Part 3 (1/2)
When I came round I was in the green room, and a little later, amongst those who came to see me, was Irving himself. I was deadly white, and if the truth must be told, rather ashamed. But Irving was immensely pleased. He took it as a compliment to the force of his acting. Learning that I was a young actor, he declared that my emotionalism was a good omen, and said that my sensitive and highly-strung nature would help me in my work enormously. Then he went on to give me many hints that should be valuable to every aspirant for success on the stage. One hint I have never forgotten. ”See to it,” he said, ”that you always imagine that in the theatre you have a pal who could not afford the stalls, and who is in the back of the pit or the gallery. Let him hear every line you have to say. It will make you finish your words distinctly and correctly.”
If it is true, as friends have often told me, that one of the chief merits of my work is the clearness of my elocution in all parts of the house, it is due to the advice given to me in those early days by two of the greatest figures connected with the stage, Gilbert and Irving.
Seeing that these operas are now being played by hundreds of amateur societies each year, I want to pa.s.s on to those who perform in them this golden rule: Always pitch your voice to reach the man listening from the furthest part of the building. Since Gilbert's death I have often had the feeling that someone is still intently listening to me--someone a long way away!
But now I must proceed with my story. When George Grossmith returned to the cast, I was sent out as a princ.i.p.al in one of the provincial companies, and in this work continued for years. Sometimes we played one opera only on tour--the opera most recently produced in town--and sometimes a number of them in repertory. It was towards the end of 1888 that I first played what is, I need hardly say, the favourite of all my parts, _Jack Point_, in the ”Yeomen of the Guard,” the opera which was Gilbert and Sullivan's immediate successor to ”Ruddigore.” And in connection with this part let us finally clear up a ”mystery.” It has been a frequent source of enquiry and even controversy in the newspapers.
When at the close of ”Yeomen” _Elsie_ is wedded to _Fairfax_, does _Jack Point_ die of a broken heart, or does he merely swoon away? That question is often asked, and it is a matter on which, of course, the real pathos of the play depends. The facts are these. Gilbert had conceived and written a tragic ending, but Grossmith, who created the part, and for whom in a sense it was written, was essentially the accepted wit and laughter-maker of his day, and thus it had to be arranged that the opera should have a definitely humorous ending. He himself knew and told Gilbert that, however he finished it, the audience would laugh. The London public regarded him as, what in truth he was, a great jester. If he had tried to be serious they would have refused to take him seriously. _Whatever_ Grossmith did the audience would laugh, and the manner in which he did fall down at the end was, indeed, irresistibly funny.
So it came about that while he was playing _Jack Point_ in his way in London I was playing him in my way in the provinces. The first time I introduced my version of the part was at Bath. For some time I had considered how poignant would be the effect if the poor strolling player, robbed of the love of a lady, forsaken by his friends, should gently kiss the edge of her garment, make the sign of his blessing, and then fall over, not senseless, but--dead! I had told the stage manager about my new ending. From time to time he asked me when I was going to do it, and then when at last I did feel inspired to play this tragic denouement, what he did was to wire immediately to Mr. Carte: ”Lytton impossible for _Point_. What shall I do?”
I ought to explain that any departure from tradition in the performance of these operas was strictly prohibited by the management. Thus, while I might demur to the implication that my work was impossible, the fact that he should report me to headquarters was only consistent with his duty. But the sequel was hardly what he expected. The very next day Mr.
Carte, unknown to me at the time, came down to Bath. He watched the performance and, after the show, the company were a.s.sembled on the stage in order that, in accordance with custom, he could express any criticisms or bestow his approval. What happened seemed to me to be characteristic of this great man's remarkable tact. He first told us that he had enjoyed the performance. ”For rehearsals to-morrow,” he went on, ”I shall want Mr. So-and-so, Mr. So-and-so, Miss So-and-so, Miss So-and-so,” and several others. The inference was that there were details in their work that needed correcting. Then he turned to me, shook me most warmly by the hand, and just said very cordially, ”Good night, Lytton.” And then he left. No ”Excellent”--that might have let down the stage manager's authority--but at the same time no condemnation. It was all noncommittal, but it suggested to me, as it actually transpired was the case, that he was anything but displeased with my reading.
Gilbert and I, when we had become close friends, often had long talks about this opera, and particularly about my interpretation of the lovable Merryman. I told him what had led me to attempt this conception, and asked him whether he wished me to continue it, or whether it should be modified in any particular way. ”No,” was his reply; ”keep on like that. It is just what I want. _Jack Point_ should die and the end of the opera should be a tragedy.”
For the sake of fairness I must mention that a fortnight after I had introduced this version of the part, another popular artiste, who was out with one of the other provincial companies, played the role in just the same way. It was entirely a coincidence. Neither of us knew that the other had evolved in his mind precisely the same idea, even down to the minutest details, and still less had either of us seen the other play it.
One little detail in my make-up for this part may be worth recording.
Whenever kings or n.o.blemen in the old days were pleased with their jesters they threw them a ring. For that reason I invariably wear a ring when I appear as _Jack Point_. Simple ornament as it is, it was once owned by Edmund Kean and worn by him on the stage, and another treasured relic of the great tragedian that I possess is a snuff-box, also given to me by my old friend, Charles Brookfield.
One of the finest compliments ever paid to me as an artiste occurred at Hanley. We were playing ”Yeomen.” Many of our audience that night were a rough lot of fellows, some of whom even sat in their s.h.i.+rt sleeves, but there could be no question but that they were keenly following the play.
Everywhere we had been on that tour there had been tremendous calls after the curtain. At Hanley when the curtain fell there was--a dead silence! It was quite uncanny. What had happened? Were they so little moved by the closing scene of the piece that they were going out in indifference or in disgust? Gently we drew the edge of the curtain aside, and there, would you believe it, we saw those honest fellows silently creeping out without even a whisper. He was _dead_. _Jack Point_ was _dead_!
