully
launched in London than preparations were pushed forward for its production
on the other side of the Atlantic. This, in point of fact, was done as
a precaution. Gilbert, Sullivan and Carte had learnt the need of that by
bitter experience in their earlier ventures, which had been exploited by
"pirates." These nimble gentlemen, having secured a rough idea
of the new opera that was being produced in London, lost no time in bringing
out a miserable travesty of it under the identical title that it was given
at the Savoy. Thus not only did they trade on the reputation of these operas,
but they were able to prevent the genuine production being given under
its own title, inasmuch as this would have transgressed the law of copyright.
So the "pirates" had to be forestalled by an immediate staging
of the real operas, and in some cases these were put on in America simultaneously
with, and in one case actually before, the productions in England.
"The Gondoliers" in America was not a success. Mr. Carte,
who was there at the time, tried to mend matters by completely re-casting
the play. I was in York, and I received a cable "Come to New York."
It was never my custom to question my manager's requests. Whenever he commanded
I was ready to obey. So from York to New York I travelled by the first
available steamer and was soon playing the Duke of Plaza-Toro. During
my first interview with Mr. Carte after my arrival there occurred an incident
characteristic of the great manager. "Lytton," he said, producing
his note-book, "I believe you owe me £50." I admitted it
- the loan had been for a small speculation. "Well," was his
reply, striking his pen through the item, "that debt is paid."
It was in this way that he chose to show his appreciation of my action
in responding to his summons immediately.
What I remember most about "The Gondoliers" was the simply
uproarious laughter with which the audience greeted the line in the Grand
Inquisitor's song, "And Dukes were three a penny." It was quite
different to the smiles with which the phrase is received in England. The
significance of their merriment was the fact that no fewer than seven men
had taken the part of the Duke of Plaza-Toro. I myself was there
as the seventh! A Press critic, having drawn attention to this rather prolific
succession, proceeded to place the seven in the order of merit - at least,
as it appeared to his judgment. He gave six of the names in his order of
preference in ordinary type, and then came a wide gap of space, followed
by the last name in the minutest type. While I do not remember where I
stood I do know that mine was not the name in such conspicuous inconspicuousness!
Speaking of Press criticisms, which in this country are almost invariably
fair and judicious, it was my curious experience once to go into a barber's
shop in a small town in which we were playing and to find the wielder of
the razor very keen about discussing the operas. He then urged me to be
sure to buy a copy of the Mudford Gazette. "I've said something
very nice about you," he said. I looked perplexed. "Oh! I'm the
musical critic, you know," explained the worthy Figaro.
Our "properties" in the small towns were sometimes a little
primitive. Once in "The Gondoliers" our gondola was made of an
egg-box on a couple of rollers, and we had to wade ashore. This was at
Queenstown, where there was a strike, and we could not get all our baggage
from the liner that had brought us from America. But often the chief affliction
was the orchestra. I remember one violinist whose efforts were woeful.
"You can't play your instrument," the conductor told him at last
in exasperation. "Neither would you if your hands were swollen with
hard work like mine," was his retort. "This job doesn't pay me.
I just come here in the evening." It transpired that he was a bricklayer.
At another place the musicianship of one instrumentalist was truly appalling.
"How long have you been playing?" asked the conductor. "Thirty
years man and boy," was the response. "It is thirty years too
long," was the retort.
From time to time I am asked where our best audiences are found. Really
it is hard to say. Except for one big city - and why not there it is impossible
to explain - the company have a wonderful reception everywhere. The Savoy
audiences in the old days, of course, were like no other audiences, and
it was something to remember to be at a "first night." Long before
the orchestra was due to commence - with Sullivan there to conduct it,
as he usually was also at the fiftieth, the hundredth and other "milestone"
performances - it was customary for many of the songs and choruses from
the older operas to be sung by the "gods." And wonderful singers
they were.
The London audiences of to-day are also splendid. Our welcome in the
1920 season was a memorable experience. Gilbert and Sullivan operas depend
for their freshness and their spirit far more on the audience than do any
of the ordinary plays, and as it happens this enthusiasm on both sides
is seldom wanting. Yet now and then we find an audience that is cold and
quiet at the beginning and then works up to fever-heat as the opera proceeds,
whereas on the other hand there is the audience that begins really too
well and towards the end has simply worn itself out, being too exhausted
to let itself go.
The North, if not so demonstrative as the South, is always wonderfully
responsive to the spirit of the witty dialogue and the sparkling songs,
and two cities in which it is always a pleasure to play are Manchester
and Liverpool. And those who declare that the Scots cannot see a joke would
be disabused if they were to be at the D'Oyly Carte seasons at Glasgow
and Edinburgh. Our visits there are always successful. But if I had to
decide this matter on a national basis I should certainly bestow the palm
on Ireland.
Nowhere are there truer lovers of Gilbert and Sullivan than the Irish.
It may be that Gilbert's fantastic wit is the wit they best understand,
and it may be, too, that their hearts are warmed by the "plaintive
song" of their fellow countryman, Sullivan. Whatever the cause, we
have no better receptions anywhere. One feature of our Dublin and Belfast
audiences is, oddly enough, shared with those at Oxford and Cambridge.
They do not merely clap, but openly cheer again and again, throwing all
conventional decorum away. And when the Irish are determined to have encores
- no matter how many for a particular piece - there is no denying them.
