Frank Musgrove

A MAN sets out to write his diary with fear AND trembling. He generally has secrets to tell, and he knows that in the telling, he will be likely to tread on someone's corns. Commonly it happens that when he could write the most downright stuff he is too young to have recollections; when he is old enough to have garnered a goodly store of memories he has reached an age of discretion and understanding, and steps warily among souvenirs of the past, whose very bitterness have been toned down into kindly remembrance.

"Poor old Smith," he is likely to murmur, "perhaps he didn't really mean me when he made that remark at Brown's supper party."

To be old is to give the benefit of the doubt. And so, in these memoirs of mine, I hope it will be realised that I set down nothing in malice, and even extenuate, where it seems more kindly to do so. To be old is also to be garrulous, but garrulity is the virtue of a memoirist, for every contemporary looks at the text with a magnifying glass to see if the gods of his idolatry have been given a goodly place, while the ill-natured, recollecting ancient scandals, are anxious to savour the old stories once again.

For the present generation, who may fear the boredom of waiting to see me emerge from a too long dive into the past, let me say that I am, after all, none so old but that I know intimately all their present favorites, and many a story shall I have to tell, if they will journey with me, to break the monotony of the voyage.

There is a fascination, about the stage, as about the cricket field, to which most people must plead guilty, even those who imagine that actors and their female kind are still "rogues and vagabonds," dangerously attractive to headstrong youth, and against whom some strict legislation should even now be in vogue.

I shall hope to show, In the course of my writing that these stage folk are no different from others, but warm, human (which is to say culpable at times), merry and sad, their lives a compound of comedy and tragedy, even as others. If they some times sin, it is as part of the great human family, and their virtues are at least as conspicuous as their faults. They have the great misfortune to be much in the public eye, that baleful orb that fastens itself fixedly on all those whose names get into print. The trouble is that a convex mirror such as the human eye magnifies most confoundedly.

I shall try to avoid that most common error of men whose lives were spent mainly in times past, the tendency to hark back with a sentimentality that exalts the past just because it is past, at the expense of the present. Let me say at once, to avoid all misunderstanding, that I regard the Australian theatre at the present day as far in advance of what I knew in earlier times, in production, and all those externals that catch the eye. If I consider that the old actor belonged to a sounder school, that the old plays were more "meaty," that is a mere matter of opinion, in which I may be proved to be wrong. In general, these memoirs will consist of re collections, and will be as free from argument as possible.

Australia's First Impresario

What a complete change has come over the stage since the days when my uncle, William Saurin Lyster, Australia's first impresario, brought Grand Opera to the city that was then only dimly conscious it would one day be one of the greatest in the Empire. How my uncle would have stared to see the bare-legged choruses of today, curvetting and prancing round the stage.

[Image] An impression of Harry Musgrove.

I shut my eyes and try to imagine the sedate, almost middle-aged ladies of the ballet away back in the 70's doing such a thing. Harder still, I try to picture my uncle proposing to dress his next ballet by undressing them, and broaching the idea to the ladies themselves. I think that then and there William Saurin Lyster would have ceased to be, and in the van of the attack, would have been his own wife, the lovely Georgina Hodson. And yet, there is nothing fundamental in the change. Tights were then de rigueur, bare flesh now. After all, it is mainly a matter of the price at which silkworms can be persuaded to function.

One thing this generation has in common with the earliest I remember. That is the absence of what is known as the "stage door Johnny." The period between these extremes was notable for the genus. Armed with flowers, they used to wait in the lobbies on the safety side of the stage doorkeeper, and await the adored one's exit, Then a gallant arm would be offered, and a waiting hansom would receive the two, and the night would swallow them up. It was the prevalence of this practice that led to the custom of appointing sergeant-majors as doorkeepers. The sergeant-majors soon learnt the necessary language to keep the-''Johnny" at a reasonable distance.

Perhaps the fact that the earliest companies of which I took any note were the Grand Opera companies brought out by Lyster, in which the prima donnas were not usually beautiful which brought about the beautiful loneliness of the stage door. When the second cycle of stage history in Melbourne came in with the "Tambour Major," and its beauteous principals and chorus, the virtue of Melbourne's gilded youth showed unmistakable signs of wearing thin, like their patience as they waited in serried ranks on a wet night.

Undecorative as it was, this first, or Grand Opera period, was a brilliant one, and Melbourne has never had so liberal a feast of music in all its existence as Lyster gave it. The city went mad over singers then, just as it went mad over Gladys Moncrieff in days just past.

