CHAPTER XXVII

ENTER DANNY DEEVER

If a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation. - Andrew Fletcher.

TOWARD the end of 1897 Walter Damrosch had been devoting his attention to the composition of a few songs and among others produced admirable settings of Rudyard Kipling's "Mandalay" and "Danny Deever." When I first sang the latter at the Academy of Music in Philadelphia, December 11, at a concert of the Orpheus Club, I had no idea that it would soon become famous throughout the United States. The ballad had already been set to music several times, though the compositions authorized by Mr. Kipling in England were not known in artistic circles, but were sung only by Tommy Atkins at large. In America Richard Harding Davis, who by the way was a kinsman of mine on his mother's side, conceived a good straightforward tune which was sung by the students at Princeton, and I first made its acquaintance through the splendid bass voice of my friend Booth Tarkington, who trolled it out with fine effect. It was not long, however, until all rival compositions gave way before the virility of Mr. Damrosch's conception of the piece.

When Kipling visited New York in 1899 I met him at an evening reception given in his honor at the house of the editor-poet, Richard Watson Gilder. Though it was not a musical party, toward the close of the evening

I was requested to sing "Danny Deever," by that time famous everywhere. At the conclusion of the song Kipling rose, hastily said good-by to his hostess, and left the room, to the surprise of every one present, who wished to congratulate him on the power of his text. After recovering from the attack of pneumonia brought on that very night through leaving the hot drawing-room for the snowstorm outside, he returned to England.

The next spring I had a visit from a gentleman who called ceremoniously and politely informed me that his friend Kipling, who was in the country, sent me his apologies and regrets for what I might have thought rudeness in leaving the room so suddenly after my singing of his " Danny Deever" in New York the winter before; but Mr. Kipling would like me to know that he had been so powerfully affected by my rendering of the ballad that he could not trust himself to speak and had to say good night as quickly as possible. Here was indeed the amende honorable.

The public performer is rarely left to take his leisure peacefully; where it is known he can sing, it is thought by the public that he ought to sing; and, if he does not want to sing, that he should be made to sing. When I was requested to sing "Danny Deever " once at a concert on shipboard I had difficulty in getting out of appearing, but with the legitimate excuse of a cold I was at last allowed to remain out of the bill.

As I sat in the barber's chair on the morning of the concert, the voluble tonsorial artist spoke of the entertainment as he shaved me and hoped I would reconsider my decision not to sing. He would not be satisfied without an explanation of my refusal, as he had heard me before. I told him of my heavy season in America and that I needed rest on the sea. "I can understand that," he replied sympathetically. "It is just the same with me, sir. I never look at a razor when I am ashore."

There was a notable company aboard and a superb concert resulted, some of the celebrities being Melba, Nordica, Jean de Reszke, Plançon, Sarah Bernhardt, and Coquelin. While I did not sing, I disposed of a large number of tickets; and, having had several programs autographed by the principal artists, I sold these at auction during the intermission in the concert, securing $800 for the benefit of the Sailors' Home. Upon reaching the smoking room after the concert I was accosted by a passenger who complimented me upon my efforts, saying, as he drew his business card from his pocket, "I am a New York auctioneer. Whenever your voice gives out just let me know and I'll give you a job for ten thousand dollars a year to sell our stuff."

It is not always that incidents are amusing, and public performers are often looked down upon. Early in the year 1898, when the Ellis-Damrosch Company was playing at the Metropolitan Opera House, which also contains apartments, one of which I was then occupying, I had a sharp attack of my old enemy, lumbago. We on the stage are like soldiers and must do our duty regardless of personal inconvenience. The audience has nothing to do with our maladies, physical or mental, but unfortunately, one of these attacks came upon me in the midst of a busy time. I had to sing at several performances at the Metropolitan Opera House, to give one of my own concerts at Mendelssohn Hall, to take part in "The Messiah" in another city - and I could scarcely get out of bed! I sent a telegram the day before to the oratorio committee telling them of my plight and that I had at my own expense engaged an admirable artist to take my place in the oratorio.

As I was preparing to take my painful ease, I received an urgent message from Mr. Damrosch, who knew that I was ill, asking me, if it were possible, to dress, wrap up warmly, come down in the elevator, and step inside of the opera house, it being only a few yards from my door to that of the theatre. When I arrived I hobbled, supported by a friend and nearly bent double, to the stage, where a chair awaited me, and an overcoat and rug protected me from the draught.

As I sat there humming through my part, I noticed two strangers standing near the wings. When my work was done one of these introduced himself as one of the committee of the oratorio society who had come to see if I was able to keep my engagement. I rose from my chair with difficulty and explained the plight in which I found myself. He agreed with me and with the friend who had come with him, that I could not be expected to travel, go through a difficult performance, and return the following day in time for "The Flying Dutchman" in New York. They bade me good-by, saying that they would explain the matter to their committee. My visitors, however, upon reaching their home reported that they found me busily rehearsing upon the stage and seemingly in perfect health, and the committee refused to permit my substitute to sing in my place.

I thus found myself a victim of the caprice of my friends. I was severely censured in the newspapers and for some time was made to feel the disapproval of the public, who doubtless thought that here was merely another example of the idiosyncrasy of a spoiled artist.

During a visit to the Pacific Coast I attended the Chinese Theatre in San Francisco and once was taken behind the stage after the performance to see where the actors lived in cellars even two and three stories below the ground. Here these men smoke their pipes, say their prayers, burn their joss sticks, and study their enormously lengthy parts. They act every night in plays which it sometimes takes weeks to finish, and fine actors many of them are, among the best I have ever seen. Asking when these artists took their exercise, I was informed that they went out only at night. When I voiced my surprise, I was told that they dare not go abroad in the daytime, for they would be insulted by the populace, maltreated, beaten, stoned, and driven back to the burrows of their theatre, where the audience thought they belonged and nowhere else.

Thus we have up to the present day a continuance of the hostile attitude toward our craft inherited from the older times, when the actor had no rights, could not be married or buried by the clergy; but remained a vagabond, alive or dead, and was legally so termed. A strolling player, because forbidden to settle down anywhere, was obliged to keep going, no matter what his talents, no matter how much he contributed to the joy of his audiences or, in later years, to the education of the public.

I believe, disagreeable as many aspects of life upon the stage are supposed to be, that the personnel of the dramatic and operatic profession to-day is far superior in morale and in morality to what it ever was before. For generations in England a stage career was considered beneath the dignity of a gentleman, and the great Lord Chesterfield was evidently trying to save his son from such a fate, when he said, "If you wish to hear