“When you know as much of life as I do, you will see a jest in everything.”—Bad Hats.

“Tell me a story”—that was what we used to ask, wasn’t it? And when the story was told it was of knights, and lovely ladies, and giants who were defeated in their wickedness by the prince, and the story ended—as all good stories should end—“and they lived happy ever after”.

As we grew older we still wanted stories, but, because we found life lacked a good deal of the laughter we had expected to find, we wanted stories to make us laugh. I am going to try and tell you “true stories that will make you laugh”. If they are new, so much the better; but if they are old—well, are you too old yourself to laugh again?

Frank Curzon objected, and very rightly, to ladies wearing large hats at matinÉes. He objected so strongly that everyone heard of the fight to the death between Frank Curzon and the matinÉe hat, “The Lady and the Law Case”. One day, at a meeting of West End managers, when arrangements were being made for some big matinÉe, Frank Curzon proposed something which Herbert Tree opposed. There was some argument on the matter, and at last Tree launched his final bolt: “My friend, Frank Curzon,” he said, “is evidently talking through his matinÉe hat.”

George Edwardes had a servant who stuttered very badly. He had been with Edwardes, “man and boy”, for many years, and at last attended his master’s funeral. He was telling the glories of the ceremony to someone, and said: “It was a l-l-lovely funeral! S-s-some b-boy sang a s-s-solo; he s-ang it b-b-beautifully; I expected any m-m-minute to see the G-guvenor sit up and say, ‘G-give him a c-c-contract!’”

George Edwardes was once interviewing a lady for the chorus at the Gaiety; he asked her, “Do you run straight?” “Yes, Mr. Edwardes,” was the reply, “but not very far, or very fast.”

He once gave a supper party at the old Waldorf Hotel, which at that time was literally overrun with mice. G. P. Huntly was present, and, among others, Mr. Blackman, one of George Edwardes’s managers. All dined well—and many not wisely. Presently G. P. Huntly saw a mouse on the curtain, and the dreadful fear assailed him that perhaps “it wasn’t really a mouse—not a real mouse, anyway”. He turned to Mr. Blackman and said, “Did you see that?” “See what?” asked the other. Huntly pointed to the curtain. “That mouse on the curtain.” By that time the mouse had moved, and Blackman replied in the negative. In a minute Huntly asked the same question again: “See that mouse?” Blackman (who by this time had seen it), to “rag” him, said “No.” Poor Huntly turned very white, rose from his seat, and said, “Ah!—Good-night!” and went home.

Alfred Lester and Mr. W. H. Berry—at one time, at least—did not “get on”. One morning Lester was going to interview Edwardes about something, and Edwardes, knowing about this “rift in the theatrical lute”, warned Blackman before Lester came, “Now, on no account mention Berry! Let’s have a nice, quiet, pleasant interview; keep Berry out of it,” and so on. When Alfred Lester came into the room, Edwardes stretched out his hand and said cordially, “Well, Berry, how are you, my boy? Sit down.”

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!”

After the war, a well-known “play-going” society gave a dinner to a representative section of the legitimate and variety stages who had done work for the soldiers in the war. Mr. George Robey was to respond for Variety. I sat opposite to him, with Mr. Harry Tate on my left, and almost opposite me, quite close to George Robey, sat Marie Lloyd. She was wonderfully dressed, with a marvellous ermine cloak; and it was quite evident, from the moment she arrived (which was very late), that she was in a very bad temper. (As a matter of fact, I heard later that she was upset at the death of an old friend, Mr. Dick Burge.) Mr. Robey got up to “respond for Variety”, and really I must admit that his speech was very much on the lines of “I have been very glad—er—er—that is, we have been very glad”, and so on. I watched Marie Lloyd’s face; it got more and more “black” as his speech went on. When he finished, she rose and said in that attractive, rather hoarse voice—which was at that moment a remarkably cross voice too—“I’m Marie Lloyd; I’ve done my bit for the “boys”; I haven’t had my photo in the papers for years; and what I want to know is—touching this speech we have just listened to—what’s Marie Lloyd and poor old Ellen Terry done?” She leant across to Harry Tate, said “Come on, Harry”, and walked from the room. Everyone gasped. It was all over in a few seconds, but it left its mark on the dinner.

When Brookfield took a company to America he lost a good deal of money over the venture. On his return he walked into the Green Room Club, and met Grossmith (“Old G. G.”), and began to tell him of his losses. “Can’t understand it,” said G. G., “you people take thousands of pounds of scenery, trainloads of artists, spend money like water, and come back and say ‘It hasn’t paid!’ Look at me: I take nothing to America with me but a dress suit, come back having made ten thousand pounds!” “Very likely,” said Brookfield; “remember everyone doesn’t look as damned funny in a dress suit as you do!”

Lionel Monckton was in the Green Room Club one evening, having supper. Mr. Thomas Weiglin, a well-developed gentleman, walked in, faultlessly attired in full evening dress; everyone applauded his entrance. Mr. Monckton looked up, and said in a voice of protest, “I have been coming to the club in evening dress for forty years, and no one has ever done that to me.”