Gladys Moncrieff's First Difficulty

That comparison makes me reflect. I think of Gladys, so slim when she first won popularity that she asked me whatever she would do to hide her thin shanks from public ridicule. I showed her a wrinkle or two, how to pad the legs out so as to deceive the cash customers, and sent her to the wardrobe mistress to have the deceit properly staged. When the night came, I was hanging over the back of the circle to watch her entrance. I gasped when I saw her, for the pads had slipped, and Gladys appeared in the thickest pair of ankles that ever distinguished a Lyster prima donna. She learnt a lesson from that occurrence. If you are going to deceive, take good care you do deceive; don't wear your calves in front.

Gladys popularity was quite independent of thin legs. Time altered her disability in that respect, but the affection of the public remained constant. It is given to few, and to none of the older favourites of the Lyster regime, to fill a theatre for 14 weeks without the management selling a single back stall. That was Gladys Moncrieff's achievement at the Theatre Royal.

In its way, however, the days at the Opera House, now the Tivoli, were quite as brilliant. They set a hard pace for other managements to emulate. Let me recapitulate some of this past history, so as to get the stage ready for what is to follow.

It is necessary for me to give a few autobiographical facts. I can hear some cynic remark, "We're not interested in what a memoirist is, only in what he remembers, and very little of that." Well, all I want to do is to give some reason for my being here to remember anything.

The Beginning

In the '60's, my father, who was an accountant and entirely unconnected with the stage, came out from Surrey and settled in Geelong. Geelong then imagined it was going to be Victoria's leading city and it rather gave itself airs. It possessed a fine theatre, in which our family took not the slightest interest, except for my mother, who could not forget, that, however interesting my father's figures were, her own was even more so. She had been on the stage before her marriage as Fanny Hodson. Her brother, George Hodson, was well-known in London as a comedian, and the Hodson family were very proud of being related to the great tragedienne, Mrs. Scott Siddons. Another sister was also on the stage, a sweet singer, and lovely woman, Georgina Hodson who had married William Saurin Lyster. It is to William Lyster that the theatrical fortunes of the Musgroves, such as they were, became due, and it was therefore through him that the whole, course of Australian theatrical history was changed.

For Uncle William decided to make Australia an experimental Tom Tiddler's ground. He brought a Grand Opera company out here, and did so well that, he went home to London and brought another out. Then he got the habit, and laid the foundations of a fortune.

I smile when Melbourne congratulates itself in these days on supporting a few weeks of grand opera, when I remember Melbourne Town, when it was almost in swaddling clothes, attending so assiduously at the Opera House as to keep opera almost always in session.

[Image] facsimile of the poster in connection with the first opera company brought to Australia.

True, salaries were very meagre, and the mounting was on nothing like the present scale. It was a rare musical treat, all the same, and I have yet to hear better voices in a general opera company than those exploited to make a Lyster fortune. Twenty-two different operas were presented by William Lyster, including some modern managements haven't the pluck to stage. We had "Don Pasquale" in those days; and until the last opera company in Melbourne put it on for a couple of performances it has, I believe, never been done since.

[Image] The last photograph taken in Australia of Gladys Moncrieff, whose first difficulty and misadventure on the stage is here related.

My First Play

Shall I ever forget my first play? Our uncle had taken Geelong in his itinerary, but I had never been to the plays, being still too young. It was one day, after we had left Geelong, and had come to live In Windsor, my brother George being then in a solicitor's office here, that my uncle called at my mother's house. He always drove in a brougham. The grand affair stopped with a flourish outside the house, and my uncle stepped in.
"How about taking one of the youngsters in with me to the theatre?" he asked, in a god-like tone.
You may imagine how we looked up to him.
"Take young Harry," exclaimed my mother.
"Done with you," boomed my uncle.
"Where will you put him?" asked my mother. The reply froze my young soul.
"I'll put him in a box," said Lyster. I piped up, scared, and yet fascinated.
"You mustn't shut the lid down, then," I stipulated.
The opera was "Les Huguenots," and it remains for me an unforgettable memory of perfect bliss. It is curious to look back and reflect on what particular act altered the whole course of one's life. That night gave me a liking for the stage I have never shaken off. Not that I ever had the least desire to become an actor. None of the Musgroves ever had. We early got caught on the managerial side, and it is on that side we all made our way.

In Geelong we three Musgrove boys, Frank, George and myself first began to grow up good Australians. There was another youngster there at the time who became famous. He has remained so, and still has a finger in almost every pie. His name is Theodore Fink. He and George were boyhood chums, and remained so until George's death. It was Theodore Fink who broke the news to me that my brother had died suddenly, and at every important happening that affected George, I seem to see Theodore's presence as guide-philosopher and friend, not, alas, always heeded.

When I was 16, I got my heart's desire. I was taken into the office of the Lyster organisation and commenced to learn the intricacies of management.

