CHAPTER V.

Off to America Again.

We had been playing “Utopia Limited” for about three months in the “E” Company, when we heard Mr. Carte was sending out an American company, and, longing to renew my acquaintance with friends across the “Herring Pond,” I “wrote in,” and after some correspondence fixed things satisfactorily, and a few days later was bound for New York in the s.s. “Campania.” I am inclined to think it was her maiden voyage. It was a fine company, and we had a merry crossing. Two or three millionaires and many wealthy Americans helped to make things very pleasant.

Baron Erlanger, the great financier, took the chair at a concert we gave. What gambling went on amongst some of the passengers, too! Auction “sweeps” on the “run” of the vessel every day. Poker! My mouth has watered when I have seen a comparatively small hand take a “kitty” of a thousand dollars against a better hand, the partner of which had a sudden attack of “cold feet.”

After a concert one night I was chatting in the smoke room to one of our fellows. He had come out to play “Mr. Goldbury,” the company promoter (leading baritone part). He had just sung “The Calf of Gold.” I was contending his voice sounded a rich, robust tenor. He said he had been told so by others. I didn’t meet him for years after the tour. He was then singing in “The Ring.” A great tenor, perhaps our “brainiest” singer —Mr. John Coates.

The same night, or early morning, of our chat, a rather alarming incident occurred. It has been recalled to my mind by the fearful “Titanic” disaster. We were awakened by a “slight” shock, and the stopping of engines, but the majority thought no more of it. “Early birds,” however, saw a ton or so of ice being shovelled off the deck. We had steamed into an iceberg, in spite of a warning from the passing “Lucania” the previous day. The library windows were boarded up, and the ironwork all smashed and twisted. A narrow shave, yet the majority of us slept through it. It was explained that the vessel owed her safety to the fact that the berg was, many feet through, partly thawed, so that the outer edge was a sort of snow-ice. I don’t know whether this was correct, or not, but I quite well remember looking at the life boats and wondering how on earth, in case of need, they could hold a third of the souls on board.

On arrival in New York, a week was given over to rehearsals previous to “opening.” Mr. Charles Harris came out with us. The impresario, Mr. John Stetson, proprietor of many theatrical enterprises, watched the rehearsals closely. He was somewhat of an autocrat, but could scarcely be described as one “well versed in the classics.” He made many an amusing faux pas whilst we were there; two, however, strike me as being worth relating.

It was at a full dress rehearsal of “Utopia.” Stetson was sitting in the stalls watching; the musical director was going through the overture. The expense of a specially augmented orchestra had already called forth remarks from Stetson. Suddenly he stopped them, and said to the conductor: “Say, Braham, what are those men doing? (pointing to some of the members of the orchestra). I’ve been watching them and they’re not attempting to play.”

That’s all right, Mr. Stetson, said Braham, “they’ve got so many bars rest.”

“Oh, have they, though?” replied Stetson; “just you write something in for them then. I don’t pay nobody to rest here.”

He had an occasion to call a rehearsal, so instructed his assistant, a Mr. Sharp, to make a “call” for everybody the next morning. The notice was duly posted: “Full company at eleven o’clock sharp,” which, of course, meant “on time.” Stetson saw it as he went through the stage door. “S’pose they’ll want to dispute who’s boss of this darned place presently,” he muttered; then, taking a pencil from his pocket, he crossed out the word “sharp” and added his own name, thus altering the call to “Full company at eleven, Stetson.” It was he who christened our previous company (“The Gondoliers”) “The Gone Dollars.”

He, seemed to have contracted a rude habit, too, of calling everybody Mister, which gave rise to an unmannerly bon-mot by Harris—. Stetson having called the latter “Mister” several times before the “crowd,” Charlie grew warm, and asked him the meaning of not calling him by his name. “Don’t be angry,” said Stetson; “I sometimes forget my own name.” “That’s extra-ordinary,” said Charlie, “for though I knew you could not write it, I did not suppose you could forget it.”

We met many English friends in the artistic world, and used to go and see them perform. Mr. Edward Lloyd and Mr. George Grossmith were over at the time. Mr. Seymour Hicks, and his charming wife, Miss Ellaine Terriss, were playing in pantomime, Miss Terriss as Cinderella, and Mr. Hicks one of the “ugly sisters.” Mr. Richard Mansfield, the celebrated American actor, too, was playing at Palmer’s Theatre. We frequently went to see him. I remember his Richard III, and Dr. Jekyll in Jekyll and Hyde at The Globe, London, and had the satisfaction of remembering that this tragedian was an old Savoyard, he having been one of the first “Sir Joseph Porters” in “H.M.S. Pinafore.”

