CHAPTER XIV
AUDIENCES
I have often been asked which I consider my best audiences. It is not an easy question to answer, for people vary so in different parts of the same county even. But I have no hesitation in saying that the northern folk, right away to Scotland, are almost uniformly good and quick. And as far as my experience goes, though it may be true (not in my experience) that the Scots joke with difficulty, I have never known any audience quicker or keener to note every point, or more generous with their applause than I have found in Scotland. Of course, in common with every lecturer, I suppose, no matter how long or varied his experience, I have affectionate recollections of certain audiences. The thought of them is very cheering to me in my retirement. I think of the sea of upturned faces now hanging on every syllable, now sending up peal after peal of laughter, and withal by their intense sympathy with me, urging me on to give them better words than I had ever known before that I possessed.
For I learned many years ago the prime secret of the successful—I was going to say orator, but the term is a bit fly-blown to me: it means stilted high-falutin rubbish, meaningless, and leaving any audience cold—lecturer. It is to get yourself on conversational terms with your hearers. This I do not think is possible with obviously prepared speech, and I am sure is impossible to the man who reads his address. The latter course is no doubt necessary at the Universities before a crowd of students with notebooks, seeking learning, and entirely unenthusiastic, but for a popular lecturer it is fatal. Shall I ever forget the look of woe with which I was greeted by a secretary at a big hall near London. To my earnest enquiry as to what was wrong he returned the astounding answer that the committee looked upon me as their only hope. If I gave them as good a lecture as I had given them on a previous occasion the society might survive, but if not it must perish. I wanted to know more, naturally, and the secretary then told me that with the laudable idea of giving their society the best talent obtainable they had engaged at a fee of twenty-five guineas an exceedingly big pot and eminent authority upon a certain subject.
He duly arrived, and appeared before a full house with a sheaf of manuscript, no pictures, a feeble, mumbling voice, and very bad eyesight. He could not decipher his notes, he was in trouble with his glasses, and he could not make himself intelligible. Before he had been on the platform fifteen minutes the hall was empty, and the chairman was compelled to suggest to him that he might as well retire. Within the week half the subscribers had indignantly resigned, and I was now expected to save the remnant, if not to win back some of the seceders. I think I should have been more than human if I had not asked that secretary whether he thought it quite fair to pay one man twenty-five guineas to destroy the society, and another ten guineas to rehabilitate it, but the question was not quite fair, since he was but the mouthpiece of the committee. Still, that question does arise occasionally, and will do so until societies learn that enormous fees to big pots do not always mean general satisfaction and increase of membership.
This recollection brings another in its train, as usual—this time a very delightful one for me. In the early days I went to a celebrated lecture society in London to lecture, and the secretary in conversation in the anteroom before the lecture told me, rather pompously I thought:
“We consider ourselves the best lecture audience in London. And our people will not stay and listen to what they do not care for. So if you find your audience melting away, don’t be discouraged; it may only mean that your subject does not interest them, not any reflection on your ability as a lecturer.”
I thanked him for his caution, but added that I thought I could have done without it. However, I would do my best, as usual. But I was piqued, and I believe I did strive to capture that audience. Anyhow I did get them, and the result remains with me always. For they took me to their collective heart, and together we romped through two hours of delight, at least so the clock said, but when I came off the platform I could not realise that I had been talking more than half an hour. Malapropos to the last, that secretary said to me:
“I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in my life, Mr. Bullen, though, for the life of me, I don’t know what I’ve been laughing about.”
As if it mattered! The great fact was that even he, in whom a sense of humour was absent from his mental equipment, had laughed even unto physical disablement. Yes, that was a very pleasant evening, of a good savour even now.
I have told in another place of the great evening of my life in the Town Hall of Birmingham, and I am thereby precluded from adding very much on that head. I must add, however, that then, as never before, did I realise the utter blessedness of being in complete sympathy with a great company of one’s fellow-mortals, of being able to talk with them as one of themselves, fearlessly, without any reserves or sense of weakness, conscious only of simple truth-telling, and your fellow’s acceptance thereof. That supreme joy had been mine before, but unconsciously—that night in Birmingham was my first realisation of the great fact. Many and many a time when I used to preach in the open air, I have been enabled to forget overdue rent, shabby children, hardly sufficient food and bullying seniors in the office, in the pure joy of swaying a multitude of my fellow men and women, and taking them with me for a while into a rarer and purer atmosphere, where the sordid, irritating things of earth were forgotten in the better world of truth and justice.
It may seem invidious of me to single out certain occasions from the great multitude of happy lecturing hours that have been mine, but it is not so meant. I cannot help the fact that these occasions have impressed themselves indelibly upon my mind. Briarfield, Burnley! I do not often permit myself the luxury of mentioning the name of any place or person, but here I break what has become a rule with me most gratefully.
