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If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - - -Title: Behind the Footlights - - -Author: Mrs (Ethel) Alec-Tweedie - - - -Release Date: September 6, 2017 [eBook #55492] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - - -***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS*** - - -E-text prepared by MWS, Brian Wilcox, and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made -available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) - - - -Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this - file which includes the original illustrations. - See 55492-h.htm or 55492-h.zip: - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/55492/55492-h/55492-h.htm) - or - (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/55492/55492-h.zip) - - - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - https://archive.org/details/behindfootlights00twee - - -Transcriber’s note: - - Bold text is denoted =thus=. - - Blackletter text is denoted +thus+. - - Italic text is denoted _thus_. - - - - - -BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS - - - * * * * * * - -_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._ - - - MEXICO AS I SAW IT. _Third Edition._ - - THROUGH FINLAND IN CARTS. _Third Edition._ - - A WINTER JAUNT TO NORWAY. _Second Edition._ - - THE OBERAMMERGAU PASSION PLAY. _Out of print._ - - DANISH VERSUS ENGLISH BUTTER MAKING. _Reprint from “Fortnightly.”_ - - WILTON, Q.C. _Second Edition._ - - A GIRL’S RIDE IN ICELAND. _Third Edition._ - - GEORGE HARLEY, F.R.S.; or, the Life of a London Physician. _Second - Edition._ - - * * * * * * - - -[Illustration: - - _From a Sketch by Percy Anderson._ - -MISS CONSTANCE COLLIER AS PALLAS ATHENE IN “ULYSSES.” - - _Frontispiece._] - - - - - -BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS - -by - -MRS. ALEC-TWEEDIE - -Author of -“Mexico as I Saw It,” “George Harley, F.R.S.,” etc. - -With Twenty Illustrations - - - - - - -New York -Dodd Mead and Company -1904 - -Printed by -Hazell, Watson and Viney, Ld., -London and Aylesbury, -England. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER I - - _THE GLAMOUR OF THE STAGE_ - PAGE - Girlish Dreams of Success—Golden Glitter—Overcrowding—Few - Successful—Weedon Grossmith—Beerbohm Tree—How Mrs. - Tree made Thousands for the War Fund—The Stage Door - Reached—Glamour Fades—The Divorce Court and the - Theatre—Childish Enthusiasm—Old Scotch Body’s Horror—Love - Letters—Temptations—Emotions—How Women began to Act under - Charles I.—Influence of the Theatre for Good or Ill 1 - - - CHAPTER II - - _CRADLED IN THE THEATRE_ - - Three Great Aristocracies—Born on the Stage—Inherited - Talent—Interview with Mrs. Kendal—Her Opinions and - Warning to Youthful Aspirants—Usual Salary—Starving in - the Attempt to Live—No Dress Rehearsal—Overdressing—A - Peep at Harley Street—Voice and Expression—American - Friends—Mrs. Kendal’s Marriage—Forbes Robertson’s - Romance—Why he Deserted Art for the Stage—Fine - Elocutionist—Bad Enunciation and Noisy Music—Ellen - Terry—Gillette—Expressionless Faces—Long Runs—Charles - Warner—Abuse of Success 21 - - - CHAPTER III - - _THEATRICAL FOLK_ - - Miss Winifred Emery—Amusing Criticism—An Actress’s - Home Life—Cyril Maude’s first Theatrical Venture—First - Performance—A Luncheon Party—A Bride as Leading Lady—No - Games, no Holidays—A Party at the Haymarket—Miss Ellaline - Terriss and her First Appearance—Seymour Hicks—Ben - Webster and Montagu Williams—The Sothern Family—Edward - Sothern as a Fisherman—A Terrible Moment—Almost - a Panic—Asleep as Dundreary—Frohman at Daly’s - Theatre—English and American Alliance—Mummers 46 - - - CHAPTER IV - - _PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS_ - - Interview with Ibsen—His Appearance—His Home—Plays - Without Plots—His Writing-table—His Fetiches—Old - at Seventy—A Real Tragedy and Comedy—Ibsen’s First - Book—Winter in Norway—An Epilogue—Arthur Wing - Pinero—Educated for the Law—As Caricaturist—An - Entertaining Luncheon—How Pinero writes his Plays—A Hard - Worker—First Night of _Letty_ 74 - - - CHAPTER V - - _THE ARMY AND THE STAGE_ - - Captain Robert Marshall—From the Ranks to the Stage—£10 - for a Play—How Copyright is Retained—I. Zangwill as - Actor—Copyright Performance—Three First Plays (Pinero, - Grundy, Sims)—Cyril Maude at the Opera—_Mice and - Men_—Sir Francis Burnand, _Punch_, Sir John Tenniel, - and a Cartoon—Brandon Thomas and _Charley’s Aunt_—How - that Play was Written—The Gaekwar of Baroda—Changes in - London—Frederick Fenn at Clement’s Inn—James Welch on - Audiences 92 - - - CHAPTER VI - - _DESIGNING THE DRESSES_ - - Sarah Bernhardt’s Dresses and Wigs—A Great Musician’s - Hair—Expenses of Mounting—Percy Anderson—_Ulysses_—_The - Eternal City_—A Dress Parade—Armour—Over-elaboration—An - Understudy—Miss Fay Davis—A London Fog—The Difficulties - of an Engagement 111 - - - CHAPTER VII - - _SUPPER ON THE STAGE_ - - Reception on the St. James’s Stage—An Indian Prince—His - Comments—The Audience—George Alexander’s Youth—How - he missed a Fortune—How he learns a Part—A Scenic - Garden—Love of the Country—Actors’ Pursuits—Strain - of Theatrical Life—Life and Death—Fads—Mr. Maude’s - Dressing-room—Sketches on Distempered Walls—Arthur - Bourchier and his Dresser—John Hare—Early and late - Theatres—A Solitary Dinner—An Hour’s Make-up—A Forgetful - Actor—_Bonne Camaraderie_—Theatrical Salaries—Treasury - Day—Thriftlessness—The Advent of Stalls—The Bancrofts—The - Haymarket Photographs—A Dress Rehearsal 125 - - - CHAPTER VIII - - _MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT_ - - Sarah Bernhardt and her Tomb—The Actress’s Holiday—Love - of her Son—Sarah Bernhardt Shrimping—Why she left the - Comédie Française—Life in Paris—A French Claque—Three - Ominous Raps—Strike of the Orchestra—Parisian - Theatre Customs—Programmes—Late Comers—The _Matinée_ - Hat—Advertisement Drop Scene—First Night of _Hamlet_— - Madame Bernhardt’s own Reading of _Hamlet_—Yorick’s - Skull—Dr. Horace Howard Furness—A Great Shakesperian - Library 151 - - - CHAPTER IX - - _AN HISTORICAL FIRST NIGHT_ - - An Interesting Dinner—Peace in the Transvaal—Beerbohm - Tree as a Seer—How he cajoled Ellen Terry and Mrs. - Kendal to Act—First-nighters on Camp-stools—Different - Styles of Mrs. Kendal and Miss Terry—The Fun of the - Thing—Bows of the Dead—Falstaff’s Discomfort—Amusing - Incidents—Nervousness behind the Curtain—An Author’s - Feelings 173 - - - CHAPTER X - - _OPERA COMIC_ - - How W. S. Gilbert loves a Joke—A Brilliant - Companion—Operas Reproduced without an Altered - Line—Many Professions—A Lovely Home—Sir Arthur - Sullivan’s Gift—A Rehearsal of _Pinafore_—Breaking - up Crowds—Punctuality—Soldier or no - Soldier—_Iolanthe_—Gilbert as an Actor—Gilbert as - Audience—The Japanese Anthem—Amusement 186 - - - CHAPTER XI - - _THE FIRST PANTOMIME REHEARSAL_ - - Origin of Pantomime—Drury Lane in Darkness—One - Thousand Persons—Rehearsing the Chorus—The - Ballet—Dressing-rooms—Children on the Stage—Size of - “The Lane”—A Trap-door—The Property-room—Made on the - Premises—Wardrobe-woman—Dan Leno at Rehearsal—Herbert - Campbell—A Fortnight Later—A Chat with the Principal - Girl—Miss Madge Lessing 200 - - - CHAPTER XII - - _SIR HENRY IRVING AND STAGE LIGHTING_ - - Sir Henry Irving’s Position—Miss Geneviève Ward’s - Dress—Reformations in Lighting—The most Costly Play ever - Produced—Strong Individuality—Character Parts—Irving - earned his Living at Thirteen—Actors and Applause—A - Pathetic Story—No Shakespeare Traditions—Imitation is not - Acting—Irving’s Appearance—His Generosity—The First Night - of _Dante_—First Night of _Faust_—Two Terriss Stories—Sir - Charles Wyndham 222 - - - CHAPTER XIII - - _WHY A NOVELIST BECOMES A DRAMATIST_ - - Novels and Plays—_Little Lord Fauntleroy_ and his - Origin—Mr. Hall Caine—Preference for Books to Plays—John - Oliver Hobbes—J. M. Barrie’s Diffidence—Anthony Hope—A - London Bachelor—A Pretty Wedding—A Tidy Author—A First - Night—Dramatic Critics—How Notices are Written—The - Critics Criticised—Distribution of Paper—“Stalls - Full”—Black Monday—Do Royalty pay for their Seats?—Wild - Pursuit of the Owner of the Royal Box—The Queen at the - Opera 240 - - - CHAPTER XIV - - _SCENE-PAINTING AND CHOOSING A PLAY_ - - Novelist—Dramatist—Scene-painter—An Amateur Scenic - Artist—Weedon Grossmith to the Rescue—Mrs. Tree’s - Children—Mr. Grossmith’s Start on the Stage—A - Romantic Marriage—How a Scene is built up—English and - American Theatres Compared—Choosing a Play—Theatrical - Syndicate—Three Hundred and Fifteen Plays at the - Haymarket 263 - - - CHAPTER XV - - _THEATRICAL DRESSING-ROOMS_ - - A Star’s Dressing-room—Long Flights of Stairs—Miss Ward - at the Haymarket—A Wimple—An Awkward Predicament—How - an Actress Dresses—Herbert Waring—An Actress’s - Dressing-table—A Girl’s Photographs of Herself—A - Greasepaint Box—Eyelashes—White Hands—Mrs. Langtry’s - Dressing-room—Clara Morris on Make-up—Mrs. Tree as - Author—“Resting”—Mary Anderson on the Stage—An Author’s - Opinion—Actors in Society 275 - - - CHAPTER XVI - - _HOW DOES A MAN GET ON THE STAGE?_ - - A Voice Trial—How it is Done—Anxious Faces—Singing into - Cimmerian Darkness—A Call to Rehearsal—The Ecstasy - of an Engagement—Proof Copy; Private—Arrival of the - Principals—Chorus on the Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours a - Day for Nine Weeks without Pay 292 - - - CHAPTER XVII - - _A GIRL IN THE PROVINCES_ - - Why Women go on the Stage—How to prevent it—Miss - Florence St. John—Provincial Company—Theatrical Basket—A - Fit-up Tour—A Theatre Tour—Répertoire Tour—Strange - Landladies—Bills—The Longed-for Joint—Second-hand - Clothes—Buying a Part—Why Men Deteriorate—Oceans of - Tea—E. S. Willard—Why he Prefers America—A Hunt for - Rooms—A Kindly Clergyman—A Drunken Landlady—How the Dog - Saved an Awkward Predicament 302 - - - CHAPTER XVIII - - _PERILS OF THE STAGE_ - - Easy to Make a Reputation—Difficult to Keep - One—The Theatrical Agent—The Butler’s Letter—Mrs. - Siddons’ Warning—Theatrical Aspirants—The Bogus - Manager—The Actress of the Police Court—Ten Years - of Success—Temptations—Late Hours—An Actress’s - Advertisement—A Wicked Agreement—Rules Behind the - Scenes—Edward Terry—Success a Bubble 325 - - - CHAPTER XIX - - “_CHORUS GIRL NUMBER II. ON THE LEFT_” - - A Fantasy Founded on Fact - - Plain but Fascinating—The Swell in the - Stalls—Overtures—Persistence—Introduction at Last—Her - Story—His Kindness—Happiness crept in—Love—An - Ecstasy of Joy—His Story—A Rude Awakening—The Result - of Deception—The Injustice of Silence—Back to - Town—Illness—Sleep 345 - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - - - MISS CONSTANCE COLLIER AS PALLAS ATHENE IN “ULYSSES” _Frontispiece_ - _From a sketch by Percy Anderson._ - - MRS. KENDAL AS MISTRESS FORD IN “MERRY WIVES - OF WINDSOR” _To face p._ 20 - - MR. W. H. KENDAL „ 32 - - MR. J. FORBES-ROBERTSON „ 36 - _From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._ - - MISS WINIFRED EMERY AND MR. CYRIL MAUDE IN - “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL” „ 48 - - MR. AND MRS. SEYMOUR HICKS „ 64 - - DR. HENRIK IBSEN „ 76 - - MR. ARTHUR W. PINERO „ 84 - - DRAWING OF COSTUME FOR JULIET „ 112 - _By Percy Anderson._ - - MR. GEORGE ALEXANDER „ 128 - - MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT AS HAMLET „ 152 - - MR. BEERBOHM TREE AS FALSTAFF „ 176 - - MISS ELLEN TERRY AS QUEEN KATHERINE „ 184 - - MR. W. S. GILBERT „ 192 - - SIR HENRY IRVING „ 224 - - MR. ANTHONY HOPE „ 248 - _From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._ - - MR. WEEDON GROSSMITH „ 264 - - MRS. BEERBOHM TREE „ 288 - - MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL „ 312 - _From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._ - - MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH „ 336 - - - - -BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS - - - - -CHAPTER I - -_THE GLAMOUR OF THE STAGE_ - - Girlish Dreams of Success—Golden Glitter—Overcrowding—Few - successful—Weedon Grossmith—Beerbohm Tree—How Mrs. Tree made - Thousands for the War Fund—The Stage Door reached—Glamour fades—The - Divorce Court and the Theatre—Childish Enthusiasm—Old Scotch Body’s - Horror—Love Letters—Temptations—Emotions—How Women began to Act - under Charles I.—Influence of the Theatre for Good or Ill. - - -“I want to go on the stage,” declared a girl as she sat one day -opposite her father, a London physician, in his consulting-room. - -The doctor looked up, amazed, deliberately put down his pen, cast a -scrutinising glance at his daughter, then said tentatively: - -“Want to go on the stage, eh?” - -“Yes, I wish to be an actress. I have had an offer—oh, such a -delightful offer—to play a girl’s part in the forthcoming production at -one of our best theatres.” - -Her father made no comment, only looked again steadily at the girl in -order to satisfy himself that she was speaking seriously. Then he took -the letter she held out, read it most carefully, folded it up—in what -the would-be actress thought an exasperatingly slow fashion—and after a -pause observed: - -“So this is the result of allowing you to play in private theatricals. -What folly!” - -The girl started up—fire flashed from her eyes, and her lips trembled -as she retorted passionately: - -“I don’t see any folly, I only see a great career opening before me. I -want to go on the stage and make a name.” - -The doctor looked more grave than ever, but replied calmly: - -“You are very young—you have only just been to your first ball; you -know nothing whatever about the world or work.” - -“But I can learn, and intend to do so.” - -“Ah yes, that is all very well; but what you really see at this moment -is only the prospect of so many guineas a week, of applause and -admiration, of notices in the papers, when at one jump you expect to -gain the position already attained by some great actress. What you do -_not_ see, however, is the hard work, the dreary months, nay years, -of waiting, the many disappointments that precede success—you do not -realise the struggle of it all, or the many, many failures.” - -She looked amazed. What possible struggle could there be on the stage? -she wondered. - -“Is this to be the end of my having worked for you,” he asked -pathetically, “planned for you, given you the best education I could, -done everything possible to make your surroundings happy, that at the -moment when I hoped you were going to prove a companion and a comfort, -you announce the fact that you wish to choose a career for yourself, to -throw off the ties—I will not call them the pleasures—of home, and seek -work which it is not necessary for you to undertake?” - -“Yes,” murmured the girl, by this time almost sobbing, for the glamour -seemed to be rolling away like mist before her eyes, while glorious -visions of tragedy queens and comic soubrettes faded into space. - -“I will not forbid you,” he went on sadly but firmly—“I will not forbid -you, after you are twenty-one, for then you can do as you like; but -nearly four years stretch between now and then, and during those four -years I shall withhold my sanction.” - -Tears welled up into her eyes. Moments come in the lives of all of us -when our nearest and dearest appear to understand us least. Even in our -youth we experience unreasoning sadness. - -“I do not wish,” he continued, rising and patting her kindly on the -back, “to see my daughter worn to a skeleton, working when she should -be enjoying herself, taking upon her shoulders cares and worries which -I have striven for years to avert—therefore I must save you from -yourself. During the next four years I will try to show you what going -on the stage really means, and the labour it entails.” - -She did not answer, exultation had given place to indignation, -indignation to emotion, and the aspirant to histrionic fame felt sick -at heart. - -That girl was the present writer—her father the late Dr. George Harley, -F.R.S., of Harley Street. - - -During those four years he showed me the work and anxiety connection -with the stage involves, and as it was not necessary for me to earn my -living at that time, I waited his pleasure, and, finally, of my own -free will abandoned the girlish determination of becoming an actress. -Wild dreams of glory and success eventually gave place to more rational -ideas. The glamour of the footlights ceased to shine so alluringly—as I -realised that the actor’s art, like the musician’s, is ephemeral, while -the work and anxiety are great in both. - -The restlessness of youth was upon me when I mooted the project, and an -injudicious word then would have sent me forth at a tangent, probably -to fail as many another has done before and since. - -There may still be a few youthful people in the world who believe -the streets of London are paved with gold—and there are certainly -numbers of boys and girls who think the stage is strewn with pearls -and diamonds. All the traditions of the theatre are founded in mystery -and exaggeration; perhaps it is as well, for too much realism destroys -illusion. - -Boys and girls dream great dreams—they fancy themselves leading actors -and actresses, in imagination they dine off gold, wear jewels, laces, -and furs, hear the applause of the multitude—and are happy. But all -this, as said, is in their dreams, and dreams only last for seconds, -while life lasts for years. - -One in perhaps a thousand aspirants ever climbs to the top of the -dramatic ladder, dozens remain struggling on the lower rung, while -hundreds fall out weary and heart-sore before passing even the first -step. Never has the theatrical profession been more overcrowded than at -the present moment. - -Many people with a wild desire to act prove failures on the stage, -their inclinations are greater than their powers. Rarely is it the -other way; nevertheless Fanny Kemble, in spite of her talent, hated -the idea of going on the stage. At that time acting was considered -barely respectable for a woman (1829). She was related to Sarah Siddons -and John Kemble, a daughter of Charles and Fanny Kemble, and yet no -dramatic fire burned in her veins. She was short and plain, with large -feet and hands, her only charm her vivacity and expression. Ruin was -imminent in the family when the girl was prevailed upon after much -persuasion to play Juliet. Three weeks later she electrified London. -Neither time nor success altered her repugnance for the stage, however. -When dressed as Juliet her white satin train lying over the chair, she -recalled the scene in the following words: - -“There I sat, ready for execution, with the palms of my hands pressed -convulsively together, and the tears I in vain endeavoured to repress -welling up into my eyes, brimming slowly over, down my rouged cheeks.” - -There is a well-known actor upon the stage to-day who feels much as -Fanny Kemble did. - -“I hate it all,” he once said to me. “Would to Heaven I had another -profession at my back. But I never really completed any studies in my -youth, and in these days of keen competition I dare not leave an income -on the stage for an uncertainty elsewhere.” - -To some people the stage is an alluring goal, religion is a recreation, -while to others money is a worship. The Church and the Stage cast -their fascinating meshes around most folk some time during the course -of their existences. It is scarcely strange that such should be the -case, for both hold their mystery, both have their excitements, and man -delights to rush into what he does not understand—this has been the -case at all times and in all countries, and, like love and war, seems -likely to continue to the end of time. - -We all know the stage as seen from before the footlights—we have all -sat breathless, waiting for the curtain to rise, and there are some who -have longed for the “back cloth” to be lifted also, that they might -peep behind. In these pages all hindrances shall be drawn away, and the -theatre and its workings revealed from behind the footlights. - -As every theatre has its own individuality, so every face has its own -expression, therefore one can only generalise, for it is impossible to -treat each theatrical house and its customs separately. - -The strong personal interest I have always felt for the stage probably -originated in the fact that from childhood I had heard stories of James -Sheridan Knowles writing some of his plays, notably _The Hunchback_, -at my grandfather’s house, Seaforth Hall, in Lancashire. Charles -Dickens often stayed there when acting for some charity in Liverpool. -Samuel Lover was a constant visitor at the house, as also the great -American tragedian, Charlotte Cushman. Her beautiful sister Susan (the -Juliet of her Romeo) married my uncle, Sheridan Muspratt, author of -the _Dictionary of Chemistry_. From all of which it will be seen that -theatrical stories were constantly retailed at home; therefore when I -was about to “come out,” and my father asked if I would like a ball, I -replied: - -“No, I should prefer private theatricals.” - -This was a surprise to the London physician; but there being no -particular sin in private theatricals, consent was given, “_provided_,” -as he said, “_you paint the scenery, make your own dresses, generally -run the show, and do the thing properly_.” - -A wise proviso, and one faithfully complied with. It gave an enormous -amount of work but brought me a vast amount of pleasure. - -Mr. L. F. Austin, a clever contributor to the _Illustrated London -News_, wrote a most amusing account of those theatricals—in which he, -Mr. Weedon Grossmith, and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree assisted—in his little -volume _At Random_. Sir William Magnay, then a well-known amateur, and -now a novelist, was one of our tiny company. _Sweethearts_, Mr. W. S. -Gilbert’s delightful little comedy, was chosen for the performance, -but at the last moment the girl who should have played the maid was -taken ill. Off to Queen’s College, where I was then a pupil, I rushed, -dragged Maud Holt—who became Mrs Tree a few weeks later—back with me, -and that same night she made her first appearance on any stage. Very -shortly afterwards Mrs. Beerbohm Tree adopted acting as a profession, -and appeared first at the Court Theatre. Subsequently, when her husband -became a manager, she joined his company for many years. - -We all adored her at College: she was tall and graceful, with a -beautiful figure: she sang charmingly, and read voraciously. In those -days she was a great disciple of Browning, and so was Mr. Tree; in -fact, the poet was the leading-string to love and matrimony. - -Mrs. Beerbohm Tree considers that almost the happiest moments of her -life were spent in reciting _The Absent-minded Beggar_ for the War -Fund. It came about in this wise. She had arranged to give a recitation -at St. James’s Hall on one particular Wednesday. On the Friday before -that day she saw announced in the _Daily Mail_ that a new poem by -Rudyard Kipling on the Transvaal war theme would appear in the Tuesday -issue. This she thought would be a splendid opportunity to declaim a -topical song at the concert, so she wrote personally to the editor of -the paper, and asked him if he could possibly let her have an advance -copy of the poem, so that she might learn and recite it on Wednesday, -as the Tuesday issue would be too late for her purpose. - -Through the courtesy of Mr. Harmsworth she received the proof of _The -Absent-minded Beggar_ on Friday evening, and sitting in her dining-room -in Sloane Street with her elbows on the table she read and re-read it -several times. This, she thought, might bring grist to the war mill. -Into a hansom she jumped, and off to the Palace Theatre she drove, -boldly asking for the manager. Her name was sufficient, and she was -ushered into the august presence. - -“This is a remarkable poem,” she said, “by Mr. Rudyard Kipling, so -remarkable that I think if recited in your Hall nightly it would bring -some money to the fund, and if you will give me £100 a week——” - -Up went the manager’s hand in horror. - -“One hundred pounds a week, Mrs. Tree?” - -“Yes, £100 a week, I will come and recite it every evening, and hand -over the cheque intact to the War Fund.” - -It was a large sum, and the gentleman could not see his way to -accepting the offer on his own responsibility, but said he would sound -his directors in the morning. - -Before lunch-time next day Mrs. Tree received a note requesting her to -recite the poem nightly as suggested, and promising her £100 a week -for herself or the fund in return. For ten weeks she stood alone every -evening on that vast stage, and for ten minutes she recited “Pay, pay, -pay.” There never have been such record houses at the Palace either -before or since, and at the end of ten weeks she handed over a cheque -for £1,000 to the fund. Nor was this all, large sums were paid into -the collecting boxes in the Palace Theatre. In addition Mrs. Tree made -£1,700 at concerts, and £700 on one night at a Club. More than that, -endless people followed her example, and the War Fund became some -£20,000 richer for her inspiration in that dining-room in Sloane Street. - -This was one of the plums of the theatrical cake; but how different is -the performance and the gold and glitter as seen from the front of the -curtain, to the real thing behind. How little the audience entering -wide halls, proceeding up pile carpeted stairs, sweeping past stately -palms, or pushing aside heavy plush curtains, realise the entrance to -the playhouse on the other side of the footlights. - -At the back of the theatre is the stage door. Generally up an alley, -it is mean in appearance, more like an entrance to some cheap -lodging-house than to fairyland. Rough men lounge about outside, those -scene-shifters, carpenters, and that odd list of humanity who jostle -each other “behind the scenes,” work among “flies,” and adjust “wings” -in no ornithological sense, but merely as the side-pieces of the -stage-setting. - -Just inside this door is a little box-like office; nothing grand about -it, oh dear no, whitewash is more often found there than mahogany, and -stone stairs than Turkey carpets. Inside this little bureau sits that -severe guardian of order, the stage door keeper. He is a Pope and a -Czar in one. He is always busy, refuses to listen to explanations; even -a card is not sent in unless that important gentleman feels assured -its owner means business. - -At that door, which is dark and dreary, the glamour of the stage begins -to wane. It is no portal to a palace. The folk hanging about are not -arrayed in velvets and satins; quite the contrary; torn cashmeres and -shiny coats are more _en évidence_. - -Strange people are to be found both behind and upon the stage, as in -every other walk through life; but there are plenty of good men and -women in the profession, men and women whose friendship it is an honour -to possess. Men and women whose kindness of heart is unbounded, and -whose intellectual attainments soar far above the average. - -Every girl who goes upon the stage need not enjoy the privilege of -marrying titled imbecility, nor obtain the notoriety of the Divorce -Court, neither being creditable nor essential to her calling, although -both are chronicled with unfailing regularity by the press. - -The Divorce Court is a sad theatre where terrible tragedies of human -misery are acted out to the bitter end. Between seven and eight hundred -cases are tried in England every year—not many, perhaps, when compared -with the population of the country, which is over forty millions. But -then of course the Divorce Court is only the foam; the surging billows -of discontent and unhappiness lie beneath, and about six thousand -judicial separations, all spelling human tragedy, are granted yearly by -magistrates, the greater number of such cases being undefended. They -record the same sad story of disappointed, aching hearts year in year -out. - -Divorces are not more common amongst theatrical folk than any other -class, so, whatever may be said for or against the morality of the -stage, the Divorce Court does not prove theatrical life to be less -virtuous than any other. - -The fascination of the stage entraps all ages—all classes. Even -children sometimes wax warm over theatrical folk. Once I chanced to be -talking to a little girl concerning theatres. - -“Do you know Mr. A. B. C.?” she asked excitedly, when the conversation -turned on actors. - -“Yes, he is a great friend of mine.” - -“Oh, do tell me all about him,” she exclaimed, seizing my arm. - -“Why do you want to know?” - -“Because I adore him, and all the girls at school adore him, he is like -a real prince; we save up our pocket-money to buy his photographs, and -May Smith _has actually got his autograph_!” - -“But tell me why you all adore him?” I asked. - -“Because he is so lovely, so tall and handsome, has such a melodious -voice, and oh! doesn’t he look too beautiful in his velvet suit -as——? He is young and handsome, isn’t he? Oh, do say he is young and -handsome,” implored the enthusiastic child. - -“I am afraid I cannot, for it would not be true; Mr. A. B. C. is not -tall—in fact, he is quite short.” She looked crestfallen. “He has a -sallow complexion.” - -“Sallow! Oh, not really sallow! but he _is_ handsome and young, isn’t -he?” - -“I should think he is about fifty-two.” - -“Fifty-two!” she almost shrieked. “_My_ A. B. C. fifty-two. Oh no. You -are chaffing me; he must be young and beautiful.” - -“And his hair is grey,” I cruelly added. - -“Grey?”—she sobbed. “Not grey? Oh, you hurt me.” - -“You asked questions and I have answered them truthfully,” I replied. -She stood silent for a moment, then in rather a subdued tone murmured: - -“He is not married, is he?” - -“Oh yes, he has been married for five-and-twenty years.” - -The child looked so crestfallen I felt I had been unkind. - -“Oh dear, oh dear,” she almost sobbed, “won’t the girls at school be -surprised! Are you quite, quite sure he is not young and beautiful? he -looks so lovely on the stage.” - -“Quite, quite sure. You have only seen him from before the footlights. -He is a good fellow, clever and charming, and he works hard, but he is -no lover in velvet and jerkin, no hero of romance, and the less you -worry your foolish little head about him the better, my dear.” - -How many men and women believe like this child that there are only -princes and princesses on the stage. - -There was an old Scotch body—an educated, puritanical person—who once -informed me, “The the-a-ter is very bad, very wicked, ma’am.” - -“Why?” I asked, amazed yet interested. - -“It’s full of fire and lights like Hell. They just discuss emotions -there, ma’am, and it’s morbid to discuss emotions and just silly -conceit to think about them. I like deeds, and not talk—I do!” - -“You seem to think the theatre a hotbed of iniquity?” - -“Aye, indeed I do, ma’am. They even make thunder. Fancy daring to make -thunder for amusement as the good God does to show His wrath—thunder -with a machine—it’s just dreadful, it is.” - -The grosser the exaggeration the more readily it provokes conversation. -I was dying to argue, but fearing to hurt her feelings, I merely -smiled, wondering what the old lady would say if she knew even prayers -were made by a machine in countries where the prayer-wheel is used. - -“Have you ever been to a theatre?” I ventured to ask, not wishing to -disturb the good dame’s peace of mind. - -“The Lord forbid!” - -That settled the matter; but I subsequently found that the old body -went to bazaars, and did not mind a little flutter over raffles, and on -one occasion had even been to hear the inimitable George Grossmith in -Inverness, when—— - -“He was not dressed-up-like, so it wasn’t a regular the-a-ter, and he -was just alone, ma’am, wi’ a piano, so there was no harm in that,” -added the virtuous dame, complacently folding her hands across her -portly form. - -Wishing to change the subject, I asked her how her potatoes were doing. - -“Bad, bad,” she replied, “they’re awfu’ bad, the Lord’s agin us the -year; but we must jist make the best of it, ma’am.” - -She was a thoroughly good woman, and this was her philosophy. She would -make the best of the lack of potatoes, as that was a punishment from -above; but she could not sanction play-acting any more than riding a -bicycle on the Sabbath. - -Her horror of the wickedness of the stage was as amusing as the absurd -adoration of the enthusiastic child. - -Every good-looking man or woman who “play acts” is the recipient of -foolish love-letters. Pretty girls receive them from sentimental youth -or sensual old age, and handsome men are pestered with them from old -maids, or unhappily married women. Some curious epistles are sent -across the footlights, even the most self-respecting woman cannot -escape their advent, although she can, and, does, ignore them. - -Here is a sample of one: - -“For _five_ nights I have been to the theatre to see you play in——. I -was so struck by your performance last week that I have been back every -night since. Vainly I hoped you would notice me, for I always occupy -the same seat, and last night I really thought you did smile at me” -(she had done nothing of the kind, and had never even seen the man), -“so I went home happy—oh so happy. I have sent you some roses the last -two nights, and felt sorry you did not wear them. Is there any flower -you like better? I hardly dare presume to ask you for a meeting, but if -you only knew how much I admire you, perhaps you would grant me this -great favour and make me the happiest man on earth. I cannot sleep for -thinking of you. You are to me the embodiment of every womanly grace, -and if you would take supper with me one night after the performance -you would indeed confer a boon on a lonely man.” - -No answer does not mean the end of the matter. Some men—and, alas! some -women—write again and again, send flowers and presents, and literally -pester the object of their so-called adoration. - -For weeks and weeks a man sent a girl violets; one night a diamond ring -was tied up in the bunch—those glittering stones began her ruin—she -wrote to acknowledge them, a correspondence ensued. - -That man proved her curse. She, the once beautiful and virtuous girl, -who was earning a good income before she met her evil genius, died -lately in poverty and obscurity. The world had scoffed at her and -turned aside, while it still smiled upon the man, although he was the -villain; but can he get away from his own conscience? - -Every vice carries with it a sting, every virtue a balm. - -There are many perils on the stage, to which of course only the weak -succumb; but the temptations are necessarily greater than in other -professions. Its very publicity spells mischief. There is the horrid -man in all audiences who tries to make love and ogle pretty women -across the footlights, the class of creature who totally forgets that -the best crown a man or woman can wear is a good reputation. - -Temptations lie open on all sides for the actor and actress, and those -who pass through the ordeal safely are doubly to be congratulated, -for the man who meets temptation and holds aloof is surely a finer -character than he who is merely “good” because he has never had a -chance of being anything else. - -Journalism, domestic service, and the stage probably require less -knowledge and training for a beginning than any other occupations. - -It costs money and time to learn to be a dressmaker, a doctor, an -architect, even a shorthand writer; but given a certain amount of -cleverness, experience is not necessary to do “scissor-and-paste” work -in journalism, rough housework, or to “walk on” on the stage; but -oh! what an amount of work and experience is necessary to ensure a -satisfactory ending, more particularly upon the boards, where all is -not gold that glitters. At best the crown is only brass, the shining -silver merely tin, and in nine theatres out of every ten the regal -ermine but a paltry rabbit-skin. - -Glitter dazzles the eye. Nevertheless behind it beat good hearts and -true; while hard work, patient endurance, and courage mark the path of -the successful player. - -Work does not degrade a man; but a man often degrades his work. - -If, as the old body said, it be morbid to discuss emotions, and -egotistical to feel them, it is still the actor’s art, and that is -probably why he is such a sensitive creature, why he is generally in -the highest spirits or deepest depths of woe, why he is full of moods -and as varying as a weathercock. Still he is charming, and so is his -companion in stageland—the actress. Both entertain us, and amusement is -absolutely essential to a healthy existence. - -When one considers the wonderful success of women upon the stage -to-day, and their splendid position socially, it seems almost -impossible to believe that they never acted in England until the reign -of Charles I., when a French Company which numbered women among its -players crossed the Channel, and craved a hearing from Queen Henrietta -Maria. One critic of the time called them “unwomanish and graceless”; -another said, “Glad am I they were hissed and hooted”; but still they -had come to stay, and slowly, very slowly, women were allowed to take -part in theatrical performances. We all know the high position they -hold to-day. - -In 1660 there were only two theatres in London, the King’s and the -Duke of York’s, the dearest seats were the boxes at four shillings, -the cheapest the gallery at one shilling. Ladies wore masks at the -play, probably because of the coarse nature of the performances, which -gradually improved with the advent of actresses. - -In days gone by the playhouse was not the orderly place it is -nowadays, and the unfortunate “mummers” had to put up with every kind -of nuisance until Colley Cibber protested, and Queen Anne issued a -Proclamation (1704) against disturbances. In those days folk arrived in -sedan chairs, and their noisy footmen were allowed free admission to -the upper gallery to wait for their lords and ladies, added to which -the orange girls called their wares and did a brisk trade in carrying -love-missives from one part of the house to the other. Before the -players could be heard they had to fight their way on to the boards, -where gilded youth lolled in the wings and even crossed the stage -during the rendering of a scene. - -It was about this time that Queen Anne made a stand against the -shocking immorality of the stage, and ordered the Master of the Revels -(much the same post as the Lord Chamberlain now holds) to correct these -abuses. All actors, mountebanks, etc., had to submit their plays or -entertainments to the Master of the Revels in Somerset House from that -day, and nothing could be performed without his permission. - -The stage has a curious effect on people. Many a person has gone to -see a play, and some line has altered the whole course of his life. -Some idea has been put forth, some tender note played upon which has -opened his eyes to his own selfishness, his own greed of wealth, -his harshness to a child, or indifference to a wife. There is no -doubt about it, the stage is a great power, and that is why it is so -important the influence should be used for good, and that illicit love -and demoralising thoughts should be kept out of the theatre with its -mixed audiences and susceptible youth. According to a recent report: - -“The Berne authorities, holding that the theatre is a powerful -instrument for the education of the masses, have decided that on two -days of the week the seats in the theatre, without exception, shall -be sold at a uniform price of fivepence. ‘Under the direction of -the manager,’ writes a correspondent, ‘the tickets are enclosed in -envelopes, and in this form are sold to the public. The scheme has -proved a great success, especially among the working classes, whom it -was meant to benefit. To prevent ticket speculators making a “corner,” -the principle of one ticket for one person has been adopted, and the -playgoer only knows the location of his seat after he enters the -theatre. No intoxicants are sold and no passes are given. The expenses -exceed the receipts, but a reserve fund and voluntary contributions are -more than sufficient to meet the deficit.’” - -Constantly seeing vice portrayed tends to make one cease to think -it horrible. Love of gain should not induce a manager to put on a -piece that is public poison. Some queer plays teach splendid moral -lessons—well and good; but some strange dramas drag their audience -through mire for no wise end whatever. The manager who puts such upon -his stage is a destroyer of public morality. - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W._ - -MRS. KENDAL AS MISTRESS FORD IN “MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.”] - - - - -CHAPTER II - -_CRADLED IN THE THEATRE_ - - Three Great Aristocracies—Born on the Stage—Inherited - Talent—Interview with Mrs. Kendal—Her Opinions and Warning - to Youthful Aspirants—Usual Salary—Starving in the Attempt - to Live—No Dress Rehearsal—Overdressing—A Peep at Harley - Street—Voice and Expression—American Friends—Mrs. Kendal’s - Marriage—Forbes Robertson’s Romance—Why he deserted Art for the - Stage—Fine Elocutionist—Bad Enunciation and Noisy Music—Ellen - Terry—Gillette—Expressionless Faces—Long Runs—Charles Warner—Abuse - of Success. - - -London is a great world: it contains three aristocracies: - -The aristocracy of blood, which is limited; - -The aristocracy of brain, which is scattered; - -And the aristocracy of wealth, which threatens to flood the other two. - -The most powerful book in the world at the beginning of the twentieth -century is the cheque-book. Foreigners are adored, vulgarity is -sanctioned; indeed, all are welcomed so long as gold hangs round their -skirts and diamonds and pearls adorn their bodies. Wealth, wealth, -wealth, that is the modern cry, and there seems nothing it cannot buy, -even a transient position upon the stage. - -Many of our well-known actors and actresses have, however, been “born -on the stage”—that is to say, they were the children of theatrical -folk, and have themselves taken part in the drama almost from babyhood. - -The most successful members of the profession are those possessed of -inherited talent, or that have gone on the stage from necessity rather -than choice, men and women who since early life have had to fight -for themselves and overcome difficulties. It is pleasant to give a -prominent example of the triumph which may result from the blending of -both influences in the person of one of our greatest actresses, Mrs. -Kendal, who has led a marvellously interesting life. - -She was born early in the fifties, and her grandfather, father, -uncles, and brother (T. W. Robertson) were all intimately connected -with the stage as actors and playwrights. When quite a child she began -her theatrical career, and made her London _début_ in 1865, when she -appeared as Ophelia under her maiden name of Madge Robertson, Walter -Montgomery playing the part of _Hamlet_. Little Madge was only three -years old when she first trod the boards, whereon she was to portray a -blind child, but when she espied her nurse in the distance, she rushed -to the wings, exclaiming, “Oh, Nannie, look at my beautiful new shoes!” - -Her bringing up was strict; she had no playfellows and never went to -school, a governess and her father were her teachers. Every morning -that father took her for a walk, explaining all sorts of things as they -went along, or teaching her baby lips to repeat Shelley’s “Ode to a -Foxglove.” On their return home, he would read Shakespeare with her, so -that the works of the bard were known to her almost before she learnt -nursery rhymes. - -“I was grown up at ten,” exclaimed Mrs. Kendal, “and first began to -grow young at forty.” - -When about fourteen, she was living with her parents in South Crescent, -off Tottenham Court Road. One Sunday—a dreary heavy, dull, rainy London -day—her father and mother had been talking together for hours, and she -wearily went to the window to look out, the mere fact of watching a -passer-by seeming at the moment to afford relaxation. Tears rolled down -the girl’s cheeks—she was longing for companions of her own age, she -was leaving the dolls of childhood behind and learning to be a woman. -Her father noticed that she was crying, and exclaimed in surprise, -“Why, Daisy, what’s the matter?” - -“I feel dull,” she said. - -“Dull, dear?