Between You and Me by Sir Harry Lauder
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Sir Harry Lauder >> Between You and Me
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Here, again. In the States there's been trouble about the men that
work on the railways. Can I say it's no my business? Is it no? Suppose
they gae oot on strike? How am I to mak' my trips frae one toon the
the next? And should I no be finding oot, if there's like that
threatening to my business, where the richt lies? You will be finding
it's sae, too, in your affairs; there's little can come that willna
affect you, soon or late.
We maun all stand together, especially we plain men and women. It was
sae that we won the war--and it is sae that we can win the peace noo
that it's come again, and mak' it a peace sae gude for a' the world
that it can never be broken again by war. There'd be no wars i' the
world if peace were sae gude that all men were content. It's
discontented men who stir up trouble in the world, and sae mak' wars
possible.
We talk much, in these days, of classes. There's a phrase it sickens
me tae hear--class consciousness. It's ane way of setting the man who
works wi' his hands against him who works wi' his brain. It's no the
way a man works that ought to count--it's that he works at all. Both
sorts of work are needful; we canna get along without either sort.
Is no humanity a greater thing than any class? We are all human. We
maun all be born, and we maun all die in the end. That much we ken,
and there's nae sae much more we can be siccar of. And I've often
thought that the trouble with most of our hatreds an' our envy and
malice is that folk do not know one another well enough. There's fewer
quarrels among folk that speak the same tongue. Britain and America
dwelt at peace for mair than a hundred years before they took the
field together against a common enemy. America and Canada stand side
by side--a great strong nation and a small one. There's no fort
between them; there are no fichting ships on the great lakes, ready to
loose death and destruction.
It's easier to have a good understanding when different peoples speak
the same language. But there's a hint o' the way things must be done,
I'm thinking, in the future. Britain and France used tae have their
quarrels. They spoke different tongues. But gradually they built up a
gude understanding of one another, and where's the man in either
country the noo that wadna laugh at you if you said there was danger
they micht gae tae war?
It's harder, it may be, to promote a gude understanding when there's a
different language for a barrier. But walls can be climbed, and
there's more than the ane way of passing them. We've had a great
lesson in that respect in the war. It's the first time that ever a
coalition of nations held together. Germany and Austria spoke one
language. But we others, with a dozen tongues or mair to separate us,
were forged into one mighty confederation by our peril and our
consciousness of richt, and we beat doon that barrier of various
languages, sae that it had nae existence.
And it's not only foreign peoples that speak a different tongue at
times. Whiles you'll find folk of the same family, the same race, the
same country, who gie the same words different meanings, and grow
confused and angry for that reason. There's a way they can overcome
that, and reach an understanding. It's by getting together and talking
oot all that confuses and angers them. Speech is a great solvent if a
man's disposed any way at all to be reasonable, and I've found, as
I've gone about the world, that most men want to be reasonable.
They'll call me an optimist, maybe. I'll no be ashamed of that title.
There was a saying I've heard in America that taught me a lot. They've
a wee cake there they call a doughnut--awfu' gude eating, though no
quite sae gude as Mrs. Lauder's scones. There's round hole in the
middle of a doughnut, always. And the Americans have a way of saying:
"The optimist sees the doughnut; the pessimist sees the hole." It's a
wise crack, you, and it tells you a good deal, if you'll apply it.
There's another way we maun be thinking. We've spent a deal of blood
and siller in these last years. We maun e'en have something to show
for all we've spent. For a muckle o' the siller we've spent we've just
borrowed and left for our bairns and their bairns to pay when the time
comes. And we maun leave the world better for those that are coming,
or they'll be saying it's but a puir bargain we've made for them, and
what we bought wasna worth the price.
CHAPTER XX
There's no sadder sicht my een have ever seen than that of the maimed
and wounded laddies that ha' come hame frae this war that is just
over. I ken that there's been a deal of talk aboot what we maun do for
them that ha' done sae much for us. But I'm thinking we can never
think too often of those laddies, nor mak' too many plans to mak' life
easier for them. They didna think before they went and suffered. They
couldna calculate. Jock could not stand, before the zero hour came in
the trenches, and talk' wi' his mate.
He'd not be saying: "Sandy, man, we're going to attack in twa-three
meenits. Maybe I'll lose a hand, Sandy, or a leg. Maybe it'll be
you'll be hit. What'll we be doing then? Let's mak' our plans the noo.