This was a strong centre of the noble St. John Ambulance Association, and my first experience connected with it was the hearty yet diffident welcome of the stationmaster at the little station—who behaved as if he would be genial, but did not wish to intrude. We speedily became intimate, and he conducted me across some fields to the house of a gentleman, who entertained me royally. When, accompanied by my host, I made my appearance at the hall, I was immensely gratified to find it full of eager folks, a large proportion of them in Red Cross uniform for both sexes. This was the first time I had ever been brought into contact with a centre of the Association, and I was much impressed by the keenness and earnestness exhibited by everybody. It was not, however, until I mounted the platform, and began my address, that I realised the exceeding warmth of my reception, and the great sympathy felt by those present for myself. This led me to devote a few minutes to my own experiences in ambulance work on board ship, where native wit had to supply the place of training, and extensive reading also helped with medical knowledge.
Greater interest and enthusiasm could not possibly have been manifested than by this audience at my anecdotes, and I was repeatedly interrupted by vociferous applause. Here I feel bound to interpolate a statement concerning a characteristic which, though personal to myself, I feel cannot be singular, it must be shared with many other public speakers, but whoever has the faculty of which I speak, surely must feel as grateful for it as I do. I allude to the power of being able to devote one-half or one portion of the mind to any other subject which may present itself, while apparently wholly engaged in the subject upon which the audience is being addressed. Kipling hints at this faculty in one of the poetic chapter headings in Kim:
“Something I owe to the soil that grew—
More to the life that fed—
But most to Allah who gave me two
Separate sides to my head.
“I would go without shirts or shoes,
Friends, tobacco or bread
Sooner than for an instant lose
Either side of my head.”
I have often envied others the power of concentration, but, oh, the sheer joy in being able to carry on two mental operations at once. To be able to devote yourself most strenuously to the desires of the audience, while at the same time reaching out with another most prehensile section of mind into quite different regions, and bringing back treasures long forgotten or unsuspected to lavish upon those beloved hearers who are giving you one of the great joyous times of your life. What I am writing may seem extravagant, but it is honestly true and honestly felt. Between every member of some audiences and myself there seems to be a chord of sympathy, a mental connection, compelling the delivery not only of my best, but of matter, the very existence of which has until then been unsuspected by me.
And of all the occasions upon which I have felt and exercised that delightful faculty, that night at Briarfield stands easily first. And it was curious, too. For I was totally unfit to stand before them at all, physically. Among the many mysterious things connected with this fleshly habitation of mine is one that involves much pain and discomfort, and for which I can never account. On that day I had been very leisurely indeed. My journey from London had been most easy and pleasant. I had read a gentle book, I had enjoyed a good meal. And on arrival at my host’s house there was no excitement, for host and hostess were unavoidably absent, and I rested in a charming room, in one of the easiest of chairs, until their return two hours later. Yet when I went up to dress, my legs and arms were covered with irregular painful swellings and purple spots, which made any movement and standing very painful to me.
The experience is in no way unusual to me, I have had it for years, and when it attacks me nothing is of any use but a recumbent position. I have gone a long and wearying journey to Scotland, and lectured in some distant suburb of Glasgow, and never felt it, and on an occasion like that of Briarfield I have been in agony throughout the lecture. Yet, and this does give me pleasure, none of my audience knew, nay, I was only subconscious of pain myself, it ran like a hot wire through my thoughts. And I have often wondered whether bodily pain like that has any effect upon the thought centres, as a stimulant, let us say! It may be so, but I know that I should have been grateful to do without such a stimulus.
In this connection I recollect on one occasion having to lecture at Winchmore Hill, when, as the phrase goes, I was suffering from a severe attack of neuritis. At least I suppose that is what it was, a pain like an incandescent wire running from my shoulder down the inside of my right arm to my finger-tips, paralysing my hand, and refusing to be eased, no matter how my arm lay. I had a sling for my arm, but it was of little use, for I had to be continually withdrawing the limb from it when the pain grew unbearable. However, I got assistance in dressing, and arrived at the hall, to find the secretary full of sympathy, but very doubtful from my contortions and grimaces whether the lecture would come off.
I endeavoured to reassure him, told him of that mysterious uplift we get when we face the audience,—my brother-lecturers will know what I mean—and think I succeeded in allaying the most severe of his apprehensions. At any rate the time came, and I did face the audience, who showed by their laughter and applause how much they appreciated the lecture. But when I came off the platform I was chalky white, and wet through with sweat, while the pain——But, there, that doesn’t matter. What did matter was that the audience was not disappointed. For that is the great thing to avoid. There are no valid excuses in the lecturing business. If you let an audience down once, you may wipe that place out of your expectations for the future. At least that is my belief.
But how hard it is on a lecturer. I remember once being engaged not for a lecture, but to deliver an address to the Seventh Day Schools Association, Severn Street, Birmingham. I gave a lecture the previous evening at Dudley Port, and was in fine trim, never better. But when I awoke in the morning I could not utter a sound, my voice had gone! I had no trace of cold, soreness of the throat, or any feeling save that of good health, but I was as dumb as a fish. I went to the gentleman who had engaged me, and with the aid of some paper explained my difficulty, offering to write out an address and give it to him to read, since he was to be my chairman. Naturally he was staggered, could hardly believe me. Nay, I am sure that he did not quite believe me, for in the evening after he had read the address I had written—and, oh, didn’t he read it badly!—he asked me to get up and say “just half a dozen words.”