Winifred Emery told me this. She and Cyril Maude were on their honeymoon. She was lying in bed, wearing a most engaging nightdress, and she thought that she was looking very nice. He stood at the end of the bed, watching her, and presently walked to her, took a small piece of the nightdress in his fingers, saying as he did so, “Don’t you think it would be better if it was made of stronger calico?”

Herbert Tree met Fred Terry in the Garrick Club one day, and said to him: “My new production—er—what do you think about my having your beautiful daughter, Phyllis, to play the leading lady’s part?”

Fred Terry said he thought it would be very admirable for all concerned, and that he approved entirely.

“What handsome remuneration should I have to offer her?” Tree asked. Mr. Terry named a sum, which he thought “about right”.

“What;” said Tree; “what!” Then came a long pause, and at last Tree said in a dreamy voice, “Do you know I can get Marie Lloyd for that?”

I was once playing a sketch at a hall in the provinces, where the population apparently come to the performance so that they may read their evening papers to the accompaniment of music. At the end of the week, the manager asked me how “I liked the audience”, and I told him. “You’re quite right,” he replied, “but I’ve got a turn coming next week that they will appreciate, that they will understand.” I asked what the turn was. “Roscoe’s Performing Pigs,” he told me.

A certain actor tells a story about himself when he first went on the stage. He had just sold out of the Army, and felt he was rather conferring a favour upon Henry Irving by joining his company at the Lyceum. They were rehearsing Coriolanus, and someone was wanted to “walk on” as a messenger. Irving looked round, and his eye lit upon our friend, who was wearing—as smart young men did in those days—a large white fluffy tie. “Here you, young man in the white tie,” he said. The product of the Army took not the slightest notice. “Here you,” Irving repeated; “come here, I want you.” Our friend, with offended dignity on every line of his face, advanced and asked, “Did you want me?” “Yes,” said Irving, “I did.” “Then,” said the budding Thespian, “my name is Gordon!” “Oh, is it?” Irving said, affably. “Mine is Irving; how are you?” Then, changing his tone, “Now I want you to come on here, carrying,” etc., etc.

When Barrie’s Twelve Pound Look was at the Coliseum, two “comedy sketch artists” were in the stalls. The play went very well—very well indeed. One of the comedians turned to the other: “Who wrote this?” “Fellow called ‘Barrie’,” was the reply. “Ah!” said the first, “he writes our next; he’s good!”

While rehearsing a scene in a film production, the producer described to the two artistes the Eastern atmosphere he wanted—the warmth, the amorous love conveyed in the love scenes. He read the scene, with all the usual Eastern language, such as “Rose of Persia”, “O, Light of My Desire”, “Look at me with your lovely eyes”, and other such remarks which might convey the “kind of acting” which he was trying to get. The actor listened to what the producer said in silence, then remarked cheerfully, “Yes, yes, I know—‘Shrimps for Tea’.”

Decima’s son was very young when the war broke out. He was a “Snotty” at Dartmouth, and saw a great deal of active service. After the Battle of Jutland he wrote home to us a short description of the fight, saying briefly that he had seen this or that ship sunk, adding: “And now to turn to something really serious; I owe my laundry thirty shillings, and until the bill is paid the blighter refuses to let me have my shirts. Could you loan me a couple of quid?”

When Flames of Passion, the film in which I appeared, was showing at the Oxford, a woman I knew went to see it, and was sitting in the gallery. Next to her was a flower-woman—one of the real old type, complete with shawl and small sailor hat. After a time they began to talk to each other. This is the conversation as it was reported to me later:

“It’s a good picture, dearie, ain’t it?” asked the “flower-girl”. “Very good.”

“I think Eva Moore’s good, don’t you?” “Very good.”

“She’s lorst ’er ’usband lately, pore thing; very ’ard for ’er. Though, mind yer, it’s a pleasant change, in one way: most of these ’ere actresses only mislay theirs.”

Which reminds me of another story. Some time after Harry died, a man I knew slightly called to see me. He came in, and began to say how grieved he was to hear of Harry’s death, and how much he sympathised with me in my loss. This went on for some time, then he said: “But the real thing I came to ask was—do you know of a good ‘jobbing’ gardener?”

An author once engaged an actor for a part, simply on account of his very ugly face and his exceeding bad complexion. At the dress rehearsal the author met the actor at the side of the stage, “made up”. “Who are you?” he asked. The actor gave his name. “Go and wash all the make-up off at once,” said the author; “I only engaged you for your ugly face.”

At Henley Regatta, years ago, Jack (about six years old, very fair and attractive) was watching the races from a balcony over Hobbs’ boathouse, which belonged to kind friends of ours, Mr. and Mrs. Pidgeon, who yearly invited us to see the wonderful view. After watching several races, Jack turned to our hostess and said, “Please, does the steamer never win?”

It was from their balcony, too, that I saw Mr. Graham White, when he flew right down the racecourse in his aeroplane, dipping and touching the water like a swallow, to the alarm of the crowds in their boats on either side of the course—a never-to-be-forgotten sight.