One thing that struck me was how much more Anglicized everything seemed since my last visit. One institution, however, compared very unfavourably with ours. We have got so used to hearing our police praised, that I scarcely like to refer to the subject. However, I had more than one opportunity of comparing them with the New York men, and thus learning to appreciate our own. One little scene I remember well will suffice to illustrate their method in dealing with peaceable citizens in this “Land of the Free.” The scene was up Broadway, near the Central Park. A fire had broken out at a big horse repository, and a crowd had assembled at quite a respectable distance to watch the animals being got out, pending the arrival of the fire engine. When it arrived, the police, without any “Stand back there,” or “Clear a way here,” simply went along the line using their batons on people’s chests to start with, but for a less than “Steady there,” down it came on a pate.

I saw more than one bowler hat literally “done in,” and in each case it was taken “sitting down.” I wondered how these tac-tics would have suited one of our provincial crowds, to say no-thing of the “city gentlemen.” By the way, I never saw a New York policeman “draw his truncheon.” At first sight this seems paradoxical. No! he invariably carried it in his hand, which gave him the appearance of always being on the “warpath,” seeking trouble all the time. No wonder American visitors admire our men. Yet they like to poke fun at them in a good natured manner.

I heard an American comedian allude to the London police as the bravest set of men in the world. He declared there wasn’t one of them afraid of death. “Death,” he said, “has been described as one long, continuous sleep. Not one of them is afraid of it.” He also said that a thoughtful and generous Government had provided them with india rubber soles to their boots for night wear, so that they shouldn’t wake one another up on their beats.

Before opening in New York we had the usual final rehearsals under our old “Blinder.” Charlie was in his usual form.

To a tall chorister: “Now then, you in the brown ’at, what the d—— do you think you’re supposed to be doing — going to measure a corpse?”

To a lady, going to be “presented,” in the Court scene: “Don’t toddle across the stage like that, my dear. Walk across as though you’ve bought it. Good Gawd! you look as though you were going to fetch the supper beer. Stop that d—— monkey business up there, you boys—Oh, Lord, come down, or send somebody quickly to give this blooming idiot a new set of brains.”

The production was a brilliant one, and deserved a longer run. As it was, the opera ran about three months in New York. From there we went to Boston (Mass.) I think we all enjoyed ourselves more at the latter place. Boston is more English in every way, and the people we came in contact with far more congenial. We had a very good time for five, or six weeks: cricket matches and social outings being frequent. Whilst there I witnessed the commencement of what turned out a gigantic fire, sweeping away a large portion of the city. We were at a baseball match, and a small fire started below the seats of the pavilion, owing to someone dropping a cigarette end, or lighted match, through the crevices between the planks.

Soon the stand was on fire, and as a strong wind was blowing at the time, the pavilion caught, and the flames spread to adjoining buildings. For a day or two it looked like Boston being entirely gutted. As it was, a great number of buildings were swept away, and the damage done, estimated at millions of dollars, whilst thousands of people were rendered homeless.

We left for England about the commencement of June, in the “Catalonia.” Our first impressions of the boat were not great. Some of the girls were bemoaning their fate at having to cross the Atlantic in what appeared a tiny vessel after the “Campania.” However, we had a most enjoyable voyage, and she was steadier than any boat I have travelled in. I notice she was used afterwards for conveying prisoners of war to St. Helena during the South African campaign.

As the summer had commenced, and nobody in the company was re-engaged, we were looking forward, some with anything but pleasant anticipation, to a long vacation. On this account an agreeable surprise awaited me when the “tender” came alongside at Liverpool. Mr. J. Chappel, one of Mr. Carte’s managers, came on board with letters from the “office” for myself and two others, requesting us to proceed with him to Manchester and join the “C” Company right away. This we did, playing the same night.

A few weeks later, Mr. Carte formed a company to “do” the small towns. This was mostly made up from members of the American crowd, to keep them together during the summer; on this account it was nicknamed the “philanthropic tour.” However, it turned out a big success financially.