How'll we be getting on without our legs or our arms or if we should
be blind?"
No, it was not in such fashion that the laddies who did the fichting
thought or talked wi' one another. They'd no time, for the one thing.
And for another, I think they trusted us.
Weel, each government has worked out its own way of taking care of the
men who suffered. They're gude plans, the maist of them. Governments
have shown more intelligence, more sympathy, more good judgment, than
ever before in handling such matters. That's true in America as well
as in Britain. It's so devised that a helpless man will be taken care
of a' his life lang, and not feel that he's receiving any charity.
It's nae more than richt that it should be so; it would be a black
shame, indeed, if it were otherwise. But still there's more tae be
done, and it's for you and me and all the rest of us that didna suffer
sae to do it.
There's many things a laddie that's been sair wounded needs and wants
when he comes hame. Until he's sure of his food and his roof, and of
the care of those dependent on him, if such there be, he canna think
of anything else. And those things, as is richt and proper, his
country will take in its charge.
But after that what he wants maist is tae know that he's no going to
be helpless all his days. He wants to feel that he's some use in the
world. Unless he can feel sae, he'd raither ha' stayed in a grave in
France, alongside the thousands of others who have stayed there. It's
an awfu' thing to be a laddie, wi' maist of the years of your life
still before you to be lived, and to be thinking you micht better be
dead.
I know what I'm talking aboot when I speak of this. Mind ye, I've
passed much time of late years in hospitals. I've talked to these
laddies when they'd be lying there, thinking--thinking. They'd a' the
time in the world to think after they began to get better. And they'd
be knowing, then, that they would live--that the bullet or the shell
or whatever it micht be that had dropped them had not finished them.
And they'd know, too, by then, that the limb was lost for aye, or the
een or whatever it micht be.
Noo, think of a laddie coming hame. He's discharged frae the hospital
and frae the army. He's a civilian again. Say he's blind. He's got his
pension, his allowance, whatever it may be. There's his living. But is
he to be just a hulk, needing some one always to care for him? That's
a' very fine at first. Everyone's glad tae do it. He's a hero, and a
romantic figure. But let's look a wee bit ahead.
Let's get beyond Jock just at first, when all the folks are eager to
see him and have him talk to them. They're glad to sit wi' him, or tae
tak' him for a bit walk. He'll no bore them. But let's be thinking of
Jock as he'll be ten years frae noo. Who'll be remembering then hoo
they felt when he first came home? They'll be thinking of the nuisance
it is tae be caring for him a' the time, and of the way he's always
aboot the hoose, needing care and attention.
What I'm afraid of is that tae many of the laddies wull be tae tired
to fit themselves tae be other than helpless creatures, despite their
wounds or their blindness. They can do wonders, if we'll help them. We
maun not encourage those laddies tae tak' it tae easy the noo. It's a
cruel hard thing to tell a boy like yon that he should be fitting
himself for life. It seems that he ought to rest a bit, and tak'
things easy, and that it's a sma' thing, after all he's done, to
promise him good and loving care all his days.
Aye, and that's a sma' thing enough--if we're sure we can keep our
promise. But after every war--and any old timer can tell ye I'm
tellin' ye the truth the noo--there have been crippled and blinded men
who have relied upon such promises--and seen them forgotten, seen
themselves become a burden. No man likes to think he's a burden. It
irks him sair. And it will be irksome specially tae laddies like those
who have focht in France.
It's no necessary that any man should do that. The miracles of to-day
are all at the service of the wounded laddies. And I've seen things
I'd no ha' believed were possible, had I had to depend on the
testimony o' other eyes than my own. I've seen men sae hurt that it
didna seem possible they could ever do a'thing for themselves again.
And I've seen those same men fend for themselves in a way that was as
astonishing as it was heart rending.
The great thing we maun all do wi' the laddies that are sae maimed and
crippled is never tae let them ken we're thinking of their
misfortunes. That's a hard thing, but we maun do it. I've seen sic a
laddie get into a 'bus or a railway carriage. And I've seen him wince
when een were turned upon him. Dinna mistake me. They were kind een
that gazed on him. The folk were gude folk; they were fu' of sympathy.
They'd ha' done anything in the world for the laddie. But--they were
doing the one thing they shouldna ha' done.