Stars of Other Days

At this stage I would like to put down my recollection of some of the stars that blazed in this firmament. Some of them I cannot pretend to remember, for it is difficult to say at a tender age just where one's own memory is supplemented by the stories of others. The contralto of the company was Aunt Judy, as we always called Georgina Hodson, who was Mrs. Lyster in private life. I remember her as a beautiful woman, who often played boys parts and who, in consequence, was to the day of her death, as upright, and as springy as a boy. She was a rock of common-sense, and anything less like the traditional actress of popular fancy could not be conceived. Madame Baratti was the soprano, an ugly woman, whose father was an entirely unnecessary chaperon. She had a beautiful voice, however, and used to receive lovely flowers. Her father loved these kindly attentions, for they provided him with a source of pocket-money. Every morning he would cart the floral tributes of admirers up to Paddy's Market and sell them for what they would fetch.

A link with today is provided by the Coys, as they were called, a tenor and soprano, who elected to make their home in Melbourne, where they became teachers of singing, and as such were well-known till a short time ago. Signor Coy started a pastry-cook's business in Swanston street, which he ran for years, true to the genius of Italians for conducting places where they either sing or eat.

In the orchestra playing at His Majesty's at this very time is a son of the Coys. Dondi and Susini were the bassos, and Rosnati and Paladinl the tenors. Caricaturists of the period, as Will Dyson and Wells do today, were fond of cartooning the tenors, with their lovelorn looks and picturesque dress. I reproduce one such picture that caused a good deal of amusement to the public and heart burning to the afflicted victim in those distant days.

William Lyster himself was more picturesque than any of his troupe. A big, six-foot, black-a-vised Irishman, he possessed a fearsome temper that often found an outlet in queer ways, While he had a stage manager, all rehearsals used to be conducted by himself in person, and his black temper used suddenly to flare forth. Then, as now, prima donnas possessed temperament, and were capable of walking off the stage indisposed, so my uncle was always sufficiently in control of himself to confine his antics to his own immediate vicinity. I have seen him take off the belltopper without which he never came on the stage, throw it down, and jump on it violently. After which gentle ebullition, he would calm down suddenly, and send a boy out to buy a new hat. The exercise relieved him enormously.

That Lyster was an unusual man is shown by his hobby of farming. Up in the lovely foothills near Ferntree Gully he owned about 1000 acres, which he turned into a model farm. The place round about has been named Lysterfield after him. Thither he would drive behind a spanking horse every week-end, taking his wife along, and straightway they would become bucolic tillers of the soil. Everything was of the best on the farm, and when Lyster. took trips to England to look for talent, he was as careful to buy good farm material as good voice material,

[Image] William Saurin Lyster, the first impresario in Australia.

On one occasion I remember he brought back what was known as a "crabbing machine." Its purpose was to fatten turkeys by forcible feeding. So far as I know, the Lysterfield turkeys had shown no sign of suffragette views, but, nevertheless, it was decided to try the crabber on one of them as a test. It was supposed to fatten a turkey for Christmas in half the normal time taken by dull Nature. Unfortunately, the experiment failed, for the turkey burst. The crabber was abandoned, and henceforth Nature took its course.

Shooting of Armes Beaumont

One of Melbourne's sweetest singers was a member of the Lyster company. This was the tenor, Armes Beaumont. He and my uncle were great friends, sharing a liking for country pursuits. This very fact led to a terrible accident.

They were shooting one afternoon near Donnybrook, and had separated in search of rabbits and quail. Beaumont had screened himself behind a stone wall, and rose stealthily to reconnoitre for birds. At the sudden movement my uncle turned, and loosed off his gun just as the singer's face appeared above the wall. He received the charge full in the face. Streaming with blood, he fell, and Lyster, half dead with terror, rushed up to him. Everything was done that could be done, but though the tenor recovered, his eyesight was ruined. He lost entirely the sight of one eye, and the other took a most terrible squint, so that when Beaumont ignored you most he was taking most stock of you.

Few artists have ever attained the popularity of Armes Beaumont, and to the day of his death he was one of the idols of the musical world. He died in 1913, his last years made smooth by the competence Lyster left him at his own death.

I have now come to the end of the Lyster regime. Another entrepreneur was coming on the scene, a most surprising person, who was to make history. He was no less than my brother George.

George was a solicitor's clerk, but as he had a good head, he had been most useful to my uncle in a variety of ways. He had even taken a grand opera company around New Zealand. All this time he had been developing a flair for the business. One day he came into the office and told me he was about to ask my uncle for a certain appointment. He went into the Governor's office, while I awaited the outcome in the street. Presently George came out, his face a thundercloud.
"Did you get it?" I asked.
"No,' He gave it to someone else," said George, shortly. "Harry, do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to get a couple of thousand pounds, and I'm going to London to bring a company out myself."

It was the first beginnings of the new dispensation.

(To be Continued.)