In taking leave of my readers on the subject of my theatrical career, I feel I ought, in justice to myself, to state that all my first appearances are completely marred by uncontrollable nervousness. I am more than nervous—I am absolutely ill.
The first night of The Mikado I shall never forget the longest day I live. It must have appeared to all that I was doing my best to spoil the piece. But what with my own want of physical strength, prostration through the numerous and very long rehearsals, my anxiety to satisfy the author, the rows of critics (oh, please do not be hard on me!), rendered blase by the modern custom of half a dozen ridiculous and senseless matinees a week, I lose my voice, the little of it there is, my confidence and, what, I maintain, is the most valuable of all to me, my own individuality. In fact, I plead guilty to what Mr. Richard Barker declared me to be on these occasions, "a lamentable spectacle."
In concluding this chapter, let me offer my hearty thanks to Sir Arthur Sullivan for having thought of me, to D'Oyly Carte for having engaged me, to W. S. Gilbert for having advised me, and last, but not least, to the generous public for having tolerated me.
CHAPTER VII.
A Society Clown.
funny fellows, comic men and clowns of private life, They'd none of them be missed—they'd none of them be missed." The Mikado.
One dull day during the end of the year 1873, the Police Court having adjourned, I went into a ham and beef shop at the corner of Bow Street to get a sandwich. I generally did this when I had not sufficient time to get a proper lunch, so presume I must have been occupied in the very arduous duties of taking notes of an important case, and jotting down suggestions for a new song or sketch at the same moment—at all times a difficult task, involving a deal of confusion. While purchasing my modest meal a little dog entered the shop. Its very tall and slim owner (for he was very slim in those days) whistled to the dog to come out. I presume the dog had reasons for staying in the shop, so the owner had no other option than to walk in and carry the animal out bodily. The owner and I greeted each other:
"How do you do, Mr. Grain?"
"How do you do, Mr. Grossmith?"
We did not know each other so well in those days as we do now, and were naturally a little formal in our method of address.
I enquired, as a matter of course, how his new song was going at the Gallery of Illustration? He enquired how mine was going at the Polytechnic? He then told me that he was preparing sketches, for the purpose of giving professionally at private houses during the forthcoming season. I had no idea that this sort of thing was done (I must have been very ignorant, I fear), and in reply to my questions he enlightened me on many points which were of the utmost interest, and subsequent importance to me. I remember asking him if the work was agreeable, and if the people were nice. His answer, I recollect, was very characteristic of him. "Very," he said; "and, what is more important, it pays well." He also told me that John Parry used to sing professionally at private houses. This decided me; for I knew that what was good enough for John Parry and Corney Grain, was more than good enough for me.