Gi'en you're an employer, and a laddie wi' a missing leg comes tae ye
seeking a job. You've sent for him, it may be; ye ken work ye can gie
him that he'll be able tae do. A' richt--that's splendid, and it's
what maun be done. But never let him know you're thinking at a' that
his leg's gone. Mak' him feel like ithers. We maun no' be reminding
the laddies a' the time that they're different noo frae ither folk.
That's the hard thing.
Gi'en a man's had sic a misfortune. We know--it's been proved a
thousand times ower--that a man can rise above sic trouble. But he
canno do it if he's thinking of it a' the time. The men that have
overcome the handicaps of blindness and deformity are those who gie no
thought at all to what ails them--who go aboot as if they were as well
and as strong as ever they've been.
It's a hard thing not to be heeding such things.
But it's easier than what these laddies have had to do, and what they
must go on doing a' the rest of their lives. They'll not be able to
forget their troubles very long; there'll be plenty to remind them.
But let's not gae aboot the streets wi' our een like a pair of looking
glasses in which every puir laddie sees himsel' reflected.
It's like the case of the lad that's been sair wounded aboot the head;
that's had his face sae mangled and torn that he'd be a repulsive
sicht were it not for the way that he became sae. If he'd been
courting a lassie before he was hurt wadna the thought of how she'd be
feeling aboot him be amang his wairst troubles while he lay in
hospital? I've talked wi' such, and I know.
Noo, it's a hard thing to see the face one loves changed and altered
and made hideous. But it's no sae hard as to have tha face! Who wull
say it is? And we maun be carefu' wi' such boys as that, tae. They're
verra sensitive; all those that have been hurt are sensitive. It's
easy to wound their feelings. And it should be easy for all of us to
enter into a conspiracy amang ourselves to hide the shock of surprise
we canna help feeling, whiles, and do nothing that can make a lad-die
wha's fresh frae the hospital grow bitter over the thocht that he's
nae like ither men the noo.
Yon's a bit o' a sermon I've been preaching, I'm afraid. But, oh,
could ye ha' seen the laddies as I ha' seen them, in the hospitals,
and afterward, when they were waiting tae gae hame! They wad ask me
sae often did I think their ain folk could stand seeing them sae
changed.
"Wull it be sae hard for them, Harry?" they've said the me, over and
over again. "Whiles I've thocht it would ha' been better had I stayed
oot there----"
Weel, I ken that that's nae sae. I'd gie a' the world tae ha' my ain
laddie back, no matter hoo sair he'd been hurt. And there's never a
faither nor a mither but wad feel the same way--aye, I'm sure o' that.
Sae let us a' get together and make sure that there's never a look in
our een or a shrinking that can gie' any o' these laddies, whether
they're our kin or no, whether we saw them before, the feeling that
there's any difference in our eyes between them and ourselves.
The greatest suffering any man's done that's been hurt is in his
spirit, in his mind--not in his body. Bodily pain passes and is
forgotten. But the wounds of the human spirit lie deep, and it takes
them a lang time tae heal. They're easily reopened, tae; a careless
word, a glance, and a' a man has gone through is brought back to his
memory, when, maybe, he'd been forgetting. I've seen it happen too
oft.
CHAPTER XXI
I've said sae muckle aboot myself in this book that I'm a wee bit
reluctant tae say mair. But still, there's a thing I've thought about
a good deal of late, what wi' all this talk of hoo easy some folk have
it, and how hard others must work. I think there's no one makes a
success of any sort wi'oot hard work--and wi'oot keeping up hard work,
what's mair. I ken that's so of all the successful men I've ever
known, all over the world. They work harder than maist folk will ever
realize, and it's just why they're where they are.
Noawadays it's almost fashionable to think that any man that's got
mair than others has something wrong about him. I know folks are
always saying to me that I'm sae lucky; that all I have tae do is to
sing twa-three songs in an evening and gae my ain gait the rest of my
time. If they but knew the way I'm working!
Noo, I'd no be having anyone think I'm complaining. I love my work.
It's what I'd rather do, till I retire and tak' the rest I feel I've
earned, than any work i' a' the world. It's brought me happiness, my
work has, and friends, and my share o' siller. But--it's _work_.
It's always been work. It's work to-day. It'll be work till I'm ready
to stop doing it altogether. And, because, after all, a man knows more
of his own work than of any other man's, I think I'll tell you just
hoo I do work, and hoo much of my time it takes beside the hour or two
I'll be in the theatre during a performance.
