AWKWARD MOMENTS ON THE STAGE

Evening Star, Issue 18809, 6 December 1924, Page 3

AWKWARD MOMENTS ON THE STAGE

< Specially contributed by tbo distinguished English actor, Seymour Hicks, who commences a season here on Boxing Day.)

For pure and unadulterated enjoyment give me another man of like mind to myself, of ripe experience, of ample mood, of nimble speech, capable of sodden Homeric laughter, and tho night before us. Then were it only over a glass of barley water, comes pleasure which cannot be excelled; for wo two old stagers will delve back into tbo past, throwing up spadefuls of reminiscences, with here and there the dull gleam of gold among the mere earthly debris of memory. “ D’ye remember old So-and-So in ‘Whatsit?’?” I will say, and my fol-low-sinner will stretch his neck in a sudden cackle of delight, whereupon wo will straightaway fall into merriment, and between the two of ns, with much patch and mending, we will ptitch together humorous, or it may be sad, fragments of the past. The stage is compact of the appropriate. Let but a grain of tho sand of the incongruous get into tho machinery, and you are in trouble. The real world may abound in instances of this treading on tho heels of tho orderly march of events; nobody minds. But in the mimic world of the theatre things must fit like the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. As a consequence, actors of any experience are full of stories, of contretemps on the stage occurrences that have “ stopped the show " or less drastic in effeqt, have “ dried up ” actors or otherwise interrupted the even course of events.

I have a little habit, harmless enough in itself, of making sotto-voee remarks on tho stage if anything goes wrong. Now and again under stress, 1 have even been known to get beyond tho sotto-voco point. I recollect on one occasion, during tho run of ‘ Tho Shop Girl,’ I got a Roland for my Oliver that I will not soon forget. It was a Monday night, and the girls had come bark from their weekend full of news, which they proceeded to impart to each other on the stage. Halfway thorngh a. song I was irritated to hear a girl telling a story behind me. Leaning over to the conductor, I paralysed him by saying: “Just a moment, Mr Caryll.” Then I turned to tbo girl, and asked her blandly; “ Miss Honshaw. would you prefer to go on with your story, or would yon like mo to finish my song first? ” I can hear her reply now—concentrated distilled ice her voice, clear and bored: “It is a matter of the most perfect indifference to me, Mr Hicks, wiiat yon do.” A nice girl. That dreadful voice from tho gallery lias caught me once or twice. When 1 made a hit with the old song ‘ Her Golden Hair Was Hanging Down Her Back,’ it was suggested that success might, be scored with a similar ditty. ‘ She Never Did the Same Thing Twice.’ It was a. mistake, as it proved. 1 was almost through Ibis dud song on one occasion, when a dear voice from the “ gods ” called pleasantly; “Seymour!” I stopped singing and looked up. “Yes? ’’ I asked, “ What is it? ” Sadly came the reply: “Granted old man,” it said, graciously. “ Perhaps you’re right.” I admitted. That man had judgment.

Talking of that old classic, ‘ Her Gol den Hair ’ reminds me of an embarrassing moment with Queen Alexandra.

