CHAPTER XIII
LANTERNISTS
Now while it is perfectly true that I have never given my lanternist any trouble, and that all my slides are perfectly simple, and that I never have any of them repeated, I do not for one moment suggest that this is the reason why I have been so very fortunate in my experiences of lantern operators. Only on the rarest of occasions have I had any trouble, for which I am, I hope, duly grateful, for of all the disconcerting things that can occur to a lecturer, I think anything happening to his pictures through the incompetence of the lanternist is about the worst. True, I have always had much sympathy with my operators, looking upon them as very able men, who do a lot of hard work for a very small fee, and whenever a picture has been put on wrong, I have always, in asking the operator to change it, told the audience that the mishap was my own fault, except on one occasion, which you shall hear about.
I was to lecture in the Town Hall of a large town in the North of England, and my most charming and agreeable host was chairman. Just before we left the house for the hall he said to me gaily:
“We’ve got you a splendid lanternist. The last one wasn’t a success, but this new one is super-excellent, I am told, and I am sure you’ll find him so.”
I replied nonchalantly, for I was not accustomed to have any trouble, and didn’t see why I should begin now. So on interviewing the much-extolled lanternist I merely showed him which end of the box to begin, told him that the slides were all upside down and faces forward, and arranged the signal—all as usual. Then I thought no more about the matter, but at the appointed time faced a very large and enthusiastic audience, and after the chairman’s brief introduction plunged into my subject. In time-honoured phrase, all went well until the fourth slide, which should have been about the twentieth, and was, besides, upside down. In a subdued tone I asked the lanternist to give me the next slide, hoping that this inopportune appearance was just an accident, probably an oversight of my own. Alas! no, the next slide was from another part of the box, and was, moreover, on its side. Begging the audience to bear with me a moment, I leapt off the platform, and ran to the lantern—to find the lanternist stupid with drink, and my slides mixed up in most gruesome fashion.
The sweat poured off me as I hurriedly replaced them in order, then begging the operator to put them in just as I had left them, I regained the stage, and was greeted with a hearty round of applause. I picked up the thread of my discourse at once, and four slides succeeded each other properly. Then chaos came again. Again I asked the audience to excuse me, again I visited the lanternist. I found the slides all jumbled up as before, and to add to my trouble, when I asked indignantly what he was doing, he replied sturdily that he was putting them in the carrier just as I gave them into his hands.
Well, that was a lecture, to be sure. Fortunately I did not lose my temper or my head, and the audience rose to the occasion, treating the whole business as a huge joke. Five times did I go down to that lantern, and rearrange those slides, and always after the first one or two placed correctly, the jumble would begin again. At last, with the audience almost in hysterics, I gave up all hope of getting anything shown that I wanted, and treated the rest of the lecture in a go-as-you-please fashion, making as many jokes as I could, until I found that the used pictures began to appear again, and, of course, that meant a sort of circular arrangement which would not end. So, finding that the time was up, I appealed to the man in charge of the lights to turn them up, and, disregarding the lanternist altogether, wound up with the audience rocking and shouting with laughter.
The chairman was as bad as the rest, so there were no votes of thanks, and, still laughing, the crowd dispersed. Feeling utterly done up and wet through with sweat, I made my way to the anteroom, where I was received with great gusto by the committee, the chairman especially, who said:
“Well, Mr. Bullen, we have never had a lecture before that we have enjoyed so much. I have laughed until I am sore all over. And yet it didn’t seem to be a funny subject.”
“I congratulate you,” I replied, “but as far as I am concerned it would take a very few more of such lectures to be the death of me. I haven’t a dry thread on me, and I feel as if I had been fighting for my life. I can only hope that when the next lecturer comes you will endeavour to see that the lanternist is sober. It is not at all just to the lecturer to have such a burden thrown upon him as I have supported this evening.”
It is hardly credible, but, nevertheless, a curious tribute to my ability in hiding the lanternist’s delinquencies, that all of them disclaimed any idea that there had been anything wrong with the lanternist, nor did a sudden searching aroma of whisky as that individual brought my slides in enlighten them. Of course he had left the last slide in the carrier, but that was only to be expected. What I did not expect was a sudden coolness on the part of the committee towards me after my statement, and I was never invited to that society again.
An extraordinary thing befell me once at St. George’s Hall, London, on a Sunday afternoon, showing how a little carelessness on the part of an experienced man may cause much trouble. Those lectures were very well paid, well patronised, and limited to an hour, which allowed of no time being cut to waste. So I went ahead at my best, and was three-parts through my address when the light went out. Having had similar things happen to me before, I went on talking, thinking that a picture would soon reappear, but the darkness remained, so I presently stopped my address and asked the lanternist how long it would be before the next picture came on.
“There’s no more gas!” he replied in hollow tones.