Weel, to begin with, there's the travelling. I travel in great
comfort. But I dinna care how comfortable ye are, travel o' the sort I
do is bound tae be a tiring thing. It's no sae hard in England or in
Scotland. Distances are short. There's seldom need of spending a nicht
on a train. So there it's easy. But when it comes to the United States
and Canada it's a different matter.
There it's almost always a case of starting during the nicht, after a
performance. That means switching the car, coupling it to a train. I'm
a gude sleeper, but I'll defy any man tae sleep while his car is being
hitched to a train, or whiles it's being shunted around in a railroad
yard. And then, as like as not, ye'll come tae the next place in the
middle of the nicht, or early in the morning, whiles you're taking
your beauty sleep. The beauty sleeps I've had interrupted in America
by having a switching engine come and push and haul me aboot! 'Is it
any wonder I've sae little o' my manly beauty left?
There's a great strain aboot constant travelling, too. There will aye
be accidents. No serious ones, maist of them, but trying tae the
nerves and disturbing tae the rest. And there's aye some worry aboot
being late. Unless you've done such work as mine, you canna know how I
dread missing a performance. I've the thought of all the folk turning
oot, and having them disappointed. There's a sense of responsibility
one feels toward those who come oot sae to hear one sing. One owes
them every care and thought.
Sae it's the nervous strain as much as the actual weariness of travel
that I'm thinking of. It's a relief, on a long tour, tae come to a
city where one's booked for a week. I'm no ower fond of hotels, but
there's comfort in them at such times. But still, that's another
thing. I miss my hame as every man should when he's awa frae it. It's
hard work to keep comfortable and happy when I'm on tour so much.
Oh, aye, I can hear what you're saying to yourself! You're saying I've
talked sae much about hoo fond I am of travelling. You'll be thinking,
maybe, you'd be glad of the chance to gae all around the world,
travelling in comfort and luxury. Aye, and so am I. It's just that I
want you to understand that it's all wear and tear. It all takes it
out of me.
But that's no what I'm meaning when I talk of the work I do. I'm
thinking of the wee songs themselves, and the singing of them. Hoo do
you think I get the songs I sing? Do you think they're just written
richt off? Weel, it's not so.
A song, for me, you'll ken, is muckle mair than just a few words and a
melody. It must ha' business. The way I'll dress, the things I do, the
way I'll talk between verses--it's all one. A song, if folks are going
to like it, has to be thought out wi' the greatest care.
I keep a great scrapbook, and it gaes wi' me everywhere I go. In it I
put doon everything that occurs tae me that may help to make a new
song, or that will make an old one go better. I'll see a queer yin in
the street, maybe. He'll do something wi' his hands, or he'll stand in
a peculiar fashion that makes me laugh. Or it'll be something funny
aboot his claes.
It'll be in Scotland, maist often, of course, that I'll come upon
something of the sort, but it's no always there. I've picked up
business for my songs everywhere I've ever been. My scrap book is
almost full now--my second one, I mean. And I suppose that there must
be ideas buried in it that are better by far than any I've used, for I
must confess that I can't always read the notes I've jotted down. I
dash down a line or two, often, and they must seem to me to be
important at the time, or I'd no be doing it. But later, when I'm
browsing wi' the old scrapbook, blessed if I can make head or tail of
them! And when I can't no one else can; Mrs. Lauder has tried, often
enough, and laughed at me for a salt yin while she did it.
But often and often I've found a treasure that I'd forgotten a' aboot
in the old book. I mind once I saw this entry----
"Think about a song called the 'Last of the Sandies'."
I had to stop and think a minute, and then I remembered that I'd seen
the bill of a play, while I was walking aboot in London, that was
called "The Last of the Dandies." That suggested the title for a song,
and while I sat and remembered I began to think of a few words that
would fit the idea.
When I came to put them together to mak' a song I had the help of my
old Glasga friend, Rob Beaton, who's helped me wi' several o' my
songs. I often write a whole song myself; sometimes, though, I can't
seem to mak' it come richt, and then I'm glad of help frae Beaton or
some other clever body like him. I find I'm an uncertain quantity when
it comes to such work; whiles I'll be able to dash off the verses of a
song as fast as I can slip the words doon upon the paper. Whiles,
again, I'll seem able never to think of a rhyme at a', and I just have
to wait till the muse will visit me again.
