The Secrets of a Savoyard

to the Man in the Gallery-The Mystery of Jack Point-How My Tragic Ending Was Introduced-Gilbert's Approval-A Memorable Hanley Compliment-Laughter I ought not to have h

as, and in the front of the house my wife was sitting wondering, wondering whether the stage-fright fiasco in "All for Her" was going to be repeated in this critical performance of "Ruddigore." Both of us knew that here was my great o

er they were disappointed and chilling. First I had a few lines to speak, and then I had a beautiful little duet with Miss Leonora Braham, who was playing Rose Maybud. And when that duet, "Poor Little Man" was over, and we had responded

heard afterwards that they had been very anxious about the performance. Gilbert, as he shook me by the hand, declared "To-night there is no need for the Lyttons to turn in their graves." Mr. Carte, though always a man of few words,

it is, I should like to thank any who were there and who read these lines for that sympathy and encouragement. It gave me confidence in myself and helped me along. For every young artist who comes for the first time before the footlights, may I bespeak always the same k

prince of comedians, and in the theatre he was always paid the deference due to a prince. Outside his dressing-room a factotum was always on duty. None dare think of entering without permission. Thus, when I, a mere member of the chorus, was summoned there into the great man's presence, it w

ert and Sullivan operas, he went on tour with a repertory of charming songs he had himself composed, and in that venture he made a good deal of money. For a reason theatre-goers

IR WILLIAM

Gilbert of a gold-mounted walking-stick that is still one of my most treasured

rington

Kens

ebruar

ear

my appreciation of your excellent performance of the part of Robin Oakapple, unde

fully

. Gi

Henr

D'Oyly Carte organisation just after my marriage, I adopted my wife's name and was known as H. A.

laywright's personal coaching. Subsequently I shall have to tell many reminiscences of Gilbert, who in after years gave me the privilege of being both his friend and confidant, but at this moment I want to

nd it to-day. Each word that is left serves some purpose-there is not one word too many. So when you know that it took me three months to perfect that one speech, I am sure you will not hurry it. Try to remember that throughout your career in these operas." Later on he al

y by "Nature's Acts of Parliament." The Lord Chancellor then talks about the absurdity of "an affidavit from a thunderstorm or a few words on oath from a heavy shower." What a typical Gilbertian fancy! Well, you know how the "comic" man would say that, how he would whip up his coat collar and shiver at the suggestion of rain, and how he would do his poor best to make it sound and look "funny." And the result would be that he would kill the wittiness of the lines by burlesque. The Lord Chancellor says the words as if he believed an affida

me, "you not only lose grip over the audience, but you also lose the power of clear and effective speech." Then there is that old trouble-nearly every novice is conscious of it-as to what one should do with one's hands when on the stage. Somehow they do seem so much in the way, and one does feel one ought to do something with them, though what that something should be is always a p

at day was extraordinary. Every word I listened to intently until at last, in the trial scene, he had taken out his knife to cut the pound of flesh. I knew, of course, that he was never really going to cut that pound of flesh, but the

at 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

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 pass on to those who perform in them this golden ru

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

ng, 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 au

fect 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

fter the show, the company were assembled 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

man. 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 an

with one of the other provincial companies, played the r?le in just the same way. It was entirely a coincidence. Neither of us knew that the ot

w 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 b

ere 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 s

SIR ARTHU

u 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

udience must have been told by their pals that they had actually seen me afterwards

e 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 encumbered with all those knives, pistols and cutlasses about me it was a pretty bad drop. The audience, of course, thought my undignified en

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 o

ound 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

rod 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 r

m in the Spring." The explanation of its origin shows that it is not a trick mechanical toe nor, as 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 c

gone to the theatre in the evening suffering from neuralgia, but the moment my cue comes the pain h