I was told that the Queen had ex pressed a wish lo hear mo sing the song that all London was humming. Of course,, you rememhor that she was very deaf, so that it was necessary for me to go very close to her oar, and speat, rather than sing, the awful words to her. I began the tiling, the Queen bending forward to me, with a vague smile on her face. -As I progressed, .she interpolated encouraging remarks, as if the thing had been a charming lyric of Shelley. This is what happened : Mo (reciting): “ Oh, Flo, such a change, you know.” The Queen: (nodding): “Lovely!” Me (gallant, but wilting) :_ “ When she left the village she was shy.” The Queen: “How- charming!” Mo (sweating) : “ But, alas, and alack, she came back ” The Queen (smiling): “Yes?” (expectantly). Mo (half dead): “With a naughty little twinkle in her eye.” The Queen (touched); “How beautiful ! ” Well, I ask you ! The la to King Edward knew what he liked, and he wanted it just when lie wanted it, if yon know what I mean. My wife was singing a littlo song that London loved —‘ A Little Bit of String.’ On one occasion King Edward said to her; “Come, Miss Terriss, sing for mo ‘A Little Bit of String,’ you do it so charmingly.” My wife rose and allowed the King to lead her to the piano. Ho seated himself a foot away, and waited expectantly. And he waited a long time, for the song my wife knew as well as her own name had left her completely. She .had “ dried up ” with nervousness, with her Sovereign waiting for her to obey bis Koval command. Thank Cod it wasn’t Henry the Eighth or someone like that who made commands with an axe. When my wife was playing in a matinee with Tree she was responsible for a bon mot, which rather saved an awkward situation. In the excitement of acting, Tree made a strenuous movement, which upset a stage portico. It fell, bringing with it the whole of the flats on that side of the stage. _ There was consternation. Tree lost Ids head. Out of the storm my wife’s calm voice: “Its all right, Mr Tree, don’t worry. You’ve brought down the house.’- ihe remark did, at all events. How many times a scene has been ruined by a slip of the tongue. One such occurs to mo that absolutely ruined the seriousness of 1 The Ticket of Leave Man.’ AVillard was playing in it, and at a crucial moment m the play he entered , to the man playing the banker, who cried intensely: “ Wli'at is the matter?” With intense seriousness and utter unconsciousness Willard replied: “The cash box is open and the safe is gone.” That settled that piece. I treasure in my memory many witty comments made by well-known men. Among these 1 remember a note of congratulation sent to me by Pinero when I was dancing at the Gaiety. It was a hot night, and my work was strenuous. I perspired freely, a fact which was not lost on tho observant dramatist in the front stalls. His note said: “My dear boy, after seeing you perspire so much, your playbills ought to be altered to ‘ Pores open at 9 o’clock.’” F. C. Bumand, the witty editor of 'Punch,' delighted in these verbal jests. At that time a pun was not the crime it has since become. After seeing my wife and me in ‘Quality Street,' Bumand wrote to me: “ Your wife's performance was the most delightful thing of its kind 1 have ever seen. Wo wouldn’t have ‘ Mister ’ at any price.” You hear a great deal about reforming tho theatre nowadays. Rubbish! 'lhe theatre is all right. "Every now and again it gets congested with ideas that clatter up and stop the free circulation of intelligence, The theatre works nut its own salvation. There is a cleansing tide that is as useful as that of the sea. It sweeps up periodically, and bears off to sea the debris and rubbish that the last incoming tide has brought. This ebbing and Hewing of ideas does no great harm. The theatre is left functioning after each period. Just now there is a great movement towards naturalism in the playhouse. Actors have come upon the scene with a passion for holding the mirror so close up to Nature that she breathes on the glass and blurs the reflection. Let me say, as an old stager, that the trick is to appear natural rather than be natural. An actor who screws up his face into his hand and mutters under his breath, with his back to the audience, “Good God, I’m ruined; what will the children do ?” and “ Besides, I’ve left tho tap running in the bathroom.” may be supremely natural to the mau in

the wings, the conductor, and row A in the stalls, hut ha means nothing in the young lives of the rest of the audience. No, you must still use the tricks of the theatre; you must give an illusion of naturalness. Lacking temperament, that proud possession of the artist that enables him to give a great performance and worry the life out of his manager, your actor is just so. much dead timber. Hugh Ward once said to me, with' that facility for a phrase that distinguishes_ him: “Temperament is abnormal sensitiveness which glows. ” He was right. An actor must be incandescent. All the naturalness in the world won’t help him over the footlights unless he lights up inside and attracts the audience.

All this was leading rrio somewhere, but I'll be shot if I remember. Yes, I do, though. It was Barrie's sarcastic advice to the young actor with a small part, who was bitten with this mania for naturalness. He thought that anything in the world could be expressed by the art of the actor. To Barrie, Dunking to impress that dramatist (in whose play he was performing), he addressed a question: “Mr Barrie,” he said, “what’s your idea of this part?” Barrie fixed him with a look, ami made reply. “He’s a very ordinary man, but I would like you to convey the fact that ho has a brother who drinks port in. Shropshire.”

It is dangerous to ask great men for their opinion, as I once found to my cost. I forget what I was playing —some farce. The great Irving came to sec it. _ • “You know, my boy,” ho said, “you remind me of Charles Mathews." I was at once in full flight. Like the wonderful Mathews! Here was praise indeed, and from Sir Henry. I swelled like a frog and tried not to look self-conscious. Sir Henry let me have a run, and then struck.

“Yes,” ho said; “very like Mathews. You wear the same sort of collars.”_ Bing! The bladder of my conceit had been pricked more than once. In Dublin, at Horse Show time, the theatre was crowded, and thousands were disappointed. One night I sauntered up to the stage door through a surging Irish crowd. I hummed merrily, as one docs when “House full” notices are hung nut. “Is that him?” an old Irishwoman asked her neighbor. <£ Saints prrsorve p s, M film said* when she was told it. was; “now I’ve hoard him sing, divil a care cares I that we cudden git in.” The French are a bloodthirsty race. Sacha. Cluitry and 1 wove talking one night of the sorrows of our profession, among which wo reckoned chief the failure of the small-part actor to give us correctly the lino which ads as the hands of the acrobat, to to,-s ns to the heights wc have to reach. . What you do to such a man, hem? asked Cuitiy, after some sin of omission on the part of the actor. ‘•Cut his throat.’' I said, savagely. “ You arc right, mon ami— then ’is ’cad off, ring down vee curtain, an’ begin again,” supplemented my French brother.