—dull, with your mother and _me_?” - -A pathetic little story, truly: the parents were so wrapped up in -themselves, they never realised that sometimes the rising generation -might feel lonely. - -“My father and mother were then old,” said Mrs. Kendal, “I was their -youngest child. All the others were out in the world, trying to find a -place.” - -Early struggles, hopes and fears, poverty and luxury, followed in quick -succession in this remarkable woman’s life, but any one who knows -her must realise it was her indomitable will and pluck, coupled, of -course, with good health and exceptional talent, which brought her the -high position she holds to-day. - -If Mrs. Kendal makes up her mind to do a thing, by hook or by crook -that object is accomplished. She has great powers of organisation, and -a capacity for choosing the right people to help her. “Never say die” -is apparently her watchword. - -She, like Miss Geneviève Ward, was originally intended for a singer, -and songs were introduced into her parts in such plays as _The Palace -of Truth_. Unfortunately she contracted diphtheria, which in those -days was not controlled and arrested by antitoxin as it is now, and an -operation had to be performed. All this tended to weaken her voice, -which gradually left her. Consequently she gave up singing, or rather, -singing gave her up, and she became a “play-actress.” She so thoroughly -realises the disappointments and struggles of her profession that one -of Mrs. Kendal’s pet hobbies is to try and counteract the evil arising -from the wish of inexperienced girls to “go upon the stage.” - -“If only the stage-struck young woman could realise all that an -actress’ life means!” she said to me on one occasion. “To begin with, -she is lucky if she gets a chance of ‘walking on’ at a pound a week. -She has to attend rehearsals as numerous and as lengthy as the leading -lady, who may be drawing £40 or £50 for the same period; though, mark -you, there are very few leading ladies, while there are thousands and -thousands of walkers-on who will never be anything else. This ill-paid -girl has not the interest of a big part, which stimulates the ‘star’ -to work; she has only the dreariness of it all. Unless she be in a -ballet, chorus, or pantomime, the girl has to find herself in shoes, -stockings, and petticoats for the stage—no light matter to accomplish -out of twenty shillings a week. Of course, in a character-part the -entire costume is found, but in an ordinary case the girl has to board, -lodge, dress herself, pay for her washing, and get backwards and -forwards to the theatre in all weathers and at all hours on one pound a -week, besides supplying those stage necessaries. Thousands of women are -starving in the attempt. - -“A girl has to dress at the theatre in the same room with others, she -is thrown intimately amongst all sorts of women, and the result is not -always desirable. For instance, some years ago, a girl was playing with -us, and, mentioning another member of the company, she remarked, ‘She -has real lace on her under-linen.’ - -“I said nothing, but sent for that lace-bedecked personage and had a -little private talk with her, telling her that things must be different -or she must go. I tried to show her the advantages of the straight -path, but she preferred the other, and has since been lost in the sea -of ultimate despair.” - -So spoke Mrs. Kendal, the famous actress, in 1903, standing at the top -of her profession; later we will see what a girl struggling at the -bottom has to say on the same subject. - -“Remember,” continued Mrs. Kendal, “patience, courage, and talent -_may_ bring one to the winning-post, but few ever reach that line; by -far the greater number fall out soon after the start—they find the -pay inadequate, the hours too long; the back of a stage proves to be -no enchanted land, only a dark, dreary, dusty, bustling place; and, -disheartened, they wisely turn aside. Many of them drift aimlessly into -stupid marriages for bread and butter’s sake, where discontent turns -the bread sour and the butter rancid. - -“The theatrical profession is not to blame—it is this terrible -overcrowding. There are numbers of excellent men and women upon the -stage who know that there is nothing so gross but what a good man or -woman can elevate, nothing so lofty that vice cannot cause to totter. - -“I entirely disapprove of a dress rehearsal,” continued Mrs. Kendal. -“It exhausts the actors and takes off the excitement and bloom. One -must have one’s real public, and play _for_ them and _to_ them, and not -to empty benches. We rehearse in sections. Every one in turn in our -company acts in costume, so that we know each individual get-up and -make-up is right; but we never dress all the characters of the play at -the same time until the night of production.” - -Mrs. Kendal is very severe on the subject of overdressing a part. - -“Feathers and diamonds,” she said “are not worn upon the river. Why, -then, smother a woman with them when she is playing a boating scene? -The dress should be entirely subservient to the character. If one is -supposed to be old and dowdy, one should look old and dowdy. I believe -in clothing the character in character, and not striving after effect. -Overdressing is as bad as over-elaboration of stage-setting: it dwarfs -the acting and handicaps the performers.” - -Mrs. Kendal is an abused, adored, and wonderful woman. Like all busy -people, she finds time for everything, and has everything in its place. -Her house is neatness exemplified, her table well arranged, the dishes -dainty, and the attendance of spruce parlourmaids equally good. She -believes in women and their work and employs them whenever possible. - -There is an old-fashioned idea that women who earn their living are -untidy in their dress and slovenly in their household arrangements, to -say nothing of being unhappy in their home life. Those of us who know -women workers can refute the charge: the busier they are, the more -method they bring to bear; the more highly educated they are, the more -capable in the management of their affairs. Mrs. Kendal is no exception -to this rule, and in spite of her many labours, she lately encroached -upon her time by undertaking another self-imposed task, namely, some -charity work, which entailed endless correspondence, to say nothing of -keeping books, and lists, and sorting cheques; but she managed all most -successfully, and kept what she did out of the papers. - -“Dissuade every one you know,” Mrs. Kendal entreated me one day, “from -going on the stage. There are so few successes and so many failures! So -many lives are shattered and hearts broken by that everlasting _waiting -for an opportunity_ which only comes to a few. In no profession is -harder work necessary, the pay in the early stages more insignificant -or less secure. To be a good actress it is essential to have many -qualifications: first of all, health and herculean strength; the -sweetest temper and most patient temperament, although my remark once -made about having ‘the skin of a rhinoceros’ was delivered in pure -sarcasm, which, however, was unfortunately taken seriously. - -“I really feel very strongly about this rush to go on the stage. In -the disorganisation of this democratic period we have all struggled -to ascend one step, and many of us have tumbled down several in the -attempt. Domestic servants all want to be shop-girls, and shop-girls -want to be actresses—stars, mind you! Everything is upside-down, for -are not the aristocracy themselves selling wine, coals, tea-cakes, and -millinery?” - -“Why have you succeeded?” I asked. - -“Because I was born to it, cradled in the profession, my family have -been upon the stage for some hundred years. To make a first-class -actress, talent, luck, temperament, and opportunity must combine; but, -mark you, the position of the stage does not depend upon her. It is -those on the second and third rungs of the ladder who do the hardest of -the work, and most firmly uphold the dignity of the stage, just as it -is the middle classes which rivet and hold together this vast Empire.” - -Although married to an actor-manager, Mrs. Kendal has nothing whatever -to do with the arrangements of the theatre. She does not interfere with -anything. - -“I never signed an agreement in all my life, either for myself or -for anyone else. I never engage or dismiss a soul. Once everything -is signed, sealed, and delivered, and all is ready, then, but not -till then, my work begins, and I become stage-manager. On the stage I -supervise everything, and attend to all the smallest details myself. -To be stage-manager is not an enviable position, for one is held -responsible for every fault.” - -The Kendals lived for years in Harley Street, which is chiefly noted -for its length, and being the home of doctors. Their house was at the -end farthest from Cavendish Square, at the top on the left. I know the -street well, for I was born in the house where Baroness Burdett-Coutts -spent her girlhood, and have described in my father’s memoirs how, -when he settled in Harley Street in 1860 as a young man, there was -scarcely a doctor’s plate in that thoroughfare, or, indeed, in the -whole neighbourhood. Sir William Jenner, Sir John Williams, Sir Alfred -Garrod, Sir Richard Quain, and Sir Andrew Clark became his neighbours; -and later Sir Francis Jeune, Lord Russell of Killowen, the present -Speaker of the House of Commons (Mr. Gully), Sir William McCormac, Sir -William Church, and Mr. Gladstone settled quite near. Mr. Sothern -(the original impersonator of Lord Dundreary and David Garrick) lived -for some time in the street; but, so far as I know, he and the Kendals -were the only representatives of the stage. A few years ago, not being -able to add to the house they then occupied as they wished, the Kendals -migrated to Portland Place, which is now their London residence, while -Filey claims them for sea air and rest. - -The Kendals spent five years in the United States. It was during those -long and tedious journeys in Pullman-cars that Mrs. Kendal organised -her “Unselfish Club.” It was an excellent idea for keeping every one -in a good temper. At one end of the car the women used to meet to -mend, make, and darn every afternoon, while one male member of the -company was admitted to read aloud, each taking this duty in turn. -Many pleasant and useful hours were spent in speeding over the dreary -prairie in this manner. Only those who have traversed thousands of -miles of desert can have any idea of the weariness of those days passed -on the cars. The railway system is excellent, everything possible is -done for one’s comfort, but the monotony is appalling. - -Two things are particularly interesting about this great actress—her -keen sense of humour and her love of soap. She is always merry and -cheerful, has endless jokes to tell, has a quick appreciation of the -ridiculous, and can be just as amusing off the stage as on it. - -Her love of soap-and-water is apparent in all her surroundings; she is -always most carefully groomed; there is nothing whatever artificial -about her—anything of that sort which is necessary upon the boards is -left behind at the theatre. That is one of her greatest charms. She -uses no “make-up,” and, consequently, she looks much younger off the -stage than she does upon it. - -Her expressions and her voice are probably Mrs. Kendal’s greatest -attractions. Speaking of the first, she laughingly remarked, “My face -was made that way, I suppose; and as for my acting voice, I have taken -a little trouble to train it. We all start in a high key, but as we get -older our voices often grow two or three notes lower, and generally -more melodious, so that, while we have to keep them down in our youth, -we must learn to get them up in our old age, for the head voice of -comedy becomes a throat voice if not properly produced, and tends to -grow hard and rasping.” - -We had been discussing plays, good, bad, and indifferent. - -“I have the greatest objection to the illicit love of the modern -drama,” she remarked. “It is quite unnecessary. Every family has its -tragedy, and many of these tragedies are far more thrilling, far more -heart-breaking, than the unfortunate love-scenes put upon the stage.” - -The charming impersonator of the “Elder Miss Blossom,” one of the -most delightful touches of comedy-acting on record, almost invariably -dresses in black. A strong, healthy-looking woman, untouched by art, -and gently dealt with by years, Mrs. Kendal wears her glorious auburn -hair neatly parted in front and braided at the back. Fashion in this -line does not disturb her; she has always worn it in the same way, and -even upon the stage has rarely donned a wig. She tells a funny little -story of how a dear friend teased and almost bullied her to be more -fashionable about her head. Every one was wearing fringes at the time, -and the lady begged her not to be so “odd,” but to adopt the new and -becoming mode. Just to try the effect, Mrs. Kendal went off to a grand -shop, told the man to dress her hair in the very latest style, paid a -guinea for the performance, and went home. Her family and servants were -amazed; but when she arrived at her friend’s house that evening her -hostess failed to recognise her. So the fashionable hairdressing was -never repeated. - -“I worked the hardest,” said Mrs. Kendal, in reply to a question, “in -America. For months we gave nine performances a week. The booking -was so heavy in the different towns, and our time so limited, that -we actually had to put in a third _matinée_, and as occasionally -rehearsals were necessary, and long railway journeys always essential, -it was really great labour. - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Alfred Ellis, Upper Baker Street, W._ - -MR. W. H. KENDAL.] - -“As a rule I was dressed by ten, and managed to get in an hour’s walk -before the _matinée_. Back to the hotel after the performance for a -six o’clock meal, generally composed of a cutlet and coffee, quickly -followed by a return to the theatre and another performance. To -change one’s dress fourteen times a day, as I did when playing _The -Ironmaster_, becomes a little wearisome when it continues for months.” - -“Did you not find that people in America were extraordinarily -hospitable?” I inquired, remembering the great kindness I received in -Canada and the States. - -“Undoubtedly; but we had little time for anything of that sort, which -has always been a great regret to me. It is hard lines to be in a -place one wants to see, among people one wants to know, and never to -have time for play, only everlasting work. We did make many friends on -Sundays, however, and I have the happiest recollections of America.” - -Pictures are a favourite hobby of the Kendals, and they have many -beautiful canvases in their London home. Every corner is filled by -something in the way of a picture, every one of which they love for -itself, and for the memories of the way they came by it, more often -than not as the result of some successful “run.” They have built their -home about them bit by bit. Hard work and good management have slowly -and gradually attained their ends, and they laugh over the savings -necessary to buy such and such a treasure, and love it all the more for -the little sacrifices made for its attainment. How much more we all -appreciate some end or some thing we have had difficulty in acquiring. -That which falls at our feet seems of little value compared with those -objects and aims secured by self-denial. - -“There is no doubt about it,” Mrs Kendal finished by saying, -“theatrical life is hard; hard in the beginning, and hard in the end.” - -Such words from a woman in Mrs. Kendal’s position are of vast import. -She knows what she is talking about; she realises the work, the -drudgery, the small pay, and weary hours, and when she says, “Dissuade -girls from rushing upon the stage,” those would-be aspirants for -dramatic fame should listen to the advice of so experienced an actress -and capable woman. - -As said at the beginning of this chapter, Mrs. Kendal was cradled in -the theatre: she was also married on the stage. - -Madge Robertson and William Kendal Grimston were playing in Manchester -when one fine day they were married by special licence. A friend of Mr. -Kendal’s had the Town Hall bells rung in honour of the event, and the -young couple were ready to start off for their honeymoon, when Henry -Compton, the great actor, who was “billed” for the following nights, -was telegraphed for to his brother’s deathbed. - -At once the arrangements had to be altered. _As You Like It_ was -ordered, and Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were caught just as they were leaving -the town, and bidden to play Orlando and Rosalind to the Touchstone of -Buckstone. The honeymoon had to be postponed. - -The young couple found the house unusually full on their wedding night, -although they believed no one knew of their marriage until they came -to the words, “Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?” when -the burst of applause and prolonged cheering assured them of the good -wishes of their public friends. - -Another little romance of the stage happened to the Forbes Robertsons. -Just before I sailed for Canada, in August, 1900, Mr. Johnston Forbes -Robertson came to dinner. He had been away in Italy for some months -recruiting after a severe illness, and was just starting forth on an -autumn tour of his own. - -“Have you a good leading lady?” I inquired. - -“I think so,” he replied. “I met her for the first time this morning, -and had never seen her before.” - -“How indiscreet,” I exclaimed. “How do you know she can act?” - -“While I was abroad I wrote to two separate friends in whose judgment -I have much confidence, asking them to recommend me a leading lady. -Both replied suggesting Miss Gertrude Elliott as suitable in every -way. Their opinions being identical, and so strongly expressed, I -considered she must be the lady for me, and telegraphed, offering her -an engagement accordingly. She accepted by wire, and at our first -rehearsal this morning promised very well.” - -I left England almost immediately afterwards, and eight or ten weeks -later, while in Chicago, saw a big newspaper headline announcing the -engagement of a pretty American actress to a well-known English actor. -Naturally I bought the paper at once to see who the actor might be, -and lo! it was Mr. Forbes Robertson. It seemed almost impossible: but -impossible things have a curious knack of being true, and the signed -photograph I had with me of Forbes Robertson, among those of other -distinguished English friends, proved useful to the American press, who -were glad of a copy for immediate reproduction. Almost as quickly as -this handsome couple were engaged, they were married. Was not that a -romance? - -Mr. Forbes Robertson originally intended to be an artist, and his -going on the stage came about by chance. He was a student at the -Royal Academy, when his friend the late W. G. Wills was in need of an -actor to play the part of Chastelard in his _Mary Stuart_, then being -given at the Princess’s Theatre. It was difficult to procure exactly -the type of face he wanted, for well-chiselled features are not so -common as one might suppose. Young Forbes Robertson possessed those -features, his clear-cut profile being exactly suitable for Chastelard. -Consequently, after much talk with the would-be artist, who was loth to -give up his cherished profession, W. G. Wills introduced his friend to -the beautiful Mrs. Rousby, with the result that young Forbes Robertson -undertook the part at four days’ notice. - -Thus it was his face that decided his fate. From that moment the stage -had been his profession and art his hobby; but a newer craze is rapidly -driving paints and brushes out of the field, for, like many another, -the actor has fallen a victim to golf. - -There is no finer elocutionist on the stage than Forbes Robertson, and -therefore it is interesting to know that he expresses it as his opinion -that: - -“Elocution can be taught.” - -[Illustration: - - _From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._ - -MR. J. FORBES-ROBERTSON.] - -Phelps was his master, and he attributes much of his success to that -master’s careful training. What a pity Phelps cannot live among us -again, to teach some of the younger generation to speak more clearly -than they do. - -Bad enunciation and noisy music often combine to make the words from -the stage inaudible to the audience. Why an old farmer should arrive -down a country lane to a blare of trumpets is unintelligible: why a -man should plot murder to a valse, or a woman die to slow music, is a -conundrum, but such is the fashion on the stage. One sometimes sits -through a performance without hearing any of what ought to be the most -thrilling lines. - -Johnston Forbes Robertson has lived from the age of twenty-one in -Bloomsbury. His father was a well-known art critic until blindness -overtook him, and then the responsibility of the home fell on the -eldest son’s shoulders. His father was born and bred in Aberdeen, and -came as a young man to London, where he soon got work as a journalist, -and wrote much on art for the _Sunday Times_, the _Art Journal_, etc. -His most important work was _The Great Painters of Christendom_. - -The West Central district of London, with its splendid houses, its -Adams ceilings and overmantels, went quite out of fashion for more -than a quarter of a century. With the dawn, however, of 1900, people -began to realise that South Kensington stood on clay, was low and -damp, and consequently they gradually migrated back to the Regent’s -Park and those fine old squares in Bloomsbury. One after another the -houses were taken, and among Mr. Forbes Robertson’s neighbours are -George Grossmith and his brother Weedon, Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Hicks, -Lady Monckton, “Anthony Hope,” and many well-known judges, aldermen, -solicitors, and architects. - -In the old home in Bloomsbury the artistic family of Forbes Robertson -was reared. Johnston, as we know, suddenly neglected his easel for -the stage; his sister Frances took up literature as a profession; and -his brothers, known as Ian Robertson and Norman Forbes, both adopted -the theatrical profession. So the Robertsons may be classed among the -theatrical families. - -Who in the latter end of the nineteenth century did not weep with -Miss Terry?—who did not laugh with her well-nigh to tears? A great -personality, a wondrous charm of voice and manner, a magnetic influence -on all her surroundings—all these are possessed by Ellen Terry. - -In the days of their youth Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen Terry played -together, but many years elapsed between then and the Coronation -year of Edward VII., when they met again behind the footlights, in a -remarkable performance which shall be duly chronicled in these pages. - -Like Mrs. Kendal, Miss Ellen Terry began her theatrical life as a -child. She was born in Coventry in 1848—not far from Shakespeare’s -home, which later in life became such an attractive spot for her. Her -parents had theatrical engagements at Coventry at the time of her -birth, so that verily she was cradled on the stage. She was one of -four remarkable sisters, Kate, Ellen, Marion, and Florence, all clever -actresses and sisters of Fred Terry; while another brother, although -not himself an actor, was connected with the stage, Miss Minnie Terry -being his daughter. Altogether ten or twelve members of the Terry -family have been in the profession. - -Ellen Terry, like Irving, Wyndham, Hare, Mrs. Kendal, and Lady -Bancroft, learnt her art in stock companies. - -Miss Ellen Terry has always had the greatest difficulty in learning -her parts, and as years have gone on, even in remembering her lines in -oft-acted plays; but every one knows how apt she is to be forgetful, -and prompt her over her difficulties. Irving, on the other hand, is -letter-perfect at the first rehearsal, and rarely wants help of any -kind. - -Ellen Terry is so clever that even when she has forgotten her words she -knows how to “cover” herself by walking about the stage or some other -pretty by-play until a friend comes to her aid. Theatrical people are -extremely good to one another on these occasions. Somebody is always -ready to come to the rescue. After the first week everything goes -smoothly as a rule, until the strain of a long run begins to tell, and -they all in turn forget their words, much to the discomfiture of the -prompter. - -Forgetting the words is a common thing during a long run. I remember -Miss Geneviève Ward telling me that after playing _Forget-Me-Not_ some -five hundred times she became perfectly dazed, and that Jefferson had -experienced the same with _Rip van Winkle_, which he has to continually -re-study. Miss Gertrude Elliott suffered considerably in the same way -during the long run of _Mice and Men_. - -Much has been said for and against a long run; but surely the “against” -ought to have it. No one can be fresh and natural in a part played -night after night—played until the words become hazy, and that dreadful -condition “forgetting the lines” arrives. - -At a charming luncheon given by Mr. Pinero for the American Gillette, -when the latter was creating such a _furore_ in England with _Sherlock -Holmes_, I ventured to ask that actor how long he had played the part -of the famous detective. - -“For three years,” he replied. - -“Then I wonder you are not insane.” - -“So do I, ma’am, I often wonder myself, for the strain is terrible, and -sometimes I feel as if I could never walk on to the stage at all; but -when the theatre is full, go I must, and go I do; though I literally -shun the name of _Sherlock Holmes_.” - -We quickly turned to other subjects, and discussed the charm of -American women, a theme on which it is easy for an English woman to wax -eloquent. - -If a man like Gillette, with all his success, all his monetary gain, -and no anxiety—for he did not finance his own theatres—could feel like -that about a long run, what horrors it must present to others less -happily situated. - -Long runs, which are now so much desired by managers in England and -America, are unknown on the Continent. In other countries, where -theatres are more or less under State control, they never occur. Of -course the “long run” is the outcome of the vast sums expended on the -production. Managers cannot recoup themselves for the outlay unless the -play draws for a considerable while. But is this the real end and aim -of acting? Does it give opportunity for any individual actor to excel? - -But to return to Ellen Terry. She has played many parts and won the -love of a large public by her wonderful personality, for there is -something in her that charms. She is not really beautiful, yet she can -look lovely. She has not a strong voice, yet she can sway audiences at -will to laughter or tears. She has not a fine figure, yet she can look -a royal queen or simple maiden. Once asked whether she preferred comedy -or tragedy, she replied: - -“I prefer comedy, but I should be very sorry if there were no sad -plays. I think the feminine predilection for a really good cry is -one that should not be discouraged, inasmuch as there are few things -that yield us a truer or a deeper pleasure; but I like comedy as the -foundation, coping-stone, and pillar of a theatre. Not comedies for the -mere verbal display of wit, but comedies of humour with both music and -dancing.” - -Miss Ellen Terry has a cheery disposition, invariably looks on the -bright side of things, and not only knows how to work, but has actually -done so almost continuously from the age of eight. - -One of Miss Terry’s greatest charms is her mastery over expression. -It is really strange how little facial and physical expression are -understood in England. We are the most undemonstrative people. It is -much easier for a Frenchman to act than for an Englishman; the former -is always acting; the little shrug of the shoulders, the movement of -the hand and the head, or a wink of the eye, accompany every sentence -that falls from his lips. He is full of movement, he speaks as much -with his body as with his mouth, and therefore it is far less difficult -for him to give expression to his thoughts upon the stage than it is -for the stolid Britisher, whose public school training has taught him -to avoid showing feeling, and squeezed him into the same mould of -unemotional conventionality as all his other hundreds of schoolfellows. -There is no doubt about it that everything on the stage must be -exaggerated to be effective. It is a world of unreality, and the more -pronounced the facial and physical expression brought to bear, the more -effective the representation of the character. - -To realise the truth of these remarks, one should visit a small theatre -in France, a theatre in some little provincial town, where a quite -unimportant company is playing. They all seem to act, to be thoroughly -enamoured of their parts, and to play them with their whole heart and -soul. It is quite wonderful, indeed, to see the extraordinary capacity -of the average French actor and actress for expressing emotion upon -the stage. Of course it is their characteristic; but on the other -hand, the German nation is quite as stolid as our own, and yet the -stage is held by them in high esteem, and the amount of drilling gone -through is so wonderful that one is struck by the perfect playing of an -ordinary provincial German. At home these Teutonic folk are hard and -unemotional, but on the boards they expand. One has only to look at the -German company that comes over to London every year to understand this -remark. They play in a foreign tongue, the dresses are ordinary, one -might say poor, the scenery is meagre, there is nothing, in fact, to -help the acting in any way; and yet no one who goes to see one of their -performances can fail to be impressed by the wonderful thoroughness and -the general playing-in-unison of the entire company. Of course they do -not aim so high as the Meiningen troupe, for they were a State company -and the personal hobby of the Duke whose name they bore. We have no -such band of players in England, although F. R. Benson has done much -without State aid to accomplish the same result, and in many cases has -succeeded admirably. - -We have heard a great deal lately about the prospect of a State-Aided -Theatre and Opera in London; and there is much to be said for and -against the scheme. Municipal administration is often extravagant and -not unknown to jobbery, neither of which would be advisable; but the -present system leads to actor-managers and powerful syndicates, which -likewise have their drawbacks. There is undoubtedly much to be said -both for and against each system, and the British public has to decide. -Meantime we learn that the six Imperial theatres in Russia (three in -St. Petersburg and three in Moscow), with their schools attached, cost -the Emperor some £400,000 a year. “It is possible to visit the opera -for 5_d._, to see Russian pieces for 3_d._, French and German for -9_d._” These cheap seats are supposed to be a source of education to -the populace, but there are expensive ones as well. - -Some Englishmen understand the art of facial expression. A little -piece was played for a short time by Mr. Charles Warner, under the -management of Mrs. Beerbohm Tree. The chief scene took place in front -of a telephone, through which instrument the actor heard his wife and -child being murdered many miles away in the country, he being in Paris. -It was a ghastly idea, but Charles Warner’s face was a study from the -first moment to the last. He grew positively pale, he had very little -to say, and yet he carried off an entire scene of unspeakable horror -merely by his facial and physical expression. - -Some of our actors are amusingly fond of posing off the stage as well -as on. One well-known man was met by a friend who went forward to shake -his hand. - -“Ah, how do you do?” gushed the Thespian, striking an attitude, “how do -you do, old chap? Delighted to see you,” then assuming a dramatic air, -“but who the —— are you?” - -And this was his usual form of greeting after an effusive handshake. - -In a busy life it is of course impossible to remember every face, and -the nonentities should surely forgive the celebrities, for it is so -easy to recognise a well-known person owing to the constant recurrence -of his name or portrait in the press, and so easy to forget a nonentity -whom nothing recalls, and whose face resembles dozens more of the same -type. - -One often hears actors and actresses abused—that is the penalty of -success. Mediocrity is left alone, but, once successful, out come the -knives to flay the genius to pieces; in fact, the more abused a man is, -the more sure he may feel of his achievements. Abuse follows success in -proportion to merit, just as foolish hopes make the disappointments of -life. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -_THEATRICAL FOLK_ - - Miss Winifred Emery—Amusing Criticism—An Actress’s Home Life—Cyril - Maude’s first Theatrical Venture—First Performance—A Luncheon - Party—A Bride as Leading Lady—No Games, no Holidays—A Party at the - Haymarket—Miss Ellaline Terriss and her First Appearance—Seymour - Hicks—Ben Webster and Montagu Williams—The Sothern Family—Edward - Sothern as a Fisherman—A Terrible Moment—Almost a Panic—Asleep - as Dundreary—Frohman at Daly’s Theatre—English and American - Alliance—Mummers. - - -Another striking instance of hereditary theatrical talent is Miss -Winifred Emery, than whom there is no more popular actress in -London. This pretty, agreeable little lady—who, like Mrs. Kendal -and Miss Terry, may be said to have been born in the theatre—is the -only daughter of Samuel Sanderson Emery, a well-known actor, and -grand-daughter of John Emery, who was well known upon the stage. Her -first appearance was at Liverpool, at the advanced age of eight. - -The oldest theatrical names upon the stage to-day are William Farren -and Winifred Emery. Miss Emery’s great-grandfather was also an actor, -so she is really the fourth generation to adopt that profession, but -her grandmother and herself are the only two women of the name of -Emery who have appeared on playbills. - -As is well known, Miss Emery is the wife of Mr. Cyril Maude, lessee -with Mr. Frederick Harrison—not the world-renowned Positivist writer—of -the Haymarket Theatre. - -Although Mrs. Maude finds her profession engrossing, she calls it a -very hard one, and the necessity of being always up to the mark at a -certain hour every day is, she owns, a great strain even when she is -well, and quite impossible when she is ill. - -Some years ago, when she was even younger than she is now, and not -overburdened with this world’s gold, she was acting at the Vaudeville. -It was her custom to go home every evening in an omnibus. One -particularly cold night she jumped into the two-horse vehicle and -huddled herself up in the farthest corner, thinking it would be warmer -there than nearer the door in such bitter weather. She pulled her fur -about her neck, and sat motionless and quiet. Presently two women at -the other end arrested her attention; one was nudging the other, and -saying: - -“It is ’er, I tell yer; I know it’s ’er.” - -“Nonsense, it ain’t ’er at all; she couldn’t have got out of the -theayter so quick.” - -“It is ’er, I tell yer; just look at ’er again.” - -The other looked. - -“No it ain’t; she was all laughing and fun, and that ’ere one looks -quite sulky.” - -The “sulky one,” though thoroughly tired and weary, smiled to herself. - -I asked Miss Emery one day if she had ever been placed in any awkward -predicament on the stage. - -“I always remember one occasion,” she replied, “tragedy at the time, -but a comedy now, perhaps. I was acting with Henry Irving in the -States when I was about eighteen or nineteen, and felt very proud of -the honour. We reached Chicago. _Louis XI._ was the play. In one act—I -think it was the second—I went on as usual and did my part. Having -finished, as I thought, I went to my room and began to wash my hands. -It was a cold night, and my lovely white hands robbed of their paint -were blue. The mixture was well off when the call boy shouted my name. -Thinking he was having a joke I said: - -“‘All right, I’m here.’ - -“‘But Mr. Irving is waiting for you.’ - -“‘Waiting for me? Why, the act isn’t half over.’ - -“‘Come, Miss Emery, come quick,’ gasped the boy, pushing open the door. -‘Mr. Irving’s on the stage and waiting for you.’ - -“Horrors! In a flash I remembered I had two small scenes as Marie in -that act, and usually waited in the wing. Had I, could I have forgotten -the second one? - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W._ - -MISS WINIFRED EMERY AND MR. CYRIL MAUDE IN “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.”] - -“With wet red hands, dry white arms, my dress not properly fastened at -the back, towel in hand, along the passage I flew. On the stage was -poor Mr. Irving walking about, talking—I know not what. On I rushed, -said my lines, gave him my lobster-coloured wet hand to kiss—a pretty -contrast to my ashen cheeks, and when the curtain fell, I dissolved in -tears. - -“Mr. Irving sent for me to his room. In fear and trembling I went. - -“‘This was terrible,’ he said. ‘How did it happen?’ - -“‘I forgot, I forgot, why I know not, but I forgot,’ I said, and my -tears flowed again. He patted me on the back. - -“‘Never mind,’ he said kindly, ‘but please don’t let it occur again.’” - -Once when I was talking to this clever little lady the conversation -turned on games. - -“Games!” she exclaimed. “I know nothing of them: as a child I never had -time to play, and when I was sixteen years old I had to keep myself and -my family. Of late years I have been far too busy even to take up golf.” - -Mrs. Maude has two charming daughters, quaint, old-fashioned little -creatures, and some years their junior is a small brother. - -The two girls were once invited to a fancy dress ball in Harley Street: -it happened to be a Saturday, and therefore _matinée_ day. Their mother -arranged their dresses. The elder was to wear the costume of Lady -Teazle, an exact replica of the one reproduced in this volume, and -which Mrs. Maude wore when playing that part, while the younger was to -be dressed as a Dutch bride, also a copy of one of Miss Emery’s dresses -in the _Black Tulip_. They all lunched together, and as the mother was -going off to the theatre, she told the nurse to see that the children -were dressed properly, and take them to the house at a certain hour. - -“Oh, but, mummy, we can’t go unless you dress us,” exclaimed the elder -child; “we should never be right.” And therefore it was settled that -the two little people should be arrayed with the exception of the final -touches, and then driven round by way of the Haymarket Theatre, so that -their mother might attend to their wigs, earrings, hat or cap, as the -case might be. - -What a pretty idea. The mother, who was attracting rounds of applause -from a crowded house every time she went on the stage, running back to -her dressing-room between the scenes, to drop down on her knees and -attend to her little girls, so that they should be all right for their -party. - -Admiring the costume of the younger one, I said: - -“Why, you have got on your mother’s dress.” - -“No, it’s not mother’s,” she replied. “It’s _my_ dress, and _my_ shoes, -and _my_ stockings—all my very own; but it’s mother’s gold cap, and -mother’s earrings, and mother’s necklace, and mother’s apron—with a -tuck in,” and she nodded her wise little head. - -This was a simple child, not like the small American girl whose mother -was relating wonderful stories of her precocity to an admiring friend, -when a shrill voice from the corner called out: - -“But you haven’t told the last clever thing I said, mamma,” evidently -wishing none of her brilliant wit to be lost. - -They looked sweet, those two children of Mrs. Maude’s, and the way the -elder one attended upon her smaller sister was pretty to see. - -In a charming little house near the Brompton Oratory Mrs. Maude lived -for years, surrounded by her family, perfectly content in their -society. She is in every sense a thoroughly domesticated woman, and -warmly declares she “loves housekeeping.” - -One cannot imagine a happier home than the Maudes’, and no more -charming gentleman walks upon the stage than this well-known descendant -of many distinguished army men. Mr. Maude was at Charterhouse, one of -our best public schools, and is a most enthusiastic old Carthusian. So -is General Baden-Powell, whose interest in the old place went so far as -to make him spend his last night in England among his old schoolfellows -at the City Charterhouse when he returned invalided on short leave from -the Transvaal. The gallant soldier gave an excellent speech, referring -to Founders’ Day, which they were then commemorating, and delighted his -boy hearers and “Ancient Brethren” equally. - -On Charterhouse anniversaries Mr. Maude drops his jester’s cap and -solemnly, long stick in hand, takes part in the ceremony at the old -Carthusian Church made popular by Thackeray’s _Newcomes_. - -Cyril Maude was originally intended for another profession, but, in -spite of family opposition, elected to go upon the stage, and as -his parents did not approve of such a proceeding, he commenced his -theatrical career in America, where he went through many vicissitudes. -He began in a Shakespearian _rèpertoire_ company, playing through -the Western mining towns of the States, where he had to rough it -considerably. - -“I even slept on a bit of carpet on a bar-room floor one night,” he -said; “but our beautiful company burst up in ’Frisco, and I had to come -home emigrant fashion, nine days and nine nights in the train, with -a little straw mattress for my bed, and a small tin can to hold my -food. They were somewhat trying experiences, yet most interesting, and -gave great opportunities for studying mankind. I have played in every -conceivable sort of play, and once ‘walked on’ for months made up as -Gladstone in a burlesque, to a mighty dreary comic song.” - -So Mr. Maude, like the rest who have climbed to the top, began at the -bottom of the ladder, and has worked his way industriously up to his -present position, which he has held at the Haymarket since 1896, and -where—he laughingly says—he hopes to die in harness. - -Cyril Maude gives rather an amusing description of his first theatrical -performance. When he was a boy of eighteen his family took a house at -Dieppe for six months, and he was sent every day to study French with -_Monsieur le Pasteur_. - -“One day, when I had been working with him for three or four weeks, he -asked me what I was going to make my profession. - -“‘Comédien,’ I replied. - -“‘Comment? Comédien? Etes-vous fou?’ he exclaimed, horrified and -astounded at such a suggestion, and added more gravely, ‘I am quite -sure you have not the slightest idea how to act; so, my boy, you had -better put such a ridiculous idea out of your head and stick to your -books. Besides, you must choose a profession fit for a gentleman.’ - -“Of course I felt piqued, and as I walked home that evening I just -wondered if there were not some way by which I could show the old man -that I _could_ act if I chose. - -“The Pasteur had a resident pupil of the name of Bishop, a nice young -fellow, and to him I related my indignation. - -“‘Of course you can act,’ he said; so between us we concocted the -brilliant idea that I should dress up as Bishop’s aunt and go and call -upon the Pasteur, with the ostensible view of sending another nephew -to his excellent establishment. Overjoyed at the scheme I ransacked my -mother’s wardrobe, and finally dressed myself up to resemble a somewhat -lean, cadaverous English old maid. - -“I walked down the street to the house, and to my joy the servant did -not recognise me. The old man received me with great cordiality and -politeness. I told him in very bad French, with a pronounced Cockney -accent, that I was thinking of sending another of my nephews to him -if he had room. At this suggestion the Pasteur was delighted, took me -upstairs, showed me all the rooms, and made quite a fuss over me. -Then he called ‘my nephew,’ who nearly gave the show away by choking -with laughter when I affectionately greeted him with a chaste salute. -This was the only part of the business I did not really enjoy! As we -were coming downstairs, the Pasteur well in front, I smiled—perhaps I -winked—at Bishop, anyhow I slipped, whereupon the polite old gentleman -turned round, was most _désolé_ at the accident, gave me his arm, and -assisted me most tenderly all the rest of the way to the dining-room, -his wife following and murmuring:— - -“‘Prenez garde, madame, prenez garde.’ - -“Having arrived at the _salle-à-manger_ the dear old Pasteur said he -would leave me for a moment with his wife, in case there was anything -I might like to discuss with her, and to my horror I was left closeted -with madame, nervously fearing she might touch on subjects fit only for -ladies’ ears, but not for the tender years of my manly youth. Needless -to say I escaped from her clutches as quickly as possible. - -“For two days I kept up the joke. Then it became too much for me, -and as we were busily working at French verbs, in the curé’s study, -I changed my voice and returned to the old lady’s Cockney French -intonations, which was not in the least difficult, as my own French -was none of the brightest. The Pasteur turned round, looked hard at -me for a moment, and then went back to the verbs. I awaited another -opportunity, and began again. This time he almost glared at me, and -then, clapping his hands to his head and bursting into laughter, he -exclaimed: - -“‘Mais c’était vous, c’était vous la tante de Bishop?’ - -“It turned out he had written that morning to Bishop’s real aunt, -accepting her second nephew as a pupil, and arranging all the details -of his arrival. How surprised the good lady must have been.” - -June 3rd, 1899, was the eleventh anniversary of Cyril Maude and -Winifred Emery’s wedding day, and they gave a delightful little -luncheon party at their pretty house in Egerton Crescent, where they -then lived. The host certainly looked ridiculously young to have been -married eleven years, or to be the father of the big girl of nine and -the smaller one of six who came down to dessert. - -Their home was a very cosy one—not big or grand in those days, but -thoroughly carried out on a small scale, with trees in the gardens in -front, trees in the back-yard behind, and the aspect was refreshing on -that frightfully hot Oaks day. - -Winifred Emery had a new toy—a tiny little dog, so small that it could -curl itself up quite happily in the bottom of a man’s top hat, but yet -wicked enough to do a vast amount of damage, for it had that morning -pulled a blouse by the sleeves from the bed to the floor, and had -calmly dissevered the lace from the cambric. - -The Maudes are a most unconventional theatrical pair. They love -their home and their children, and seem to wish to get rid of every -remembrance of the theatre once they pass their own front door. And -yet it is impossible to get rid of the theatre in the summer, for -besides having eight performances a week of _The Manœuvres of Jane_ -at that time—which was doing even better business at the end of nine -months than it was at the beginning—those unfortunate people were -giving charity performances every week for seven consecutive weeks, -which of course necessitated rehearsals apart from the performances -themselves. Really the charity distributed by the theatrical world is -enormous. - -We had a delightful luncheon: much of my time was spent gazing at Miss -Ellaline Terriss, who is even prettier off the stage than she is on. - -When Mrs. Maude said she had been married for eleven years, with the -proudest air in the world Mrs. Hicks remarked: - -“And we have been married nearly six.” - -But certainly to look at Ellaline Terriss and Seymour Hicks made it -seem impossible to believe that such could be the case. Hard work seems -to agree with some people, and the incessant labour of the stage had -left no trace on these young couples. - -After luncheon the Maudes’ eldest little girl recited a French poem -she had learnt at school, and it was quite ridiculous to see the small -child already showing inherited talent. She was calm and collected, and -when she had done and I congratulated her, she said in the simplest way -in the world: - -“I am going to be an actress when I am grown up, and so is Baby,” -nodding her head at the other small thing of six, for the boy had not -then arrived to usurp “Baby’s” place. - -“Oh yes, so am I,” said little six-year-old. But when I asked her to -recite something, she said: - -“I haven’t learnt yet, but I shall soon.” - -The Maudes were then eagerly looking forward to some weeks’ holiday -which they always enjoy every autumn. - -“I like a place where I need not wear gloves, and a hat is not a -necessity,” she said. “I have so much dressing-up in my life that it is -a holiday to be without it.” - -Somehow the conversation turned on a wedding to which they had just -been, and Winifred Emery exclaimed: - -“I love going to weddings, but I always regret I am not the bride.” - -“Come, come,” said her husband, “that would be worse than the Mormons. -However many husbands would you have?” - -“Oh, I always want to keep my own old husband, but I want to be the -bride.” At which he laughed immoderately, and said: - -“I declare, Winifred, you are never happy unless you are playing the -leading lady.” - -“Of course not,” she retorted; “women always appreciate appreciation.” - -They were much amused when I told them the story of my small boy, who, -aged about seven, was to go to a wedding as a page in gorgeous white -satin with lace ruffles and old paste buttons. - -“I don’t want to go,” he remarked; “I hate weddings”—for he had -officiated twice before. Something he said leading me to suppose he was -a little shy, I soothingly answered: - -“Oh, well, every one will be so busy looking at the bride that they -will never look at you.” - -To which the small gentleman indignantly replied: - -“If they aren’t even going to look at me, then I don’t see why I need -go at all!” - -So after all there is a certain amount of vanity even in a small boy of -seven. - -“I cannot bear a new play,” Mrs. Maude once said. “I am nervous, -worried, and anxious at rehearsal, and it is not until I have got on -my stage clothes that it ceases to be a trouble to me. Not till I have -played it for weeks that I feel thoroughly at home in a new part. - -“It is positively the first real holiday I have ever had in my life,” -she exclaimed to me at the time of her illness; “for although we always -take six weeks’ rest in the summer, plays have to be studied and work -is looming ahead, whereas now I have six months of complete idleness in -front of me. It is splendid to have time to tidy my drawers in peace, -ransack my bookshelves, see to a hundred and one household duties -without any hurry, have plenty of time to spend with the children, and -actually to see something of my friends, whom it is impossible to meet -often in my usually busy life.” - -So spoke Miss Winifred Emery, and a year later Mrs. Kendal wrote, “I’ve -had ten days’ holiday this year, and am now rehearsing literally day -and night.” - -After that who can say the life of the successful actress is not a -grind? A maidservant or shopgirl expects her fortnight’s holiday in a -twelvemonth, while one of the most successful actresses of modern times -has to be content with ten days during the same period. Yet Mrs. Kendal -is not a girl or a beginner, she is in full power and at the top of her -profession. - -All theatrical life is not a grind, however, and it has its brighter -moments. For instance, one beautiful warm sunny afternoon, the -anniversary of their own wedding day—the Cyril Maudes gave an “At Home” -at the Haymarket. Guests arrived by the stage door at the back of the -famous theatre, and to their surprise found themselves at once upon the -stage, for the back scene and Suffolk Street are almost identical. Mrs. -Maude, with a dear little girl on either side, received her friends, -and an interesting group of friends they were. Every one who was any -one seemed to have been bidden thither. The stage was, of course, not -large enough for this goodly throng, so a great staircase had been -built down from the footlights to where the stalls usually stand. -The stalls, however, had gone—disappeared as though they had never -existed—and where the back row generally cover the floor a sumptuous -buffet was erected. It was verily a fairy scene, for the dress-circle -(which at the Haymarket is low down) was a sort of winter garden of -palms and flowers behind which the band was ensconced. - -What would the players of old, Charles Mathews, Colley Cibber, Edmund -Kean, Liston, and Colman, have said to such a sight? What would -old Mr. Emery have thought could he have known that one day his -grand-daughter would reign as a very queen on the scene of his former -triumphs? What would he have said had he known that periwigs and old -stage coaches would have disappeared in favour of closely-cut heads, -electric broughams, shilling hansoms with C springs and rubber tyres, -or motor cars? What would he have thought of the electric light in -place of candle dips and smelling lamps? How surprised he would have -been to find neatly coated men showing the audience to their seats at -a performance, instead of fat rowdy women, to see the orange girls and -their baskets superseded by dainty trays of tea and ices, and above all -to note the decorous behaviour of a modern audience in contrast to the -noisy days when Grandpapa Emery trod the Haymarket boards. - -Almost the most youthful person present, if one dare judge by -appearances, was the actor-manager, Cyril Maude. There is something -particularly charming about Mr. Maude—there is a merry twinkle -in his eyes, with a sound of tears in his voice, and it is this -combination, doubtless, which charms his audience. He is a low -comedian, a character-actor, and yet he can play on the emotional -chord when necessity arises. He and his co-partner, Mr. Harrison, are -warm friends—a delightful situation for people so closely allied in -business. - -Immediately off the stage is the green-room, now almost unused. -Formerly the old green-room on the other side of the stage was a -fashionable resort, and the green-rooms at the Haymarket and Drury -Lane were crowded nightly at the beginning of the last century with -all the fashionable men of the day. Kings went there to be amused, -plays began at any time, the waits between the acts were of any length, -and general disorder reigned in the candle and oil-lighted theatres—a -disorder to which a few visitors did not materially add. All is -changed nowadays. The play begins to the minute, and ends with equal -regularity. Actors do not fail to appear without due notice, so that -the under-study has time to get ready, and order reigns both before and -behind the footlights. Therefore at the Haymarket no one is admitted to -the green-room, in fact, no one is allowed in the theatre “behind the -scenes” at all, except to the dressing-room of the particular star who -has invited him thither. - -Mrs. Maude made a charming hostess at that party. - -I think the hour at which we were told on the cards “to leave” was 6.0, -or it may have been 6.30; at any rate, we all streamed out reluctantly -at the appointed time, and the stage carpenters streamed in. Away went -the palms, off came the bunting, down came the staircase, and an hour -later the evening audience were pouring in to the theatre, little -knowing what high revelry had so lately ended. - -Some people seem to be born old, others live long and die young; -judging by their extraordinary juvenility, Mr. Seymour Hicks and his -charming wife, _née_ Ellaline Terriss, belong to the latter category. -They are a boyish man and a girlish woman, in the best sense of -lighthearted youthfulness, yet they have a record of successes behind -them, of which many well advanced in years might be proud. No daintier, -prettier, more piquante little lady trips upon our stage than Ellaline -Terriss. She is the personification of everything mignonne, and whether -dressed in rags as _Bluebell in Fairyland_, or as a smart lady in a -modern play, she is delightful. - -It is a curious thing that so many of our prominent actors and -actresses have inherited their histrionic talents from their parents -and even grandparents, and Mrs. Hicks is no exception, for she is -the daughter of the late well-known actor, William Terriss. She was -not originally intended for the stage, and her adoption of it as a -profession was almost by chance. A letter of her own describes how this -came about. - -“I was barely sixteen when Mr. Calmour, who wrote _The Amber Heart_ -and named the heroine after me, suggested we should surprise my father -one day by playing _Cupid’s Messenger_ in our drawing-room, and that I -should take the leading part. We had a brass rod fixed up across the -room, and thus made a stage, and on the preceding night informed a -few friends of the morrow’s performance. The news greatly astonished -my father, who laughed. I daresay he was secretly pleased, though he -pretended not to be. A couple of months passed, and I heard that Miss -Freke was engaged at the Haymarket to play the part I had sustained. -Oh, how I wished it was I! Little did I think my wish was so near -fulfilment. I was sitting alone over the fire one day when a telegram -was handed to me, which ran: - - “‘_Haymarket Theatre. Come up at once. Play Cupid’s Messenger, - to-night._’ - -“I rushed to catch a train, and found myself at the stage door of the -theatre at 7.15 p.m. All was hurry and excitement. I did not know how -to make-up. I did not know with whom I was going to appear, and Miss -Freke’s dress was too large for me. The whole affair seemed like a -dream. However, I am happy to say Mr. Tree stood by and saw me act, and -I secured the honour of a ‘call.’ I played for a week, when Mr. Tree -gave me a five-pound note, and a sweet letter of thanks. My father then -said that if it would add to my happiness I might go on the stage, and -he would get me an engagement.” - -How proud the girl must have been of that five-pound note, for any -person who has ever earned even a smaller sum knows how much sweeter -money seems when acquired by one’s own exertions. Five-pound notes have -come thick and fast since then, but I doubt if any gave the actress so -much pleasure as Mr. Beerbohm Tree’s first recognition of her talent. - -Thus it really was quite by accident Miss Terriss entered on a -theatrical career. Her father, knowing the hard work and many -disappointments attendant on stage life, had not wished his daughter to -follow his own calling. But talent will out. It waits its opportunity, -and then, like love, asserts itself. The opportunity came in a kindly -way; the talent was there, and Miss Terriss was clever and keen enough -to take her chance when it came and make the most of it. From that -moment she has never been idle, even her holidays have been few and far -between. - -Every one in London must have seen _Bluebell in Fairyland_, which ran -nearly a year. Indeed, at one time it was being played ten times a -week. Think of it. Ten times a week. To go through the same lines, the -same songs, the same dances, to look as if one were enjoying oneself, -to enter into the spirit and fun of the representation, was indeed -a herculean task, and one which the Vaudeville company successfully -carried through. But poor Mrs. Hicks broke down towards the close, and -was several times out of the bill. - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by London Stereoscopic Co., Ltd., Cheapside, E.C._ - -MR. AND MRS. SEYMOUR HICKS.] - -It is doubtful whether Seymour Hicks will be better known as an actor -or an author in the future, for he has worked hard at both professions -successfully. He was born at St. Heliers, Jersey, in 1871, and is the -eldest son of Major Hicks, of the 42nd Highlanders. His father intended -him for the army, but his own taste did not lie in that direction, and -when only sixteen and a half he elected to go upon the stage, and five -years later was playing a principal light comedy part at the Gaiety -Theatre. Like his wife, he has been several times in America, where -both have met with success, and when not acting, at which he is almost -constantly employed, this energetic man occupies his time by writing -plays, of a light and musical nature, which are usually successful. -_One of the Best_, _Under the Clock_, _The Runaway Girl_, _Bluebell in -Fairyland_, and _The Cherry Girl_ have all had long runs. - -When the Hicks find time for a holiday their idea of happiness is an -out-of-door existence, with rod or gun for companions. Most of our -actors and actresses, whose lives are necessarily so public, love the -quiet of the country coupled with plenty of exercise when able to -take a change. The theatre is barely closed before they rush off to -moor or fen, to yacht or golf—to anything, in fact, that carries them -completely away from the glare of the footlights. - -Another instance of theatrical heredity is Ben Webster, whose talent -for acting doubtless comes from his grandfather. Originally young -Ben read for the Bar with that eminent and amusing man, Mr. Montagu -Williams. It was just at that time that poor Montagu Williams’s throat -began to trouble him: later on, when no longer able to plead in court, -he was given an appointment as magistrate. I only remember meeting him -once—it was at Ramsgate. When walking along the Esplanade one day—I -think about the year 1890—I found my father talking to a neat, dapper -little gentleman in a fur coat, thickly muffled about the throat. He -introduced his friend as Montagu Williams, a name very well known at -that time. Alas! the eminent lawyer was hardly able to speak—disease -had assailed his throat well-nigh to death, and the last time I saw -that wonderful painter and charming man Sir John Everett Millais, at -a private view at the Royal Academy, he was almost as speechless, poor -soul. - -Well, Montagu Williams was made a magistrate, and young Ben Webster, -realising his patron’s influence was to a certain extent gone, and -his own chances at the Bar consequently diminished, gladly accepted -an offer of Messrs. Hare and Kendal to play a companion part to his -sister in the _Scrap of Paper_, then on tour. He had often acted as -an amateur; and earned some little success during his few weeks’ -professional engagement, so that when he returned to town and found -Montagu Williams removed from active practice at the Bar, he went at -once to Mr. Hare and asked for the part of Woodstock in _Clancarty_. -Thus he launched himself upon the stage, although his grandfather had -been dead for three years, and so had not directly had anything to do -with his getting there. - -Old Grandfather Ben seems to have been a very irascible old gentleman, -and a decidedly obstinate one. On one occasion his obstinacy saved his -life, however, so his medical man stoutly declared. - -The doctor had given Ben Webster up: he was dying. Chatterton and -Churchill were outside the room where he lay, and the medico when -leaving told them “old Ben couldn’t last an hour.” - -“Ah, dear, dear!” said Chatterton; “poor old Ben going at last,” and he -sadly nodded his head as he entered the room. - -“Blast ye! I’m not dead yet,” roared a voice from the bed, where old -Ben was sitting bolt upright. “I’m not going to die to please any of -you.” - -He fell back gasping; but from that moment he began to get better. - -Another eminent theatrical family, the Sotherns, were born on the -stage, so to speak, and took to the profession as naturally as ducks to -water, while their contemporaries the Irvings and Boucicaults have done -likewise. - -It must have been towards the end of the seventies that my parents -took a house one autumn in Scarborough. We had been to Buxton for -my father’s health, and after a driving tour through Derbyshire, -finally arrived at our destination. To my joy, Mr. Sothern and his -daughter, who was then my schoolfellow in London, soon appeared upon -the scene. He had come in consequence of an engagement to play at the -Scarborough Theatre in _Dundreary_ and _Garrick_, and had secured a -house near us. Naturally I spent much of my time with my girl friend, -and we used often to accompany her father in a boat when he went on -his dearly-loved fishing expeditions. Never was there a merrier, more -good-natured, pleasanter gentleman than this actor. He was always -making fun which we children enjoyed immensely. Practical jokes to him -seemed the essence of life, and I vaguely remember incidents which, -though amusing to him, rather perturbed my juvenile mind. At the time -I had been very little to theatres, but as he had a box reserved every -night, I was allowed now and then to go and gaze in wild admiration at -_Garrick_ and _Dundreary_. - -One afternoon I went to the Sotherns for a meat tea before proceeding -to the theatre, but the great comedian was not there. “Pops,” for -so he was called by his family, had gone out at four o’clock that -morning with a fisherman, and still remained absent. The weather had -turned rough, and considerable anxiety was felt as to what could have -become of him. His eldest son, Lytton, since dead, appeared especially -distressed. He had been down to the shore to inquire of the boatmen, -but nothing could be heard of his father. We finished our meal—Mr. -Sothern’s having been sent down to be kept warm—and although he had -not appeared, it was time to go to the theatre. Much perturbed in his -mind, Lytton escorted his sister and myself thither, and leaving us in -the box, went off once more to inquire if his father had arrived at the -stage door; again without success. - -This seemed alarming; the wind was still boisterous and the stage -manager in a fright because he knew the only attraction to his audience -was the appearance of Edward Sothern as Lord Dundreary. It was the -height of the season, and the house was packed. Lytton started off -again to the beach, this time in a cab; the stage manager popped his -head into our box to inquire if the missing hero had by chance arrived, -the orchestra struck up, but still no Mr. Sothern. It was a curious -experience. The “gods” became uneasy, the pit began to stamp, the -orchestra played louder, and at last, dreading a sudden tumult, the -stage manager stepped forward and began to explain that “Mr. Sothern, -a devoted fisherman, had gone out at four o’clock that morning; but -had failed to return. As they knew, the weather was somewhat wild, -therefore, they could only suppose he had been detained by the storm——” - -At this juncture an unexpected and dishevelled figure appeared on the -scene. The usually spick-and-span, carefully groomed Mr. Sothern, with -his white locks dripping wet and hanging like those of a terrier dog -over his eyes, hurried up, exclaiming: - -“I am here, I am here. Will be ready in a minute,” and the weird -apparition disappeared through the opposite wing. Immense relief and -some amusement kept the audience in good humour, while with almost -lightning rapidity the actor changed and the play began. - -In one of the scenes the hero goes to bed and draws the curtain to -hide him from the audience. Mr. Sothern went to bed as usual, but when -remarks should have been heard proceeding from behind the curtain, no -sound was forthcoming. The other player went on with his part; still -silence from the bed. The stage manager became alarmed, knowing that -Sothern was terribly fatigued and had eaten but little food, he tore -a small hole in the canvas which composed the wall of the room, and, -peeping through, saw to his horror that the actor was fast asleep. This -was an awkward situation. He called him—no response. The poor man on -the stage still gagged on gazing anxiously behind him for a response, -till at last, getting desperate, the stage manager seized a broom and -succeeded in poking Sothern’s ribs with the handle. The actor awoke -with a huge yawn, quite surprised to find himself in bed wearing -Dundreary whiskers, which proved a sharp reminder he ought to have been -performing antics on the stage. - -Actor and fisherman had experienced a terrible time in their boat. The -current was so strong that when they turned to come back they were -borne along the coast, and as hour after hour passed poor Sothern -realised that not only might he not be able to keep his appointment at -the theatre, but was in peril of ever getting back any more. He made -all sorts of mental vows never to go out fishing again when he was -due to play at night; never to risk being placed in such an awkward -predicament, never to do many things; but in spite of this experience, -when once safe on land, his ardour was not damped, for he was off -fishing again the very next day. - -When I went to America in 1900 Mrs. Kendal kindly gave me some -introductions, and one among others to Mr. Frohman. His is a name to -conjure with in theatrical circles on that side of the Atlantic, and is -becoming so on this side, for he controls a vast theatrical trust which -either makes or mars stage careers. - -I called one morning by appointment at Daly’s Theatre, and as there -happened to be no rehearsal in progress all was still except at the box -office. I gave my card, and was immediately asked to “step along to Mr. -Frohman’s room.” - -Up dark stairs and along dimly lighted passages I followed my -conductor, till he flung open the door of a beautiful room, where at -a large writing-table sat Mr. Frohman. He rose and received me most -kindly, and was full of questions concerning the Kendals and other -mutual friends, when suddenly, to my surprise, I saw a large photograph -hanging on the wall, of a Hamlet whose face I seemed to know. - -“Who is that?” I asked. - -“Mr. Edward Sothern, the greatest Hamlet in America, the son of the -famous Dundreary.” - -“I had the pleasure of playing with that Hamlet many times when I was a -little girl,” I remarked; “for although ‘Eddy’ was somewhat older, he -used often to come to the nursery in Harley Street to have games with -us children when his mother lived a few doors from the house in which I -was born.” - -Mr. Frohman was interested, and so was I, to hear of the great success -of young Edward Sothern, for of course Sam Sothern is well known on the -English stage. - -The sumptuous office of Mr. Frohman is at the back of Daly’s Theatre. -It is a difficult matter to gain admittance to that sacred chamber, -but preliminaries having been arranged, the attendant who conducts -one thither rings a bell to inform the great man that his visitor is -about to enter. Mr. Frohman was interesting and affable. He evidently -possesses a fine taste, for pieces of ancient armour, old brocade, and -the general air of a _bric-à-brac_ shop pervaded his sitting-room. - -“English actors are as successful over here,” he said, “as Americans -are in London, and the same may be said of plays, the novelty, I -suppose, in each case.” - -The close alliance between England and America is becoming more -emphasised every day. Why, in the matter of acting alone we give them -our best and they send us their best in return. So much is this the -case that most of the people mentioned in these pages are as well known -in New York as in London; for instance, Sir Henry Irving, Miss Ellen -Terry, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Mr. Weedon Grossmith, Mr. E. S. Willard, -Miss Fay Davis, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, Miss Winifred Emery, Mr. Cyril -Maude, Miss Ellaline Terriss, Mr. Seymour Hicks, Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm -Tree, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, Mr. Anthony Hope, Mr. A. W. Pinero, and a host -of others. Sir Henry Irving has gone to America, for the eighth time -during the last twenty years, with his entire company. That company -for the production of _Dante_ consists of eighty-two persons, and no -fewer than six hundred and seventy-three packages, comprising scenery, -dresses, and properties. - -“No author should ever try to dramatise his own books: he nearly always -fails,” Mr. Frohman added later during our pleasant little chat, after -which he took me round his theatre, probably the most celebrated in the -United States, for it was built by the famous Daly, and still maintains -its position at the head of affairs. On the whole, American theatres -are smaller than our own, the entire floor is composed of stalls which -only cost 8_s._ 4_d._ each, and there is no pit. In the green-room, -halls, and passages Mr. Frohman pointed out with evident delight -various pictures of Booth as Hamlet, since whose time no one had been -so successful till Edward Sothern junior took up that _rôle_ in 1900. -There was also a large portrait of Charlotte Cushman, and several -pictures of Irving, Ellen Terry, Jefferson, and others, as well as some -photographs of my old friend Mr. Sothern. - -I have quoted the Terrys, Kendals, Ellaline Terriss, Ben Webster, -Winifred Emery, and the Sotherns as products of the stage, but there -are many more, including Dion and Nina Boucicault, whose parents were a -well-known theatrical couple, George and Weedon Grossmith, the sons of -an entertainer, and George’s son is also on the stage. Both the Irvings -are sons of Sir Henry of that ilk, and so on _ad infinitum_. - -From the above list it will be seen that most of our successful actors -and actresses were cradled in the profession. They were “mummers” in -the blood, if one may be forgiven the use of such a quaint old word to -represent the modern exponents of the drama. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -_PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS_ - - Interview with Ibsen—His Appearance—His Home—Plays Without - Plots—His Writing-table—His Fetiches—Old at Seventy—A Real Tragedy - and Comedy—Ibsen’s First Book—Winter in Norway—An Epilogue—Arthur - Wing Pinero—Educated for the Law—As Caricaturist—An Entertaining - Luncheon—How Pinero writes his Plays—A Hard Worker—First Night of - _Letty_. - - -Probably the man who has had the most far-reaching influence on modern -drama is Henrik Ibsen. Half the dramatic world of Europe admire his -work as warmly as the other half deplore it. - -Ibsen has a strange personality. The Norwegian is not tall, on the -contrary, rather short and thick-set—one might almost say stout—in -build, broad-shouldered, and with a stooping gait. His head is -splendid, the long white hair is a glistening mass of tangled locks. -He has an unusually high forehead, and in true Norse fashion wears his -plentiful hair brushed straight back, so that, being long, it forms a -complete frame for the face. He has whiskers, which, meeting in the -middle, beneath his chin, leave the chin and mouth bare. Under the -upper lip one sees by the indentation the decision of the mouth, and -the determination of those thin lips, which through age are slightly -drawn to one side. He has a pleasant smile when talking; but in repose -the mouth is so firmly set that the upper lip almost disappears. - -The great dramatist has lived for many years in Christiania, and it -was in that town, on a cold snowy morning in 1895 I first met him. -The streets were completely buried in snow; even the tram-lines, -despite all the care bestowed upon them, were embedded six or seven -inches below the surface of the frozen mass. It can be very cold -during winter in Christiania, and frost-bite is not unknown, for the -thermometer runs down many degrees below zero. That is the time to -see Norway. Then everything is at its best. The sky clear, the sun -shining—all Nature bright, crisp, and beautiful. Icicles many feet long -hung like a sparkling fringe in the sunlight as I walked—or rather -stumbled—over the snow to the Victorian Terrasse to see the celebrated -man. Tall posts leaning from the street gutters to the houses reminded -pedestrians that deep snow from the roofs might fall upon them. - -The name of Dr. Henrik Ibsen was written in golden letters at the -entrance to the house, with the further information that he lived -on the first floor. There was nothing grand about his home, just an -ordinary Norwegian flat, containing eight or ten good rooms; and -yet Ibsen is a rich man. His books have been translated into every -tongue, his plays performed on every stage. His work has undoubtedly -revolutionised the drama. He started the idea of a play without plot, -a character-sketch in fact, a psychological study, and introduced -the “no-ending” system. Much he left to the imagination, and the -imagination of various nationalities has run in such dissimilar lines -that he himself became surprised at the thoughts he was supposed to -have suggested. - -Brilliant as much of his work undoubtedly is, there is quite as much -which is repellent and certainly has not added to the betterment of -mankind. His characters are seldom happy, for they too often strive -after the impossible. - -The hall of his home looked bare, the maid was capless and apronless, -according to Norwegian fashion, while rows of goloshes stood upon -the floor. The girl ushered me along a passage, at the end of which -was the great man’s study. He rose, warmly shook me by the hand, and -finding I spoke German, at once became affable and communicative. -He is of Teutonic descent, and in many ways has inherited German -characteristics. When he left Norway in 1864—when, in fact, Norway -ceased to be a happy home for him—he wandered to Berlin, Dresden, -Paris, and Rome, remaining many years in the Fatherland. - -“The happiest summer I ever spent in my life was at Berchtesgaden in -1880,” he exclaimed. “But to me Norway is the most lovely country in -the world.” - -[Illustration: DR. HENRIK IBSEN.] - -Ibsen’s writing-table, which is placed in the window so that the -dramatist may look out upon the street, was strewn with letters, all -the envelopes of which had been neatly cut, for he is faddy and tidy -almost to the point of old-maidism. He has no secretary, it worries -him to dictate, and consequently all communications requiring answers -have to be written by the Doctor himself. His calligraphy is the -neatest, smallest, roundest imaginable. It is representative of the -man. The signature is almost like a schoolboy’s—or rather, like what a -schoolboy’s is supposed to be—it is so carefully lettered; the modern -schoolboy’s writing is, alas! ruined by copying “lines” for punishment, -time which could be more profitably employed learning thought-inspiring -verses. - -On the table beside the inkstand was a small tray. Its contents were -extraordinary—some little wooden carved Swiss bears, a diminutive black -devil, small cats, dogs, and rabbits made of copper, one of which was -playing a violin. - -“What are those funny little things?” I ventured to ask. - -“I never write a single line of any of my dramas unless that tray and -its occupants are before me on the table. I could not write without -them. It may seem strange—perhaps it is—but I cannot write without -them,” he repeated. “Why I use them is my own secret.” And he laughed -quietly. - -Are these little toys, these fetishes, and their strange fascination, -the origin of those much-discussed dolls in _The Master Builder_? Who -can tell? They are Ibsen’s secret. - -In manner Henrik Ibsen is quiet and reserved; he speaks slowly and -deliberately, so slowly as to remind one of the late Mr. Bayard, the -former American Minister to the Court of St. James, when he was making -a speech. Mr. Bayard appeared to pause between each word, and yet the -report in the papers the following day read admirably. This slowness -may with Ibsen be owing to age, for he was born in 1828 (although in -manner and gait he appears at least ten years older), or it may be -from shyness, for he is certainly shy. How men vary. Ibsen at seventy -seemed an old man; General Diaz, the famous President of Mexico, young -at the same age. The one drags his feet and totters along; the other -walks briskly with head erect. Ibsen was never a society man in any -sense of the word, a mug of beer and a paper at the club being his idea -of amusement. Indeed, in Christiania, until 1902, he could be seen any -afternoon at the chief hotel employed in this way, for after his dinner -at two o’clock he strolled down town past the University to spend a few -hours in the fashion which pleased him. - -Norwegian life is much more simple than ours. The inhabitants dine -early and have supper about eight o’clock. Entertainments are -hospitable and friendly, but not as a rule costly, and although Ibsen -is a rich man, the only hobby on which he appears to have spent much -money is pictures. He loves them, and wherever he has wandered his -little gallery has always gone with him. - -Ibsen began to earn his own living at the age of sixteen, and for five -or six years worked in an apothecary’s shop, amusing himself during -the time by reading curious books and writing weird verses. Only -twenty-three copies of his first book were sold, the rest were disposed -of as waste paper to buy him food. Those long years of struggle -doubtless embittered his life, but relief came when he was made manager -of the Bergen Theatre with a salary of £67 a year. For seven years he -kept the post, and learnt the stage craft which he later utilised in -his dramas. - -A strange comedy and tragedy was woven into the lives of Ibsen and -Björnson. As young men they were great friends; then politics drove -them apart; they quarrelled, and never met for years and years. Strange -fate brought the children of these two great writers together, and -Björnson’s daughter married Ibsen’s only child. The fathers met after -years of separation at the wedding of their children. - -Verily a real comedy and tragedy, woven into the lives of Scandinavia’s -two foremost writers of tragedy and comedy. - -I spent part of two winters in Norway, wandering about on snow-shoes -(ski) or in sledges, and during various visits to Christiania tried -hard to see some plays by Ibsen or Björnson acted; but, strange as it -may seem, plays by a certain Mr. Shakespeare were generally in the -bill, or else amusing doggerel such as _The Private Secretary_. - -At last, however, there came a day when _Peer Gynt_ was put on the -stage. This play has never been produced in England, and yet it is one -of Ibsen’s best, at all events one of his most poetic. The hero is -supposed to represent the Norwegian character, vacillating, amusing, -weak, bound by superstition, and lacking worldly balance. The author -told me he himself thought it was his best work, though _The Master -Builder_ gave him individually most satisfaction. - -In 1898 Ibsen declared, “My life seems to me to have slipped by like -one long, long, quiet week”; adding that “all who claimed him as a -teacher had been wrong—all he had done or tried to do was faithfully, -closely, objectively to paint human nature as he saw it, leaving -deductions and dogmatism to others.” He declared he had never posed as -a reformer or as a philosopher; all he had attempted was to try and -work out that vein of poetry which had been born in him. “Poetry has -served me as a bath, from which I have emerged cleaner, healthier, -freer.” Thus spoke of himself the man who practically revolutionised -modern drama. - -In the early days of the twentieth century Ibsen finished his life’s -work—he relinquished penmanship. The celebrity he had attained failed -to interest him, just as attack and criticism had failed to arouse him -in earlier years. His social and symbolical dramas done, his work in -dramatic reform ended, he folded his hands to await the epilogue of -life. It is a pathetic picture. He who had done so much, aroused such -enthusiasm and hatred, himself played out—he whose works had been read -in every Quarter of the globe, living in quiet obscurity, waiting for -that end which comes to all. - -It is a proud position to stand at the head of English dramatists; a -position many critics allot to Arthur Wing Pinero. The Continent has -also paid him the compliment of echoing that verdict by translating -and producing many of his plays: and if in spite of translation -they survive the ordeal of different interpretations and strange -surroundings, may it not be taken as proof that they soar above the -ordinary drama? - -About the year 1882 Mr. Pinero relinquished acting as a profession—like -Ibsen, it was in the theatre he learnt his stage craft—and devoted -himself to writing plays instead. Since that period he has steadily and -surely climbed the rungs of that fickle ladder “Public Opinion” and -planted his banner on the top. - -Look at him. See the strength of the man’s mind in his face. Those -great shaggy eyebrows and deep-set, dark, penetrating eyes, that round -bald head, within which the brain is apparently too busy to allow -anything outside to grow. Though still young he is bald, so bald that -his head looks as if it had been shaven for the priesthood. The long -thin lips and firm mouth denote strength of purpose, which, coupled -with genius make the man. Under that assumed air of self-possession -there is a merry mind. His feelings are well under control—part of the -actor’s art—but he is human to the core. Pinero is no ordinary person, -his face with its somewhat heavy jaw is full of thought and strength. -He has a vast fund of imagination, is a keen student of human nature, -and above all possesses the infinite capacity for taking pains, no -details being too small for him. He and Mr. W. S. Gilbert will, at -rehearsals, go over a scene again and again. They never get angry, even -under the most trying circumstances; but politely and quietly show -every movement, every gesture, give every intonation of the voice, and -in an amiable way suggest: - -“Don’t you think that so and so might be an improvement?” - -They always get what they want, and no plays were ever more successful -or better staged. - -Mr. Pinero believes in one-part dramas, and women evidently fascinate -him. Think of _Mrs. Tanqueray_ and _Mrs. Ebbsmith_, for instance, both -are women’s plays; in both are his best work. He is always individual; -individual in his style, and individual in the working out of his -characters. During the whole of one August Mr. Pinero remained in his -home near Hanover Square finishing a comedy of which he superintended -rehearsals in the September following. He must be alone when he works, -and apparently barred windows and doors, and a charwoman and her cat, -when all London is out of town, give him inspiration. - -London is particularly proud of Arthur Pinero, who was born amid -her bustle in 1855. The only son of a solicitor in the City, he was -originally intended for the law, but when nineteen he went upon the -stage, where he remained for about seven years. One can only presume, -however, that he did not like it, or he would not so quickly have -turned his attention to other matters. Those who remember his stage -life declare he showed great promise as a young actor. But be this -as it may, it is a good thing he turned his back upon that branch of -the profession and adopted the _rôle_ of a dramatist, for therein he -has excelled. Among his successful plays are _The Magistrate_, _Dandy -Dick_, _Sweet Lavender_, _The Cabinet Minister_, _The Second Mrs. -Tanqueray_, _The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith_, _Trelawny of the Wells_, -_The Gay Lord Quex_, and _Iris_. - -Among other attributes not usually known, Mr. Pinero is an excellent -draughtsman, and can make a remarkable caricature of himself in a -few moments. His is a strong and striking head which lends itself to -caricature, and he is one of those people who, while poking fun at -others, does not mind poking fun at himself. - -When asked to what he attributed his success, Mr. Pinero replied: - -“Such success as I have obtained I attribute to small powers of -observation and great patience and perseverance.” - -His work is always up-to-date, for Mr. Pinero is modern to his -finger-tips. - -How delightful it is to see people who have worked together for years -remaining staunch friends. One Sunday I was invited to a luncheon the -Pineros gave at Claridge’s. The room was marked “Private” for the -occasion, and there the hospitable couple received twenty guests, while -beyond was a large dining-room, to which we afterwards adjourned. That -amusing actor and charming man, John Hare, with whom Pinero has been -associated for many years, was present; Miss Irene Vanbrugh, his Sophy -Fullgarney in the _Gay Lord Quex_, and Letty, in the play of that name, -that dainty and fascinating American actress, Miss Fay Davis, and Mr. -Dion Boucicault. There they were, all these people who had worked so -long together, and were still such good friends as to form a merry, -happy little family party. - -Gillette, the American hero of the hour, was also present, and charming -indeed he proved to be; but he was an outsider, so to speak, for most -of the party had acted in Pinero’s plays, and that was what seemed -so wonderful; because just as a secretary sees the worst side of his -employer’s character, the irritability, the moments of anxious thought -and worry, so the actor generally finds out the angles and corners of a -dramatist. Only those who live in the profession can realise what such -a meeting as that party at Claridge’s really meant, what a fund of good -temper it proclaimed, what strength of character it represented, what -forbearance on all sides it proved. - -That party was representative of friendship, which, like health, is -seldom valued until lost. - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W._ - -MR. ARTHUR W. PINERO.] - -There are as many ways of writing a play as there are of trimming a -hat. Some people, probably most people, begin at the end, that is to -say, they evolve some grand climax in their minds and work backwards, -or they get hold of the chief situations as a nucleus, from which they -work out the whole. Some writers let the play write itself, that is -to say, they start with some sort of idea which develops as they go -on, but the most satisfactory mode appears to be for the writer to -decide everything even to the minutest detail, and then sketch out each -situation. In a word, he ought to know exactly what he means to do -before putting pen to paper. - -The plots of Mr. Pinero’s plays are all conceived and born in movement. -He walks up and down the room. He strolls round Regent’s Park, or -bicycles further afield, but the dramas are always evolved while his -limbs are in action, mere exercise seeming to inspire him with ideas. - -It is long before he actually settles down to write his play. He thinks -and ponders, plans and arranges, makes and remakes his plots, and -never puts pen to paper until he has thoroughly realised, not only his -characters, but the very scenes amid which these characters are to move -and have their being. - -He knows every room in which they are to enact their parts, he sees -in his mind’s eye every one of his personalities, he dresses them -according to his own individual taste, and so careful is he of the -minutest details that he draws a little plan of the stage for each act, -on which he notifies the position of every chair, and with this before -him he moves his characters in his mind’s eye as the scene progresses. -His play is finished before it is begun, that is to say, before a line -of it is really written. - -His mastery of stage craft is so great that he can definitely arrange -every position for the actor, every gesture, every movement, and thus -is able to give those minute details of stage direction which are so -well known in his printed plays. - -In his early days he wrote _Two Hundred a Year_ in an afternoon; _Dandy -Dick_ occupied him three weeks; but as time went on and he became more -critical of his own work, he spent fifteen months in completing _The -Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith_, nine months over _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_, -and six months over _The Gay Lord Quex_, helped in the latter drama, as -he said, “by the invigorating influence of his bicycle.” - -He is one of the most painstaking men alive, and over _Letty_ he spent -two years. - -“I think I have done a good day’s work if I can finish a single speech -right,” he remarked, and that sums up the whole situation. - -Each morning he sees his secretary from eleven to twelve, dictates -his letters, and arranges his business; takes a walk or a ride till -luncheon, after which he enjoys a pipe and a book, and in the afternoon -lies down for a couple of hours’ quiet. - -When he is writing a play he never dines out, but after his afternoon -rest enjoys a good tea (is it a high tea?), shuts the baize doors of -that delightful study overlooking Hanover Square, and works until quite -late, when he partakes of a light supper. - -No one dare disturb him during those precious hours, when he smokes -incessantly, walks about continually, and rarely puts a line on paper -until he feels absolutely certain he has phrased that line as he wishes -it to remain. - -Pinero’s writing-table is as tidy as Ibsen’s; but while Ibsen’s study -is small and simply furnished, Pinero’s is large, contains handsome -furniture, interesting books, sumptuous _Éditions de luxe_, charming -sketches, portraits, caricatures, handsome carpets, and breathes an air -of the owner’s luxurious taste. - -Like his writing-table, his orthography is a model of neatness. When he -has completed an act he carefully copies it himself in a handwriting -worthy of any clerk, and sends it off at once to the printers. But few -revisions are made in the proof, so sure is the dramatist when he has -perfected his scheme. - -Mr. Pinero keeps a sort of “day-book,” in which he jots down -characters, speeches, and plots likely to prove of use in his work. It -is much the same sort of day-book as that kept by Mr. Frankfort Moore, -the novelist, who has the nucleus of a hundred novels ever in his -waistcoat pocket. - -Formerly men jotted down notes on their shirt-cuffs, from which the -laundress learned the wicked ways of society. The figures now covering -wristbands are merely the winnings or losings at Bridge. - -The dramatist loves ease and luxury, and his plays represent such -surroundings. - -“Wealth and leisure,” he remarked, “are more productive of dramatic -complications than poverty and hard work. My characters force me in -spite of myself to lift them up in the world. The lower classes do not -analyse or meditate, do not give utterance either to their thoughts or -their emotions, and yet it is easier to get a low life part well played -than one of high society.” - -Mr. Pinero is a delightful companion and he has the keenest sense of -humour. He tells a good story in a truly dramatic way, and his greatest -characteristic is his simple modesty. He never boasts, never talks big; -but is always a genial, kindly, English gentleman. He rarely enters -a theatre; in fact, he could count on his fingers the times he has -done so during the last twenty years. Life is his stage, men and women -its characters, his surroundings the scenes. He does not wish a State -theatre, and thinks Irving has done more for the stage than any man in -any time. He has the greatest love for his old master, and considers -Irving’s Hamlet the “most intelligent performance of the age.” He waxes -warm on the subject of Irving’s “magnetic touch,” which influences all -that great actor’s work. Pinero’s love for, and belief in, the powers -of the stage for good or ill are deep-seated, and each year finds him -more given to careful psychological study, the only drawback to which -is the fear that in over-elaboration freshness somewhat vanishes. Ibsen -always took two years over a play, and Pinero seems to be acquiring the -same habit. - -A Pinero first night is looked upon as a great theatrical event, -and rightly so. It was on a wet October evening (1903) that the -long-anticipated _Letty_ saw the light. - -Opposite is the programme. - - Duke of York’s Theatre, - - ST. MARTIN’S LANE, W.C. - - Proprietors Mr. & Mrs. FRANK WYATT. - - Sole Lessee and Manager CHARLES FROHMAN. - - - EVERY EVENING at a Quarter to Eight - - CHARLES FROHMAN - - Presents - - A Drama, in Four Acts and an Epilogue, entitled - - LETTY - - By ARTHUR W. PINERO. - - Nevill Letchmere Mr. H. B. IRVING - - Ivor Crosbie Mr. IVO DAWSON - - Coppinger Drake Mr. DORRINGTON GRIMSTON - - Bernard Mandeville Mr. FRED KERR - - Richard Perry Mr. DION BOUCICAULT - - Neale (_A Commercial Traveller_) Mr. CHARLES TROODE - - Ordish (_Agent for an Insurance Company_) Mr. JERROLD ROBERTSHAW - - Rugg (_Mr. Letchmere’s Servant_) Mr. CLAYTON GREENE - - Frédéric (_A Maître d’Hôtel_) M. EDOUARD GARCEAU - - Waiters Mr. W. H. HAIGH & - Mr. WALTER HACK - - Mrs. Ivor Crosbie Miss SARAH BROOKE - - Letty Shell } _Clerks at_ { Miss IRENE VANBRUGH - Marion Allardyce } _Dugdale’s_ { Miss BEATRICE FORBES - { ROBERTSON - - { _An Assistant at Madame_ } - Hilda Gunning { _Watkins’s_ } Miss NANCY PRICE - - A Lady’s-maid Miss MAY ONSLOW - - The Scene is laid in London:—the First and Fourth Acts at Mr. - Letchmere’s Flat in Grafton Street, New Bond Street; the Second at - a house in Langham Street; the Third in a private room at the Café - Régence; and the Epilogue at a photographer’s in Baker Street. The - events of the four acts of the drama, commencing on a Saturday in - June, take place within the space of a few hours. Between the Fourth - Act and the Epilogue two years and six months are supposed to elapse. - - THE PLAY PRODUCED UNDER THE PERSONAL DIRECTION OF THE AUTHOR. - - The Scenery Painted by Mr. W. HANN. - - FIRST MATINÉE SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17th, at 2. - - General Manager (for CHARLES FROHMAN) W. LESTOCQ. - -For once the famous dramatist descended from dukes and duchesses to -a typewriter girl and a Bond Street swell. For once he left those -high-class folk he finds so full of interest, moods, whims, ideas, -self-analysis, and the rest of it, and cajoled a lower stratum of life -to his pen. - -Almost the first actor to appear was H. B. Irving—what a reception he -received, and, brilliant cynic-actor though he be, his nervousness -overpowered him to the point of ashen paleness and unrestrained -twitching of the fingers. His methods, his tact, his cynicism were -wonderful, and as Nevill Letchmere his resemblance to his father was -remarkable. - -What strikes one most in a Pinero play is the harmony of the whole. -Every character is a living being. One remembers them all. The -limelight is turned on each in turn, and not as at so many theatres -on the actor-manager only. The play is a complete picture—not a frame -with the actor-manager as the dominant person. He is so often the only -figure on the canvas, his colleagues mere side-show puppets, that it is -a real joy to see a play in England where every one is given a chance. -Mr. Pinero does that. He not only creates living breathing studies of -humanity, but he sees that they are played in a lifelike way. What is -the result? A perfect whole. A fine piece of mosaic work well fitted -together. We may not altogether care for the design or the colour, but -we all admire its aims, its completeness, and feel the touch of genius -that permeates the whole. - -No more discriminating audience than that at the first night of _Letty_ -could possibly have been brought together. Every critic of worth was -there. William Archer sat in the stalls immediately behind me, W. L. -Courtney and Malcolm Watson beyond, J. Knight, A. B. Walkley, and A. -E. T. Watson near by. Actors and actresses, artists, writers, men and -women of note in every walk of life were there, and the enthusiasm -was intense. Mr. Pinero was not in the house, no call of “author” -brought him before the footlights, but his handsome wife—a prey to -nervousness—was hidden behind the curtains in the stage box. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -_THE ARMY AND THE STAGE_ - - Captain Robert Marshall—From the Ranks to the Stage—£10 for a - Play—How Copyright is Retained—I. Zangwill as Actor—Copyright - Performance—Three First Plays (Pinero, Grundy, Sims)—Cyril Maude - at the Opera—_Mice and Men_—Sir Francis Burnand, _Punch_, Sir John - Tenniel, and a Cartoon—Brandon Thomas and _Charley’s Aunt_—How that - Play was Written—The Gaekwar of Baroda—Changes in London—Frederick - Fenn at Clement’s Inn—James Welch on Audiences. - - -One of our youngest dramatists, for it was only in 1897 that Captain -Robert Marshall’s first important play appeared, has suddenly leapt -into the front rank. His earlier days were in no way connected with the -stage. - -It is not often a man can earn an income in two different professions; -such success is unusual. True, Earl Roberts is a soldier and a writer; -Forbes Robertson, Weedon Grossmith, and Bernard Partridge are actors -as well as artists; Lumsden Propert, the author of the best book on -miniatures, was a doctor by profession; Edmund Gosse and Edward Clodd -have other occupations besides literature. Although known as a writer, -W. S. Gilbert could earn an income at the Bar or in Art; A. W. Pinero -is no mean draughtsman; Miss Gertrude Kingston writes and illustrates -as well as acts; and Harry Furniss has shown us he is as clever with -his pen as with his brush in his _Confessions of a Caricaturist_. -Still, it is unusual for any one to succeed in two ways. - -Nevertheless Captain Robert Marshall, once in the army, is now a -successful dramatist. He was born in Edinburgh in 1863, his father -being a J.P. of that city. Educated at St. Andrews, the ancient -town famous for learning and golf, he later migrated to Edinburgh -University. While studying there his brother entered Sandhurst at the -top of the list, and left in an equally exalted position. This inspired -the younger brother with a desire for the army, and he enlisted in -the Highland Light Infantry, then stationed in Ireland. The ranks -gave him an excellent training, besides affording opportunities for -studying various sides of life. Three years later he entered the Duke -of Wellington’s West Riding Regiment as an officer, receiving his -Captaincy in 1895, after having filled the post of District Adjutant at -Cape Town and A.D.C. to the Governor of Natal, Sir W. Hely-Hutchinson. - -No one looking at Captain Marshall now would imagine that ill-health -had ever afflicted him; such, however, was the case, and but for the -fact that a delicate chest necessitated retiring from the army, he -would probably never have become a dramatist by profession. It was -about 1898 that he left the Service; but he has made good use of the -time since then, for such plays as _His Excellency the Governor_, -_A Royal Family_, _The Noble Lord_, and _The Second in Command_ have -followed in quick succession. Then came an adaptation of M.M. Scribe -and Legouvé’s _Bataille de Dames_, which he called _There’s Many a -Slip_, but which T. Robertson translated with immense success as _The -Ladies’ Battle_ some years before. - -Mrs. Kendal, _àpropos_ of this, writes me the following: - -“My dear brother Tom had been dead for years before I ever played -in _The Ladies’ Battle_. He translated and sold it to Lacy, an old -theatrical manager and agent, for about £10. Mr. Kendal and Mr. Hare -revived it at the Court Theatre when I was under their management.” - -What would a modern dramatist say to a £10 note? What, indeed, would -Captain Marshall say for such a small reward, instead of reaping a -golden harvest as he did with his translation of the very same piece. -Times have changed indeed during the last few years, for play-writing -is now a most remunerative profession when it proves successful. - -I remember once at a charming luncheon given by the George Alexanders -at their house in Pont Street, hearing Mr. Lionel Monckton bitterly -complaining of the difficulty of getting royalties for musical plays -from abroad. Since then worse things have happened, and pirated copies -of favourite songs have been sold by hundreds of thousands in the -streets of London for which the authors, composers, and publishers have -never received a cent. Mr. J. M. Barrie, who was sitting beside me, -joined in, and declared, if I am not mistaken, that he had never got a -penny from _The Little Minister_ in America, or _The Window in Thrums_; -indeed, it was not till _Sentimental Tommy_ appeared in 1894 that he -ever received anything at all from America, so _The Little Minister_, -like _Pinafore_, was acted thousands of times without any royalties -being paid to the respective authors by the United States. - -Of course there was no copyright at all in England till 1833, and until -that date a play could be produced by any one at any time without -payment. The idea was preposterous, and so much abused that the Royal -Assent was given in Parliament to a copyright bill proposed by the Hon. -George Lamb, and carried through by Mr. Lytton Bulwer, who afterwards -became famous as Lord Lytton. Still, even this, unfortunately, does not -prevent piracy. Pirate thieves of other people’s brains have had a good -innings lately. - -The only way to safeguard against the confiscation of a play without -the author receiving any dues is to give a “copyright performance.” -With this end in view the well-known writer, Mr. I. Zangwill, gave an -amusing representation of his play called _Merry Mary Ann_, founded -on his novel of the same name. The performance took place at the Corn -Exchange, Wallingford, and Mr. Zangwill was himself stage manager. This -took place a week before it was given with such success in Chicago, and -secured the English copyright to its author as well as the American. - -The _modus operandi_ under these circumstances is: - -(1) To pay a two-guinea fee for a licence. - -(2) To hire a hall which is licensed for stage performances. - -(3) To notify the public by means of posters that the play will take -place. - -To make some one pay for admission. If only one person pay one guinea, -that person constitutes an audience, which, if small, is at least -unanimous. - -Having arranged all these preliminaries the author and his friends -proceed to read, or whenever possible act, the parts of the drama, and -a very funny performance it sometimes is. - -Mr. Zangwill’s caste was certainly amusing. Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, -author of _Three Men in a Boat_, was particularly good; but then he is -an old actor. He lives at Wallingford-on-Thames, where he represents -literature and journalism, G. F. Leslie, R.A., representing art; both -joined forces for one afternoon at that strange performance which was -in many ways a record. Sir Conan Doyle, of Sherlock Holmes fame, was to -have played; but was called away at the last moment. - -Mr. Zangwill is an old hand at this sort of thing; when a copyright -performance of Hall Caine’s _Mahdi_ was given at the Haymarket Theatre -he began at first by playing his allotted part; but as one performer -after another threw up their _rôles_ he was finally left to act them -all. The female parts he played in his shirt-sleeves, with a high -pitched voice. Mr. Clement Scott gave a long and favourable notice in -the _Daily Telegraph_ next day. Mr. Zangwill has lately taken unto -himself a wife, none too soon, as he was the only member left in his -Bachelor Club! - -It is rather amusing to contrast the first plays of various men; -for instance, Mr. Pinero, writing in the _Era Annual_, graphically -described his beginning thus: - -“First play of all: _Two Hundred a Year_. This was written for my old -friends Mr. R. C. Carton and Miss Compton (Mrs. Carton) as a labour -of love when I was an actor, and was produced at the Globe in 1877. -The love, however, was and is more considerable than the composition, -which did not employ me more than a single afternoon. My next venture -was in the same year, and entitled _Two Can Play at the Game_, a farce -produced at the Lyceum Theatre by Mrs. Bateman in order really to -provide myself with a part. I acted in this many times in London, and -afterwards under Mr. Irving, as he then was, throughout the provinces. -By the way, Mrs. Bateman paid me five pounds for this piece.” - -Mr. Sydney Grundy tells the following story: - -“In 1872 I amused myself by writing a comedietta. I had it printed, -and across the cover of one copy I scrawled in a large bold hand, “You -may play this for nothing,” addressed it to J. B. Buckstone, Esq., -Haymarket Theatre, London, posted it, and forgot all about it. A week -afterwards I received a letter in these terms: ‘Dear Sir,—Mr. Buckstone -desires me to inform you that your comedietta is in rehearsal, and will -be produced at his forthcoming Benefit. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal will play -the principal parts.—Yours faithfully, F. Weathersby.’ New authors -were such rare phenomena in those days, that Mr. Buckstone did not know -how to announce me, so adopted the weird expedient of describing me as -‘Mr. Sydney Grundy, of Manchester.’ The comedietta was a great success -and received only one bad review. One critic was so tickled by the -circumstance that the author lived in Manchester that he mentioned it -no fewer than three times in his ‘notice.’” - -G. R. Sims describes his initial attempt thus: - -“My first play was produced at the Theatre Royal, 113, Adelaide Road, -and was a burlesque of _Leah_; the parts were played by my brothers -and sisters and some young friends. The price of admission to the -day nursery, in which the stage was erected, was one shilling, which -included tea, but visitors were requested to bring their own cake and -jam. The burlesque was in four scenes. Many of the speeches were lifted -bodily from the published burlesque of Henry J. Byron. - -“That was my first play as an amateur. My first professional play -_was_, _One Hundred Years Old_, and _is_ now twenty-seven years -old. It was produced July 10th, 1875, at a _matinée_ at the Olympic -Theatre, by Mr. E. J. Odell, and was a translation or adaptation of _Le -Centenaire_, by D’Ennery and another. It was less successful than my -amateur play. It did not bring me a shilling. The burlesque brought me -two—one paid by my father and one by my mother.” - -Such were the first experiences of three eminent dramatic authors. - -It must be delightful when author and actor are in unison. Such a -thing as a difference of opinion cannot be altogether unknown between -them; but no more united little band could possibly be found than that -behind the scenes at the Haymarket Theatre, where the rehearsals are -conducted in the spirit of a family party. The tyrannical author and -the self-assertive representatives of his creations all work in harmony. - -“As one gets up in the Service,” amusingly said Captain Marshall, “one -receives a higher rate of pay, and has proportionately less to do. -Thus it was I found time for scribbling; it was actually while A.D.C. -and living in a Government House that I wrote _His Excellency the -Governor_. Three days after it came out I left the army.” - -“Was that your first play?” I inquired. - -“No. My first was a little one-act piece which Mr. Kendal accepted. It -dealt with the flight of Bonnie Prince Charlie from Scotland in 1746. -My first acted play appeared at the Lyceum, and was another piece -in one act, called _Shades of Night_, which finally migrated to the -Haymarket.” - -It is curious how success and failure follow one on the other. No -play of Captain Marshall’s excited more criticism than _The Broad -Road_ at Terry’s; but nevertheless it was a failure. It was succeeded -immediately by _A Royal Family_ at the Court, which proved popular. -He has worked hard during the last few years, and deserves any meed -of praise that may be given him by the public. Many men on being told -to relinquish the profession they loved because of ill-health would -calmly sit down and court death. Not so Robert Marshall. He at once -turned his attention elsewhere, chose an occupation he could take about -with him when driven by necessity to warmer climes, lived in the fresh -air, did as he was medically advised, with the result that to-day he is -a comparatively strong man, busy in a life that is full of interest. - -As a subaltern in the army the embryo dramatist once painted the -scenery for a performance of _The Mikado_ in Bermuda, and was known to -write, act, stage-manage, and paint the scenes of another play himself. -Enthusiasm truly; but it was all experience, and the intimate knowledge -then gained of the difficulties of stage craft have since stood him in -good stead. - -Captain Marshall is a broad, good-looking man, retiring by -disposition, one might almost say shy—for that term applies, although -he emphatically denies the charge—and certainly humble and modest -as regards his own work. The author of _The Second in Command_ is -athletically inclined; he is fond of golf, fencing, and tennis—the love -of the first he doubtless acquired in his childhood’s days, when old -Tom Morris was so well known on the St. Andrews links. - -The playwright is also devoted to music, and nothing gives him greater -pleasure than to spend an evening at the Opera. One night I happened to -sit in a box between him and Mr. Cyril Maude, and probably there were -no more appreciative listeners in the house than these two men, both -intensely interested in the representation of _Tannhäuser_. Poor Mr. -Maude having a sore throat, had been forbidden to act that evening for -fear of losing the little voice which remained to him. As music is his -delight, and an evening at the Opera an almost unknown pleasure, he -enjoyed himself with the enthusiasm of a child, feeling he was having a -“real holiday.” - -Captain Marshall is so fond of music that he amuses himself constantly -at his piano or pianola in his charming flat in town. - -“I like the machine best,” he remarked laughingly, “because it makes no -mistakes, and with a little practice can be played with almost as much -feeling as a pianoforte.” - -When in London Captain Marshall lives in a flat at the corner of -Berkeley Square; but during the winter he migrates to the Riviera -or some other sunny land. The home reflects the taste of its owner; -and the dainty colouring, charming pictures, and solid furniture of -the flat denote the man of artistic taste who dislikes show without -substance even in furniture. - -The first time I met Robert Marshall was at W. S. Gilbert’s delightful -country home at Harrow Weald. The Captain has a most exalted opinion -of Mr. Gilbert’s writings and witticisms. He considers him a model -playwright, and certainly worships—as much as one man can worship at -the shrine of another—this originator of modern comedy. - -One summer, when Captain Marshall found the alluring hospitality of -London incompatible with work, he took a charming house at Harrow -Weald, and settled himself down to finish a play. He could not, -however, stand the loneliness of a big establishment by himself—a -loneliness which he does not feel in his flat. Consequently that peace -and quiet which he went to the country to find, he himself disturbed by -inviting friends down on all possible occasions, and being just as gay -as if he had remained in town. He finished his play, however, between -the departure and arrival of his various guests. - -Two of the most successful plays of modern times have been written -by women; the first, by Mrs. Hodgson Burnett, was founded on her own -novel, _Little Lord Fauntleroy_, of which more anon. The second had no -successful book to back it, and yet it ran over three hundred nights. - -This as far as serious drama is concerned—for burlesque touched up may -run to any length—is a record. - -_Mice and Men_, by Mrs. Ryley, must have had something in it, something -special, or why should a play from an almost unknown writer have taken -such a hold on the London public? It was well acted, of course, for -that excellent artist Forbes Robertson was in it; but other plays have -been well acted and yet have failed. - -Why, then, its longevity? - -Its very simplicity must be the answer. It carried conviction. It was -just a quaint little idyllic episode of love and romance, deftly woven -together with strong human interest. It aimed at nothing great, it -merely sought to entertain and amuse. Love rules the world, romance -enthrals it, both were prettily depicted by a woman, and the play -proved a brilliant success. To have written so little and yet made such -a hit is rare. - -On the other hand, one of our most successful playwrights has been very -prolific in his work. Sir Francis Burnand has edited _Punch_ for more -than thirty years, and yet has produced over one hundred and twenty -plays. ’Tis true one of the most successful of these was written in a -night. Mr. Burnand, as he was then, went to the St. James’s Theatre -one evening to see _Diplomacy_, and after the performance walked home. -On the way the idea for a burlesque struck him, so he had something to -eat, found paper and pens, and began. By breakfast-time next morning -_Diplomacy_ was completed, and a few days later all London was laughing -over it. There is a record of industry and speed. - -The stage, however, has not claimed so much of his attention of late -years as his large family and Mr. Punch. Sir Francis is particularly -neat and dapper, with a fresh complexion and grey hair. He wears a -pointed white beard, but looks remarkably youthful. He is a busy man, -and spends hours of each day in his well-stocked library at the Boltons -(London, Eng.: as our American friends would say), or at Ramsgate, his -favourite holiday resort, where riding and sea-boating afford him much -amusement, and time for reflection. He is a charming dinner-table -companion, always full of good humour and amusing stories. - -It was when dining one night at the Burnands’ home in the Boltons that -I met Sir John Tenniel after a lapse of some years, for he virtually -gave up dining out early in the ’90’s in order to devote his time to -his _Punch_ cartoon. One warm day in July, 1902, however, John Tenniel -was persuaded to break his rule, and proved as kind and lively as ever. -Although eighty-two years of age he drew a picture for me after dinner. -There are not many men of eighty-two who could do that; but then, did -he not draw the _Punch_ cartoon without intermission for fifty years? - -“What am I to draw?” he asked. “I have nothing to copy and no model to -help me.” - -“Britannia,” I replied. “That ever-young lady is such an old friend of -yours, you must know every line in her face by heart.” And he did. The -dear old man’s hand was very shaky, until he got the pencil on to the -paper, and then the lines themselves were perfectly clear and distinct; -years of work on wood blocks had taught him precision which did not -fail him even when over fourscore. - -Every one loves Sir John. He never seems to have given offence with -his cartoons as so many have done before and since. Cartoonists and -caricaturists ply a difficult trade, for so few people like to be made -fun of themselves, although they dearly love a joke at some one else’s -expense. - -A few doors from the Burnands’ charming house in Bolton Gardens lives -the author of _Charley’s Aunt_. - -When in the city of Mexico, one broiling hot December day in 1900, I -was invited to dine and go to the theatre. I had only just arrived in -that lovely capital, and was dying to see and do everything. - -“Will there be any Indians amongst the audience?” I inquired. - -“Si, Señora. The Indians and half-castes love the theatre, and always -fill the cheaper places.” - -This sounded delightful; a Spanish play acted in Castilian with -beautiful costumes of matadors and shawled ladies—what could be -better? Gladly I accepted the invitation to dine and go to the theatre -afterwards, where, as subsequently proved, they have a strange -arrangement by which a spectator either pays for the whole performance, -or only to witness one particular act. - -We arrived. The audience looked interesting: few, however, even in the -best places wore dress-clothes, any more than they do in the United -States. The performance began. - -It did not seem very Spanish, and somehow appeared familiar. I looked -at the programme. “LA TIA DE CARLOS.” - -What a sell! I had been brought to see _Charley’s Aunt_. - -One night after my return to London I was dining with William -Heinemann, the publisher, to meet the great “Jimmy” Whistler. I was -telling Mr. Brandon Thomas, the author of _Charley’s Aunt_, this funny -little experience, when he remarked: - -“I can tell you another. My wife and I had been staying in the Swiss -mountains, when one day we reached Zürich. ‘Let us try to get a decent -dinner,’ I said, ‘for I am sick of _table d’hôtes_.’ Accordingly we -dined on the best Zürich could produce, and then asked the waiter what -play he would recommend. - -“‘The theatres are closed just now,’ he replied. - -“‘But surely something is open?’ - -“‘Ah, well, yes, there’s a sort of music hall, but the _Herrschaften_ -would not care to go there.’ - -“‘Why not?’ I exclaimed, longing for some diversion. - -“‘Because they are only playing a very vulgar piece, it would not -please the _gnädige Frau_, it is a stupid English farce.’ - -“‘Never mind how stupid. Tell me its name.’ - -“‘It is called,’ replied the waiter, ‘_Die Tante_.’” - -Poor Brandon Thomas nearly collapsed on the spot, it was his very own -play. They went. Needless to say, however, the author hardly recognised -his child in its new garb, although he never enjoyed an evening more -thoroughly in his life. - -The first draft of this well-known piece was written in three weeks, -and afterwards, as the play was considerably cut in the provinces, Mr. -Thomas restored the original matter and entirely re-wrote it before it -was produced in London, when the author played the part of Sir Francis -Chesney himself. - -I have another recollection in connection with _Charley’s Aunt_. It -must have been about 1895 that my husband and I were dining with that -delightful little gentleman and great Indian Prince, the Gaekwar of -Baroda, and the Maharanee (his wife), and we all went on to the theatre -to see _Charley’s Aunt_. At that time His Highness the Gaekwar was -very proud of a grand new theatre he had built in Baroda, and was busy -having plays translated for production. Several Shakespearian pieces -had already been done. He thought _Charley’s Aunt_ might be suitable, -but as the play proceeded, turning to me he remarked: - -“This would never do, it would give my people a bad idea of English -education; no, no—I cannot allow such a mistake as that.” - -So good is His Highness’s own opinion of our education that his sons -are at Harrow and Oxford as I write. - -_Charley’s Aunt_ has been played in every European language—verily -a triumph for its author. How happy and proud a man ought to be who -has brought so much enjoyment into life; and yet Brandon Thomas feels -almost obliged to blush every time the title is mentioned. When Mr. -Penley asked him to write a play, in spite of being in sad need of -cash, he was almost in despair. His eye fell upon the photograph of an -elderly relative, and showing it to Penley he asked: - -“How would you like to play an old woman like that?” - -“Delighted, old chap; I’ve always wanted to play a woman’s character.” -And when the play was written Penley acted the part made up like the -old lady in the photograph which still stands on Brandon Thomas’s -mantelshelf. - -London is changing terribly, although _Charley’s Aunt_ seems as if it -would go on for ever. Old London is vanishing in a most distressing -manner. Within a few months Newgate has been pulled down, the Bluecoat -School has disappeared, and now Clifford’s Inn has been sold for -£100,000 and is to be demolished. Many of the sets of chambers therein -contained beautiful carving, and in one of these sets dwelt Frederick -Fenn, the dramatist, son of Manville Fenn, the novelist. He determined -to have a bachelor party before quitting his rooms, and an interesting -party it proved. - -I left home shortly after nine o’clock with a friend, and when we -reached Piccadilly Circus we found ourselves in the midst of the crowd -waiting to watch President Loubet drive past on his way to the Gala -performance at Covent Garden (July, 1903). The streets were charmingly -decorated, and must have given immense satisfaction not only to the -President of France but to the entire Republic he represented. From the -Circus through Leicester Square the crowd was standing ten or fifteen -deep on either side of the road, and we had various vicissitudes in -getting to our destination at all. The police would not let us pass, -and we drove round and round back streets, unable to get into either -the Strand or St. Martin’s Lane. However, at last a mighty cheer told -us the royal party had passed, and we were allowed to drive on our way -to Clifford’s Inn. Up a dark alley beyond the Law Courts we trudged, -and rang the big sonorous bell for the porter to admit us to the -courtyard surrounded by chambers. - -Ascending a spiral stone staircase, carpeted in red for the occasion, -we passed through massive oak doors with their low doorways and entered -Mr. Fenn’s rooms. - -“How lovely! Surely those carvings are by the famous Gibbons?” - -“They are,” he said, “or at any rate they are reputed to be, and in a -fortnight will be sold by auction to the highest bidder.” - -This wonderful decoration had been there for numbers of years, the -over-doors, chimneypieces and window-frames were all most beautifully -carved, and the whole room was panelled from floor to ceiling. The -furniture was in keeping. Beautiful inlaid satinwood tables, settees -covered with old-fashioned brocade, old Sheffield cake-baskets, were in -harmony with the setting. - -It was quite an interesting little party, and I thoroughly enjoyed my -chat with James Welsh, the clever comedian, who played in the _New -Clown_ for eighteen months consecutively. Such an interesting little -man, with dark round eyes and pale eyelashes, and a particularly broad -crown to his head. - -“I don’t mind a long run at all,” he said, “because every night there -is a fresh audience. Sometimes they are so dull we cannot get hold of -them at all till the second act, and sometimes it is even the end of -the second act before they are roused to enthusiasm; another time -they will see the fun from the first rise of the curtain. Personally I -prefer the audience to be rather dull at the beginning, for I like to -work them up, and to work up with them myself. The most enthusiastic -audiences to my mind are to be found in Scotland—I am of course -speaking of low comedy. In Ireland they may be as appreciative, but -they are certainly quieter. Londoners are always difficult to rouse to -any expression of enthusiasm. I suppose they see too many plays, and so -become _blasé_.” - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -_DESIGNING THE DRESSES_ - - Sarah Bernhardt’s Dresses and Wigs—A Great Musician’s Hair—Expenses - of Mounting—Percy Anderson—_Ulysses_—_The Eternal City_—A Dress - Parade—Armour—Over-elaboration—An Understudy—Miss Fay Davis—A - London Fog—The Difficulties of an Engagement. - - -Madame Sarah Bernhardt is an extraordinary woman. A young artist of my -acquaintance did much work for her at one time. He designed dresses, -and painted the Egyptian, Assyrian, and other trimmings. She was always -most grateful and generous. Money seemed valueless to her; she dived -her hand into a bag of gold, and holding it out bid him take what would -repay him for his trouble. He was a true artist and his gifts appealed -to her. - -“More, more,” she often exclaimed. “You have not reimbursed yourself -sufficiently—you have only taken working-pay and allowed nothing for -your talent. It is the talent I wish to pay for.” - -And she did. - -On one occasion a gorgeous cloak he had designed for her came home; a -most expensive production. She tried it on. - -“Hateful, hateful!” she cried. “The bottom is too heavy, bring me the -scissors,” and in a moment she had ripped off all the lower trimmings. -The artist looked aghast, and while he stood— - -“Black,” she went on—“it wants black”; and thereupon she pinned a great -black scarf her dresser brought her over the mantle. The effect was -magical. That became one of her most successful garments for many a day. - -“Ah!” said the artist afterwards, “she has a great and generous -heart—she adores talent, worships the artistic, and her taste is -unfailing.” - -Wonderful effects can be gained on the stage by the aid of the make-up -box—and the wig-maker. - -Madame Sarah Bernhardt declares Clarkson, of London, to be the “king -of wig-makers,” and he has made every wig she has worn in her various -parts for many years. - -“She is a wonderful woman,” Mr. Clarkson said, “she knows exactly what -she wants, and if she has not time to write and enclose a sketch—which, -by the way, she does admirably—she sends a long telegram from Paris, -and expects the wig to be despatched almost as quickly as if it went -over by a ‘reply-paid process.’” - -“But surely you get more time than that usually?” - -[Illustration: DRAWING OF COSTUME FOR JULIET, BY PERCY ANDERSON.] - -“Oh yes, of course; but twice I have made wigs in a few hours. Once -for Miss Ellen Terry. I think it was the twenty-fifth anniversary of -_The Bells_—at any rate she was to appear in a small first piece for -one night. At three o’clock that afternoon the order came. I set six -people to work on six different pieces, and at seven o’clock took them -down to the theatre and pinned them on Miss Terry’s head. The other wig -I had to make so quickly was for Madame Eleonora Duse. She arrived in -London October, 1903, and somehow the wigs went astray. She wired to -Paris to inquire who made the one in _La Ville Morte_ with which Madame -Bernhardt strangled her victim. When the reply came she sent for me, -and the same night Madame Duse wore the new wig in _La Gioconda_.” - -By-the-bye, Madame Duse has a wonderful wig-box. It is a sort of -miniature cupboard made of wood, from which the front lets down. -Inside are six divisions. Each division contains one of those weird -block-heads on which perruques stand when being redressed, and on every -red head rests a wig. These are for her different parts, the blocks -are screwed tight into the box, and the wigs are covered lightly with -chiffon for travelling. When the side of the box falls down those six -heads form a gruesome sight! - -Most of the hair used in wig-making comes from abroad, principally from -the mountain valleys of Switzerland, where the peasant-girls wear caps -and sell their hair. A wig costs anything from £2 to £10, and it is -wonderful how little the good ones weigh. They are made on the finest -net, and each hair is sewn on separately. - -When Clarkson was a boy of twelve and a half years old he first -accompanied his father, who was a hairdresser, to the opera, and thus -the small youth began his profession. He still works in the house in -which he was born, so he was reared literally in the wig trade, and now -employs a couple of hundred persons. What he does not know can hardly -be worth knowing—and he is quite a character. Not only does he work -for the stage; but detectives often employ him to paint their faces -and disguise them generally, and he has even decorated a camel with -whiskers and grease paint. - -The most expensive wig he ever made was for Madame Sarah Bernhardt in -_La Samaritaine_. It had to be very long, and naturally wavy hair, so -that she could throw it over her face when she fell at the Saviour’s -feet. In _L’Aiglon_ Madame Bernhardt wore her own hair for a long time, -and had it cut short for the purpose: but she found it so difficult to -dress off the stage that she ultimately ordered a wig. - -If Madame Bernhardt is particular about her wigs and her dresses she -has done much to improve theatrical costumes—she has stamped them with -an individuality and artistic grace. - -A well-known musician travelled from a far corner in Europe to ask a -wig-maker to make him a wig. He arrived one day in Wellington Street in -a great state of distress and told his story. He had prided himself on -his beautiful, long, wavy hair, through which he could pass his fingers -in dramatic style, and which he could shake with leonine ferocity over -a passage which called for such sentiments. But alas! there came a day -when the hair began to come out, and the locks threatened to disappear. -He travelled hundreds of miles to London to know if the wig-maker -could copy the top of his head exactly before it was too late. Of -course he could, and consequently those raven curls were matched, and -one by one were sewn into the fine netting to form the toupet. Having -got the semi-wig exactly to cover his head, the great musician sallied -forth and had his head shaved. Then, with a little paste to catch it -down in front and at the sides, the toupet was securely placed upon the -bald cranium. For six months that man had his head shaved daily. The -effect was magical. When he left off shaving a new crop of hair began -to grow with lightning rapidity, and he is now the happy possessor of -as beautiful a head of hair as ever. - -Little by little the public has been taught to expect the reproduction -of correct historical pictures upon the stage, and such being the case, -artists have risen to the occasion, men who have given years of their -lives to the study of apparel of particular periods. - -Designing stage dress is no easy matter; long and ardent research is -necessary for old costume pieces, and men who have made this their -speciality read and sketch at museums, and sometimes travel to far -corners of the world, to get exactly what they want. As a rule the -British Museum provides reliable material for historical costume. - -Think of the hundreds, aye hundreds, of costumes necessary for a heavy -play at the Lyceum or His Majesty’s—think of what peasantry, soldiers, -to say nothing of fairies, require, added to which four or five dresses -for each of the chief performers, not only cost months of labour to -design and execute, but need large sums of money to perfect. As much as -£10,000 has often been spent in the staging of a single play. - -This is no meagre sum, and should the play fail the actor-manager who -has risked that large amount (or his syndicate) must bear the loss. - -Some wonderful stage pictures have been produced within the last few -years—and not a few of them were the work of Mr. Percy Anderson, -Sir Alma-Tadema, and Mr. Percy Macquoid. It is an interesting fact -that, while the designs for _Ulysses_ cost Mr. Anderson six months’ -continual labour, he managed to draw the elaborate costumes for Lewis -Waller’s production of _The Three Musketeers_ in three days, working -eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, because the dresses were wanted -immediately. - -Percy Anderson did not start as an artist in his youth, he was not born -in the profession, but as a mature man allowed his particular bent to -lead him to success. He lives in a charming little house bordering -on the Regent’s Park, where he works with his brush all day, and his -pencil far into the night. His studio is a pretty snuggery built on at -the back of the house, which is partly studio, partly room, and partly -greenhouse. Here he does his work and accomplishes those delightfully -sketchy portraits for which he is famous, his innumerable designs for -theatrical apparel. - -When I asked Mr. Anderson which costumes were most difficult to draw, -he replied: - -“Either those in plays of an almost prehistoric period, when the -materials from which to work are extremely scanty, or those that -introduce quite modern and up-to-date ceremonial. - -“As an instance of the former _Ulysses_ proved an exceedingly difficult -piece for which to design the costumes, because the only authentic -information obtainable was from castes and sketches of remains found -during the recent excavations at Knossus, in Crete, that have since -been exhibited at the Winter Exhibition at Burlington House, but which -were at the time reposing in a private room at the British Museum, -where I was able to make some rough sketches and notes by the courtesy -of Mr. Sidney Colvin.” - -“How did you manage about colour?” - -“My guide as to the colours in use at that remote period of time -was merely a small fragment of early Mycenean mural decoration -from Knossus, in which three colours, namely, yellow, blue, and a -terra-cotta-red, together with black and white, were the only tones -used, and to these three primary colours I accordingly confined myself, -but I made one introduction, a bright apple-green dress which served -to throw the others into finer relief. From these extremely scanty -materials I had to design over two hundred costumes, none of which were -exactly alike.” - -The brilliancy of the result all playgoers will remember. The -frontispiece shows one of the designs. - -As an instance of a play introducing intricate modern ceremonial for -which every garment worn had some special significance, _The Eternal -City_ may be mentioned. In that Mr. Anderson had the greatest -difficulty in discovering exactly what uniform or vestment would be -worn by the Pope’s _entourage_ on important private occasions, such as -the scene in the Gardens of the Vatican, where His Holiness was carried -in and saluted by the members of his guard before being left to receive -his private audiences. - -Mr. Anderson, however, received invaluable assistance in these matters -from Mr. De La Roche Francis, who, besides having relatives in high -official positions in Rome, had himself been attached to the Papal -Court. All orders and decorations worn by the various characters in -_The Eternal City_ were modelled from the originals. Mr. Anderson -usually makes a separate sketch for every costume to be worn by each -character, in order to judge of the whole effect, which picture he -supplements by drawings of the back and side views, reproductions of -hats, head-dresses, hair, and jewellery. - -This is thoroughness—but after all thoroughness is the only thing that -really succeeds. From these sketches the articles are cut out and made -after Mr. Anderson has passed the materials as satisfactory submitted -to him. Sometimes nothing proves suitable, and then something has to be -woven to meet his own particular requirements. - -Mr. Anderson received orders direct from Beerbohm Tree for _King -John_, _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, _Herod_, _Ulysses_, _Merry Wives of -Windsor_, _Resurrection_, and _The Eternal City_, but in some cases the -orders come from the authors. For instance, Mr. Pinero wrote asking -him to design those delightful Victorian costumes for _Trelawny of the -Wells_. Captain Basil Hood arranged with him about the dresses for -_Merrie England_, and J. M. Barrie for those in _Quality Street_. - -Some of the old-style dresses do not allow of much movement, and -therefore it is sometimes necessary to make the garments in such a way -that, while the effect remains, the actor has full play for his limbs. -For instance, much adaptation of this sort was necessary for _Richard -II._ at His Majesty’s. Mr. Anderson was about three months designing -the two hundred and fifty dresses for this marvellous spectacle. -He sought inspiration at the British Museum and Westminster, the -Bluemantle at the Heralds’ College giving him valuable information with -regard to the heraldry. All this shows the pains needed and taken to -produce an accurate and harmonious stage picture. - -The designer is given a free hand, he chooses his own materials to -the smallest details—often a guinea a yard is paid for silks and -velvets—and he superintends everything, even the grouping of the -crowds, so as to give most effect to his colouring. “Dress parades,” of -which there are several, are those in which all the chorus and crowds -have to appear, therefore their dresses are usually made first, so -as to admit of ample study of colour before the “principals” receive -theirs. The onlooker hardly recognises the trouble this entails, nor -how well thought out the scheme of colour must be, so that when the -crowd breaks up into groups the dresses shall not clash. The artist -must always work up to one broad effect in order to make a decorative -scene. - -It may be interesting to note that there is one particular -colour—French blue—practically the shade of hyacinths, which is -particularly useful for stage effect as it does not lose any of its -tint by artificial light. It can only be dyed in one river at Lyons, -in France, where there is some chemical in the water which exactly -suits and retains the particular shade desired. We are improving in -England, however, and near Haslemere wonderful fabrics and colours are -now produced. There are excellent costumiers in England, some of the -best, in fact, many of whom lay themselves out for work of a particular -period; but all the armour is still made in France. That delightful -singer and charming man, Eugene Oudin, wore a beautiful suit of chain -armour as the Templar in _Ivanhoe_, which cost considerably over £100, -and proved quite light and easy to wear. (During the last five years -armour has become cheaper.) It was a beautiful dress, including a fine -plumed helmet, and as he and my husband were the same size and build he -several times lent it to him for fancy balls. It looked like the old -chain armour in the Tower of London or the Castle of Madrid, and yet -did not weigh as many ounces as they do pounds, so carefully had it -been made to allow ease and movement to the singer. - -After all, it is really a moot question whether tremendous elaboration -of scenery is a benefit to dramatic production. At the present time -much attention is drawn from the main interest, and instead of -appreciating the acting or the play, it is the stage carpentering and -gorgeous “mounting” that wins the most applause. - -This is all very well to a certain extent, but it is hardly educating -the public to grasp the real value of play or acting if both be swamped -by scenery and silks. Lately we had an opportunity of seeing really -good performances _without_ their being enhanced by scenic effect, such -as _Twelfth Night_, by the Elizabethan Stage Society, and _Everyman_. -These representations were an intellectual treat, such as one seldom -enjoys, and were certainly calculated to raise the standard of purely -theatrical work. Strictness of detail may do much to make the _tout -ensemble_ perfect, but does not the piece lose more than it gains? - -Again, the careful rehearsing which is now in fashion tends to make -the performers more or less puppets in the hands of the stage manager -or author, rather than real individual actors. Individuality except in -“stars” is not wanted nor appreciated. Further, _long runs_ are the -ruin of actors. Instead of being kept up to the mark, alert, their -brains active by constantly learning and performing new _rôles_, they -simply become automata, and can almost go through their parts in their -sleep. Surely this is not _acting_. - -Every important _rôle_ has an understudy. Generally some one playing a -minor part in the programme is allowed the privilege of understudying -a star. By this arrangement he is at the theatre every night, and if -the star cannot shine, the minor individual goes on to twinkle instead, -his own part being played by some lesser luminary. Many a man or woman -has found an opening and ultimate success in this way, through the -misfortune of another. - -At some theatres the understudy is paid for performing, or is given a -present of some sort in recognition of his services, while at others, -even good ones, he gets nothing at all, the honour being considered -sufficient reward. - -No one misses a performance if he can possibly help it; there are many -reasons for not doing so; and sometimes actors go through this strain -when physically unfit for work, rather than be out of the bill for a -single night. Theatrical folk go through many vicissitudes in their -endeavour to keep faith with the public. - -For instance, one terribly foggy night in 1902 during the run of _Iris_ -all London was steeped in blackness. It was truly an awful fog, just -one of those we share with Chicago and Christiania. Miss Fay Davis, -that winsome American actress, was playing the chief part in Pinero’s -play and went down to the theatre every night from her home in Sloane -Square in a brougham she always hired, with an old coachman she knew -well. - -She ate her dinner in despair at the fog, her mother fidgeted anxiously -and wondered what was to happen, when the bell rang, long before the -appointed time, and the carriage was announced. - -“Oh, we’ll get there somehow, miss,” the old coachman remarked; so, -well wrapped up in furs, the daring lady started for her work. They did -get there after an anxious journey, assisted by policemen and torches, -Miss Davis alighted, saying: - -“I daresay it will be all right by eleven, but anyway you must fetch me -on foot if you can’t drive.” - -“Aye, aye, ma’am,” replied her worthy friend, and off he drove. -Miss Davis went to her dressing-room, feeling a perfect heroine for -venturing forth, and when she was half ready there came a knock at the -door. - -“No performance to-night, miss.” - -“What?” - -“Only half the actors have turned up, and there isn’t a single man or -woman in the theatre—pit empty, gallery empty, everything empty—so -they’ve decided not to play _Iris_ to-night. No one can see across the -footlights.” - -It was true; so remarkable was that particular fog, several of the -playhouses had to shut-up-shop for the night. How Miss Davis got home -remains a mystery. - -A very beautiful actress of my acquaintance rarely has an engagement. -She acts well, she looks magnificent, and has played many star parts -in the provinces, yet she is constantly among the unemployed. “Why,” I -once asked, “do you find it so difficult to get work?” - -“Because I’m three inches too tall. No man likes to be dwarfed by a -woman on the stage. In a ball-room the smaller the man the taller the -partner he chooses, and this sometimes applies to matrimony, but on the -stage never.” - -“Can you play with low heels?” she is often asked when seeking an -engagement. - -“Certainly,” is the reply. - -“Would you mind standing beside me?” - -“Delighted.” - -“Too tall, I’m afraid,” says the man. - -“But I can dress my hair low and wear small hats.” - -“Too tall all the same, I’m afraid.” - -And for this reason she loses one engagement after another. Most of the -actor-managers have their own wives or recognised “leading ladies,” so -that in London, openings for new stars are few and far between, and -when the actress, however great her talent or her charm, makes the -leading actor look small, she is waved aside and some one inferior -takes her place. - -On one occasion it was a woman who refused to act with my friend. She -had been engaged for a big part—but when this woman—once the darling of -society, and a glittering star upon the stage—saw her fellow-worker, -she said: - -“I can’t act with you, you would make me look insignificant; besides, -you are too good-looking.” - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -_SUPPER ON THE STAGE_ - - Reception on the St. James’s Stage—An Indian Prince—His - Comments—The Audience—George Alexander’s Youth—How he missed - a Fortune—How he learns a Part—A Scenic Garden—Love of the - Country—Actors’ Pursuits—Strain of Theatrical Life—Life and - Death—Fads—Mr. Maude’s Dressing-room—Sketches on Distempered - Walls—Arthur Bourchier and his Dresser—John Hare—Early and - late Theatres—A Solitary Dinner—An Hour’s Make-up—A Forgetful - Actor—_Bonne camaraderie_—Theatrical Salaries—Treasury - Day—Thriftlessness—The Advent of Stalls—The Bancrofts—The Haymarket - photographs—A Dress Rehearsal. - - -One of the most delightful theatrical entertainments I ever remember -was held by Mr. George Alexander on the stage of the St. James’s -Theatre. It was in honour of the Coronation of Edward VII., and given -to the Indian Princes and Colonial visitors. - -The play preceding the reception was that charming piece _Paolo and -Francesca_. I sat in the stalls, and on my right hand was a richly -attired Indian, who wore a turban lavishly ornamented with jewels. I -had seen him a short while previously at a Court at Buckingham Palace, -one of those magnificent royal evening receptions Queen Alexandra -has instituted instead of those dreary afternoon Drawing-rooms. This -gentleman had been there when the Royalties received the Indian -Princes in June, 1902, the occasion when the royal _cortége_ promenaded -through those spacious rooms with such magnificent effect. It was -the Court held a few days prior to the date first fixed for the -Coronation—a ceremony postponed, as all the world knows, till some -weeks later in consequence of the King’s sudden illness. - -My princely neighbour was very grand. He wore that same huge ruby at -the side of his head, set in diamonds and ornamented with an osprey, -which had excited so much admiration at Buckingham Palace. Although -small he was a fine-looking man and had charming manners. He read his -programme carefully and seemed much interested in the performance, then -he looked through his opera-glasses and appeared puzzled; suddenly I -realised he wanted to know something. - -“You follow the play?” I asked; “or can I explain anything to you?” - -“Thank you so much,” he replied in charming English. “I can follow it -pretty well, but I cannot quite make out whether the lovely young lady -is really going to marry that hump-backed man. Surely she ought to -marry the handsome young fellow. She is so lily-lovely.” - -“No, Francesca marries Giovanni.” - -“Ah, it is too sad, poor thing,” answered the Indian gentleman, -apparently much grieved. He turned to his neighbour, who did not speak -English, and retailed the information. Their distress was really -amusing. Evidently the lovely white lady (Miss Millard) deserved a -better fate according to their ideas, for he repeatedly expressed his -distress as the play proceeded. Before he left the theatre that night -he crossed the stage, and making a profound bow, thanked me for helping -him to understand the play. His gratitude and Oriental politeness were -charming. - -The St. James’s presented a gay scene. The Indian dresses, the -diamonds, and extra floral decorations rendered it a regular gala -performance. At the usual hour the curtain descended. The general -public left; but invited guests remained. We rose from our seats and -conversed with friends, while a perfect army of stage carpenters and -strange women, after moving out the front row of stalls, brought -flights of steps and made delightfully carpeted staircases lead up to -either side of the stage. Huge palms and lovely flowers banked the -banisters and hid the orchestra. Within a few moments the whole place -resembled a conservatory fitted up as for a rout. It was all done -as if by magic. Methinks Mr. Alexander must have had several “stage -rehearsals” to accomplish results so admirable with such rapidity. - -The curtain rose, the stage had been cleared, and there at the head of -the staircase stood the handsome actor-manager in plain dress clothes, -washed and cleaned from his heavy make-up, and with his smiling wife -ready to receive their guests. - -At the back of the stage the scenery had been arranged to form a second -room, wherein supper was served at a buffet. - -It was all admirably done. Most of the Colonial Premiers were there, -many of the Indian Princes, and a plentiful sprinkling of the leading -lights of London. Of course a stage is not very big and the numbers had -to be limited; but about a couple of hundred persons thoroughly enjoyed -that supper behind the footlights at the St. James’s Theatre. Many of -the people had never been on a stage before, and it was rather amusing -to see them peeping behind the flies, and asking weird questions -from the scene-shifters. Some were surprised to find the floor was -not level, but a gentle incline, for all audiences do not know the -necessity of raising the back figures, so that those in front of the -house may see all the performers. - -A party on the stage is always interesting, and generally of rare -occurrence, although Sir Henry Irving and Mr. Beerbohm Tree both -gave suppers in honour of the Coronation, so England’s distinguished -visitors had several opportunities of enjoying these unique receptions. -At the supper at His Majesty’s Theatre a few nights later the chief -attractions besides the Beerbohm Trees were Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen -Terry, the latter still wearing her dress as Mistress Page. Every one -wanted to shake hands with her, and not a few were saddened to see -her using those grey smoked glasses she always dons when not actually -before the footlights. - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W._ - -MR. GEORGE ALEXANDER.] - -George Alexander has had a most successful career, but he was not -cradled on the stage. His father was an Ayrshire man and the boy was -brought up for business. Not liking that he turned to medicine, and -still being dissatisfied he abandoned the doctor’s art at an early -stage and took a post in a silk merchant’s office. This brought him -to London. From that moment he was a constant theatre-goer, and -in September, 1879, made his first bow behind the footlights. He -owes much of his success to the training he received in Sir Henry -Irving’s Company at the Lyceum. There is no doubt much of the business -learned in early youth has stood him in good stead in his theatrical -ventures, and much of the artistic taste and desire for perfection in -stage-mounting so noticeable at the St. James’s was imbibed in the -early days at the Lyceum. It takes a great deal to make a successful -actor-manager; he must have literary and artistic taste, business -capacity, and withal knowledge of his craft. - -In 1891 he took the St. James’s Theatre and began a long series of -successes. He has gone through the mill, worked his way from the bottom -to the top, and being possessed of an exceptionally clear business -head, has made fewer mistakes than many others in his profession. - -Mr. Alexander tells a good story about himself: - -“For many months I continually received very long letters from a lady -giving me her opinion not only on current stage matters, but on the -topics of the hour, with graphic descriptions of herself—her doings—her -likes and dislikes. She gave no address, but her letters usually bore -the postmark of a country town not a hundred miles from London. She -confided in me that she was a spinster, and that she did not consider -her relations sympathetic. She was obviously well-to-do—I gathered this -from her account of her home and her daily life as she described them. -Suddenly her letters ceased, and I wondered what had happened. Almost -two months after I received her last letter, I had a communication -from a firm of lawyers asking for an appointment. I met them—two -very serious-looking gentlemen they were too! After a good deal of -preliminary talk they came to their point. - -“‘You know Miss ——’ said the elder of the men. - -“‘No,’ I replied. - -“‘But you do,’ he said. ‘She has written to you continually.’ - -“This was very puzzling, but following up the slight clue, I asked: - -“‘Is her Christian name Mary?’ - -“‘Yes,’ he replied. - -“‘And she lives at——?’ - -“Then I knew whom they meant. Their mission, it seemed, was to tell me -that the lady had been very ill, and fearing she was going to die, had -expressed a wish to alter her will in my favour. As the lawyers had -acted for her family for many years, and were friends of her relations, -they had taken her instructions quietly, but after much discussion in -private had decided to call on me and inform me of the facts, and they -asked me to write a letter to them stating that such a course would -be distasteful to me and unfair to her relations. I did so in strong -terms, and so I lost a little fortune.” - -When Mr. Alexander learns a new part he and his wife retire to their -cottage at Chorley Wood to study. I bicycled thither one day from -Chalfont St. Peter’s, when to my disappointment the servant informed me -they were “out.” - -“Oh dear, how sad!” I said, “for it is so hot, and I’m tired and wanted -some tea.” - -Evidently this wrung her heart, for she said she would “go and see.” -She went, and immediately Mr. Alexander appeared to bid me welcome. - -“I’m working,” he said, “and the maid has orders not to admit any one -without special permission.” - -What a pretty scene. Lying in a hammock in the orchard on that hot -summer’s day was the actor-manager of the St. James’s Theatre. Seated -on a garden chair was his wife, simply dressed in white serge and straw -hat. On her lap lay the new typewritten play in its brown paper covers, -and at her feet was Boris, the famous hound. The Alexanders had been a -fortnight at the cottage working hard at the play, and at the moment of -my arrival Mrs. Alexander was hearing her husband his part. Not only -does she do this, but she makes excellent suggestions. She studies the -plays, too, and her taste is of the greatest value as regards dresses, -stage decorations, or the arrangement of crowds. Although she has never -played professionally, Mrs. Alexander knows all the ins and outs of -theatrical life, and is of the greatest help to her husband in the -productions. - -Had a stranger entered a compartment of a train between Chorley Wood -and London a few days later, he might have thought George Alexander -and I were about to commit murder, suicide, or both. - -“What have you got there?” asked the actor when we met on the platform. - -“A gun,” was my reply. - -“A gun?” - -“Yes, a gun. I’m taking it to London to be mended.” - -“Ha ha! I can beat that,” he laughed. “See what I have here,” and -opening a little box he disclosed half a dozen razors. - -“Razors!” I exclaimed. - -“Yes, razors; so be wary with your sanguinary weapon, for mine mean -worse mischief.” - -He was taking the razors to London to be sharpened. - -It was fortunate no accident happened to that train, or a gun and six -razors might have formed food for “public inquiry.” - -It is a curious thing how many actors and actresses like to shake the -dust of the stage from their feet on leaving the theatre. They seem to -become satiated with publicity, to long for the country and an outdoor, -freer life, and in many instances they not only long for it, but -actually succeed in obtaining it, and the last trains on Saturday night -are often full of theatrical folk seeking repose far from theatres till -Monday afternoon. - -Recreation and entire change of occupation are absolutely necessary to -the brain-worker, and the man is wise who realises this. If he does, -and seeks complete rest from mental strain, he will probably have a -long and successful career; otherwise the breakdown is sure to come, -and may come with such force as to leave the victim afflicted for -life, so it is far wiser for the brain-worker of whatever profession -or business to realise this at an early stage. In this respect actors -are as a rule wiser than their fellow-workers, and seek and enjoy -recreation on Sunday and Monday, which is more than can be said of many -lawyers, doctors, painters, or literary men. - -The strain of theatrical life is great. No one should attempt to go -upon the stage who is not strong. If there be any constitutional -weakness, theatrical life will find it out. Extremes of heat and -cold have to be borne. Low dresses or thick furs have to be worn in -succeeding acts. The atmosphere of gas and sulphur is often bad, but -must be endured. - -A heavy part exhausts an actor in a few minutes as much as carrying -a hod of bricks all day does a labourer. He may have to change his -underclothing two or three times in an evening, in spite of all his -dresser’s rubbing down. The mental and physical strain affects the -pores of the skin and exhausts the body, that is why one hardly ever -finds an actor fat. He takes too much physical exercise, takes too much -out of himself, ever to let superfluous flesh accumulate upon his bones. - -Yes, the actor’s life is often a mental strain, of which the following -is a striking instance. A very devoted couple were once caused much -anxiety by the wife’s serious and protracted illness. Months wore -on, and every night the husband played his part, wondering what news -would greet him when he returned home. At last it was decided that an -operation was necessary. It was a grave operation, one of life and -death, but it had to be faced. - -One morning the wife bade her bairns and her home good-bye, and drove -off with her spouse to a famous surgical home. That night the poor -actor had to play his comic part, with sad and anxious heart he had to -smile and caper and be amusing. Think of the mockery of it all. Next -morning he was up early, toying with his breakfast, in order to be at -the home before nine o’clock, when that serious operation was to be -performed. He did not see his wife—that would have upset them both—but -like a caged lion he walked up and down, up and down in an adjoining -room. At last came the glad tidings that it was over, and all had so -far gone satisfactorily. - -Back to the theatre he went that night, having heard the latest -bulletin, and played his part with smiling face, knowing his wife was -hovering between life and death. Next morning she was not so well. It -was a _matinée_ day, and in an agony of anxiety and excitement that -poor man played two performances, receiving wires about her condition -between the acts. Think of it! We often laugh at men and women, who may -be for all we know, acting with aching hearts. Comedy and tragedy are -closely interwoven in life, perhaps especially so in theatrical life. - -By way of recreation from work George Alexander rushes off to his -cottage at Chorley Wood to play golf. Sir Charles Wyndham and Sir -Squire and Lady Bancroft for many years enjoyed rambles in Switzerland. -Sir Henry Irving is a tremendous smoker and never happy without a -cigar. Ellen Terry is so devoted to her son and daughter, she finds -recreation in their society. Cyril Maude loves shooting and all country -pursuits. Winifred Emery never mentions the theatre after she leaves -the stage door, and finds relaxation in domesticity. Mrs. Kendal knits. -Lewis Waller motors. Dan Leno retires to the suburbs to look after his -ducks. Arthur Bourchier is fond of golfing whenever he gets a chance. -Miss Marie Tempest lives in a musical set, and is as devoted to her -friends as they are to her. - -The world is governed by fads. Fads are an antidote to boredom—a tonic -to the overworked, and actors enjoy fads like the rest of us; for -instance: - -Eugene Oudin, that most delightful operatic singer, who was cut off -just as he stepped on the top rung of Fame’s ladder, was a splendid -photographer. In 1890 photography was not so much the fashion as it is -nowadays, but even then his pictures were works of art. He portrayed -his contemporaries—the De Reskes, Van Dyck, Calvé, Hans Richter, -Mascagni, Joachim, Tosti, Alma-Tadema, John Drew, Melba, and dozens -more at their work, or in some way that would make a picture as well -as a photograph. Then these worthies signed the copies, which were -subsequently hung round the walls of Oudin’s private study. - -Miss Julia Neilson has a passion for collecting fans. Herbert Waring -is a brilliant whist-player. Mrs. Patrick Campbell adores small dogs, -and nearly always has one tucked under her arm. Many actresses have -particular mascots. Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Lily Hanbury, and a host -more have their lucky ornaments which they wear on first nights. Miss -Irene Vanbrugh is devoted to turquoises, and has a necklace composed of -curious specimens of these stones, presents from her many friends. - -Miss Violet Vanbrugh declares she is “one of those people who somehow -never contrive actively or passively to be the heroine of any little -stage joke.” This is rather an amusing assertion for a lady who is -continually playing stage heroines. Her husband, Mr. Arthur Bourchier, -however, tells a good story against himself. - -“My present servant, or ‘dresser,’ as they are called at the theatre, -was one of the original Gallery First Nighters and a member of the -celebrated Gaiety Gallery Boys. Of course when he joined me I imagined -he had forsaken the auditorium for the stage. One night, however, a -play was produced by me, the dress rehearsal of which he had seen, -and I noticed that he seemed particularly gloomy and morose at its -conclusion. On the first night, when I came back to my dressing-room -from the stage, I found the door locked. Here was a pretty predicament. -It was clear that he had got the key and had mysteriously disappeared. -I had the door broken open, for dress I must as time was pressing, -and sent another man to search for my missing servant. The sequel -is as follows. He was caught red-handed in the gallery among his -old associates loudly ‘booing’ his master. Arraigned before me, he -maintained the firmest attitude possible, and asserted boldly: - -“‘No, sir, I am your faithful servant behind the scenes, but as an -independent _man_ and honest gallery _boy_ I am bound to express my -unbiased opinion either for or against any play which I may happen to -see at a first night!’” - -Mr. Hare, like most men, has his hobby, and it is racing: he loves a -horse, and he loves a race meeting. In fact, on one occasion report -says he nearly missed appearing at the theatre in consequence. - -John Hare is one of the greatest character-actors of our day. He is -a dapper little gentleman, and lives in Upper Berkeley Street, near -Portman Square. His house is most tasteful, and while his handsome wife -has had much to say to the decoration, the actor-manager has decided -views of his own in these matters. He has a delightful study at the -back of the house, round the sides of which low book-cases run, while -the walls reflect copper and brass pots, and old blue china. It is here -he is at his best, as he sits smoking a cigarette, perched on the high -seat in front of the fire. - -What an expressive face his is. The fine-chiselled features, the long -thin lips are like a Catholic priest of æsthetic tendency; but as the -expression changes with lightning speed, and the dark deep-set eyes -sparkle or sadden, one realises the actor-spirit. - -Evidence of fads may often be seen in an actor’s dressing-room, where -the walls are decorated according to the particular taste of its -occupant. - -Cyril Maude has a particularly interesting dressing-room at the -Haymarket Theatre. It is veritably a studio, for he has persuaded his -artistic friends to do sketches for him on the distempered walls, and -a unique little collection they make. Phil May, Harry Furniss, Dudley -Hardy, Holman Clarke, Bernard Partridge, Raven Hill, Tom Brown, are -among the contributors, and Leslie Ward’s portrait of Lord Salisbury -is one of the finest ever sketched of the late Prime Minister. It is a -quaint and original idea of Mr. Maude’s, but unfortunately those walls -are so precious he will never dare to disturb the grime of ages and -have them cleaned. - -The St. James’s Theatre, as it stands, is very modern, and therefore -Mr. Alexander is the proud possessor of a charming sitting-room with -a little dressing-room attached. It is quite near the stage, and -has first-floor windows which look out on King Street, next door to -Willis’s Rooms, once so famous for their dinners, and still more famous -at an earlier date as Almack’s, where the _beaux_ and _belles_ of -former days disported themselves. - -Both Mr. Alexander and his wife are fond of artistic surroundings, and -his little room at the theatre is therefore charming. Here on _matinée_ -days the actor-manager dines, an arrangement which saves him much time -and trouble, and his huge dog Boris—the famous boarhound which appeared -in _Rupert_ _of Hentzau_—is his companion, unless Mrs. Alexander pops -in with some little delicacy to cheer him over his solitary meal. - -That is one of the drawbacks of the stage, the poor actor generally has -to eat alone. He cannot expect ordinary mortals to dine at his hours, -and he cannot accommodate himself to theirs. The artist who appears -much in public is forced to live much by himself, and his meals are -consequently as lonely as those of a great Indian potentate. - -If we are to follow Mr. Pinero’s advice we shall all have to eschew -dinner and adopt a “high-tea” principle before the play; but as all -the audience are not agreed upon the subject there seems to be some -difficulty about it. - -Why not have the evening performance as late as usual on _matinée_ -days, to allow the players time to take food and rest, and early on -other days to suit those folk who prefer the drama from seven to ten -instead of nine to twelve? By this means early comers and late diners -would both be satisfied. Instead of which, as matters stand in London, -the late diners arrive gorged and grumbling half through the first act -to disturb every one, and the ’bus and train folk struggle out halfway -through the last act, sad and annoyed at having to leave. - -Most theatrical folk dine at five o’clock. Allowing an hour for this -meal, they are able to get a little rest before starting for the -theatre, which generally has to be reached by seven. - -Preparing for the stage is a serious matter. All that can be put on -beforehand is of course donned. Ladies have been known to wear three -pairs of stockings, so that a pair might be taken off quickly between -each act. Then a long time is required to “make up.” For instance -in such a part as Giovanni Malatesta (_Paolo and Francesca_), Mr. -Alexander spent an hour each day painting his face and arranging his -wig. He did not look pretty from the front, but the saffron of his -complexion and the blue of his eyes became absolutely hideous when -beheld close at hand. That make-up, however, was really a work of art. - -An actor’s day, even in London, is often a heavy one. Breakfast between -nine and ten is the rule, then a ride or some form of exercise, and -the theatre at eleven or twelve for a “call,” namely, a rehearsal. -This “call” may go on till two o’clock or later, at which hour light -luncheon is allowed; but if the rehearsal be late, and the meal -consequently delayed, it is impossible to eat again between five and -six, consequently the two meals get merged into one. Rehearsals for -a new play frequently last a whole month, and during that month the -players perform eight times a week in the old piece, and rehearse, -or have to attend the theatre nearly all day as well. Three months -is considered a good run for a play—so, as will be seen, the company -scarcely recover from the exertions of one play before they have to -commence rehearsing for another, to say nothing of the everlasting -rehearsals for charity performances. The actor’s life is necessarily -one of routine, and routine tends to become monotonous. - -A well-known actor was a very absent-minded man except about his -profession, where habit had drilled him to punctuality. One Sunday he -was sitting in the Garrick Club when a friend remarked he was dining at -A——. - -“God bless me, so am I.” - -He rushed home, dressed, and went off to the dinner, during the course -of which his neighbour asked him if he were going to the B.’s. - -“I’d really forgotten it—but if you are going I’ll go too.” - -So he went. - -About midnight he got home. His wife was sitting in full evening dress -with her gloves and cloak on. - -“You are very late,” she said. - -“Late? I thought it was early. It is only a quarter past twelve.” - -“I’ve been waiting for nearly two hours.” - -“Waiting—what for?” - -“Why, you arranged to fetch me a little after ten o’clock to go to the -B’s.” - -“God bless me—I forgot I had a dinner-party, forgot there was a -_soirée_, and forgot I had a wife.” - -“And where’s your white tie?” asked his wife stiffly. - -“Oh dear, I must have forgotten that too! Dear, dear, what a man I am -away from the stage and my dresser!” - -There is a wonderful _bonne camaraderie_ among all people engaged in -the theatrical profession. - -Theatrical people are as generous to one another in misfortune as the -poor. In times of success they are apt to be jealous; but let a comrade -fall on evil days, let him be forced to “rest” when he wants to work, -and his old colleagues will try and procure him employment, and when -work and health fail utterly, they get up a benefit for him. These -benefits take much organising; they often entail endless rehearsals and -some expense, and yet the profession is ever ready to come forward and -help those in need. - -People on the stage have warm hearts and generous purses, but to give -gracefully requires as much tact as to receive graciously. - -It is a curious thing how few actors have died rich men. Many have made -fortunes, but they have generally contrived to lose them again. Money -easily made is readily lost. He who buys what he does not want ends in -wanting what he cannot buy. Style and show begun in flourishing times -are hard to relinquish. Capital soon runs away when drawn upon because -salary has ceased, even temporarily. Many an actor, once a rich man, -has died poor. Kate Vaughan, once a wealthy woman, died in penury, and -so on _ad infinitum_. - -Actors, like other people, have to learn there is no disgrace in being -poor—it is merely inconvenient. - -Theatrical salaries are sometimes enormous, although George Edwardes -has informed the public that £100 a week is the highest he ever gives, -because he finds to go beyond that sum does not pay him. - -It seems a great deal for a pretty woman, not highly born, nor highly -educated, nor highly gifted—merely a pretty woman who has been well -drilled by author, stage manager, and conductor, to be able to command -£100 a week in a comic opera, but after all it is not for long. It -is never for fifty-two weeks in the year, and only for a few years -at most. Beauty fades, flesh increases, the attraction goes, and she -is relegated to the shelf, a poorer, wiser woman than before. But -meanwhile her scintillating success, the glamour around her, have acted -as a bait to induce others to rush upon the stage. - -The largest salary ever earned by a man was probably that paid to -Charles Kean, who once had a short engagement at Drury Lane for £50 a -night, and on one occasion he made £2,000 by a benefit. Madame Vestris, -however, beat him, for she had a long engagement at the Haymarket at -£40 a night, or £240 a week, a sum unheard of to-day. - -It may be here mentioned that salaries are doled out according to an -old and curious custom. - -“Treasury day” is a great event; theatrical folk never speak of “pay”: -it is always “salaries” and “treasury day.” Each “house” has its own -methods of procedure, but at a great national theatre like Drury Lane -the “chiefs” are paid by cheque, while every Friday night the treasurer -and his assistants with trays full of “salary” go round the theatre and -distribute packets in batches to the endless persons who combine to -make a successful performance. The money is sealed up in an envelope -which bears the name of the receiver, so no one knows what his -neighbour gets. It takes five or six hours for the treasurer and his -two assistants to pay off a thousand people at a pantomime, and check -each salary paid. - -There is no field where that little colt imagination scampers more -wildly than in the matter of salaries. For instance, a girl started as -“leading lady” in a well-known play on a provincial tour. Her name, in -letters nearly as big as herself, met her on the hoardings of every -town the company visited. She was given the star dressing-room, and -a dresser to herself. This all meant extra tips and extra expenses -everywhere, for she was the “leading lady”! Wonderful notices appeared -in all the provincial papers and this girl was the draw. The manager -knew that, and advertised her and pushed her forward in every way. All -the company thought she began at a salary of £10 a week, and rumour -said this sum had been doubled after her success. Such was the story. -Now for the truth. She was engaged for the tour at £3 a week, and £3 -a week she received without an additional penny, although the tour of -weeks extended into months. She was poor, others were dependent on her, -and she dared not throw up that weekly sixty shillings for fear she -might lose everything in her endeavour to get more. - -This is only one instance: there are many such upon the stage. - -“I suppose A—— has given more time to rehearsals this year,” said the -wife of a well-known actor, “than any man in London, and yet he has -only drawn ten weeks’ salary. Everything has turned out badly; so we -have had to live for fifty-two weeks on ten weeks’ pay and thirty-four -weeks’ work.” - -Large sums and well-earned salaries have, of course, been made—in fact, -Sir Henry Irving was earning about £30,000 a year at the beginning of -the century, an income very few actor-managers could boast. - -Among thrifty theatrical folk the Bancrofts probably take front rank. -Marie Wilton and her husband amused England for thirty years, and had -the good sense always to spend less than they made. The result was -that, while still young enough to enjoy their savings they bought a -house in Berkeley Square, retired, and have enjoyed a well-earned rest. -More than that, Sir Squire Bancroft stands unique as regards charities. -Although not wishing to be tied any more to the stage, he does not mind -giving an occasional “Reading” of Dickens’s _Christmas Carol_, and he -has elected to give his earnings to hospitals and other charities, -which are over £15,000 the richer for his generosity. Could anything -be more delightful than for a retired actor to give his talent for the -public good? - -I was brought up on Mrs. Bancroft and Shakespeare, so to speak. The -Bancrofts at that time had the Haymarket Theatre, and their Robertson -pieces were considered suitable to my early teens by way of amusement, -while I was taken to Shakespeare’s plays by way of instruction. I -remember I thought the Robertson comedies far preferable, and should -love to see them again. - -It is always averred by old playgoers that Marie Wilton (Lady -Bancroft) was the originator of modern comedy. She and her husband at -one time had a little play-house in an unfashionable part of London, to -which they attracted society people of that day. The theatre was not -then what it is now, the “upper ten” seldom visited the play at that -time, and yet the Prince of Wales’ Theatre known as “The Dust-hole” -drew all fashionable London to the Tottenham Court Road to laugh with -Marie Wilton over Robertson’s comedies. - -Her company consisted of men and women who are actor-managers to-day: -people went forth well drilled in their profession, accustomed to -expending minute care over details, each in their turn to inculcate the -same thoroughness in the next generation. These people numbered John -Hare, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal (Madge Robertson was the younger sister of -the dramatist), H. J. Montague, and Arthur Cecil. Again one finds the -best succeeds, and there is always room at the top, hence the Bancroft -triumph. - -One of their innovations was to rope off the front rows of the pit, -which then occupied the entire floor of the house, and call them -“stalls,” for which they dared ask 6/-apiece. They got it—more were -wanted. Others were added, and gradually the price rose to 10/6, which -is now the charge: but half-guinea stalls, though now universal, are a -modern institution. - -At a dinner given by the Anderson Critchetts in 1891 I sat between -Squire Bancroft and G. Boughton, R.A. Mr. Bancroft remarked in the -course of conversation that he was just fifty, though he looked much -younger. His tall figure was perfectly erect, and his white hair showed -up the freshness of his complexion. I asked him if he did not miss -acting, the applause, and the excitement of the theatre. - -“No,” he replied. “It will be thirty years this September since I first -went on the stage, and it is now nearly six since I gave it up. No, -I don’t think I should mind much if I never entered a theatre again, -either as spectator or actor—and my wife feels the same. My only regret -about our theatrical career is that we never visited America, but no -dollars would induce Mrs. Bancroft to cross the sea, so we never went.” - -He surprised me by saying that during the latter years of their -theatrical life they never took supper, but dined at 6.0 or 6.30 as -occasion required, and afterwards usually walked to the theatre. During -the performance they had coffee and biscuits, or sometimes, on cold -nights, a little soup, and the moment the curtain was down they jumped -into their carriage, and were in their own house in Cavendish Square, -where they then lived, by 11.30, and in bed a few minutes later. They -were always down to breakfast at 9 o’clock year in year out; an early -hour for theatrical folk. - -I spoke of the autograph photographs which I had seen in the Haymarket -green-room. - -“How curious,” he said, “that you should mention them to-night. We -have always intended to take them away, and only yesterday, after -an interval of six years, I gave the order for their removal. This -evening as we started for dinner they arrived in Berkeley Square. A -strange coincidence.” - -Lady Bancroft has the merriest laugh imaginable. I used to love to see -her act when I was quite a girl, and somehow Miss Marie Tempest reminds -me strongly of her to-day. She has the same lively manner. - -Lady Bancroft’s eyes are her great feature—they are deeply set, with -long dark lashes, and their merry twinkle is infectious. When she -laughs her eyes seem to disappear in one glorious smile, and every one -near her joins in her mirth. Mrs. Bancroft was comparatively a young -woman when she retired from the stage, and one of her greatest joys at -the time was to feel she was no longer obliged to don the same gown at -the same moment every day. - -At some theatres a dress rehearsal is a great affair. The term properly -speaking means the whole performance given privately right through, -without even a repeated scene. The final dress rehearsal, as a rule, -is played before a small critical audience, and the piece is expected -to run as smoothly as on the first night itself—to be, in fact, a sort -of prologue to the first night. This is a dress rehearsal proper, such -as is given by Sir Henry Irving, Messrs. Beerbohm Tree, Cyril Maude, -George Alexander, or the old Savoy Company. - -Before this, however, there are endless “lighting rehearsals,” “scenic -rehearsals,” or “costume parades,” all of which are done separately, -and with the greatest care. As we saw before, Mrs. Kendal disapproves -of a dress rehearsal, but she is almost alone in her opinion. It is -really, therefore, a matter of taste whether the whole performance be -gone through in separate portions or whether one final effort be made -before the actual first night. As a rule Sir Henry Irving has three -dress rehearsals, but the principals only appear in costume at one of -them. They took nine weeks to rehearse the operetta _The Medal and the -Maid_, yet Irving put _The Merchant of Venice_ with all its details on -the Lyceum stage in twenty-three days. - -Sir Henry strongly objects to the public being present at any -rehearsal. “The impression given of an incomplete effort cannot be -a fair one,” he says. “It is not fair to the artistes. A play to be -complete must pass through one imagination, one intellect must organise -and control. In order to attain this end it is necessary to experiment: -no one likes to be corrected before strangers, therefore rehearsals—or -in other words ‘experiments’—should be made in private. Even trained -intellect in an outsider should not be admitted, as great work may be -temporarily spoiled by some slight mechanical defect.” - -In Paris rehearsals used to be great institutions. They were -opportunities for meeting friends. In the _foyers_ and green-rooms of -the theatres, at _répètitions générales_, every one talked and chatted -over the play, the actors, and the probable success or failure. This, -however, gradually became a nuisance, and early in this twentieth -century both actors and authors struck. They decided that even -privileged persons should be excluded from final rehearsals, which are -always in costume in Paris. As a sort of salve to the offended public, -it was agreed that twenty-four strangers should be admitted to the last -great dress rehearsal before the actual production of a new piece, -hence everybody who is anybody clamours to be there. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -_MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT_ - - Sarah Bernhardt and her Tomb—The Actress’s Holiday—Love of - her Son—Sarah Bernhardt Shrimping—Why she left the Comédie - Française—Life in Paris—A French Claque—Three Ominous Raps—Strike - of the Orchestra—Parisian Theatre Customs—Programmes—Late - Comers—The _Matinée_ Hat—Advertisement Drop Scene—First Night - of _Hamlet_—Madame Bernhardt’s own Reading of _Hamlet_—Yorick’s - Skull—Dr. Horace Howard Furness—A Great Shakespearian Library. - - -It is not every one who cares to erect his own mausoleum during his -life. - -There are some quaint and weird people who prefer to do so, however: -whether it is to save their friends and relations trouble after their -demise, whether from some morbid desire to face death, or whether -for notoriety, who can tell? Was it not one of our dukes who built -a charming crematorium for the benefit of the public, and beside it -one for himself, the latter to be given over to general use after he -himself had been reduced to spotless ashes within its walls? He was a -public benefactor, for his wise action encouraged cremation, a system -which for the sake of health and prosperity is sure to come in time. - -Madame Sarah Bernhardt has not erected a crematorium, but on one of -the highest spots of the famous _Père Lachaise_ Cemetery in Paris -she has placed her tomb. It is a solid stone structure, like a large -sarcophagus, but it is supported on four arches, so that light may -be seen beneath, and the solidity of the slabs is thereby somewhat -lessened. One word only is engraven on the stone: - - BERNHARDT. - -This is the mausoleum of one of the greatest actresses the world has -ever known. What is lacking in the length of inscription is made up by -the size of the lettering. - -Upon the tomb lay one enormous wreath on the _Jour des Morts_, 1902, -and innumerable people paid homage to it, or stared out of curiosity at -the handsome erection. - -Though folk say Madame Bernhardt courts notoriety, there are moments -when she seeks solitude as a recreation, and she has a great love of -the sea. - -Every year for two months she disappears from theatrical life. She -forgets that such a thing as the stage exists, she never reads a play, -and as far as theatrical matters are concerned she lives in another -sphere. That is part of her holiday. It is not a holiday of rest, for -she never rests; it is a holiday because of the change of scene, change -of thought, change of occupation. Her day at her seaside home is really -a very energetic one. - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Lafayette, New Bond Street._ - -MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT AS HAMLET.] - -At five the great artiste rises, dons a short skirt, country boots, -and prepares to enjoy herself. Often the early hours are spent in -shooting small birds. She rarely misses her quarry, for her artistic -eye helps her in measuring distance, and her aim is generally deadly. -Another favourite entertainment is to shrimp. She takes off her shoes -and stockings and for a couple of hours will stand in the water -shrimping, for her “resting” is as energetic as everything else she -does. She plies her net in truly professional style, gets wildly -enthusiastic over a good catch, and loves to eat her freshly boiled -fish at _déjeuner_. Perhaps she has a game with her ten lovely Russian -dogs before that mid-day meal. - -Her surroundings are beautiful. She adores flowers—flowers are -everywhere; she admires works of art—works of art are about her, for -she has achieved her own position, her own wealth, and why should she -not have all she loves best close at hand? - -After _déjeuner_ the guests, of whom there are never more than two or -three, such as M. Rostand (author of _Cyrano de Bergerac_) and his -wife, rest and read. Not so Madame Bernhardt. She sits in the open -air, her head covered with a shady hat, and plays Salta with her son. -This game is a kind of draughts, and often during their two months’ -holiday-making she and her only child Maurice will amuse themselves in -this way for two or three hours in the afternoon; generally she wins, -much to her joy. She simply loves heat, like the Salamanders, and, even -in July, when other people feel too hot, she would gladly wear furs and -have a fire. She can never be too warm apparently. Her own rooms are -kept like a hothouse, for cold paralyses her bodily and mentally. - -How she adores her son—she speaks of him as a woman speaks of her -lover; Maurice comes before all her art, before all else in the world, -for Maurice to her is life. He has married a clever woman, a descendant -of a Royal house, and has a boy and two girls adored by their -grandmother almost as much as their father. She plays with them, gets -up games for them, dances with them, throws herself as completely into -their young lives as she does into everything else. - -About 3.30 _au tennis_ is the cry. Salta is put aside and every one -has to play tennis. Away to tennis she trips. Sarah never gets hot, -but always looks cool in the white she invariably wears. She wants an -active life, and if her brain is not working her body must be, so she -plays hard at the game, and when tea is ready in the arbour close at -hand, about 6.30, she almost weeps if she has to leave an unfinished -“sett.” - -She must be interested, or she would be bored; she must be amused, -or she would be weary; thus she works hard at her recreations, the -enforced rest while reading a novel being her only time of repose -during her summer holiday. She walks when she has nothing else to do, -and rambles for miles around her seaside home, only occasionally going -on long carriage expeditions, with her tents and her servants, to pitch -camp for the night somewhere along the coast. - -Then comes dinner—dinner served with all the glories of a Parisian -_chef_, for Madame, although a small eater, believes well-cooked food -necessary to existence. There is no hurry over dinner, and “guess” -games are all the fashion, games which she cleverly arranges to suit -the children. No evening dresses are allowed, nor _décolleté_ frocks; -except for flowers and well-cooked food, Madame likes to feel she is in -the country and far removed from Paris, therefore a dainty blouse is -all that is permitted. Music is often enjoyed in the evening. Sometimes -on a fine night Madame will exclaim: - -“Let us go and fish,” and off they all go. Down the endless steps cut -in the rock the party stumble, and on the seashore they drag their -nets. Up those same steps every night toil men with buckets of salt -water, for the great actress has a boiling salt water bath every -morning, to which she attributes much of her good health. Fishermen -throw nets for the evening’s catch, but “Sarah” is most energetic in -hauling them in, and gets wildly excited at a good haul. Her unfailing -energy is thrown even into the fishing, and she will stay out till the -small hours enjoying the sport. One summer Madame Bernhardt caught a -devil fish—this delighted her. She took it home and quickly modelled a -vase from her treasure. Seaweed and shells formed its stand, the tail -its stem. She seldom sculpts nowadays, but the power is still there. - -It was in 1880 that she retired from the _Comédie Française_, not -being content with her salary of £1,200 a year, and she then announced -her intention of making sculpture and painting her profession. After -a rest, however, she fortunately changed her mind, or the stage -would have lost one of the greatest actresses the world has known. -Perhaps the apotheosis of her life was in December, 1896, when she -was acclaimed Queen of the French stage, and the leading poets of her -country recited odes in her honour. On that occasion the heroine of the -_fête_ declared: - -“For twenty-nine years I have given the public the vibrations of my -soul, the pulsations of my heart, and the tears of my eyes. I have -played 112 parts, I have created thirty-eight new characters, sixteen -of which are the work of poets. I have struggled as no other human -being has struggled.... I have ardently longed to climb the topmost -pinnacle of my art. I have not yet reached it. By far the smaller part -of my life remains for me to live; but what matters it? Every day -brings me nearer to the realisation of my dream. The hours that have -flown away with my youth have left me my courage and cheerfulness, for -my goal is unchanged, and I am marching towards it.” - -She was right; there is always something beyond our grasp, and those -who think they have seized it must court failure from that moment. -Those nearest perfection best know how far they really are from it. - -Madame Bernhardt’s mind is penetrating, yet her body never rests. She -can do with very little sleep—can live without butcher’s meat, rarely -drinks alcohol, and prefers milk to anything. Perhaps this is the -reason of her perpetual youth. She loves her holiday, she loves the -simple life of the country, the repose from the world, the knowledge -that autograph hunters and reporters cannot waylay her, and in the -country she ceases to be an actress and can enjoy being a woman. - -In Paris her life is very different. She resides in a beautiful -hotel surrounded by works of art, and keeps a _table ouverte_ for -her friends. She rises at eleven, when she has her _masseuse_ and -her boiling bath, sees her servants, and gives personal orders for -everything in the establishment. She is one of those women who find -time for all details, and is capable of seeing to most matters well. -At 12.30 is _déjeuner_, rarely finished till 2 o’clock, as friends -constantly drop in. Then off to the theatre, where she rehearses till -six. There she sits in a little box, from which point of vantage she -can see everything and yet be out of draughts. She always wears white, -even in the theatre, and looks as smart as though at a party instead of -on business bent. Dresses are brought her for inspection, she alters, -changes, admires, or deplores as fancy takes her; she arranges the -lighting, decides a little more blue or a little less green will give -the tone required; but then she has that inner knowledge of harmony -and the true painter spirit. She is never out of tune. At six high-tea -is served in her dressing-room, for she rarely leaves the theatre. -The meal consists mostly of fish—lobster, crab, cray-fish, shrimps, -scallops cooked or raw—with a little tea and lots of milk. A chat with -a friend, a peep at a new play, and then it is time to dress for the -great work of the day. She changes quickly. After the performance is -over she sees her manager, and rarely leaves the theatre in Paris -before 1.30, when she returns home to a good hot supper. But her day -is not ended even then. She will have a play read to her or read it -herself, study a new part, write letters, and do dozens of different -things before she goes to bed. She can do with little rest, and seems -to have the energy of many persons in one. In spite of this she has -never mastered English, although she can read it. - -Madame Bernhardt will ever be associated in my mind with a night spent -at a theatre behind a French _claque_. That _claque_ was terrible, but -the actress was so wonderful I almost forgot its existence, and sat -rapt in admiration of her first night of _Hamlet_. - -Till quite lately there was a terrible institution in France known as -the _claque_, nothing more or less than a paid body of men whose duty -it was to applaud actors and actresses at certain points duly marked in -their play-books. - -At the _Comédie Française_ of Paris a certain individual known as the -_Chef de Claque_ had been retained from 1881 for over twenty years at a -monthly salary of three hundred francs, that is to say, he received £12 -a month, or £3 a week, for “clapping” when required. He was a person -of great importance. Though disliked by the public, he was petted and -feasted by actors and actresses, for a clap at the wrong moment, or -want of applause at the right, meant disaster; besides, there was a -sort of superstitious fear that being on bad terms with the _Chef de -Claque_ foreboded ill luck. - -After performing his duties for twenty-one years with considerable -success, the _Chef de Claque_ was dismissed, and it was decided that -professional applause should be discontinued. Naturally the _Chef_ was -indignant, and in the autumn of 1902 sued the _Comédie Française_ for -30,000 francs damages or a pension. Paris, however, found relief in -the absence of the original _claque_, and gradually one theatre after -another began to dispense with a nuisance it had endured for long. -History says that during the early days of the _claque_ there was an -equally obnoxious institution, a sort of organised opposition known as -_siffleurs_. It was then as fashionable to whistle a piece out of the -world as to clap it into success. There was a regular instrument made -for the purpose, known as a _sifflet_, which was wooden and emitted a -harsh creaking noise. No man thought of going to the theatre without -his _sifflet_—but the _claque_ gradually clapped him away. Thus died -out the official dispensers of success or failure. - -It so chanced that having bicycled through France from Dieppe along the -banks of the Seine, my sister and I were leaving Paris on the first -occasion of Sarah Bernhardt’s impersonation of Hamlet—that is to say, -in May, 1899. We were so anxious to see her first performance, however, -that we decided to stay an extra day. So far all was well, but not a -single ticket could be obtained. Here was disappointment indeed. Of -course our names were not on the first night list in Paris and, as in -England, it is well-nigh impossible for any ordinary member of the -public to gain admittance on such an occasion. - -The gentleman in the box office became sympathetic at beholding our -distress, and finally suggested he might let us have seats upstairs. - -“It is very high up, but you will see and hear everything,” he added. - -We decided to ascend to the gods, where, instead of finding ourselves -beside Jupiter and Mars, Venus or Apollo, we were seated immediately -behind the _claque_. - -Never, never shall I forget my own personal experience of the -performance of a _claque_. Six men sat together in the centre of -the front row. The middle one had a marked book—fancy Shakespeare’s -_Hamlet_ marked for applause!