In vain I pointed out to him on paper that I was utterly incapable of making the slightest sound. He still pressed me, until at last I stood up and faced that audience, feeling like the champion fool of all the world, for I was dumb. I made a few signs, and then with burning face sat down. I felt then, and I feel still, that, grievous as my friend’s disappointment was, he need not thus have humiliated me. I am sure, though, that he did not think he was so doing, it was only his desire that his friends should see for themselves that I could not speak to them, much as I must have wished to exercise that privilege.
One audience that I addressed in a large northern town did fairly puzzle me. The hall was full, and I was in good form, but those people never gave a sign that they even knew what I was saying. They sat stolidly looking at the screen, but never making a sound, and though none of them went away until the whole thing was over, they preserved the same uncanny silence all through. No! let me be just. They did once applaud, and for that I was, and shall always be, grateful to them. My chairman was a most amiable schoolmaster, head of an important school in the vicinity, and he exercised his function as chairman in the most praiseworthy way.
So far, so good, but from the commencement of my address I had noted with growing disfavour the behaviour of the young men who occupied the front row of seats. They were evidently out for a lark, and showed it plainly by conversing with one another, gradually becoming more and more audible, until there was a serious interference with the sound of my voice. I grew more and more disturbed, until at last I could endure it no longer, and suddenly ceased speaking. Of course they did so too, so after waiting about a minute in a profound silence, I said gravely:
“I have been waiting patiently for you young gentlemen to finish what must be a very important conversation, since you must needs pursue it in a place like this, where it disturbs me in the performance of my duty, and prevents people who wish to listen to me from hearing. But I think it is very strange that you should come here to talk when you could find so many better opportunities outside. If, however, you feel that you must talk here, I must appeal to the audience whether they want to hear you more than me, and I will abide by their decision.”
A vigorous burst of applause followed, and I had no more trouble, but went on to the end of my lecture in perfect silence. After I had returned to the anteroom my chairman said, pompously:
“I think you were much too severe in your remarks about the behaviour of those young gentlemen.”
“Do you?” I retorted. “Well, all I have to say is that some audiences I have addressed would have had them ejected long before. Their behaviour was that of a pack of uneducated cads.”
He said no more, and I afterwards learned that those young gentlemen were his prime scholars. Hence his defence of their conduct. On my way home with my hostess I expressed my astonishment at the strange apathy of my audience.
“Oh,” she replied, “that is easily explained. I doubt if ten of them understood what you said. They were nearly all German Jews.”
Which set me wondering in another direction, although it did satisfactorily explain the principal mystery.
I feel I cannot do better than close this chapter with an account of an audience I once addressed in the Scotland Road, Liverpool, whither I was sent by the Corporation Lectures Committee, who had engaged me to give a series of free lectures in the city. I was accompanied by my friend and host, Mr. Charles Birchall, who thus generously gave up his valuable evening to keep me company, for he had heard the lecture before. We got a bit of a shock on arriving at the fine hall, when we saw the class of people that were going in, and my good friend took the first opportunity afforded him in the anteroom of putting his watch, chain and money in a place of safety before taking his seat.
On the stroke of eight I mounted the platform, and faced an audience of I should say 1200, but such a congregation as I have never addressed before, and hope never to again. It was evident at once that most of them had come in there for shelter out of the bleak and bitter night, for they were nearly all in rags or at any rate very poorly clad. And they smelt. Poor things, they looked wolfish from hunger, scarred with brutality, and desperate with want. And I was to lecture to them upon Romance and Reality at Sea! My mind was made up in an instant. A lecture in any ordinary acceptation of the term would have been not only a farce, but a dire insult to these hapless people, and so I drew upon my great stock of reminiscences of Liverpool Docks when I was young, of the realities of sea-life, of things, in short, that they could understand and appreciate. I don’t know whether I made them forget my evening dress, I forgot it myself, I know, but it is certain that I held them from the start, and was rewarded at the close of the lecture, which lasted nearly two hours, with vociferous applause.
When I rejoined my friend he was almost speechless with amazement. Knowing Liverpool so much better than I did, he had wondered mightily what I could find to say to an audience like that, obviously hungry, wretchedly clad, and vicious-looking. And then he had seen them interested, and applauding heartily, forgetting their own very present troubles in my recital of what they felt to be truly my own sad experiences as an unwanted waif of the street, lurking about the docks of that great city. I have since heard that some of my successors did not fare so well as I did, and I am not at all surprised at that, I should be more inclined to wonder if it were not so, when I recall the antecedents and careers of the most of them.
In all my experience I never met with a really unjust or unkind audience but once, and that was in a large town of Scotland. Through some carelessness on the part of those in charge of the proceedings the galleries had been allowed to become the playground of a number of noisy, thoughtless children, who amused themselves during my lecture by running about and jumping over the benches, accompanying their antics by shrill cries. I stopped and protested, suggesting either that the youngsters should be kept quiet or removed. To my utter surprise my remarks were received with hisses. I promptly thanked the audience and retired, saying that since they preferred rather to listen to the racket overhead than what I had to say, that I had much pleasure in leaving them to that enjoyment.