I will not repeat what I said when the lights were turned up, but it was in the nature of condolence with the audience, and indignation that for the sake of sixpennyworth of gas the lecture should have been spoiled. For that was what it amounted to. The lanternist had brought a partially emptied cylinder with him, the gauge of which indicated barely enough gas for an hour’s work. A little waste for practice reduced that, so that three-quarters of an hour finished it, and we all had the mortification of being deprived of the sight of a dozen pictures, and of feeling that we had been defrauded by an unfinished lecture.
What would otherwise have been a very awkward business was put right by the promptitude and ability of a friend of mine, Mr. Charles Hoddle, who was among the audience, being my host for the night, and having motored me over. It was at a chapel, and after the usual preliminaries the lights were turned down, and—the first picture did not appear. In answer to a confused murmur from the gallery where the lantern was, I made some cheerful joking remark to the audience, and went on with the lecture. Three times I stopped and ventured an enquiry if the picture would appear now, and at last, feeling that if my patience wasn’t exhausted, that of the audience was, I said:
“I wish you would let me know whether we are going to have any pictures or not, because, if not, we’ll have the lights turned up.”
A voice, with tears in it, feebly exclaimed in the gloom:
“I’m very sorry, sir, I can’t get it to go anyhow. I’ve tried my very best, but I——”
A great roar of laughter extinguished his voice, and I was just about to ask my friend Hoddle if he could help us, when I saw him stealing away from his seat in the gloom. In less than three minutes the picture appeared, and there was no further trouble. Mr. Hoddle did tell me what the trouble was, but I have forgotten, and it doesn’t matter, anyhow. But I was never more grateful for the presence and help of a man with presence of mind and who knew the business thoroughly.
What might have been a terrific disaster occasioned by the inexperience of a lanternist was only just averted by a hair’s-breadth at one of my lectures in Sydney, N.S.W. It was at the Lyceum Theatre, in Pitt Street, a fine house, but very badly off for exits. In fact, the whole of the great gallery, by far the largest part of the house, emptied through the one door down a steep flight of steps into the very busy but narrow thoroughfare of Pitt Street. It was an electric lantern, a form of lighting for this purpose that I detest unless there are certain arrangements made for keeping the slides cool. This is easily done, as witness the safe and easy handling of cinematograph films, which used to be highly inflammable, and yet very rarely ignited, as they certainly would have done with an unadapted electric lantern.
It was the opening night of my season in Sydney, and the lanternist was engaged from one of the best houses in the place, so that I had a right to expect the best manipulation. Especially when the price paid was considered. As soon as I began my lecture however, I saw that something was wrong. As each slide came on it cracked, peeled, and was destroyed, the sight of the process going on on the screen being a most disquieting one for me. Still, I did not see what I could do without alarming the audience and spoiling the show, so I saw six or seven slides burn up one after another. Then I was just about to protest in vigorous language against such wholesale destruction as I had never seen before, when I noticed that the lanternist was in dire trouble. Dense smoke was beginning to rise from the lantern, and even as I looked the smoke burst into flame. People rose in their seats, and looked with great anxiety towards the lantern and the door. There was a general uneasy stir when the electrician, bless him, turned the lights up, and I, raising my voice, said:
“Don’t mind the lanternist, friends, he’s in a bit of trouble. It’s all right, if you’ll just sit quietly, and take no notice of him. I’ll go on with the lecture, we can manage for a while without the pictures.” And so we did; in fact we had to do without them pretty much altogether for the rest of the evening, for that lantern was fairly used up. But I am thankful to say that nothing worse occurred, and the lecture closed in peace. After it was over, however, I told my agent that something must be done about that lantern. I would not face the possibility of another mishap of the same kind for all the expected receipts of the tour. Besides, I could not afford to lose the slides, as I only had one set of duplicates, and I carried no negatives.
So that matter was attended to, and all was well, as I fondly thought. But next night, when I arrived at the theatre, the dismissed lanternist was there, raising no end of a bobbery and threatening everybody concerned with all sorts of dire revenge if he were not reinstated. He had been a lanternist for so many years, and no one had ever found any fault with him before, and so on, and so on. Finally he worked himself up into a mad rage, and we were obliged to send for the police to remove him. On their appearance he cooled down at once, and we saw that it was only bluff on his part. Still, a watchful eye was kept upon him, and we were not further molested. Neither was there any more trouble with the lantern.
Away back at the beginning of my lecturing experiences, before I had thought of lecturing as a source of income, I had conceived the idea of giving a lecture at our little hall, the converted cowshed at Peckham, which the irreverent called Troy Town Cathedral. It was a great effort in which all our little band took part, and we proposed to have a collection, which might, or more probably would not, pay for the gas. A neighbouring chapel very graciously lent us a lantern, a magnificent tri-unial, and our genial little chimney-sweep superintendent assured us that he was a perfect lanternist. Ascertaining that twelve feet of gas would be ample for a two hours’ show, I went to Brins’, in Horseferry Road, purchased a cylinder of that size, and with great pains conveyed it to the hall. We hired a blind organist who was a street musician but had a wonderful repertoire of sacred music and a very nice organ flutina, to be our orchestra, and issued our invitations.