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE LATE SIR ARTHUR SULLIVAN.]
I changed in silence myself. The effect of the incident had been so extraordinary. And when I went down to the stage door a crowd of these rough men were waiting. Somehow they knew me for _Point_. ”Here he is!”
they shouted. ”Are you all right, mister, now?” Then, as I walked on, they turned to one another and I overheard one of them say: ”He _wasn't_ dead, after all.” As they saw the end of the opera they verily believed something had gone wrong. Such a thing in the theatre may possibly be understandable, but that the illusion should have lingered after the curtain had dropped, and even after they had left the theatre and come really to earth in the street, seemed to me extraordinary.
The ”Yeomen of the Guard” was staged again the following night, but this time the audience must have been told by their pals that they had actually seen me afterwards, and that it was ”only a play.” _Jack_ didn't die--not really. It was only ”pretended.”
That Hanley audience rather overdrew the gravity of things. Some audiences, on the other hand, go to the opposite extreme and they have their biggest laugh when and where I least expect it. I remember once playing the _Pirate King_ in the ”Pirates of Penzance,” and as a result of a slip (a physical one) I was the sorry figure in one of those incidents which I might catalogue as ”laughs I ought not to have got.” I had to come in, armed to the teeth, high up on the stage. By some mischance I slipped down the rocks, and enc.u.mbered with all those knives, pistols and cutla.s.ses about me it was a pretty bad drop. The audience, of course, thought my undignified entrance a capital joke. I didn't--it hurt. But I turned the mishap to account, first picking up a dagger and putting it between my teeth, then groping round for the other weapons, and all the while cowing my pirate swashbucklers with a vicious look that suggested ”Come on at your peril; I'm ready.” That incident was not in the book.
Lovers of ”Patience” will recall that little diversion where _Lady Jane_ picks up _Bunthorne_ in her arms and carries him off. Well, when Miss Bertha Lewis was playing with me in this scene quite recently, she did something quite unauthorised. She dropped me--it was a terrible crash--and the audience thought it a ”scream.” In the shelter of the wings I remonstrated with her, pointing out that this was a distinct departure from what Gilbert intended. All the sympathy I got was, ”Well, I've dropped you only twice in eight years!” Scarcely an effectual embrocation for bruises!
When we were doing ”Ruddigore” in Birmingham, some years ago, I broke my ankle in the dance with which the first curtain fell. Somehow I finished the performance, but when I went up to my dressing-room to change I fainted. When I came to I found that my foot had swollen enormously, that the top boot I was wearing had burst, and that they were doing their best to cut it away. The speediest medical aid to be found was that of a veterinary surgeon, and although the pain was awful it was nothing like the feeling of doom when I overheard him saying, ”He may not walk again!” Luckily his fears were altogether unfounded, but although the accident has not affected my dancing, the ankle has never been quite right to this day.
Once, in the ”Yeomen,” I kicked one of the posts near the executioner's block. It dislocated my toe, but what a happy accident it was I did not realise until some weeks later, when we were playing ”The Mikado,” and when I was doing the dance in the ”Flowers that Bloom in the Spring,” I trod upon a tin-tack, and instinctively drew my toe away, as it were, from the pain. From the audience there came a tremendous roar of laughter. For a moment I could not understand it at all. Looking down, however, I was amazed to find that big toe upright, almost at right angles to the rest of the foot. With my fan I pressed it down--then raised it again. This provoked so much merriment among the audience that I did it a second time, and a third. All this time the theatre was convulsed. I confess that to myself it seemed jolly funny. Here, indeed, was a quaint discovery.
This ”toe” business has ever since been one of _Ko-Ko's_ greatest mirth-provokers in the ”Flowers that Bloom in the Spring.” The explanation of its origin shows that it is not a trick mechanical toe nor, as some people suppose, that it is done with a piece of string. The fact is simply that the toe is double-jointed.
Now that I have made a brief reference to dancing, I think it may be well to correct a legend which has grown up about my age, and which usually turns up when we have been encored a first or a second time for a dance or some boisterous number, especially in ”Iolanthe” or ”The Mikado.” ”Isn't it a shame?” I know some dear kind friends say, ”making him do it again. Poor old man! He's well over seventy.” Others declare, ”Isn't he a marvel for sixty-five?” Well, if a man is as old as he feels, then my age must still be in the thirties, and certainly there is no intention on my part of retiring just yet. But if we have to go by the calendar, and if it is necessary that there should be ”no possible shadow of doubt” in the future as to my age, I had better put on record the fact that I was born in London on January 3rd, 1867. The rest, a small matter of arithmetic, may be left to you. At all events I am still some distance from the patriarchal span.
The stage is a wonderful tonic in keeping one healthy and strong. Not once, but many times, I have gone to the theatre in the evening suffering from neuralgia, but the moment my cue comes the pain has entirely disappeared. No sooner, worse luck, have I finished for the night than it has returned!
IV.
LEADERS OF THE SAVOY.
_Memories of Gilbert--His instinct for stagecraft--Stories of rehearsals--Jack Point's unanswered conundrum--The craze for the Up-to-Date--Gilbert's experiments on a miniature stage--Nanki-Poo's address--The j.a.panese colony at Knightsbridge--The geniality of Sullivan--A magician of the orchestra--The cause of an unhappy separation--Only a carpet--Impressions of D'Oyly Carte--Merited rebukes and generous praise--D'Oyly Carte and I rehea.r.s.e a love scene--A wonderful business woman--Mrs. Carte's part in the Savoy successes--Our leader to-day._