When we were married, W. S. Gilbert gave us a silver tea-set, and later a day came when we pooled our worldly wealth and found we had eighteen shillings in the whole world—and Gilbert’s tea-set. We debated as to whether the tea-set should find a temporary home with “uncle”, but decided to wait as long as we could before taking this step. Harry heard that a tour was going out from the Gaiety, and thought he would try for the “Arthur Roberts” part on tour. (Could anything have been more absurd!) He learnt a song, and set out, calling at the Websters’ flat to practise the song again. He arrived at the Gaiety, full of hope and—the song; was told to begin, opened his mouth, and found he had forgotten every note; and so—Arthur Roberts lost a rival, and he came home. Soon afterwards George Alexander gave him a contract, and Gilbert’s tea-set was saved!
A well-known producer of sketches and revues, who is noted more for his energy than his education, was once rehearsing a company in which a number of young men, chiefly from the Whitechapel High Street, were enacting the parts of aristocrats at a garden party. One of them advanced to a young woman to “greet her”, which he did like this: Raising his hat, he exclaimed: “’Ello, H’Ethel!” A voice came from the stalls—the producer: “Good Lord! That isn’t the way that a h’earl talks. Let me show you.” He rushed up on to the stage and advanced to the young lady, raising his hat and holding his arm at an angle of 45 degrees. “Ello! H’Ethel!” he began; “what are you a-doin’ ’ere?”; then turning to the actor, he said, “There you are! that’s the way to do it!”
H. B. Irving was manager at the Savoy Theatre during the air raids. One evening, when the news of an air raid came through, he went to warn his leading lady. He walked straight into her dressing-room, and found the lady absolutely—well, she had reached the final stage of undressing. Irving, quite absent-minded as usual, never even saw how she was dressed. “Take cover!” he said, and walked out again.
During the war I sat on many Committees—we all did, for that matter. This particular one was concerned with arranging work for women, work which needed “pushing through” quickly, and the secretary was reading the suggested scheme. It read something as follows: “It is suggested that the women shall work in shifts, etc., etc.” A well-known Peeress, who was in the chair, leant forward. “Quite good,” she said, “quite good, but I should like some other word substituted for ‘shifts’; it really sounds—not quite nice, I think.”
Another Committee—this time for providing work for women who had been connected either with art, music, or the drama—all of which, I may say, became elastic terms. It was a large Committee—much too large—and it consisted of many very well-known and charitably inclined ladies. There were—but no, I had better not give you names! The secretary was reporting on the case of a woman who had just been admitted to the workrooms—an elderly, self-respecting, very good-looking woman, who had years before played—and played, I believe, very admirably—in “sketches”, but in the days when £3 was considered a very good salary. The report finished, the secretary waited for comments. From the end of the table came a voice—a very full, rich, deep voice—which belonged to a lady swathed in sables, and wearing pearls which would have kept a dozen women in comfort for a year.
“And you say this lady has been working for many years?” The secretary replied that she had—many years.
“And she was receiving a salary all the time?” The secretary again explained that “in those days salaries were very small”.
“And now she wants work in our workrooms?”. A pause, the speaker pulled her sables round her, the pearls rattled with her righteous indignation. “Another improvident actress!” she said, in the tone of one who has plumbed the enormity of human depravity to its very depths.
During the war I used sometimes to go to a munition factory and, during the dinner-hour, to entertain the “boys and girls”. Such nice “boys and girls”, too, who apparently liked me as much as I liked them. I heard a story there about their “works motto”, which struck me as rather amusing. The owner of the works chose it—“Play for the side”—and had it put up in the canteen. When the workers were assembled for dinner, he took the opportunity to say a few words on the subject of the motto. “Play for the side,” he began, when a voice from the back of the canteen was heard: “That’s all right, Guv’nor, but whose side—ours or yours?”
Here is a story of Martin Harvey. He was playing The Breed of the Treshams in the provinces, and had in the company an actor who played a very small part, and who loved to talk in what is known as “rhyming slang”. It is a stupid kind of slang which designates “whisky” as “gay and frisky”, “gloves” as “turtle doves”. Martin Harvey was going on to the stage one evening, and met this actor rushing back to his dressing-room. Knowing that he should have been on the stage when the curtain went up, Harvey asked “Where are you going?” “It’s all right,” replied the man, “I’m just going back to my dressing-room for a second; I’ve forgotten my turtle doves.” “Well, be quick about it,” Harvey told him; “and please remember in future I don’t like you to keep birds in the dressing-rooms!”