It was my first acquaintance of what is known as a “fit-up” tour. To the uninitiated, perhaps it would be as well to explain what a “fit-up” company is.

To people living in the “smalls” (small towns) they are a boon, as they enable the public to witness the London successes in large halls, or small theatres, where they possess one. I might also state that when sent out under first-class management, these “successes” are in no way disgraced. One gets a fair replica of the London performance on a small scale. The productions are beautifully staged. Everything is “carried” (travelled) except the bare stage. One might go into, an empty hall in the middle of the day, and a couple of hours later find a miniature “set” of the London show—gas—limes—and all effects ready for the night’s performance.

Fresh gas cylinders are sent every few days, and other details arranged from headquarters. Agents and “advance managers” look after the business arrangements. Carpenters, property masters and wardrobe mistresses have their respective duties, so that the members have little to do but look after their own comfort (sic), fix up their apartments, and turn up for the show at night.

The work of the management and staff is undoubtedly the hardest in the “smalls.” The stage manager finds it specially trying. He invariably has to produce the work previous to starting out, stage manage whilst on tour, and play a leading part.

He is responsible for the whole production, also for keeping it up to the scratch throughout the tour; constantly rehearsing his company, also getting one or two sets of understudies ready.

This is specially hard when changes are made in the company through artistes leaving. I have since had considerable experience in the matter, so speak feelingly.

However, to revert to the little “A” Company.

And so it was: a very enjoyable tour. There were some changes during the run; tenors crocked up once or twice; their principal song in the opera, “A tenor can’t do himself justice,” was certainly appropriate. Our old manager, who was something of a “Malaprop,” used to be constantly chaffing them for using inhalers and coddling themselves. On one occasion a new one turned up from London, and as it happened, innocently took out an inhaler or similar contrivance from his pocket and sprayed his throat, before anybody in the crowd had heard him sing. “Jimmy” came fuming up to a few of us, red in the face. “Oh, Lord!” said he, “there’s another of ’em turned up with his blooming refrigerator.”

I was not cast for a part, but sent to understudy several. However, owing to the late Mr. W. Leon’s indisposition, I played “Scaphio” part of the tour.

Mr. Walter Passmore, the clever comedian, came to play “King Paramount,” and well I remember the funny effect on the first night, as he appeared in the uniform worn by his predecessor, Mr. McMillan, a much bigger man. Even with his top boots well above his knees, Mr. Passmore danced as only Mr. Passmore can.

I might mention that, although a “fit-up” company, we occasionally put in a week at a decent sized town. These were “breaks” in the constant travelling for which we were devoutly thankful, as it gave everybody a rest.

Lindsay Harman as Bill Bobstay — "H.M.S. Pinafore"

At the end of the “A” tour, I joined the “Everlasting” and stayed with it some years, playing many parts at different times; in fact, at one time and another, the majority of the baritone and character parts, as understudy or principal. I played “Pish Tush” in “The Mikado” a thousand times; “Bill Bobstay” (the boatswain) in “H.M.S. Pinafore” five hundred times; “Dick Deadeye,” “Captain Corcoran,” and the “Boatswain’s Mate” in the same opera; “Sir Marmaduke” (“Sorcerer”) “Wilfred Shadbolt” (“Yeomen of the Guard”), “Giuseppi” (“Gondoliers”), “Mountararat” (“Iolanthe”), “Rupert” (“Haddon Hall”), “Pooh Bah” also the title role in “The Mikado,” “Rudolph” in the “Grand Duke,” and many others. I think my greatest artistic success, if I may be pardoned for saying so with all humility, was the latter part in that scholarly, though short-lived work.

Many were the changes that took place during the years I was with the “E.” Many the friends made, life-long ones. Several, alas! have joined the “great majority.”

One jolly fellow, the late Walter Summers, was one of the “merriest dogs that bark.” What pranks he used to play, too! He was a terror to one of the many stage managers, an individual to whom poor Walter seemed to take an instinctive dislike.

I well remember an instance, more laughable in itself, perhaps, than it could possibly appear by relating.

We were playing at Hereford, and for some reason or other no stage cloth had been put down. Possibly it was being “touched up,” and was not dry. The opera was “The Yeomen of the Guard.” Summers, who played “Jack Point,” casually mentioned the matter to B——, who curtly told him to mind his own business. Now, at that time we played in the old Drill Hall, and one could, by stooping slightly, walk about under the stage.

