Part 5 (2/2)
Comedy. Part. Management.
”The Rose of Persia” _The Sultan_ D'Oyly Carte.
”The Emerald Isle” _Pat Murphy_ D'Oyly Carte.
”Merrie England” _Earl of Ess.e.x_ D'Oyly Carte.
”The Beauty Stone” _Simon_ D'Oyly Carte.
”The Lucky Star” _Tobasco_ D'Oyly Carte.
”His Majesty” _The King_ D'Oyly Carte.
”The Grand d.u.c.h.ess” _Prince Paul_ D'Oyly Carte.
”The Vicar of Bray” _The Vicar_ D'Oyly Carte.
”The Princess of Kensington.” _Jelf_ D'Oyly Carte.
”The Earl and the Girl” _The Earl_ William Greet.
”The Spring Chicken” _Boniface_ George Edwardes ”The Little Michus” _Aristide_ George Edwardes ”My Darling” _Hon. Jack_ _Hylton_ Seymour Hicks.
”Talk of the Town” _Lieut. Reggie_ Seymour Hicks.
_Drummond._ ”The White Chrysanthemum” _Lieut. R._ Frank Curzon.
_Armitage_ ”The Amateur Raffles” _Raffles_ Music Halls.
”Mirette” _Bobinet_ D'Oyly Carte.
”The Chieftain” _Peter Grigg_ D'Oyly Carte.
”The Grand d.u.c.h.ess” _Prince Paul_ D'Oyly Carte.
”Billie Taylor” _Captain Flapper_ D'Oyly Carte.
In the opinion of many friends, my best piece of pure character acting was that as _Pat Murphy_, the piper in ”The Emerald Isle.” Without a doubt it _was_ a fine part. I had to be blind, and in contrast to the manner in which most blind characters were played at that time, my eyes were wide open and rigid. From the moment I entered I riveted my gaze tragically on one particular spot, and my eyes never moved, no matter who spoke or however dramatic the point. Naturally the strain was tremendous. Then, at last, _Pat's_ colleen lover began to have suspicions that he was not really blind--that the idle good-for-nothing fellow was shamming. And when _Pat_ admitted it, the subterfuge had been kept up so long that, both to those on the stage and to the audience, the effect was marvellous to a degree. I loved playing the piper and speaking the brogue. ”The Emerald Isle,” as is now generally known, was the last work that Sir Arthur Sullivan composed, and on his lamented death the music was completed by my gifted friend, Edward German. I remember that when, later on, the piece was taken to Dublin, we had doubts as to whether anything in it might offend the susceptibilities of the good people of the ”disthressful counthree.” Strangely enough, no objection of any kind was raised until the jig in the second act, and as it was believed that this was not done correctly and that the girls were lifting their heels too high, the dance was greeted with an outburst of booing. This was quelled by the l.u.s.ty voice at the back of the pit.
”Shame on ye,” he shouted. ”Can't ye be aisy out of respect for the dead?” And another voice: ”Eh, an' Sullivan an Oirishman too, so he was!” The appeal was magical. The interruption died away and the performance proceeded.
”The Earl and the Girl,” the most successful of all the musical comedies in which I appeared and the one which gave me my biggest real comedy part, ran for one year at the Adelphi, and then for a further year at the Lyric. When it was withdrawn I secured the permission of the management to use ”My Cosy Corner,” the most tuneful of all its musical numbers, as a scena on the music-halls, and with my corps of Cosy Corner Girls it was a decided success.
One other venture of mine on the music-halls was in conjunction with Connie Ediss when we had both completed an engagement at the Gaiety.