What we have found in the Emerald Isle - even during the unhappy times
during and after the war - was that they kept their pleasures and their
politics in watertight compartments. Sinn Feiners they might be outside
the theatre, but inside it they are determined to enjoy themselves, as
an interrupter found on one of our latest visits, when he tried to protest
against the song, "When Britain Really Ruled the Waves." "No
politics here," shouted someone from the stalls, and the audience
agreeing very heartily with this sentiment the protestor subsided into
silence.
Looking back on the reference earlier in this chapter to fire brigades,
I am reminded that I have more than once been on the stage at times when
events have occurred which might have had terrible results, though my success
as a panic-fighter is a distinction I would rather have foregone. One incident
of this kind was at Eastbourne when we did "Haddon Hall." It
will be remembered that in one part there are indications of an oncoming
storm of thunder and lightning. Nowadays the authorities take care that
effects of this kind are contrived with absolute safety to all concerned,
but in those times the lightning was produced by a man in the wings taking
pinches of explosive powder out of a canister, throwing these on a candle
flame, and so securing a vivid flash over the darkening stage. Well, our
man had done this so often that he had grown contemptuous of danger, and
this time he took such an ample helping of the powder that the flash caught
the canister, and there was a tremendous explosion. The canister went right
through the stage and embedded itself in the ground.
In "Haddon Hall" I was McCrankie, dressed in a kilt
and playing the bagpipes when the explosion occurred. It plunged both stage
and auditorium into darkness. I could hear the injured stage-hand groaning
near the wings. Somehow I managed to grope my way to the man, pick him
up in my arms, and carry him to one of the exits from the stage. I remember
that a number of the chorus ladies, who could not find the door in the
darkness, were clawing the walls of the scenery, for in their panic that
was the only way they thought they could make their escape. The strange
thing was that the door was not a yard away.
Still dressed as a kilted Scot, I carried the injured man into the street,
and already a crowd had gathered in the belief that there had been a terrible
disaster. If not as serious as that, it had been quite bad enough, and
it was a miracle that there had not actually been a calamity. In one of
the boxes was one of those hardy playgoers who attended our shows night
after night. We had nicknamed him "Festive." The concussion had
lifted him out of his seat on to the floor. He complained that the thunder
had been far too realistic!
Fortunately we were able to go on with the performance, though many
of us were suffering from nerves very badly. The stage hand had been speedily
taken to hospital with serious injuries. It was typical of Mr. Carte's
kindness that, although the man had been guilty of a very grave fault,
he did not dismiss him from his service, but on his recovery made him a
messenger and afterwards gave him a pension.
Early in my career as a D'Oyly Carte principal on the provincial tours,
we had a fire on the stage at the Lyceum, Edinburgh. It was the week before
Henry Irving was due there to give his first production of "Faust."
I remember that because we had his great organ behind the stage. Our piece
that night was "Ruddigore," and while I was singing one of my
numbers I became aware that something was amiss. It proved to be an outbreak
of fire in the sky borders over the stage, and small smouldering fragments
were falling around me in a manner that was entirely unpleasant. The steps
at the back also caught fire, and it was a lucky thing that, the piece
being then a new one, the audience should have taken it as a bit of realism
added to the ghost scene. Otherwise nothing could have avoided a panic.
I remember the stage manager shouting to me from the wings "Keep
singing, keep singing." It was not easy, I can assure you, to keep
on with a humorous number in circumstances like those, and with sparks
dropping over one's head, but I did keep on with the song until they decided
to ring down the curtain. Then I was told to run upstairs to warn the girls,
whose dressing-rooms were near the flies. Now, as a young man I had made
a reputation for myself as a practical joker, and one of my favourite antics
was to tell this person or that, quite untruly, "You're wanted on
the stage." Thus, when I rushed up to sound the real alarm, it was
treated as a cry of "wolf." I banged the doors and entreated
them to come out, but it was not until the smoke began to creep into the
rooms that the girls knew positively that there was a fire, and promptly
scurried for safety. Fortunately the outbreak was speedily subdued and
the performance proceeded.
A minor incident of this kind may be worth mentioning. We were in "Erminie"
at the Comedy, and at the close of one of the acts the chorus, the ladies
dressed as fisher girls and holding lighted candles, were singing a concerted
"Good Night." Suddenly I noticed that one of the girls who was
not paying much attention to her work had let the candle ignite the mob
cap she was wearing. If the flame had reached her wig - and wigs in those
days were cleaned with spirits - she must have been seriously burnt. So
I ran up and tore off her cap, only to be rewarded with a haughty, "How
dare you!" Later, when she realised what her danger had been, her
apology and thanks were profuse.
It may not, I think, be amiss if to these combustible reminiscences
is added just one more story, though in a much lighter vein. It occurred
in "The Sorcerer." John Wellington Wells, the "dealer
in magic and spells," disappears at last into the nether regions,
as it were, through the trap-door in the stage. One night the trap, having
dropped a foot or so, refused to move any further, and there was I, enveloped
in smoke and brimstone, poised between earth and elsewhere. So all I could
do was to jump back on to the boards, make a grimace at the refractory
trap-door, and go off by the ordinary exit. "Hell's full!" shouted
an irreverent voice from the "gods." The joke, I know, was not
a new one, for legend has it that a similar incident occurred during a
performance of "Faust." Whether it did or not I do know that
it occurred in that performance of "The Sorcerer."