Between the acts, Walter got hold of a big hammer and went beneath. He could just see through the cracks between the boards. Summers followed B——’s movements with a bang of the hammer for every step. One can imagine the effect. Two steps—bang! bang! B—— stopped. “What the d——’s that?” He took a quick run across—bang! bang! etc. B—— guessed the culprit, and went into the dressing room at the back of the stage. Summers had anticipated him, and was apparently “touching up his make-up.” Turning to B——, he said, “What’s that d—— row?” B—— looked daggers, and went out to send in the orchestra for Act II. Walter popped out behind him, knocked over a bunch of iron “braces,” slipped round quickly to the other side, while B—— was investigating the cause of the noise, and negotiated another piece of mischief, for just as the music cue for the “curtain” came, B—— caught the girls sniggering, and, looking for the reason, beheld, placed between the four posts, where the “block” is put in the execution scene, a washing utensil, brimful of water. Poor B—— shifted it himself, slopping the contents as he took it off, to the accompaniment of laughter of the chorus; nor was he in time to get back to the prompt entrance to ring up on the cue. Summers had managed it so neatly that no-body could say it was actually he.

I remember one funny incident that startled himself.

He was playing “John Wellington Wells” in “The Sorcerer.” It was after the final scene, where Wells goes down the “grave trap,” amidst red fire, presumably to Hades.

The “trap” having been lowered, it was the invariable rule that, instead of having a second curtain, the artistes should take a “call” in front. The “trap” was accordingly raised immediately, to enable Wells to be up in time, also to escape the sulphur fumes. Summers saw an old lady “dresser” with a tray of empty bottles and glasses, watching the stage hands manipulating the trap.

He jokingly pulled her on, saying “Come on, ma! have a ride up.” Now the men in the “flies” had either mistaken a “warning,” or the stage manager had unwittingly touched the electric button, for the “act drop” went up again amid screams of laughter, as Wells appeared, with his arms round the old lady’s waist. She nearly dropped the tray, and when Summers took the “star call” later, there were ironical calls for “Mrs. Wells.” Needless to say they were not responded to.

Poor Walter was very fond of his little girl. He used to say “She always remembers me in her prayers, bless her; and invariably says, ‘God bless Pa and make him a good actor.’” She once related to some of the company how “Daddy went fishing in the, rain, got wet through, and had to change everything but his collar stud.”

Summers and our manager, “Great Scott,” were both faithful disciples of Isaac Walton. The latter was so named because that was the only “strong expression” he had ever been known to use. Neither were conversant with Sir Hugh Fraser’s “Amid the High Hills,” or they could, with advantage, have used the following appropriate prayer:—

As I have previously stated, serious quarrels in the company were few, but although we were a “happy family,” there were occasional wranglings in the dressing-rooms, and these, strange to say, were generally brought about by arguments respecting voices, and then invariably amongst the tenors.

They never seemed to agree. One seldom gave another credit for possessing a good voice. It was always “wrongly produced.” I mention this because it recalled a funny little scene between two who were jealous of each other. Mr. A—— had been promoted, and just before leaving for London, thought he would “have it out” with Mr. B—— so something like the following dialogue took place between them:—

“It’s very odd, Mr. B——, you should take a delight in abusing me. I do not offend you, and surely you can’t envy my success.”

“I abuse you? How have I abused you?”

“Why, you have said many things, the last of which is you were glad the fellow was going to the Savoy, for he would find something to wash his shirt with.”

“Ay—now, the last saying you remember,” said B——, “is a lie, which you have made to annoy me. I said you would get something to wash your shirt with? Why, d——n me if ever I knew you had a shirt to wash.”

Amongst other things I should like to touch on the matter of the “pets” which used to travel with us—I mean the dogs.

I remember at one time there were at least eight on the company, belonging to one or another of the members. It was, of course, a great thing to get these “through” without paying fares for them. Various devices were resorted to.

An innocent looking luncheon basket carried past the barrier would never be suspected of containing a chorus lady’s pet “Pom.”