”United Service,” in which we figured together, ran for fourteen weeks at the Pavilion, and it provided me with one of the best salaries I ever drew. The idea of this piece was a contrast in courts.h.i.+ps. First we would imitate a stately old colonel paying his addresses to an exquisite lady, and then a ranker making love to the cook, with an idiom appropriate to life ”below-stairs.” Eighteen changes of dress had to be made by each of us, and the fun waxed fast and furious when the colonel commenced pouring his courtly phrases into the ears of the cook, and when, by a similar deliberate mishap, the soldier in his most ardent vernacular declared his pa.s.sion for m'lady.
Connie Ediss and I might have done as well with a successor to ”United Service.” But the theatre, she said, ”called her back,” and accordingly we went our separate ways in ”legitimate.”
Some reminiscences still remain to be told of my struggling early days on the stage. One of these concerns my brief and boisterous connection with the well-known Harvey Troupe. I was chosen as deputy for their page boy, whom these acrobats threw hither and thither as if he were a human shuttlec.o.c.k, and a very clever act it was, however uncomfortable for the unfortunate youngster. I scarcely relished the job, but old Harvey told me ”All you've to do is to come on the stage; leave the rest to us; we'll pull you through.” It was not a case of pulling me through. They literally _threw_ me through. For half-an-hour I was thrown from one to another with lightning speed, and that was about all I knew of the performance. ”You did very well,” they told me afterwards, ”didn't you hear the laughs?” I am afraid I hadn't heard them. I had been conscious only of an appalling giddiness and of feeling bruised and sore. Next day I was black and blue, and unable to perform, but in those hard days, when food was scarce, one had to be ready for anything.
It was about this time in my career that I secured a pantomime engagement at the Prince's, Manchester, though my role was merely that of standard-bearer, in the finale, to the ”show lady,” before whom I walked with a banner inscribed, ”St. George and the Dragon.”
Unfortunately, in my nervousness, I marched on with the reverse side of the banner to the front, and at the sight of this piece of tawdry linen the audience laughed uproariously.
When the Second Demon was absent I was chosen as his understudy, and it seemed to me to be a wonderful honour, because it gave me eight words to speak. I had the comforting feeling of being a big star already. How well I remember those lines:--
Second Demon (sepulchral and sinister): Who calls on me in this unfriendly way?
Fairy Queen (in a piping treble): A greater power than yours; hear and obey!
Coming to a much later date, I include in my list of memorable theatrical occasions the benefit matinee given in the Drury Lane Theatre for Nellie Farren, for many years the bright particular star at the Gaiety. The stage was determined to pay the worthiest tribute it could to the brilliant artiste who, once the idol of her day, was now laid aside by sickness and suffering, and never had such a wonderful programme been presented. King Edward, then Prince of Wales, gave the benefit his gracious patronage, and it was in every way a remarkable success. The D'Oyly Carte contribution to the entertainment was ”Trial by Jury.” Gilbert himself figured in the scene as the _a.s.sociate_. It was, I believe, his only appearance before the footlights in public, and it was a part in which he had not a line to speak. I played the _Foreman_. Amongst other benefit performances in which I have taken part were those to Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Dacre and Miss Ellen Terry. We gave ”Trial by Jury” on these occasions also, and my part was _Counsel_.
Speaking of King Edward, I am reminded that when, by going to the Palace Theatre after his accession, His Majesty paid the first visit of any British Sovereign to a music-hall, the occasion coincided with the run there of an operetta of my own, called the ”Knights of the Road.” It was a d.i.c.k Turpin story, for which I had written the lyrics, and the music had been provided by my good friend Sir Alexander Mackenzie, Princ.i.p.al of the Royal Academy of Music. I conceived the idea that pieces of this kind, based on English stories and typically English alike in sentiment and musical setting, might be made an attractive feature on the music-halls, and in point of fact, all that was wrong with the experiment was that it was a little too early. To-day, when the better-cla.s.s music-halls have attained a remarkable standard of taste, they would be just the thing. Nevertheless, my ”Knights of the Road” had a successful career, and it served to give Walter Hyde, now one of our leading operatic tenors, one of his first chances to sing in the Metropolis.
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