The honorary lanternist and his friends were well on time, and got all the gear fixed up, so that when I arrived all was ready for the pictures. And the audience turned up in very satisfactory numbers. So far everything was splendid, and I commenced my address with great confidence, getting everybody’s attention from the commencement. But at the third slide I noticed that the light was so poor that the outlines of the picture could not be seen, and the following colloquy between the lanternist and myself ensued:
“Can’t you give us a little better light, Tommy?”
“I can’t, bruvver. I’ve tried all manner of ways, an’ I can’t get it no better. I don’t know what can be the matter wi’ it.”
“Well, if the pictures can’t be seen, I can’t go on,” I argued. “It’s no use me attempting to explain without the pictures.”
There was a hideous pause, which was improved by the organist softly improvising, until suddenly the lanternist cried, with a despairing note in his voice:
“There’s no more gas, that’s what’s the matter. I thought there was some’ink wrong.”
“But twelve feet of gas ought to last two hours,” I protested.
“I don’t know anyfink about that, I only know there ain’t no more ’ere. An’ that’s all there is about it.”
Voice from the audience: “Go on with the yarn, governor, never mind the pictures. They’ll do another time.”
After explaining my difficulty at some length I did try and “go on with the yarn”; but it was a poor attempt, for I had looked to the pictures as a series of notes, in fact I had entirely relied upon them, and I had not had sufficient experience to teach me how to do without them. So I am afraid the lecture was a very poor thing indeed—and if the collection was anything to go by, it was so—for the total amount realised was one shilling and fourpence halfpenny.
As soon as the audience had gone an enquiry was held among ourselves as to why the gas had given out. Apparently it still remained a mystery, or the blame was put upon Brins Oxygen Company. But I knew full well, and so did several of the others, I am sure, that the gas had all been used in practising, owing to the inexperience of our lanternist. So effective steps were taken to secure an operator of skill and experience for our next attempt, and the trouble never occurred again.
I think when the few examples of incompetence that I have given are remembered, and that they are all that I have had experience of during a lecture period of sixteen or seventeen years, the conclusion must be arrived at that my encomium upon lanternists is fully justified, and that I have solid foundation for offering them my gratitude. But I must add one more instance of trouble, not at all through incompetence, but incredible folly, which occurred to me some years ago in a large northern town. The secretary of the society for which I was to lecture met me upon arrival at the station, and accompanied me to the hotel where he had engaged a room for me, as hospitality had not been offered. When he had seen me comfortably installed he left me, but just as he was going he asked me for my slides, telling me that he had to pass the hall on his way home, and he would leave them there. Now I had never hitherto been parted from my slides like that, and did not at all see the necessity, but a foolish dislike to appear distrustful of him overcame my reluctance, and I allowed him to take them away. I warned him, however, that they were all in order for use, and that he was to tell the operator so, as well as that when I came I would myself explain which end of the box I wished him to take first. It was also arranged that the secretary should call for me and conduct me to the hall shortly before eight.
In due time he arrived, and we set off gaily together, both in high spirits, for it was a fine evening. I was feeling particularly fit, and we both anticipated a good house. Arriving at the hall at five minutes to eight, I went straight to the lantern, where I found two men, one of whom greeted me cheerfully with:
“Good evening, sir. We’ve looked through your slides, and we’ve arranged them all right for you!”
I felt as if a lump of ice had suddenly been laid upon my spine. In fact I could hardly speak for a moment, but when I could, I grasped the first half-dozen of the slides, exclaiming:
“You’ve surely never dared to alter the order of my slides!”
But they had. A glance was sufficient to show me that these two men, acting under Heaven knows what impulse, had deliberately disarranged my slides. I am usually proof against a sudden shock. But it was eight o’clock, and the lecture due to begin, so I will admit that I was upset. My hand shook so that I could not hold the slides, and I dropped a number of them, breaking six. Then despairingly I lumped them all into the box again, and bore them off to the anteroom, where I told the secretary that he must put the lecture off for a quarter of an hour, and that I would explain to the audience why they had been compelled to wait.
But I was now cooler, and I soon had the slides rearranged; while I recognised that I should do myself no good, and might, with two people like that in charge of my slides, be subjected to a bad breakdown. So I went on as usual, apologised for the delay, and had no more trouble. After the lecture was over, however, I had a heart-to-heart talk with the secretary, which was quite inconclusive, since neither he nor I could form the faintest idea why the outrage had been committed. Nor have I ever learned, for I could not get speech of the perpetrators. I strongly suspect, though, that it was nothing more than careless curiosity at first, and then, the slides not being numbered and many of them not even spotted, the inquisitive ones could not put them right again. The childish yarn about arranging the slides for me was uttered on the spur of the moment, perhaps as a sort of impromptu explanation. However, I suppose it is hardly necessary to say that never again have I trusted anybody else with my slides until they were to be used.