I had a dog called “Mick,” a wire-haired terrier, which travelled thousands of miles with me and always “paid his own fares.” He was on tour for six or seven years, and knew all the “ropes.” If I drove up in a cab, he was off “on his own” in the station, concealing himself under a platform seat, or some other convenient place where he could observe without being observed. If I threw my overcoat into a compartment, he would pop his head out and have a look round for “anything in uniform.” (He recognised a porter or a policeman a mile off.) The “coast being clear,” he would shoot across into the carriage and under the seat until we had started, when he would get on the seat and admire the, country, always scuttling away under when we pulled up at a. station.

I could write sufficient matter to fill a whole volume of his goings-on; also his pals, Mr. Fred Patrick’s “Prince,” a collie; Mr. H. Brook’s “Cotton,” Mr. George Thorne’s “Waggles.” They became almost human. One can understand, as they lived entirely with us, sleeping probably at the foot of one’s own bed in strange places, night after night. A dog was seldom lost, even in a big town, and if missed for a short time would invariably turn up “on his own” at the theatre, and find his way to the dressing-room; they seemed to understand the smell of greasepaint.

A “theatrical dog,” even in the day time, would never cross a stage-cloth, but soon knew he must “go round the back.” It was strange, too, how they instinctively knew when the show was over. They never uttered a sound from the dressing-rooms during the performance, but I remember more than one dog that knew the last chorus and finale of an opera. Mr. George Thorne’s “Waggles,” a dachshound, would sleep like a top throughout the evening. As the last chorus commenced, he would begin stretching and barking, and delightfully announced the finish. Nor was he singular in this respect, for even before the artistes had returned to their dressing-rooms, a canine chorus conveyed the joyful news that the “show was over.”

I love dogs, as do most professionals, and I have often felt great sympathy at times, towards poor little chorus ladies at the railway stations, when I have “spotted” them hiding their pets under their travelling rugs, or trying to “bounce” a ticket collector as to the contents of a hand basket, possibly containing a loving little “companion” that is to be a source of comfort and pleasure to her for months in lonely digs on tour.

Dogs are not allowed in dressing-rooms so much now as used to be the case, most managements forbidding the practice of bringing them to the theatre; they have, therefore, to be left at the digs.

Speaking of the latter, the reader will readily understand what an important part they play in a touring actor’s life.

Professionals seldom stay in hotels, always preferring apartments. It would take too long to go into the matter of “homes from home.” Suffice it to say there are specimens of all sorts, and there are in most towns landladies who have let for a lifetime to the profession only—some who couldn’t exist now without doing so (metaphorically as well as literally). I know one old lady who has let for over forty years, saved, and bought several houses, so that she could easily retire comfortably, but she says she would die if she “gave up.” She lives to meet her old friends, some who stayed with her when quite young, and whose children now do the same, reminding her of old times.

As I said, digs were of every kind, and naturally varying in price, so one can understand it sometimes required careful negotiating with “Ma” beforehand. One had to look out for the “guinea a minute” variety, as well as the “not too cleanly” sort.

I recall a stage manager I digged with on one tour, who had been an old stock actor. A.D.A. knew all the “ropes” and secured fine digs, but seldom paid “Ma’s” price.

Many’s the laugh I’ve had with the old boy when getting into a town where we hadn’t fixed up beforehand. He would pick out fine apartments look over the, place, from dining-room to bed and bathroom, and find he had come to something altogether beyond our means. He would never say so, however, and I used to wonder why he was apparently fixing up, having expected to hear him remark, after hearing the terms, that—he “didn’t wish to buy the house,” or something similar, but no, he would say, “Splendid, Madam; they will suit us admirably. Won’t they, old man!” (turning to me). Then suddenly addressing our prospective landlady, “Oh, by the way, Madam, have you a, harp?” “No, sir.” “Oh, dear, dear, what a pity; we can’t manage without one. I have to practice the harp every day.” “Piano! No, Madam, I’m sorry that won’t do. The digs would have suited us beautifully; anyway, if we can’t manage we will come back.” I always wondered what he would say next.

If he struck the other sort, he was just as ready: “Perfect rooms, my dear madam; and by the way, how would you cook a steak?” “Fry it, of course, sir.” “Oh! you would, would you? Good morning.”

At one place he enquired of the landlady whether she had any apartments to let. “Threeatrical?” queried the dame. “No, madam, only two,” replied A——.

I have known him the first thing to ask “Ma” whether she possessed a frying pan. “Of course, sir.” “My G—d, come on, old man; she keeps a frying pan.”

On one occasion it was told of him that in settling up with a landlady he found an item on the bill that he objected to, viz., cruet, two and sixpence. He says it was only an ornament, contained nothing, and all he had used was a little salt the whole week.

“Ma” was on the make, and told him he would have to pay. He did so under protest, and as he was going to the station said to one of his pals, who called him a fool, “Well! It’s a good silver-plated one, and can’t be dear at half-a-crown. You can examine it more closely when we get into the train.”

However, “Ma’s” husband turned up with a police inspector and charged him with theft. “No,” said A.D.A., “some mistake, I think. I bought it of the good lady. Here’s the receipt for it.”

Hubby had to return the half-crown, too, before he parted with the cruet. A.D.A. said she would probably substitute the word “condiments” in future.

Landladies used to be very keen on getting their clients to “write something” in their “visitors’ book.” “You’ll sign the book, sir, before you go.”

Very interesting reading these books of reference make, too. The remarks contained in them were generally of an eulogistic nature. “A home from home,” “The finest digs in the Provinces,” etc. However, many a leaf torn out suggested adverse criticism. One or two that had escaped notice, such as “I was a stranger and ye took me. in,” intimated that things were not always as happy as they might have been.

He must have been a bit, of a wit, too, who topped his autograph with “Quoth the raven ——.”

We used to visit the Channel Islands every year, about the middle of July, invariably returning August Bank Holiday. As a rule we laid ourselves open to combine business with pleasure during the ten days visit. More than once we have had the ill-fated “Stella,” also the “Ibex” nearly to ourselves, but there have been times when we have had to practically “hold on to our berths,” when trippers have come aboard.

A Mrs. Le B—— had rather an unique way of choking off intruders when the rush came. I have seen and heard her practice the wheeze with effect in the train, to the great amusement of her girl companions. She would imitate a very young baby squalling as no ventriloquist ever could—with a little bundle and a shawl coddled up to her chin, patting the supposed baby’s back, she would recline on one of the bunks—as the strangers trooped in “baby” would hold forth incessantly—“Oh! good Lord!” you would hear; “come out, there’s a baby in there.” “Don’t want to be, kept awake all night,” “Ought not to be allowed,” etc.

She had often been asked next clay by some odd person, who perchance had braved the “squall,” what she had done with her baby. “Thrown it overboard during the night, madam.” Then when explanations followed, Mary had invariably to “bring it to life” to the astonishment and amusement of the stranger.

We had some, pretty rough journeys at times. I expect the reader will have heard of the old lady who, after supper, came tripping up to the poor fellow who was leaning over the, side of the vessel, enquiring of him “whether the moon was up,” and receiving the answer, “If I’ve, swallowed it, it is.” I mention the yarn because it reminds me that on a day trip once, a little lady I know very well, strolled up on the bridge—not a case of “angels fearing to tread”—some girls will dare anything. “Now then, my dear,” said the Captain in a familiar though jolly way, “ you can’t be sick up here.” “Oh! can’t I, though?” said a plaintive little voice, and before she could get down unintentionally convinced the Captain that he didn't know everything.

Speaking of our trips across the Channel reminds me that nearly all indulged in a little amateur smuggling. One individual, a well-known London artist, set a couple of poor relations up in a little public-house. He used to stock them in cigars for a month or so after a visit to Guernsey or Jersey.

His modus operandi (no pun intended) was to break several boxes and distribute them, principally amongst the girls, getting the lasses to “declare them” individually, then collect them later in Weymouth or Southampton.

I must plead guilty to once getting five or six pounds of favourite weed through, and afterwards receiving a bit of a fright. I had arrived at my digs, had a meal, and was busy packing the “contraband” in old coffee tins begged from my landlady, when I heard voices outside my window. “Yes, this is the house; he is staying here.”

Sure enough, two Revenue officers were looking up at the windows. I recognised them as having crossed with us. A ring at the front door. A guilty feeling, accompanied by a slight sensation of “land sickness,” o’ercame me, as I heard the good lady of the house say in answer to an enquiry, “Gentleman from the Opera Company? Yes, sir; step in,” at the same time knocking at my door.

I stepped “out.” However, all was well. It seems they had got pally with one of our fellows who was staying in the same house, and had called for a couple of “seats” he had promised them for the night’s performance.

I remember a quantity of tobacco being stuffed up the muzzles of two property cannon used in “H.M.S. Pinafore” on one occasion.

The stage carpenter and property master were both fined pretty heavily, and narrowly escaped the “ancient order of the slipper.”

By the way, it was on arriving at Weymouth once, that poor Le B——, whose first week of business management it was, found, by a printer’s error, combined with carelessness on the part of the advance agent, that we were billed to open with “H.M.S. Pianoforte.”

This same Le B——’s wife was rightly described as “a second Katherine,” consequently he was seldom seen at any late night orgies. However, after a performance at Colchester once, the gentlemen of the company were invited by some military officers to join them at supper, with an impromptu concert to follow.

Le B—— for a wonder joined us, without, however, informing his wife beforehand of his intentions. We had a merry couple of hours, and, when parting company, one of the boys hinted to Le B—— that the latter’s wife would “put him through it” when he got home.

“Will she?” said Le B——, who was feeling very merry; “I’ll bet you a sovereign the first word she’ll greet me with when I arrive will be ‘Darling.’” His wager was accepted, and one of the fellows was sent along with him to see the issue.

Arriving at the digs (1a.m.) he knocked at the door. A head looked out of the bedroom window—“Who’s there?” cried Mrs. Le B——. “It's only me, darling,” said Le B——. “Darling, and be d—d to you,” came the reply, and Le B—— won his wager.

Practical jokes were frequent in the dressing-rooms, and were “winked” at so long as business was not interfered with.

However, one was perpetrated that was literally “below the belt,” or rather belts, as the plural applies in this case. We had followed a sort of Wild West dramatic show. They had real niggers, Indians, cowboys, etc., in the company.

Somebody started by “hoping the dressing-rooms had been properly cleaned,” etc. A little imagination goes a long way when these topics are discussed, and ere long many “had their doots.”

Now, whether the word “cowboy” suggested to the joker a commodity with a similar name, in the form of an irritant powder, I know not. However, our practical joker got hold of some, a small quantity of which he sprinkled in each of the “tights,” and before the finale of Act I of “Iolanthe” had finished, the “Peers” were finding it impossible to look dignified. For a time the irritation was put down to a very different cause. The supposed culprit left soon afterwards, and I heard that he greatly offended Randegger, who was coaching him for an important musical festival, by singing “Oh Lord God of Abraham,” adding “Israel, Isaac, Moses & Sons.”

The last I heard of him was his being engaged as a chorister (and dismissed) at one of the big exhibitions in some outdoor show. I think it was at Earl’s Court. He, with others, dressed as Venetians, had to approach the landing-stage of the lake in a gondola, singing. Just as one of the choristers was stepping ashore, our friend put out his foot and tripped the fellow up. He went with a splash into the water, and above the laughs that arose, the culprit was heard singing “And fearful the death of the diver must be,” etc.

The mention of dressing-rooms reminds me that the artistes’ comfort was about the last thing in the world managers seemed to study. Perhaps in some cases the former were partly to blame, for there seemed to exist a passion for disfiguring the walls by scribbling and painting cartoons on them in grease-paints.

The profession contains a great number of people with quite a talent for drawing and composing, and some bits of work have been extremely clever and interesting. The following, for instance, written on the Green Room glass in York Theatre, is exceptionally so:—

One jovial fellow I knew had been summoned so often for debt, had orders made against him, and defied the “powers that be,” that garnishee orders were made on his salary. He would “sub” all he could, and then refuse to appear unless the management “parted.” At last he was committed to prison. He used to boast afterwards that he always spent his vacations at “Brixton.” “I’ve just come ‘out’ to get ready for panto,” he said quite recently. “Look what I’ve pinched as a souvenir,” he added, displaying a big bill of prison regulations, which he proceeded to post in a prominent position in a corner of his dressing-room.

This gentleman’s difficulties were brought about by extravagance, and I doubt if he ever had cause to explain shortage of funds to the fact that the “ghost didn’t walk” (no salaries paid).

It has never been my experience to be asked by a manager “how much I could do with to get out of a town,” but I am sorry to say we met many at different times who were “stranded” through “bogus managers.” Lucky the girl, then, who had a home to fall back on. The following is typical:—

The Gilbert and Sullivan Archive  |  A Comic Opera Life

Page modified 16 September 2020