—and according to that book’s instructions -the _Chef_ and his friends clapped once, twice, thrice. - -On ordinary occasions the _claque_ slept or read, and only woke up to -make a noise when called upon by the _Chef_, who seemed to have free -passes for his supporters every night, and took any one he liked to -help him in his curious work. The noise those men made at _Hamlet_ -was deafening. The excitement of the leader lest the play should not -go off well on a first night was terrible—and if their hands were not -sore, and their arms did not ache, it was a wonder indeed. They were so -appallingly near us, and so overpowering and disturbing, nothing but -interest in the divine Sarah could have kept us in our seats during -all those hot, stuffy, noisy hours. It was a Saturday night, the piece -began at 8 p.m., and ended at 2 a.m. - -Think of it, ye London first-nighters! Especially in a French theatre, -where the seats are torture racks, the heat equal to Dante’s Inferno, -and no sweet music soothes the savage breast, only long dreary -_entr’actes_ and the welcome—if melancholy—three raps French playgoers -know so well. - -Two years later, when I was again in Paris, there were different -excitements in the air, one a strike of coal-miners, the other—and in -Paris apparently the more important—a strike of the orchestras at the -theatres. A few years previously there could not have been a strike, -for the sufficient reason there were no orchestras; but gradually our -plan of having music during the long waits crept in. The musicians at -first engaged as an experiment were badly paid. When they became an -institution they naturally asked for more money, which was promptly -refused. - -Then came the revolt. From the first violin to the big drum all -demanded higher pay. It seems that theatre, music hall, and concert -orchestras belong to a syndicate of _Artistes Musiciens_ numbering some -sixteen hundred members. During the strike I chanced to be present at -a theatre where there was generally an orchestra—that night one small -cottage piano played by a lady usurped its place. She managed fairly -well—but a piano played by a mediocre musician, does not add to the -gaiety of a theatre although it may decrease its melancholy. When -November came, the strike ceased. The managers capitulated. - -The orchestra in an English theatre is a little world to itself. The -performers never mix with the actors, they have their own band-room, -and there they live when not before the curtain. At the chief -theatres, as is well known, the performers are extremely good, and -that is because they are allowed to “deputise”; when there is a grand -concert at the St. James’s Hall or elsewhere, provided they find -some one to take their place in their own orchestra, they may go and -play. Consequently, when there is a big concert several may be away -from their own theatre. Many of these performers remain in the same -orchestra for years. For instance, Mr. Alexander told me he met a man -one day roving at the back of the stage, so he stopped and asked whom -he wanted. The man smiled and replied: - -“I am in your orchestra, sir, and have been for eleven years.” - -“Ah, yes, so you are; I thought I knew your face; but I am accustomed -to look at it from above, you see!” - -In many London theatres the orchestra is hidden under the stage, a -decided advantage with most plays. - -Parisian theatres are strange places. They are very fashionable, and -yet they are most uncomfortable. The seats are invariably too small and -too high. The result is there is nowhere to lay a cloak or coat, and -short people find their little legs dangling high above the ground. All -this causes inconvenience which ends in annoyance, and the hangers-on -at the theatres are a veritable nuisance. Ugly old women in blue -aprons, without caps, pounce upon one on entering and pester for wraps. -It is difficult to know which is the worse evil, to cling to one’s -belongings in the small space allotted each member of the audience, or -to let one of those women take them away. In the latter case before -the last act she returns with a great deal of fuss, hands over the -articles, and demands her sous. If the piece be only in three acts, -one pays for being free of a garment for two of them and is annoyed -by its presence during the third. Again, when one enters a box these -irritating _ouvreuses_ demand tips _pour le service de la loge, s’il -vous plaît_, and will often insist on forcing footstools under one’s -feet so as to claim the _pourboires_ afterwards. The _pourboires_ of -the _vestiaire_ are also a thorn in the flesh, and the system which -exacts payment from these women turns them from obliging servants into -harpies. How Parisians put up with these disagreeable creatures is -surprising, but they do. - -The stage is conservative in many ways; for instance, that tiresome -plan of charging for programmes still exists in England in some -theatres, and even good theatres too. Programmes cost nothing: the -expense of printing is paid by the advertisements. Free distribution, -therefore, does not mean that the management are out of pocket. Why, -then, do they not present them gratis? As things are it is most -aggravating. Suppose two ladies arrive; as they are shown to their -seats, holding their skirts, opera-bags and fans in their hands, -they are asked for sixpence. While they endeavour to extract their -money they are dropping their belongings and inconveniencing their -neighbours: in the case of a man requiring change the same annoyance is -felt by all around, especially if the play has begun. - -Programmes and their necessary “murmurings” are annoying, and so is -the meagreness of the space between the rows of stalls. There are -people who openly declare they never go to a theatre because they have -not got room for their knees. This is certainly much worse in Parisian -theatres, where the seats are high and narrow as well; but still, -when people pay for a seat they like room to pass to and fro without -inconveniencing a dozen persons _en route_. - -_Matinée_ hats and late arrivals are sins on the part of the audience -so cruel that no self-respecting person would inflict either upon a -neighbour. But some women are so inconsiderate that we shall soon -be reduced to an American notice like the following, “Ladies who -cannot, or are unwilling to, remove their hats while occupying seats -in this theatre, are requested to leave at once; their money will -be returned at the box office.” A gentlewoman never wears a picture -hat at the play; if she arrives in one she takes it off. In the same -way a gentleman makes a point of being in time. People who offend in -these respects belong to a class which apparently knows no better, a -class which complacently talks, or makes love, through a theatrical -entertainment! - -Another strange Parisian custom is the advertisement drop-scene. At the -end of the act, a curtain descends literally covered with pictures and -puffs of pills, automobiles, corsets, or tobacco. After a tragedy the -effect is comical, but this is an age of advertisement. - -But to return to Madame Bernhardt’s Hamlet. When the great Sarah -appeared upon the scene I did not recognise her. Why? Because she -looked so young and so small. This woman, who was nearly sixty, -appeared quite juvenile. This famous _tragédienne_, who had always -left an impression of a tall, thin, willowy being in her wonderful -scenes in _La Tosca_, or _Dame aux Caméllias_, deprived of her train -appeared quite tiny. She had the neatest legs, encased in black silk -stockings, the prettiest feet with barely any heel to give her height, -while her flaxen wig which hung upon her shoulders, made her look a -youth, in the sixteenth century clothes she elected to wear. At first -I felt woefully disappointed; she did not act at all, and when she saw -her father’s ghost, instead of becoming excited, as we are accustomed -to Hamlet’s doing in this country, she insinuated a lack of interest, -an “Oh, is that really my father’s ghost!” sort of style, which seemed -almost annoying; but as she proceeded, I was filled with admiration—her -players’ scene was a great _coup_. - -On the left of the stage a smaller one was arranged for the players’ -scene, and before it half a dozen torches were stuck in as footlights. -On the right there was a high raised daïs with steps leading up on -either side—a sort of platform erection. The King and Queen sat upon -two seats at the top, the courtiers grouped themselves upon the stairs. -Immediately below the Royal pair sat Ophelia, and at her feet, upon a -white polar-bear-skin rug, reclined Sarah Bernhardt, with her elbow -upon Ophelia’s knee and her hand upon some yellow cushions. As the -play went on she looked up to catch a glimpse of the King, but he was -too high above her, the wall of the platform hid him from view. Very -quietly she rose from her seat, crawled round to the back, where she -gradually and slowly pulled herself up towards the daïs, getting upon -a stool in her eagerness to see her victim’s face. The King, in his -excitement, rose from his seat at the fatal moment, and putting his -hand upon the balustrade, peered downwards upon the play-actors. - -At that instant Sarah Bernhardt rose, and the two faces came close -together across the barrier in eager contemplation of each other. It -was a magnificent piece of acting, one which sent a thrill through the -whole house; and as the “divine Sarah” saw the guilt depicted upon her -uncle’s face she gave a shriek of triumph, a perfectly fiendish shriek -of joy, once heard never to be forgotten, and springing down from her -post, rushed to the torch footlights, and seizing one in her hand stood -in the middle of the stage, her back to the audience, waving it on -high and yelling with wild exultant delight as the King and all his -courtiers slunk away, to the fall of the curtain. It was a brilliant -ending to a great act, and Sarah triumphed not only in the novelty of -her rendering, but in the manner of its execution. - -Another hit that struck me as perfectly wonderful in its contrasting -simplicity, was, when she sat upon a sofa, her feet straight out before -her, a book lying idle upon her lap, and murmured, _mots, mots_, or -again, when she came in through the arch at the back of the stage, and -leaning against its pillar repeated quietly and dreamily the lines “To -be, or not to be.” - -_Apropos_ of _Hamlet_, Madame Bernhardt wrote to the _Daily Telegraph_: - - “Hamlet rêve quand il est seul; mais quand il y a du monde il - parle; il parle pour cacher sa pensée.... - - “On me reproche, dans la scène de l’Oratoire, de m’approcher trop - près du Roi; mais, si Hamlet veut tuer le Roi, il faut bien qu’il - s’approche de lui. Et quand il l’entend prier des paroles de - repentir, il pense que s’il le tue il l’enverra au ciel, et il ne - tue pas le Roi; non pas parcequ’il est irrésolu et faible, mais - parcequ’il est tenace et logique; il veut le tuer dans le péché, - non dans le repentir, car il veut qu’il aille en enfer, et pas - au ciel. On veut absolument voir, dans Hamlet, une âme de femme, - hésitante, imponderée; moi, j’y vois l’âme d’un homme, résolue mais - refléchie. Aussitôt que Hamlet voit l’âme de son père et appréhend - le meurtre, il prend la résolution de le venger; mais, comme il - est le contraire d’Othello, qui agit avant de penser, lui, Hamlet, - pense avant d’agir, ce qui est le signe d’une grande force, d’une - grande puissance d’âme. - - “Hamlet aime Ophélie! il renonce à l’amour! il renonce à l’étude! - il renonce à tout! pour arriver à son but! Et il y arrive! Il - tue le Roi quand il est pris dans le péché le plus noir, le plus - criminel; mais il ne le tue que lorsqu’il est absolument sûr. - Lorsqu’on l’envoie en Angleterre, à la première occasion qu’il - rencontre il bondit tout seul sur un bateau ennemi et il se nomme - pour qu’on le fasse prisonnier, sûr qu’on le ramenera. Il envoie - froidement Rosencrantz et Guildenstern à la mort. Tout cela est - d’un être jeune, fort et résolu! - - “Quand il rêve: c’est à son projet! c’est à sa vengeance! Si Dieu - n’avait pas défendu le suicide, il se tuerait par dégoût du monde! - mais, puisqu’il ne peut pas se tuer, il tuera! - - “Enfin, Monsieur, permettez-moi de vous dire que Shakespeare, - par son génie colossal, appartient à l’Univers! et qu’un cerveau - Français, Allemand, ou Russe a le droit de l’admirer et de le - comprendre. - - “SARAH BERNHARDT. - - “LONDRES, _le 16 Juin, 1899_.” - -Madame Bernhardt made Hamlet a man, and a strong man—there was nothing -of the halting, hesitating woman about her performance, one which she -herself loves to play. - -It was a fine touch also when she went into her uncle’s room, where, -finding him on his knees, she crept up close behind, and taking out -her dagger, prepared to kill him. She said nothing, but her play -was marvellous, her expression of hatred and loathing, her pause to -contemplate, and final decision to let the man alone, were done in such -a way as only Sarah Bernhardt could render them. - -Another drama took place on this memorable first night of Hamlet. Two -famous men when discussing whether Hamlet ought to be fat or thin, -struck one another in the face and finally arranged a duel—a duel -fought two or three days later, which nearly cost one of them his life. - -Opposite is the programme of the first night of Sarah Bernhardt’s -Hamlet. - - LA TRAGIQUE HISTOIRE D’ - - HAMLET - - PRINCE DE DANEMARK - - Drame en 15 Tableaux de =William SHAKESPEARE= - - _Traduction en prose de_ MM. EUGÈNE MORAND et MARCEL SCHWOB - - Mᵐᵉ SARAH BERNHARDT - - _HAMLET_ - - MM. - - BREMONT Le Roi - MAGNIER Laertes - CHAMEROY Polonius - DENEUBOURG Horatio - RIPERT Le Spectre - SCHUTZ Premier fossoyeur - LACROIX Deuxième „ - TESTE Le Roi Comédien - SCHELER Osric - JEAN DARAV Rosencrantz - JAHAN Voltimand - COLAS Bernardo - KRAUSS Marcellus - LAURENT Guildenstern - BARBIER Fortinbras - STEBLER Deuxᵐᵉ comédien - CAUROY Francesco - LAHOR Un Prêtre - BARY Cornélius - CAILLERE Troisᵐᵉ comédien - BERTAUT Un Gentilhomme - - MMᵐᵉˢ - - MARTHE MELLOT Ophélie - MARCYA La Reine Gertrude - BOULANGER La reine comédienne - - _Prêtres, Comédiens, Marins, Officiers, Soldats, etc._ - -There is a famous Hamlet skull in America, known as Yorick’s -skull, which is in the possession of Dr. Horace Howard Furness, of -Philadelphia. - -Dr. Furness is one of the greatest Shakespearian scholars of the day. -Dr. Georg Brandes, of Copenhagen, Mr. Sydney Lee, of London, and he -probably know more of the work of this great genius than any other -living persons. - -When I was in America I had the pleasure of spending a few days at Dr. -Furness’s delightful home at Wallingford, on the shores of the Delaware -River. The place might be in England, from its appearance—a low, -rambling old house with wide balconies, creeper-grown with roses, and -honey-suckle hugging the porch. The dear old home was built more than a -century ago, by some of Dr. Furness’s ancestors, and one sees the love -of those ancestors for the old English style manifest at every turn. -The whole interior bespeaks intellectual refinement. - -He stood on the doorstep to welcome me, a grey-headed man of some -sixty-eight years, with a ruddy complexion, and closely cut white -moustache. His manner was delightful; no more polished gentleman ever -walked this earth than Horace Howard Furness, the great American -writer. His father was an intimate friend of Ralph Waldo Emerson, -whose famous portrait at the Philadelphia Art Gallery was painted by -the doctor’s brother; so young Horace was brought up amid intellectual -surroundings. - -At the back of the house is the world-renowned iron-proof Shakespearian -library, the collection of forty ardent years. It is a veritable -museum with its upper galleries, its many tables, and its endless cases -of treasures. The books which line the walls were all catalogued by -the doctor himself. He has many of the earlier editions of Shakespeare -besides other rare volumes. Some original MSS. of Charles Lamb, -beautifully written and signed Elia, are there; a delightful sketch -of Mary Anderson by Forbes Robertson; Lady Martin’s (Helen Faucit) -own acting editions of the parts she played marked by herself; and -in a special glass case lie a pair of grey gauntlet gloves, richly -embroidered in silver, which were worn by Shakespeare himself when an -actor. If I remember rightly they came from David Garrick, and the card -of authenticity is in the case. Then there are Garrick’s and Booth’s -walking-sticks, and on a small ebony stand, the famous Yorick skull -handled in the grave-digging scene by all the great actors who have -visited Philadelphia, and signed by them—Booth, Irving, Tree, Sothern, -etc. - -I never spent a more delightful evening than one in October, 1900, when -the family went off to Philadelphia to see the dramatisation of one of -Dr. Weir Mitchell’s novels by his son, and I was left alone with Dr. -Furness for some hours. - -What a charming companion. What a fund of information and humour, -what a courtly manner, what a contrast to the ruggedness of Ibsen, -or the wild energy of Björnsen. Here was repose and strength. Not an -originator, perhaps, but a learned disciple. How he loved Shakespeare, -with what reverence he spoke of him. He scoffed at the mere mention -of Bacon’s name, and was glad, very glad, so little was known of the -private life of Shakespeare. - -“He was too great to be mortal; I do not want to associate any of -Nature’s frailties with such a mind. His work is the thing, for the -man as a man I care nothing.” This was unlike Brandes, whose brilliant -books on Shakespeare deal chiefly with the man. - -There was something particularly delightful about Horace Furness and -his home. Even the dinner-table appointments were his choice. The -soup-plates were of the rarest Oriental porcelain, and the meat-plates -were of silver with mottoes chosen by himself round the borders. - -“I loved my china, but it got broken year by year, until in desperation -I looked about for something that could not break—solid and plain, like -myself, eh?” he chuckled. The mottoes were well chosen and the idea as -original as everything else about Dr. Furness. - -It was Mrs. Kemble’s readings that first awakened his love for -Shakespeare; but he was nearly forty years old when he gave up law and -devoted himself to writing; much the same age as Dr. Samuel Smiles when -he exchanged business for authorship. - -Dr. Furness loves his Shakespeare and thoroughly enjoys his well-chosen -library; but still an Englishwoman cannot help hoping that when he -has done with them, he will bequeath his treasures to the Shakespeare -Museum at Stratford-on-Avon. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -_AN HISTORICAL FIRST NIGHT_ - - An Interesting Dinner—Peace in the Transvaal—Beerbohm Tree - as a Seer—How he cajoled Ellen Terry and Mrs. Kendal to - Act—First-nighters on Camp-stools—Different Styles of Mrs. Kendal - and Miss Terry—The Fun of the Thing—Bows of the Dead—Falstaff’s - Discomfort—Amusing Incidents—Nervousness behind the Curtain—An - Author’s Feelings. - - -The scene was changed. - -It was the 1st of June. I remember the date because it was my birthday, -and this particular June day is doubly engraven on my mind as the most -important Sunday in 1902. It was a warm summer’s evening as I drove -down Harley Street to dine with Sir Anderson and Lady Critchett, whose -dinners are as famous as his own skill as an oculist. - -Most of the company had assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were already -there, Frank Wedderburn, K.C., Mr. Luke Fildes, R.A., who had just -completed his portrait of the King, Mr. Orchardson, R.A., Mr. Lewis -Coward, K.C., and their wives, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Sassoon, Mr. and -Mrs. W. L. Courtney, when the Beerbohm Trees were announced. He bore a -telegram in his hand. - -“Have you heard the news?” he asked. - -“No,” every one replied, guessing by his face it was something of -importance. - -“Peace has been officially signed,” was the reply. - -Great was the joy of all present. There had been a possibility felt all -day that the good news from South Africa might be confirmed on that -Sunday, although it was supposed it could not be known for certain -until Monday. Sunday is more or less a _dies non_ in London, but as -the tape is always working at the theatre, Mr. Tree had instructed a -clerk to sit and watch the precious instrument all day, so as to let -him have the earliest information of so important an event. As he was -dressing for dinner in Sloane Street, in rushed the clerk, breathless -with excitement, bearing the news of the message of Peace that had sped -across a quarter of the world. - -This in itself made that dinner-party memorable, but it was memorable -in more ways than one, as among the twenty people round that table sat -four of the chief performers in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_, which was -to electrify London as a Coronation performance ten days later. - -Sir Anderson himself is connected with the drama, for his brother is -Mr. R. C. Carton, the well-known dramatic author. Sir Anderson is also -an indefatigable first-nighter, and being an excellent _raconteur_, -knows many amusing stories of actors of the day. In his early years an -exceptionally fine voice almost tempted him on to the lyric stage, but -he has had no cause to regret that his ultimate choice was ophthalmic -surgery. - -It was a stroke of genius, the genius of the seer, on the part of -Beerbohm Tree, to invite the two leading actresses of England to -perform at his theatre during Coronation season. - -It came about in this way. On looking round the Houses, Mr. Tree -noticed that, although Shakespeare was to the fore in the provinces, -filling two or three theatres, there happened to be no Shakespearian -production—except an occasional _matinée_ at the Lyceum—going on -in London during the Coronation month. Of course London without -Shakespeare is like _Hamlet_ without the Dane to visitors from the -Colonies and elsewhere. Something must be done. He decided what. A -good all-round representation, played without any particular star part -would suit the purpose, and a record cast would suit the stranger. -Accordingly Mr. Tree jumped into a hansom and drove to Mrs. Kendal’s -home in Portland Place, where he was announced, and exclaimed: - -“I have come to ask you to act for me at His Majesty’s for the -Coronation month. Your own tour will be finished by that time.” - -For one hour they talked, Mrs. Kendal declaring she had not played -under any management save her husband’s for so many years that the -suggestion seemed well-nigh impossible. - -“Besides,” she added, “you should ask Ellen Terry, who is my senior, -and stands ahead of me in the profession. She has not yet appeared -since she returned from America. There is your chance.” - -Whereupon there ensued further discussion, till finally Mrs. Kendal -laughingly remarked: - -“Well, if you can get Ellen Terry to act, I will play with you both -with pleasure.” - -Off went Mr. Tree to the hansom, and directed the driver to take him -at once to Miss Terry’s house, for he was determined not to let the -grass grow under his feet. He brought his personal influence to bear -on the famous actress for another hour, at the end of which time she -had consented to play _if_ Sir Henry Irving would allow her. This -permission was quickly obtained, and two hours after leaving Portland -Place Mr. Tree was back to claim Mrs. Kendal’s promise. It was sharp -work; one morning overcame what at the outset seemed insurmountable -obstacles, and thus was arranged one of the best and luckiest -performances ever given. For weeks and weeks that wonderful cast played -to overflowing houses. The month wore on, but the public taste did not -wear out, July found all these stars still in the firmament, and even -in August they remained shining in town. - -Moral: the very best always receives recognition. The “best” lay in -the acting, for as a play the _Merry Wives_ is by no means one of -Shakespeare’s best. It is said he wrote it in ten days by order of -Queen Elizabeth. How delighted Bouncing Bess would have been if she -could have seen the Coronation performance! - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by London Stereoscopic Co., Ltd., Cheapside, E.C._ - -MR. BEERBOHM TREE AS FALSTAFF.] - -I passed down the Haymarket early in the morning preceding that famous -first night. There, sitting on camp-stools, were people who had been -waiting from 5 a.m. to get into the pit and gallery that evening. They -had a long wait, over twelve hours some of them, but certainly they -thought it worth while if they enjoyed themselves as much as I did. It -was truly a record performance. - -The house was packed; in one box was the Lord Chief Justice of -England, in the stalls below him Sir Edward Clarke, at one time -Solicitor-General, and who has perhaps the largest practice at the Bar -of any one in London. Then there was Mr. Kendal not far off, watching -his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree’s daughter—showing a strong -resemblance to both parents—was in a box; Princess Colonna was likewise -there; together with some of the most celebrated doctors, such as Sir -Felix Semon, learned in diseases of the throat, Sir Anderson Critchett, -our host of a few nights before, while right in the front sat old Mrs. -Beerbohm, watching her son with keen interest and enjoyment, and, a -little behind, that actor’s clever brother, known on an important -weekly as “Max,” a severe and caustic dramatic critic. - -The enthusiasm of the audience was extraordinary. When some one had -called for the feminine “stars” at one of the rehearsals, Mrs. Kendal, -with ready wit, seized Ellen Terry by the hand, exclaiming: - -“Ancient Lights would be more appropriate, methinks!” - -Below is the programme. - - TUESDAY, JUNE 10th, 1902, at 8.15 - - SHAKESPEARE’S COMEDY - - The Merry Wives of Windsor - - Sir John Falstaff Mr. TREE - Master Fenton Mr. GERALD LAWRENCE - Justice Shallow Mr. J. FISHER WHITE - Master Slender (_Cousin to Shallow_) Mr. CHARLES QUARTERMAIN - Master Ford } _Gentlemen dwelling at_ { Mr. OSCAR ASCHE - Master Page } _Windsor_ { Mr. F. PERCIVAL STEVENS - Sir Hugh Evans (_a Welsh Parson_) Mr. COURTICE POUNDS - Dr. Caius (_a French Physician_) Mr. HENRY KEMBLE - Host of the “Garter” Inn Mr. LIONEL BROUGH - Bardolph } { Mr. ALLEN THOMAS - Nym } _Followers of Falstaff_ { Mr. S. A. COOKSON - Pistol } { Mr. JULIAN L’ESTRANGE - Robin (_Page to Falstaff_) Master VIVYAN THOMAS - Simple (_Servant to Slender_) Mr. O. B. CLARENCE - Rugby (_Servant to Dr. Caius_) Mr. FRANK STANMORE - Mistress Page Miss ELLEN TERRY - (By the Courtesy of - Sir HENRY IRVING) - Mistress Anne Page (_Daughter to Mrs. Page_) Mrs. TREE - Mistress Quickly (_Servant to Dr. Caius_) Miss ZEFFIE TILBURY - Mistress Ford Mrs. KENDAL - (By the Courtesy of - Mr. W. H. KENDAL) - -_The Merry Wives of Windsor_ is a comedy, but it was played on the -first night as a comedy of comedies, every one, including Lionel Brough -as the Innkeeper, being delightfully jovial. Every one seemed in the -highest spirits, and all those sedate actors and actresses thoroughly -enjoyed a romp. When the two ladies of the evening appeared on the -scene hand in hand, convulsed with laughter, they were clapped so -enthusiastically that it really seemed as if they would never be -allowed to begin. - -What a contrast they were, in appearance and style. They had played -together as children, but never after, till that night. During the -forty years that had rolled over Ellen Terry’s head since those young -days she has developed into a Shakespearian actress of the first rank. -Her life has been spent in declaiming blank verse, wearing mediæval -robes, and enacting tragedy and comedy of ancient days by turn, and -added to her vast experience, she has a great and wonderful personality. - -Mrs. Kendal, on the other hand, who stands at the head of the comedians -of the day, and is also mistress of her art, has played chiefly modern -parts and depicted more constantly the sentiment of the time; but has -seldom attacked blank verse; therefore, the two leading actresses of -England are distinctly dissimilar in training and style. No stronger -contrast could have been imagined; and yet, although neither part -actually suited either, the finished actress was evident in every -gesture, every tone, every look of both, and it would be hard to say -which achieved the greatest triumph, each was so perfect in her own -particular way. - -Miss Ellen Terry did not know her words—she rarely does on a first -night, and is even prone to forget her old parts. Appearing in a new -character that she was obliged to learn for the occasion, she had not -been able to memorise it satisfactorily; but that did not matter in the -least. She looked charming, she was charming, the prompter was ever -ready, and if she did repeat a line a second time while waiting to be -helped with the next, no one seemed to think that of any consequence. -When she went up the stairs to hide while Mrs. Kendal (Mrs. Ford) made -Tree (Falstaff) propose to her, Mrs. Kendal packed her off in great -style, and then wickedly and with amusing emphasis remarked: - -“Mistress Page, remember your cue,” which of course brought down the -house. - -Their great scene came in the third act, when they put Falstaff into -the basket. Mr. Tree was excellent as the preposterously fat knight—a -character verily all stuff and nonsense. He is a tall man, and in his -mechanical body reaches enormous girth. Falstaff and the Merry Wives -had a regular romp over the upset of the basket, and the audience -entering into the fun of the thing laughed as heartily as they did. Oh -dear, oh dear! how every one enjoyed it. - -A few nights later during this same scene Mr. Tree was observed to grow -gradually thinner. He seemed to be going into a “rapid decline,” for -his belt began to slip about, and his portly form grew less and less. -Ellen Terry noticed the change: it was too much for her feelings. With -the light-hearted gaiety of a child she was convulsed with mirth. She -pointed out the phenomenon to Mrs. Kendal, who at once saw the humour -of it, as did the audience, but the chief actor could not fathom the -cause of the immoderate hilarity until his belt began to descend. Then -he realised that “Little Mary”—which in his case was an air pillow—had -lost her screw, and was rapidly fading away. - -But to return to that memorable first night; as the curtain fell on the -last act the audience clapped and clapped, and not content with having -the curtain up four or five times, called and called until the entire -company danced hand in hand across the stage in front of the curtain. -Even that was not enough, although poor Mrs. Kendal lost her enormous -horned head-dress during the dance. The curtain had to be rung up again -and again, till Mr. Tree stepped forward and said he had no speech to -make beyond thanking the two charming ladies for their assistance and -support, whereupon these two executed _pas seuls_ on either side of the -portly Falstaff. - -It was a wonderful performance, and although the two women mentioned -stood out pre-eminently, one must not forget Mrs. Tree, who appeared -as “Sweet Anne Page.” She received quite an ovation when her husband -brought her forward to bow her acknowledgments. Bows on such an -occasion or in such a comedy are quite permissible; but was ever -anything more disconcerting than to see an actor who has just died -before us in writhing agony, spring forward to bow at the end of some -tragedy—to rise from the dead to smile—to see a man who has just moved -us to tears and evoked our sympathy, stand gaily before us, to laugh -at our sentiment and cheerily mock at our enthusiasm? Could anything -be more inartistic? A “call” often spoils a tragedy, not only in -the theatre but at the opera. Over zeal on the part of the audience, -and over vanity on the side of the actor, drags away the veil of -mystery which is our make-believe of reality, and shows glaringly the -make-believe of the whole thing. - -Mr. Beerbohm Tree never hesitates to tell a story against himself, and -he once related an amusing experience in connection with his original -production of _The Merry Wives of Windsor_. - -In the final scene at Herne’s oak, where Falstaff is pursued by fairy -elves and sprites, the burly knight endeavours to escape from his -tormentors by climbing the trunk of a huge tree. In order to render -this possible the manager had ordered some pegs to be inserted in the -bark, but on the night of the final dress rehearsal these necessary -aids were absent. A carpenter was summoned, and Mr. Tree, pointing to -his namesake, said in tones of the deepest reproach: - -“No pegs! No pegs!” - -When the eventful first night came Falstaff found to his annoyance -and amazement that he was still unable to compass the climb by which -he hoped to create much amusement. On the fall of the curtain the -delinquent was again called into the managerial presence and addressed -in strong terms. He, however, quickly cut short the reproof by -exclaiming: - -“’Ere, I say, guvnor, ’old ’ard: what was your words last night at the -re-’earsal? ’No pegs,’ you said—’no pegs’—well, there ain’t none,” and -he gave a knowing smack of the lips as if to insinuate another kind of -peg would be acceptable. - -Experience has shown Mr. Tree that he can give the necessary appearance -of bloated inflation to the cheeks of the fat knight by the aid of a -paint-brush alone; but then Mr. Tree mixes his paints with brains. When -he first essayed the character of Falstaff he relied for his effect -on cotton wool and wig-paste. Even now his nose is deftly manipulated -with paste to increase its size and shape, and I once saw him give -it a tweak after a performance with droll effect. A little lump of -nose-paste remained in his hand, while his own white organ shone forth -in the midst of a rubicund countenance. - -On an early occasion at the Crystal Palace Mr. Tree was delighted -at a burst of uproarious merriment on the part of the audience, -and flattered himself that the scene was going exceptionally well. -Happening to glance downwards, however, he saw that the padding had -slipped from his right leg, leaving him with one lean shank while the -other leg still assumed gigantic proportions. He looked down in horror. -The audience were not laughing _with_ him, but _at_ him. He endeavoured -to beat a hasty retreat, but found he could not stir, for one of his -cheeks had fallen off when leaning forward, and in more senses than -one he had “put his foot in it” and required extra cheek, not less, to -compass an exit from the stage. - -Such are the drolleries incumbent on a character like Falstaff. - -Mr. Tree has his serious moments, however, and none are more serious -than his present contemplation of his Dramatic School, which he -believes “will appeal not only to the profession of actors, but to -all interested in the English theatre, the English language, and -English oratory, men whose talents are occupied in public life, in -politics, in the pulpit, or at the Bar. Unless a dramatic school -can be self-supporting it is not likely to survive. Acting cannot -be taught—but many things can—such as voice-production, gesture and -deportment, fencing and dancing.” - -Every one will wish his bold venture success; and if he teaches a few -of our “well-known” actors and actresses to speak so that we can follow -every word of what they say, which at present we often cannot do, he -will confer a vast boon on English playgoers, and doubtless add largely -to the receipts of the theatres. It is a brave effort on his part, and -he deserves every encouragement. - -As this chapter began with a first-night performance, it shall end with -first-night thoughts. - -Are we not one and all hypercritical on such occasions? - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W._ - -MISS ELLEN TERRY AS QUEEN KATHERINE.] - -We little realise the awful strain behind the scenes in the working -of that vast machinery, the play. Not only is the author anxious, but -the actors and actresses are worn out with rehearsals and nervousness: -property men, wig-makers, scene-painters, and fly-men are all in a -state of extreme tension. The front of the house little realises what -a truly awful ordeal a first night is for all concerned, and while it -is kind to encourage by clapping, it is cruel to condemn by hissing or -booing. - -All behind the footlights do their best, or try so far as nervousness -will let them, and surely we in the audience should not expect a -perfect or a smooth representation, and should give encouragement -whenever possible. - -After all, however much the actors may suffer from nervousness and -anxiety on a first night, their position is not really so trying as -that of the author. If the actor is not a success, it may be “the part -does not suit him,” or “it is a bad play,” there may be the excuse of -“want of adequate support,” for he is only one of a number; but the -poor author has to bear the brunt of everything. If his play fail the -whole thing is a _fiasco_. He is blamed by every one. It costs more to -put on another play than to change a single actor. The author stands -alone to receive abuse or praise; he knows that, not only may failure -prove ruin to him, but it may mean loss to actors, actresses, managers, -and even the call boy. Therefore the more conscientious he is, the more -torture he suffers in his anxiety to learn the public estimation of his -work. The criticism may not be judicious, but if favourable it brings -grist to the mill of all concerned. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -_OPERA COMIC_ - - How W. S. Gilbert loves a Joke—A Brilliant Companion—Operas - Reproduced without an Altered Line—Many Professions—A Lovely - Home—Sir Arthur Sullivan’s Gift—A Rehearsal of _Pinafore_—Breaking - up Crowds—Punctuality—Soldier or no Soldier—_Iolanthe_—Gilbert as - an Actor—Gilbert as Audience—The Japanese Anthem—Amusement. - - -Few authors are so interesting as their work—they generally reserve -their wit or trenchant sarcasm for their books. W. S. Gilbert is an -exception to this rule, however; he is as amusing himself as his -_Bab Ballads_, and as sarcastic as _H.M.S. Pinafore_. A sparkling -librettist, he is likewise a brilliant talker. How he loves a joke, -even against himself. How well he tells a funny story, even if he -invent it on the spot as “perfectly true.” - -His mind is so quick, he grasps the stage-setting of a dinner-party at -once, and forthwith adapts his drama of the hour to exactly suit his -audience. - -Like all amusing people, he has his quiet moments, of course; but when -Mr. Gilbert is in good form he is inimitable. He talks like his plays, -turns everything upside-down with wondrous rapidity, and propounds -nonsensical theories in delightful language. He is assuredly the -greatest wit of his day, and to him we owe the origin of musical-comedy -in its best form. - -With a congenial companion Mr. Gilbert is in his element. He is a -fine-looking man with white hair and ponderous moustache, and owing to -his youthful complexion appears younger than his years. He loves to -have young people about him, and is never happier than when surrounded -by friends. - -In 1901, after an interval of nearly twenty years, his clever comic -opera _Iolanthe_ was revived at the Savoy with great success. Not one -line, not one word of its original text had been altered, yet it took -London by storm, just as did _Pinafore_ when produced for the second -time. How few authors’ work will stand so severe a test. - -The genesis of _Iolanthe_ is referable, like many of Mr. Gilbert’s -libretti, to one of the _Bab Ballads_. The “primordial atomic globule” -from which it traces its descent is a poem called _The Fairy Curate_, -in which a clergyman, the son of a fairy, gets into difficulties -with his bishop, who catches him in the act of embracing an airily -dressed young lady, whom the bishop supposes to be a member of the -_corps de ballet_. The bishop, reasonably enough, declines to accept -the clergyman’s explanation that the young lady is his mother, and -difficulties ensue. In the opera, Strephon, who is the son of the fairy -Iolanthe, is detected by his _fiancée_ Phyllis in the act of embracing -_his_ mother; Phyllis takes the bishop’s view of the situation, and -complications arise. - -Mr. Gilbert has penned such well-known blank verse dramas as _The -Palace of Truth_, _Pygmalion and Galatea_, _The Wicked Worlds_, _Broken -Hearts_, besides many serious and humorous plays and comedies—namely, -_Dan’l Druce_, _Engaged_, _Sweethearts_, _Comedy and Tragedy_, and some -dozen light operas. - -It is a well-known fact that almost every comedian wishes to be a -tragedian, and _vice versâ_, and Mr. Gilbert is said to have had -a great and mighty sorrow all his life. He always wanted to write -serious dramas—long, five-act plays full of situations and thought. -But no; fate ordained otherwise, when, having for a change started -his little barque as a librettist, he had to persevere in penning -what he calls “nonsense.” The public were right; they knew there was -no other W. S. Gilbert; they wanted to be amused, so they continually -clamoured for more; and if any one did not realise his genius at the -first production, he can hardly fail to do so now, when the author’s -plays are again presented after a lapse of years, without an altered -line, and still make long runs. Some say the art of comedy-writing is -dying out, and certainly no second Gilbert seems to be rising among -the younger men of the present day, no humourist who can call tears or -laughter at will, and send his audience away happy every night. The -world owes a debt of gratitude to this gifted scribe, for he has never -put an unclean line upon the stage, and yet provokes peals of laughter -while shyly giving his little digs at existing evils. His style has -justly created a name of its own. - -W. S. Gilbert has always had a deep-rooted objection to newspaper -interviews, just as he refuses ever to see one of his own plays -performed. He attends the last rehearsal, gives the minutest directions -up to the final moment, and then usually spends the evening in the -green-room or in the wings of the theatre. Very few authors accept fame -or success more philosophically than he does. When _Princess Ida_ was -produced he was sitting in the green-room, where there was an excitable -Frenchman, who had supplied the armour used in the piece. The play was -going capitally, and the Frenchman exclaimed, in wild excitement, “Mais -savez-vous que nous avons là un succès solide?” To which Mr. Gilbert -quietly replied, “Yes, your armour seems to be shining brightly.” - -“Ah!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with a gesture of amazement, “mais vous -êtes si calme!” - -And this would probably describe the outward appearance of the author -on a first night; nevertheless nothing will induce him to go in front -even with reproductions. - -Mr. Gilbert, who was born in 1836, proudly remarks that he has cheated -the doctors and signed a new lease of life on the twenty-one years’ -principle. During those sixty-eight years he has turned his hand to -many trades. After a career at the London University, where he took -his B.A. degree, he read for the Royal Artillery, but the Crimean -war was coming to an end, and consequently, more officers not being -required, he became a clerk in the Privy Council Office, and was -subsequently called to the Bar at the Inner Temple. He was also an -enthusiastic militiaman, and at one time an occasional contributor to -_Punch_, becoming thus an artist as well as a writer. His pictures -are well known, for the two or three hundred illustrations in the -_Bab Ballads_ are all from his clever pencil. Neatly framed they now -adorn the billiard-room of his charming country home, and, strange to -relate, the originals are not much larger than the reproductions, the -work being extremely fine. I have seen him make an excellent sketch -in a few minutes at his home on Harrow Weald; but photography has -latterly cast its fascinations about him, and he often disappears into -some dark chamber for hours at a time, alone with his thoughts and his -photographic pigments, for he develops and prints everything himself. -The results are charming, more especially his scenic studies. - -What a lovely home his is, standing in a hundred and ten acres right on -the top of Harrow Weald, with a glorious view over London, Middlesex, -Berks, and Bucks. He farms the land himself, and talks of crops and -live stock with a glib tongue, although the real enthusiast is his -wife, who loves her prize chickens and her roses. Grim’s Dyke has an -ideal garden, with white pigeons drinking out of shallow Italian bowls -upon the lawn, with its wonderful Egyptian tent, its rose-walks and -its monkey-house, its lake and its fish. The newly-made lake is so -well arranged that it looks quite old with its bulrushes, water-lilies -of pink, white, and yellow hue, and its blue forget-me-nots. The -Californian trout have proved a great success, and are a source of -much sport. Everything is well planned and beautifully kept; no better -lawns or neater walks, no more prolific glass houses or vegetable -gardens could be found than those at Harrow Weald. - -The Gilberts give delightful week-end parties, and the brightest star -is generally the host himself. - -At one of these recent gatherings, for which Grim’s Dyke is famous, -some beautiful silver cups and a claret jug were upon the table. They -were left by will to Mr. Gilbert by his colleague of so many years, Sir -Arthur Sullivan, and are a great pleasure to both the host and hostess -of that well-organised country house. I have met many interesting and -clever people at Harrow Weald, for the brilliancy of the host and the -charm of his wife naturally attract much that is best in this great -city. It is a good house for entertaining, the music-room—formerly -the studio of F. Goodall, R.A.