There's no telling how the idea for a song will come. But I ken fine
how a song's made when once you have the idea! It's by hard work, and
in no other way. There's nae sic a thing as writing a song easily--not
a song folk will like. Don't let anyone tell you any different--or
else you may be joining those who are sae sure I've refused the best
song ever written--theirs!
The ideas come easily--aye! Do you mind a song I used to sing called
"I Love a Lassie?" I'm asked ower and again to sing it the noo, so I'm
thinking perhaps ye'll ken the yin I mean. It's aye been one of the
songs folk in my audiences have liked best. Weel, ane day I was just
leaving a theatre when the man at the stage door handed me a letter--a
letter frae Mrs. Lauder, I'll be saying.
"A lady's handwriting, Harry," he said, jesting. "I suppose you love
the lassies,"
"Oh, aye--ye micht say so," I answered. "At least--I'm fond o' all the
lassies, but I only love yin."
And I went off thinking of the bonnie lassie I'd loved sae well sae
lang.
"I love ma lassie," I hummed to myself. And then I stopped in my
tracks. If anyone was watching me they'd ha' thought I was daft, no
doot!!
"I love a lassie!" I hummed. And then I thocht: "Noo--there's a bonny
idea for a bit sang!"
That time the melody came to me frae the first. It was wi' the words I
had the trouble. I couldna do anything wi' them at a' at first. So I
put the bit I'd written awa'. But whiles later I remembered it again,
and I took the idea to my gude friend Gerald Grafton. We worked a long
time before we hit upon just the verses that seemed richt. But when
we'd done we had a song that I sang for many years, and that my
audiences still demand from me.
That's aye been one great test of a song for me. Whiles I'll be a wee
bit dootful aboot a song-in my repertory for a season. Then I'll stop
singing it for a few nichts. If the audiences ask for it after that I
know that I should restore it to its place, and I do.
I do not write all my own songs, but I have a great deal to do with
the making of all of them. It's not once in a blue moon that I get a
song that I can sing exactly as it was first written. That doesna mean
it's no a good song it may mean that I'm no just the man tae sing it
the way the author intended. I've my ain ways of acting and singing,
and unless I feel richt and hamely wi' a song I canna do it justice.
Sae it's no reflection on an author if I want to change his song
about.
I keep in touch with several song writers--Grafton, J. D. Harper and
several others. So well do they understand the way I like to do that
they usually send me their first rough sketch of a song--the song the
way it's born in their minds, before they put it into shape at all.
They just give an outline of the words, and that gives me a notion of
the story I'll have to be acting out to sing the song.
If I just sang songs, you see, it would be easy enough. But the song's
only a part of it. There must aye be a story to be told, and a
character to be portrayed, and studied, and interpreted. I always
accept a song that appeals to me, even though I may not think I can
use it for a long time to come. Good ideas for songs are the scarcest
things in the world, I've found, and I never let one that may possibly
suit me get away from me.
Often and often there'll be nae mair than just the bare idea left
after we get through rebuilding and writing a new song. It may be just
a title-a title counts for a great deal in a song with me.
I get a tremendous lot of songs frae ane year's end tae the other. All
sorts of folk that ha' heard me send me their compositions, and though
not one in fifty could possibly suit me I go through them a'. It
doesna tak' much time; I can tell by a single glance at the verses, as
a rule, if it's worth my while tae go on and finish reading. At the
same time it has happened just often enough that a good song has come
to me so, frae an author that's never been heard of before, that I
wullna tak' the chance of missing one.
It may be, you'll understand, that some of the songs I canna use are
very good. Other singers have taken a song I have rejected and made a
great success wi' it. But that means just nothing at a' tae me. I'm
glad the song found it's place--that's all. I canna put a song on
unless it suits me--unless I feel, when I'm reading it, that here's
something I can do so my audience will like to hear me do it. I
flatter myself that I ken weel enough what the folk like that come to
hear me--and, in any case, I maun be the judge.
But, every sae oft, there'll be a batch of songs I've put aside to
think aboot a wee bit more before I decide. And then I'll tell my
wife, of a morning, that I'd like tae have her listen tae a few songs
that seemed to me micht do.
"All richt," she'll say. "But hurry up I'm making scones the day."
She's a great yin aboot the hoose, is Mrs. Lauder. We've to be awa'
travelling sae much that she says it rests her to work harder than a
scullery maid whiles she's at hame. And it's certain I'd rather eat
scones of her baking than any I've ever tasted.
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