Radio Times/1926/01/01/My Struggle for Fame

by Walter Hyde

My Struggle For Fame.

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By Walter Hyde, the Famous Tenor.

 

Mr. Walter Hyde

Ishall not easily forget my first negotiations with the British Broadcasting Company, for they were followed by a rather unpleasant experience. They took place about three years ago, at a time when the antagonism of certain concert promoters to the wireless was more pronounced than it is now, with the result that well-known artists had been prevented from broadcasting.

No sooner was it made known that I was to appear before the microphone than I received letters from all over the country informing me that if I did any such thing, my contracts for various concerts would be cancelled.

 

All a Dream.

That was a serious matter for any artist, and I had to bow to the inevitable. But as soon as I had carried out these contracts, I communicated with the B.B.C., and before long I fulfilled my first broadcasting engagement, which has proved the forerunner of many others. The old antagonistic attitude still persists in some quarters, but, fortunately, it is gradually weakening, and it is significant that one of the musical societies which barred me has since allowed its own orchestra to broadcast, It is late in the day to speak of the wonders of wireless, but to those actually associated with it the miracle of the thing seems to appeal with increased force. When one takes part in a Covent Garden performance of Samson and Delilah, and receives before leaving the theatre, as I did, a telegram from Glasgow saying how much the singing had been enjoyed there, one imagines that it must be all a dream.

I believe there are great developments in store yet. But, meanwhile, wireless is proving a special boon to the young artist struggling to make himself or herself known. How valuable something of the kind would have been to me when, twenty-five years ago, I landed in London with plenty of hope, but almost empty pockets!

 

Fighting the World on Four Shillings.

I left Birmingham, where I was born, with just £1 in my possession, and after I had paid my railway fare and had taken a cab to my rooms, I had four shillings with which to fight the world. Fortunately, the Royal College of Music, to which I had come to study, having won a scholarship, allowed me a maintenance grant of £40 a year. Out of that I had to feed and clothe myself, But I sometimes wondered what it must be like to have a really good meal and watertight boots. Still, in my enthusiasm to make progress, I did not think of hardships.

My first engagement was of a kind that had never entered my mind. It was given me by Mr. Sydney Jones, the composer of The Geisha and San Toy. "What about you for light opera?" he said to me one day when we met. My ideas had soared far above that, but I needed money, and I duly appeared in My Lady Molly.

 

A Blessing in Disguise.

Soon afterwards, I created the part of the Bandmaster in the London production of Miss Hook of Holland. It was in connection with this that I received the surprise of my life, for one night I found in my dressing-room a note from the management enclosing a fortnight's salary, and intimating that, as my voice was not equal to the strain, my services were no longer required. In other words, I was not good enough to sing the jingles and tunes (as the composer himself called them) of Miss Hook of Holland!

But apparent misfortunes often prove blessings in disguise, and in a few weeks Mr. Percy Pitt, the Director of Music at Covent Garden, secured an engagement for me to sing there when Dr. Hans Richter first conducted The Ring in English. That undertaking was one of the greatest in the history of opera in this country. Richter worked like a Trojan at the rehearsals. He played the piano until his fingers bled, for he was not accustomed to pianoforte playing.

"Ze people who live at each side of me," he once said to me,"do not believe I am a musician because I never play ze piano." The idea amused him tremendously.

 

Three Marguerites.

He was a great man, Some time afterwards, my name was mentioned for the Birmingham Triennial Musical Festival, but certain people objected on the ground of youth, thinking I might not be up to the required standard!

Richter insisted that I should appear. When I thanked him, he just took my hand in his. "Oh, no," he muttered. "It was only my duty."

Many remarkable experiences have fallen to me during my operatic career. One of them was when I sang to three Marguerites in a performance of Faust. The first Marguerite had a severe cold, and had to retire. As her understudy was not available, a member of the chorus volunteered to take her place, and she sang with great credit throughout the important Garden scene. Later, the understudy arrived, and undertook the remainder of the opera.

But we were not at the end of our troubles, for, owing to a strike, all the lights suddenly went out. Nothing could be done, as the theatre was in complete darkness, but eventually the emergency gas lamps were lit with a taper by a large, rotund stage-hand with a perfectly bald head, whose gracious bows, when he was applauded, were something to be remembered for a long time.

 

Why "Lohengrin" was Barred.

Another incident which happened just before the war is worth recalling. It occurred in Budapest, where I was engaged to appear in Lohengrin. I shall never forget the look of horror on the face of the intendant (managing director) when I told him that as I could not, at that period, sing the words in English, I would sing them in German.

With a gesture of anger, he threw his cigarette into the fire. "Dear Hyde," he said, "you can sing in any language you like—English for preference—but no one shall ever sing in German in this theatre!"

In order to overcome the difficulty The Meister-singers had to be substituted for Lohengrin. A few months later, the war broke out, and the Hungarians were on the side of Germany. Yet I saw plenty of evidence that they had a strong affection for both England and the English.