—being a spacious oak-panelled chamber -with a minstrels’ gallery, and cathedral windows. Excellent singing is -often heard within those walls. Mr. Gilbert declares he is not musical -himself; but such is hardly the case, for he on one or two occasions -suggested to Sir Arthur Sullivan the style best suited to his words. -His ear for time and rhythm is impeccable, but he fully admits he has -an imperfect sense of tune. - -The Squire of Harrow Weald is seen at his best at rehearsal. - -_H.M.S. Pinafore_ was first performed, I believe, in 1878, and about -ten years afterwards it was revived in London. Ten years later, that -is to say 1899, it was again revived, and one Monday morning when I was -leaving Grim’s Dyke, Mr. Gilbert, who was coming up to town to attend a -rehearsal, asked me if I would care to see it. - -“Nothing I should like better,” I replied, “for I have always -understood that you and Mr. Pinero are the two most perfect stage -managers in England.” - -We drove to the stage door of the Savoy, whence down strange and dark -stone stairs we made our way to the front of the auditorium itself. We -crossed behind the footlights, passing through a small, unpretending -iron door into the house, Mr. Gilbert leading the way, to a side -box, which at the moment was shrouded in darkness; he soon, however, -pushed aside the white calico dust-sheets that hung before it, and -after placing chairs for his wife and myself, and hoping we should be -comfortable, departed. What a spectre that theatre was! Hanging from -gallery to pit were dust-sheets, the stalls all covered up with brown -holland wrappers, and gloom and darkness on all things. Verily a peep -behind the scenes which, more properly speaking, was before the scenes -in this case, is like looking at a private house preparing for a spring -cleaning. - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W._ - -MR. W. S. GILBERT.] - -Built out over what is ordinarily the orchestra, was a wooden platform -large enough to contain a piano brilliantly played by a woman, beside -whom sat the conductor of the orchestra, who was naturally the teacher -of the chorus, and next to him the ordinary stage manager, with a chair -for Mr. Gilbert placed close by. The librettist, however, never sat -on that chair. From 11.30 to 1.30—exactly two hours, he walked up and -down in front of the stage, directing here, arranging there; one moment -he was showing a man how to stand as a sailor, then how to clap his -thighs in nautical style, and the next explaining to a woman how to -curtsey, or telling a lover how to woo. Never have I seen anything more -remarkable. In no sense a musician, Mr. Gilbert could hum any of the -airs and show the company the minutest gesticulations at the same time. -Be it understood they were already _word_ and _music_ perfect, and this -was the second “stage rehearsal.” He never bullied or worried any one, -he quietly went up to a person, and in the most insinuating manner said: - -“If I were you, I think I should do it like this.” - -And “this” was always so much better than their own performance that -each actor quickly grasped the idea and copied the master. He even -danced when necessary, to show them how to get the right number of -steps in so as to land them at a certain spot at a certain time, -explaining carefully: - -“There are eight bars, and you must employ so many steps.” - -Mr. Gilbert knows every bar, every intonation, every gesture, the hang -of every garment, and the tilt of every hat. He has his plans and his -ideas, and never alters the situations or even the gestures he has once -thought out. - -He marched up and down the stage advising an alteration here, an -intonation there, all in the kindest way possible, but with so much -strength of conviction that all his suggestions were adopted without a -moment’s hesitation. He never loses his temper, always sees the weak -points, and is an absolute master of stage craft. His tact on such -occasions is wonderful. - -The love and confidence of that company in Mr. Gilbert was really -delightful, and I have no hesitation in saying he was the best actor -in the whole company whichever part he might happen to undertake. If -anything he did not like occurred in the grouping of the chorus he -clapped his hands and everybody stopped, when he would call out: - -“Gentlemen in threes, ladies in twos,” according to a style of his own. - -Twenty-five years previously he had been so horrified at chorus and -crowd standing round the stage in a ring, that he invented the idea of -breaking them up, and thereafter, according to arrangement, when “twos” -or “threes” were called out the performers were to group themselves and -talk in little clusters, and certainly the effect was more natural. - -Mr. Gilbert had no notes of any kind. He brought them with him, but -never opened the volume, and yet he knew exactly how everything ought -to be done. This was his first rehearsal with the company, who up -till then had been in the stage manager’s hands and worked according -to printed instructions. The scene was a very different affair after -the mastermind had set the pawns in their right squares, and made the -bishops and knights move according to his will. In two hours they had -gone through the first act of _Pinafore_, and he clapped his hands and -called for luncheon. - -“It is just half-past one,” he said; “I am hungry, and I daresay you -are hungry, so we will halt for half an hour. I shall be back by five -minutes past two—that is five minutes’ grace, when”—bowing kindly—“I -shall hope to see you again, ladies and gentlemen.” - -We three lunched at the Savoy next door, and a few minutes before two -he rose from the table, ere he had finished his coffee, and said he -must go. - -“You are in a hurry,” I laughingly said. - -“Yes,” he replied, “I have made it a rule never to be late. The company -know I shall be there, so the company will be in their places.” - -A friend once congratulated him on his punctuality. - -“Don’t,” he said; “I have lost more time by being punctual than by -anything else.” - -One thing in particular struck me as wonderful during the rehearsal. -Half a dozen soldiers are supposed to come upon the stage, and at a -certain point half a dozen untidily dressed men with guns in their -hands marched in. Mr. Gilbert looked at them for a moment, and then he -went up to one gallant warrior and said: - -“Is that the way you hold your gun?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Really! Well, I never saw a soldier with his thumbs down before—in -fact, I don’t think you are a soldier at all.” - -“No, sir, I am a volunteer.” - -Mr. Gilbert turned to the stage manager hastily, and said: - -“I told you I wanted soldiers.” - -“But there is a sergeant,” he replied. - -“Sergeant,” called Mr. Gilbert, “step forward.” Which the sergeant did. - -“You know your business,” the author remarked, watching the man’s -movements, “but these fellows know nothing. Either bring me real -soldiers, or else take these five men and drill them until at least -they know how to stand properly before they come near me again.” - -Later in the proceedings a dozen sailors marched on: he went up to -them, asked some questions about how they would man the yard-arm, and -on hearing their reply said: - -“I see you know your business, you’ll do.” - -As it turned out, they were all Naval Reserve men, so no wonder they -knew their business. Still, Mr. Gilbert’s universal knowledge of all -sorts and conditions of men struck me as wonderful on this and many -other occasions. No more perfect stage manager exists, and no one gets -more out of his actors and actresses. - -At one time _Patience_ was being played in the United States by dozens -of companies, but that was before the days of copyright, and poor Mr. -Gilbert never received a penny from America excepting once when a -kindly person sent him a cheque for £100. Had he received copyright -fees from the United States his wealth would have been colossal. - -When _Iolanthe_ was revived in London in 1902 I again attended a -“call.” An entirely new company began rehearsing exactly ten days -before the first night—any one who knows anything of the stage will -realise what this means, and that a master-mind was necessary to drill -actors and chorus in so short a time—yet the production was a triumph. -This was the first occasion on which Sir Arthur Sullivan did not -conduct the dress rehearsal or the first night of one of their joint -operas. He had died shortly before. - -Mr. Gilbert was delighted with the cast, and declared it was quite as -good, and in some respects perhaps better, than the original had been. -A few of the people had played _principals_ in the provinces before; -but he would not allow any of their own “business” and remarked quietly: - -“In London my plays are produced as I wish them; in the provinces you -can do as you like.” - -And certainly they obeyed him so implicitly that if he had asked them -all to stand on their heads in rows, I believe they would have done it -smilingly. - -When Mr. Gilbert was about thirty-five years old, a _matinée_ of -_Broken Hearts_ was arranged for a charity. The author arrived at the -theatre about one o’clock, to find Kyrle Bellew, who was to play the -chief part, had fallen through a trap and was badly hurt. There was no -understudy—and only an hour intervened before the advertised time of -representation. - -Good Heavens! what was to be done? The audience had paid their money, -which the charity wanted badly, and without the hero the play was -impossible. - -He good-naturedly and kind-heartedly decided to play the part himself -rather than let the entertainment fall through, wired for wig and -clothes, and an hour and a half later walked on to the stage as an -actor. He knew every line of the play of course, not only the hero’s, -but all the others’, and he had just coached every situation. The -papers duly thanked him and considered him a great success. That was -his only appearance upon the stage in public. - -For twenty-five years he never saw one of his own plays, not caring to -sit in front; but once, at a watering-place in the Fatherland where -_The Mikado_ was being given, some friends persuaded him to see it in -German. - -“I know what rubbish these comic operas are, and I should feel ashamed -to sit and hear them and know they were mine,” he modestly remarked. - -Nevertheless he went, and was rather amused, feeling no responsibility -on his shoulders, and afterwards saw _The Mikado_ in England at a -revival towards the end of the nineties. He once told me a rather -amusing little story about _The Mikado_. A gentleman who had been -many years in the English Legation at Yokohama, attended some of the -rehearsals, and was most useful in giving hints as to positions and -manners in Japan. Mr. Gilbert wanted some effective music for the -entrance of the Mikado—nothing Mr. Arthur Sullivan suggested suited—so -turning to the gentleman he said: - -“Can’t you hum the national Japanese anthem?” - -“Oh yes,” he said cheerily. And he did. - -“Capital—it’ll just do.” - -Mr. Sullivan—for he was not then Sir Arthur—made notes, wrote it up, -and the thing proved a great success. Some time afterwards a furious -letter came from a Japanese, saying an insult had been offered the -Mikado of Japan, the air to which that illustrious prince entered the -scene instead of being royal was a music hall tune! Whether this is so -or not remains a mystery, anyway it is a delightful melody, and most -successful to this day. - -Mr. Gilbert has been a great traveller—for many years he wintered -abroad in India, Japan, Burmah, Egypt, or Greece, and at one time he -was the enthusiastic owner of a yacht; but this amusement he has given -up because so few of his friends were good sailors, and so he has taken -to motoring instead. - -Croquet-playing and motoring are the chief amusements of this “retired -humourist,” as a local cab-driver once described the Squire of Grim’s -Dyke. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -_THE FIRST PANTOMIME REHEARSAL_ - - Origin of Pantomime—Drury Lane in Darkness—One Thousand - Persons—Rehearsing the Chorus—The Ballet—Dressing-rooms—Children - on the Stage—Size of “The Lane”—A Trap-door—The Property-room—Made - on the Premises—Wardrobe-woman—Dan Leno at Rehearsal—Herbert - Campbell—A Fortnight Later—A Chat with the Principal Girl—Miss - Madge Lessing. - - -Exactly nine days before Christmas, 1902, the first rehearsal for -the pantomime of _Mother Goose_ took place at Drury Lane. It seemed -almost incredible that afternoon that such a thing as a “first night,” -with a crowded house packed full of critics, could witness a proper -performance nine days later, one of which, being a Sunday, did not -count. - -The pantomime is one of England’s institutions. It originally came from -Italy, but as known to-day is essentially a British production, and -little understood anywhere else in the world. For the last three years, -however, the Drury Lane pantomime has been moved bodily to New York -with considerable success. - -What would Christmas in London be without its Drury Lane? What would -the holidays be without the clown and harlequin? Young and old enjoy -the exquisite absurdity of the nursery rhyme dished up as a Christmas -pantomime. - -The interior of that vast theatre, Drury Lane, was shrouded in -dust-sheets and darkness, the front doors were locked, excepting at the -booking office, where tickets were being sold for two and three months -ahead, and a long _queue_ of people were waiting to engage seats for -family parties when the pantomime should be ready. - -At the stage door all was bustle; children of all ages and sizes were -pushing in and out; carpenters, shifters, supers, ballet girls, chorus, -all were there, too busy to speak to any one as they rushed in from -their cup of tea at the A.B.C., or stronger drink procured at the “pub” -opposite. It was a cold, dreary day outside; but it was colder and -drearier within. Those long flights of stone steps, those endless stone -passages, struck chill and cheerless as a cellar, for verily the back -of a theatre resembles a cellar or prison more than anything I know. - -Drury Lane contains a little world. It is reckoned that about one -thousand people are paid “back and front” every Friday night. One -thousand persons! That is the staff of the pantomime controlled by Mr. -Arthur Collins. Fancy that vast organisation, those hundreds of people, -endless scenery, and over two thousand dresses superintended by one -man, and that a young one. - -For many weeks scraps of _Mother Goose_ had been rehearsed in -drill-halls, schoolrooms, and elsewhere, but never till the day of -which I write had the stage been ready for rehearsal. They had worked -hard, all those people; for thirteen-and-a-half hours on some days they -had already been “at it.” Think what thirteen-and-a-half-hours mean. -True, no one is wanted continuously, still all must be on the spot. -Often there is nowhere to sit down, therefore during those weary hours -the performers have to stand—only between-whiles singing or dancing -their parts as the case may be. - -“I’m that dead tired,” exclaimed a girl, “I feel just fit to drop,” and -she probably expressed the feelings of many of her companions. - -The rehearsal of _The Rose of the Riviera_, was going on in the saloon, -which a hundred years ago was the fashionable resort of all the fops -of the town. Accordingly to the saloon I proceeded where Miss Madge -Lessing, neatly dressed in black and looking tired, was singing her -solos, and dancing her steps with the chorus. - -“It is very hard work,” she said. “I have been through this song until -I am almost voiceless; and yet I only hum it really, for if we sang out -at rehearsal, we should soon be dead.” - -The saloon was the ordinary _foyer_, but on that occasion, instead of -being crowded with idlers smoking and drinking during the _entr’actes_, -it was filled with hard-worked ballet girls and small boys who were -later to be transformed into dandies. They wore their own clothes. The -women’s long skirts were held up with safety-pins, to keep them out of -the way when dancing, their shirts and blouses were of every hue; on -their heads they wore men’s hats that did not fit them, as they lacked -the wigs they would wear later, and each carried her own umbrella, -many of which, when opened, seemed the worse for wear. At the end of -the bar was a cottage piano, where the composer played his song for -two-and-a-half hours, while it was rehearsed again and again—a small -man with a shocking cold conducting the chorus. He is, I am told, quite -a celebrity as a stage “producer,” and was engaged in that capacity by -Mr. George Edwards at the New Gaiety Theatre. How I admired that small -man. His energy and enthusiasm were catching, and before he finished -he had made those girls do just what he wanted. But oh! how hard he -worked, in spite of frequent resort to his pocket-handkerchief and -constant fits of sneezing. - -“This way, ladies, please”—he repeated over and over, and then -proceeded to show them how to step forward on “_Would_—you like -a—flower?” and to take off their hats at the last word of the sentence. -Again and again they went through their task; but each time they seemed -out of line, or out of time, not quick enough or too quick, and back -they had to go and begin the whole verse once more. Even then he was -not satisfied. - -“Again, ladies, please,” he called, and again they all did the passage. -This sort of thing had been going on since 11 o’clock, the hour of the -“call,” and it was then 4 p.m.—but the rehearsal was likely to last -well into the night and begin again next morning at 11 a.m. This was -to continue all day, and pretty well all night for nine days, when, -instead of a holiday, the pantomime was really to commence with its -two daily performances, and its twelve hours _per diem_ attendance at -the theatre for nearly four months. Yet there are people who think the -stage is all fun and frolic! Little they know about the matter. - -Actors are not paid for rehearsals, as we have seen before, and many -weeks of weary attendance for the pantomime have to be given gratis, -just as they are for legitimate drama. Those beautiful golden fairies, -all glitter and gorgeousness, envied by spectators in front, only -receive £1 a week on an average for twelve hours’ occupation daily, and -that merely for a few weeks, after which time many of them earn nothing -more till the next pantomime season. It is practically impossible to -give an exact idea of salaries: they vary so much. “Ballet girls,” -when proficient, earn more than any ordinary “chorus” or “super,” with -the exception of “show girls.” Those in the rank of “principals,” or -“small-part ladies,” of course earn more. - -Ballet girls begin their profession at eight years of age, and even in -their prime can only earn on an average £2 a week. - -In the ballet-room an iron bar runs all round the sides of the -wall, about four feet from the floor, as in a swimming bath. It is -for practice. The girls hold on to the bar, and learn to kick and -raise their legs by the hour; with its aid suppleness of movement, -flexibility of hip and knee are acquired. Girls spend years of their -life learning how to earn that forty shillings a week, and how to keep -it when they have earned it; for the ballet girl has to be continually -practising, or her limbs would quickly stiffen and her professional -career come to an end. - -No girl gets her real training at the Lane. All that is done in one -of the dancing schools kept by Madame Katti Lanner, Madame Cavalazzi, -John D’Auban, or John Tiller. When they are considered sufficiently -proficient they get engagements, and are taught certain movements -invented by their teachers to suit the particular production of the -theatre itself. - -The ballet is very grand in the estimation of the pantomime, for -supers, male and female, earn considerably less salary than the ballet -for about seventy-two hours’ attendance at the theatre. Out of their -weekly money they have to provide travelling expenses to and from -the theatre, which sometimes come heavy, as many of them live a long -distance off; they have to pay rent also, and feed as well as clothe -themselves, settle for washing, doctor, amusements—everything, in fact. -Why, a domestic servant is a millionaire when compared with a chorus -or ballet girl, and she is never harassed with constant anxiety as to -how she can pay her board, rent, and washing bills. Yet how little the -domestic servant realises the comforts—aye luxury—of her position. - -The dressing-rooms are small and cheerless. Round the sides run double -tables, the top one being used for make-up boxes, the lower for -garments. In the middle of the floor is a wooden stand with a double -row of pegs upon it, utilised for hanging up dresses. Eight girls -share a “dresser” (maid) between them. The atmosphere of the room may -be imagined, with flaring gas jets, nine women, and barely room to turn -round amid the dresses. The air becomes stifling at times, and there is -literally no room to sit down even if the costumes would permit of such -luxury, which generally they will not. In this tiny room performers -have to wait for their “call,” when they rush downstairs, through icy -cold passages, to the stage, whence they must return again in time to -don the next costume required. - -Prior to the production, as we have seen, there are a number of -rehearsals, followed for many weeks by two performances a day, -consequently the children who are employed cannot go on with their -education, and to avoid missing their examinations a school-board -mistress has been appointed, who teaches them their lessons during -the intervals. These children must be bright scholars, for they are -the recipients at the end of the season of several special prizes for -diligence, punctuality, and good conduct. - -An attempt was recently made to limit the age of children employed on -the stage to fourteen, but the outcry raised was so great that it could -not be done. For children under eleven a special licence is required. - -Miss Ellen Terry said, on the subject of children on the stage: “I am -an actress, but first I am a woman, and I love children,” and then -proceeded to advocate the employment of juveniles upon the stage. She -spoke from experience, for she acted as a child herself. “I can put my -finger at once on the actors and actresses who were not on the stage -as children,” she continued. “With all their hard work they can never -acquire afterwards that perfect unconsciousness which they learn then -so easily. There is no school like the stage for giving equal chances -to boys and girls alike.” - -There seems little doubt about it, the ordinary stage child is the -offspring of the very poor, his playground the gutter, his surroundings -untidy and unclean, his food and clothing scanty, and such being -the case he is better off in every way in a well-organised theatre, -where he learns obedience, cleanliness, and punctuality. The sprites -and fairies love their plays, and the greatest punishment they can -have—indeed, the only one inflicted at Drury Lane—is to be kept off the -stage a whole day for naughtiness. - -They appear to be much better off in the theatre than they would be at -home, although morning school and two performances a day necessitate -rather long hours for the small folk. They have a nice classroom, and -are given buns and milk after school; but their dressing accommodation -is limited. Many of the supers and children have to change as best they -can under the stage, for there is not sufficient accommodation for -every one in the rooms. - -The once famous “Green-room” of Drury Lane has been done away with. It -is now a property-room, where geese’s heads line the shelves, or golden -seats and monster champagne bottles litter the floor. - -There have been many changes at Drury Lane. It was rebuilt after the -fire in 1809, and reopened in 1812, but vast alterations have been -carried out since then. Woburn Place is now part of the stage. Steps -formerly led from Russell Street to Vinegar Yard, but they have been -swept away and the stage enlarged until it is the biggest in the -world. Most ordinary theatres have an opening on the auditorium of -about twenty-five feet; Drury Lane measures fifty-two feet from fly to -fly, and is even deeper in proportion. The entire stage is a series -of lifts, which may be utilised to move the floor up or down. Four -tiers, or “flats,” can be arranged, and the floor moved laterally so -as to form a hill or mound. All this is best seen from the mezzanine -stage, namely, that under the real one, where the intricacies of lifts -and ropes and rooms for electricians become most bewildering. Here, -too, are the trap-doors. For many years they went out of fashion, as -did also the ugly masks, but a Fury made his entrance by a trap on -Boxing Day, 1902, and this may revive the custom again. The actor -steps on a small wooden table in the mezzanine stage, and at a given -sign the spring moves and he is shot to the floor above. How I loved -and pondered as a child over these wonderful entrances of fairies and -devils. And after all there was nothing supernatural about them, only -a wooden table and a spring. How much of the glamour vanishes when we -look below the surface, which remark applies not only to the stage, but -to so many things in life. - -Every good story seems to have been born a chestnut. Some one always -looks as if he had heard it before. At the risk of arousing that -sarcastic smile I will relate the following anecdote, however. - -A certain somewhat stout Mephistopheles had to disappear through a -trap-door amid red fire, but the trap was small and he was big and -stuck halfway. The position was embarrassing, when a voice from the -gallery called out: - -“Cheer up, guv’nor. Hell’s full.” - -Electricity plays a great part in the production of a pantomime, not -only as regards the lighting of the scenes, but also as a motive power -for the lifts which are used for the stage. Many new inventions born -during the course of a year are utilised when the Christmas festival is -put on. - -The property-room presents a busy scene before a pantomime, and -really it is wonderful what can be produced within its walls. Almost -everything is made in _papier mâché_. Elaborate golden chairs and -couches, chariots and candelabras, although framed in wood, are first -moulded in clay, then covered with _papier mâché_. Two large fires -burned in the room, which when I entered was crowded with workmen, and -the heat was overpowering. Amid all that miscellaneous property, every -one seemed interested in what he was doing, whether making wire frames -for poke bonnets, or larger wire frames for geese, or the groundwork -of champagne bottles to contain little boys. Each man had a charcoal -drawing on brown paper to guide him, and very cleverly many of the -drawings were executed. Some of the men were quite sculptors, so -admirably did they model masks and figures in _papier mâché_. The more -elaborate pieces are prepared outside the theatre, but a great deal of -the work for the production is done within old Drury Lane. - -What becomes of these extra property-men after the “festive season”? -Practically the same staff appear each Christmas only to disappear -from “The Lane” for almost another year. Of course there is a -large permanent staff of property-men employed, but it is only at -Christmas-time that so large an army is required for the gigantic -pantomime changes with the transformation scenes. - -That nearly everything is made on the premises is in itself a marvel. -Of course the grander dresses are obtained from outside; some come -from Paris, while others are provided by tradesmen in London. The -expense is very great; indeed, it may be roughly reckoned it costs -about £20,000 to produce a Drury Lane Pantomime; but then, on the other -hand, that sum is generally taken at the doors or by the libraries in -advance-booking before the curtain rises on the first night. - -An important person at Drury Lane is the wardrobe-woman. She has entire -control of thousands of dresses, and keeps a staff continually employed -mending and altering, for after each performance something requires -attention. She has a little room of her own, mostly table, so far as -I could see, on which were piled dresses, poke bonnets, and artists’ -designs, while round the walls hung more dresses brought in for her -inspection. In other odd rooms and corners women sat busily sewing, -some trimming headgear, other spangling ribbon. Some were joining -seams by machinery, others quilling lace; nothing seemed finished, and -yet everything had to be ready in nine days, and that vast pile of -chaos reduced to order. It seemed impossible; but the impossible was -accomplished. - -“Why this hurry?” some one may ask. - -“Because the autumn drama was late in finishing, the entire theatre -had to be cleared, and although everything was fairly ready outside, -nothing could be brought into Drury Lane till a fortnight before Boxing -Day. Hence the confusion and hurry.” - -Large wooden cases of armour, swords and spears, from abroad, were -waiting to be unpacked, fitted to each girl, and numbered so that the -wearer might know her own. - -Among the properties were some articles that looked like round red -life-belts, or window sand-bags sewn into rings. These were the belts -from which fairies would be suspended. They had leather straps and -iron hooks attached, with the aid of which these lovely beings—as seen -from the front—disport themselves. What a disillusion! Children think -they are real fairies flying through air, and after all they are only -ordinary women hanging to red sand-bags, made up like life-belts, and -suspended by wire rope. Even those wonderful wings are only worn for -a moment. They are slipped into a hole in the bodice of every fairy’s -back just as she goes upon the stage, and taken out again for safety -when the good lady leaves the wings in the double sense. The wands and -other larger properties are treated in the same way. - -Now for the stage and the rehearsal. We could hear voices singing, -accompanied by a piano with many whizzing notes. - -The place was dimly lighted. Scene-shifters were busy rehearsing -their “sets” at the sides, the electrician was experimenting with -illuminations from above; but the actors, heeding none of these -matters, went on with their own parts. The orchestra was empty and not -boarded over; so that the cottage piano had to stand at one side of the -stage, and near it I was given a seat. A T-piece of gas had been fixed -above the footlights, so as to enable the prompter to follow his book, -and—gently be it spoken—allow some of the actors to read their parts. -The star was not there—I looked about for the mirth-provoking Dan Leno, -but failed to see him. Naturally he was the one person I particularly -wanted to watch rehearse, for I anticipated much amusement from this -wonderful comedian, with his inspiring gift of humour. Where was he? - -A sad, unhappy-looking little man, with his MS. in a brown paper cover, -was to be seen wandering about the back of the stage. He appeared -miserable. One wondered at such a person being there at all, he looked -so out of place. He did not seem to know a word of his “book,” or, in -fact, to belong in any way to the pantomime. - -It seemed incredible that this could be one of the performers. He wore -a thick top coat with the collar turned up to keep off the draughts, -a thick muffler and a billycock hat; really one felt sorry for him, -he looked so cold and wretched. I pondered for some time why this sad -little gentleman should be on the stage at all. - -“Dan, Dan, where are you?” some one called. - -“Me? Oh, I’m here,” replied the disconsolate-looking person, to my -amazement. - -“It’s your cue.” - -“Oh, is it? Which cue?” asked the mufflered individual who was about to -impersonate mirth. - -“Why, so and so——” - -“What page is that?” - -“Twenty-three.” - -Whereupon the great Dan—for it was really Dan himself—proceeded to find -number twenty-three, and immediately began reading a lecture to the -goose in mock solemn vein, when some one cried: - -“No, no, man, that’s not it, you are reading page thirteen; we’ve done -that.” - -“Oh, have we? Thank you. Ah yes, here it is.” - -“That’s my part,” exclaimed Herbert Campbell. “Your cue is——” - -“Oh, is it?” and poor bewildered, unhappy-looking Dan made another and -happier attempt. - -It had often previously occurred to me that Dan Leno gagged his own -part to suit himself every night—and really after this rehearsal the -supposition seemed founded on fact, for apparently he did not know one -word of anything nine days before the production of _Mother Goose_, in -which he afterwards made such a brilliant hit. - -“Do I say that?” he would inquire, or, “Are you talking to me?” - -After such a funny exhibition it seemed really wonderful to consider -how excellent and full of humour he always is on the stage; but what -a strain it must be, what mental agony, to feel you are utterly -unprepared to meet your audience, that you do not know your words, and -that only by making a herculean effort can the feat be accomplished. - -Herbert Campbell differs from Dan Leno not only in appearance but -method. He was almost letter-perfect at that rehearsal, he had studied -his “book,” and was splendidly funny even while only murmuring his -part. He evidently knew exactly what he was going to do, and although -he did not trouble to do it, showed by a wave of his hand or a step -where he meant business when the time came. - -Herbert Campbell’s face, like the milkmaid’s, is his fortune. That -wonderful under lip is full of fun. He has only to protrude it, and -open his eyes, and there is the comedian personified. Comedians are -born, not made, and the funny part of it is most of them are so truly -tragic at heart and sad in themselves. - -There is a story I often heard my grandfather, James Muspratt, tell of -Liston, the comic actor. - -Liston was in Dublin early in the nineteenth century, and nightly his -performance provoked roars of laughter. One day a man walked into the -consulting-room of a then famous doctor. - -“I am very ill,” said the patient. “I am suffering from depression.” - -“Tut, tut,” returned the physician, “you must pull yourself together, -you must do something to divert your thoughts. You must be cheerful and -laugh.” - -“Good Heavens! I would give a hundred pounds to enjoy a real, honest -laugh again, doctor.” - -“Well, you can easily do that for a few shillings, and I’ll tell you -how. Go and see Liston to-night, he will make you laugh, I am sure.” - -“Not he.” - -“Why not?” - -“Because I am Liston.” - -Collapse of the doctor. - -This shows the tragedy of the life of a comic actor. How often we see -the amusing, delightful man or woman in society, and little dream how -different they are at home. Most of us have two sides to our natures, -and most of us are better actors than we realise ourselves, or than our -friends give us credit for. - -But to return to Drury Lane. Peering backwards across the empty -orchestra I saw by the dim light that in the stalls sat, or leaned, -women and children. Mr. Collins, who was in the front of the stage, -personally attending to every detail, slipped forward. - -“Huntsmen and gamekeepers,” he cried. Immediately there was a flutter, -and in a few minutes these good women—for women were to play the -_rôles_—were upon the back of the stage. - -“Dogs,” he called again. With more noise than the female huntsmen had -made, boys got up and began to run about the stage on all fours as -“dogs.” - -They surrounded Dan Leno. - -“I shall hit you if you come near me,” he cried, pretending to do so -with his doubled-up gloves. - -The lads laughed. - -“Growl,” said Mr. Collins—so they turned their laugh into a growl, -followed round the stage by Dan, and the performance went on. - -It was all very funny—funny, not because of any humour, for that was -entirely lacking, but because of the simplicity and hopelessness of -every one. Talk about a rehearsal at private theatricals—why, it is no -more disturbing than an early stage rehearsal; but the seasoned actor -knows how to pull himself out of the tangle, whereas the amateur does -not. - -About a fortnight after the pantomime began I chanced one afternoon to -be at Drury Lane again, and while stopping for a moment in the wings, -the great Dan Leno came and stood beside me, waiting for his cue. He -was dressed as Mother Goose, and leant against the endless ropes that -seemed to frame every stage entrance; some one spoke to him, but he -barely answered, he appeared preoccupied. All at once his turn came. -On he went, hugging a goose beneath which walked a small boy. Roars of -applause greeted his entrance, he said his lines, and a few moments -later came out amid laughter and clapping. “This will have cheered him -up,” thought I—but no. There I left him waiting for his next cue, but I -had not gone far before renewed roars of applause from the house told -me Dan Leno was again on the stage. What a power to be able to amuse -thousands of people every week, to be able to bring mirth and joy into -many a heart, to take people out of themselves and make the saddest -merry—and Dan can do all this. - -The object of my second visit was to have a little chat with Miss -Madge Lessing, the “principal girl,” who exclaimed as I entered her -dressing-room: - -“I spend eleven hours in the theatre every day during the run of the -pantomime.” - -After that who can say a pantomime part is a sinecure? Eleven hours -every day dressing, singing, dancing, acting, or—more wearisome of -all—waiting. No one unaccustomed to the stage can realise the strain -of such work, for it is only those who live at such high pressure, who -always have to be on the alert for the “call-boy,” who know what it is -to be kept at constant tension for so many consecutive hours. - -_Matinée_ days are bad enough in ordinary theatres, but the pantomime -is a long series of _matinée_ days extending over three months or -more. Of course it is not compulsory to stay in the theatre between -the performances; but it is more tiring, for the leading-lady, to -dress and go out for a meal than to stay in and have it brought to the -dressing-room. - -Miss Lessing was particularly fortunate in her room; the best I have -ever seen in any theatre. Formerly it was Sir Augustus Harris’s office. -It was large and lofty, and so near the stage—on a level with which it -actually stood—that one could hear what was going on in front. This -was convenient in many ways, although it had its drawbacks. Many of -our leading theatrical lights have to traverse long flights of stairs -between every act; while Miss Lessing was so close to the stage she -need not leave her room until it was actually time to step upon the -boards. - -It was a _matinée_ when the pantomime was in full swing that I bearded -the lion in her den, and a pretty, dainty little lion I found her. -It was a perilous journey to reach her room, but I bravely followed -the “dresser” from the stage door. We passed a lilliputian pony about -the size of a St. Bernard dog, we bobbed under the heads and tails -of horses so closely packed together there was barely room for us to -get between. The huntsmen were already mounted, for they were just -going on, and I marvelled at the good behaviour of those steeds; they -must have known they could not move without doing harm to some one, -and so considerately remained still. We squeezed past fairies, our -faces tickled by their wings, our dresses caught by their spangles, -so closely packed was humanity “behind.” There were about two hundred -scene-shifters incessantly at work moving “cloths,” and “flies,” and -“drops,” and properties of all kinds. Miss Lessing was just coming off -the stage, dressed becomingly in white muslin, with a blue Red Riding -Hood cape and poppy-trimmed straw hat. - -“Come along,” she said, “this is my room, and it is fairly quiet here.” -The first things that strike a stranger are Miss Lessing’s wonderful -grey Irish eyes and her American accent. - -“Both are correct,” she laughed. “I’m Irish by extraction, although -born in London, and I’ve lived in America since I was fourteen; so you -see there is ground for both your surmises.” - -Miss Lessing is a Roman Catholic, and was educated at the Convent of -the Sacred Heart at Battersea. - -“I always wanted to go on the stage as long as ever I can remember,” -she told me, “and I positively ran away from home and went over to -America, where I had a fairly hard time of it. By good luck I managed -to get an engagement in a chorus, and it chanced that two weeks later -one of the better parts fell vacant owing to a girl’s illness, and -I got it—and was fortunate enough to keep it, as she was unable to -return, and the management were satisfied with me. I had to work very -hard, had to take anything and everything offered to me for years. