ACTORS WHO FORGET THEIR PARTS.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XX, Issue XIV, 2 April 1898, Page 425

ACTORS WHO FORGET THEIR PARTS.

AMUSING EFFORTS TO SAVE THE SITUATION. One of the first essentials of the actor’s art is that he must be a ‘good study’—by which is meant that he must be able to quickly and thoroughly learn his lines, so that there may be no awkward pauses when he comes to repeat them on the stage. Failure by an actor to remember his part has many times been the occasion of unrehearsed effects, that, were it not for the performer’s mother wit, would have spoilt the most promising show. Old playgoers will remember John Reeves, the Adelphi favourite, who was notorious, in the profession, for never being perfect in his parts. He relied very greatly on the prompter, and though hejiad very many close shaves, he was never quite cured of his bad habit. . .. A piece, now forgotten, was once produced in which Reeves’ dialogue, in the opening scene with a fellowactor, contained, the whole key to the plot. Without this explanation it was scarcely intelligible. On came John, and spoke his soliloquy pretty correctly. Hei.was joined by the second character, who had to say: ‘Tell me how this occurred? ‘I will,’ said John. But John didn’t; for to save his life he couldn’t remember a single word. He stumbled and stammered. In vain the prompter gave him the proper Word* At length he advanced and caught holcLof his companion’s arm in a friendly way, exclaiming: ‘Hold! There are listeners! Walk through the garden and I willexpkun all,’ and he forced him off the stage, to the great amusement of the audience. However, they returned in a moment, and by a clever piece of gave the audience the necessary explanation. Sir Henry Irving’s piercing eyes and intense expression once had the effect of making a fellow-actor altogether forget that he was on the stage at all. It occurred in Manchester during a performance of ‘Macbeth,’ and in the scene where Macbeth says to one of the murderers, ‘There’s blood upon thy face,’ Irving put so much earnestness into his words that the murderer forgot his proper answer ("Tis Banquo’s, then’) and replied, in a startled voice, ‘ls there; great Scott!* He fancied, as he afterwards confessed, that he had broken a bloodvessel. Osmund Tearle’s naturalness of manner was responsible for a similar but even more ludicrous forgetfulness on the part- of a subordinate actor. Tearle was playing Hamlet in a small country town, and the part of Guildenstern was enacted by a local gentleman who prided himself on his musical capabilities. Hamlet asks him: ‘Will you play upon this fife?’ He replies: ‘My lord, I cannot.’ ‘I pray yon.’ ‘Believe me, I cannot.’ Hamlet persists: ‘I do beseech you,’ and the amateur replies: ‘Well, if your lordship insists on it, I will do my best’; and, to the confusion of Hamlet and the great amusement of the audience, he played ‘God Save the Queen.’ Arthur Roberts, in his most entertaining reminiscences, tells a capital story of a scratch company with which he was connected in his early days. The scene was a hall in the West of London, and as the programme was a very loosely- arranged affair. Roberts to fill up a gap, induced a well-known comie song writer to go on the stage and give a song. This gentleman was a good writer but a poor singer, though he meant well. He was not going to be tied down to any particular key, and in the course of his efforts essayed every note from A to Z. and judging by the discords, he must have succeeded in getting as far as K. He started ‘The Wolf’ in falsetto, but it was not exactly an inspiriting success. When he reached ‘Locks, bolts and bars shall fly asunder,’ he came to a finish as regards his song. But he made a speech: ‘Ladies and gentlemen,* he said. ‘l’ve forgotten the next line, but with your permission I’ll do a hornpipe.’ The audience scented a novelty in half of ‘The Wolf’ followed by a hornpipe, and it put them in good spirits for the rest of the evening. One of our most popular touring managers tells a good story against himself of how an Irish super once brought his production of ‘Macbeth’

to an untimely end through his besetting sin of forgetting his part. This super was playing one of the murderer’s parts in the banquet scene, and during rehearsals would persist in walking down to the footlights and taking up a position in which he totally eclipsed Macbeth from the view ’of the audience. The manager wore out his patience trying to teach the man his proper place, till at length, on the evening preceding the first production, Macbeth took the erring super and told him to stand by whilst he drove a brass-headed nail at the exact spot where the murderer was to stand during the scene. ‘See that nail?* he said. Well, you just walk on and come right down to that spot, and not a step further until I enter.’ ‘I understand, sor,’ the super replied, and apparently the difficulty was ended. The first night gave every promise of success. The banquet scene arrived, and the murderers entered and proceeded to walk to their appointed places. Our friend boldly marches half-way across the stage, then he - pauses, stops, ; turn round and stoops as if looking for something he. had dropped. The audience began to titter, and Macbeth, who just entered, became purple with rage. He stalked up to the super’s side: Tn heaven’s name, what are you about?’ ‘Sure, sor,’ replied the murderer, quite loudly, Tm looking for that blessed brass-headed nail o’ yours.’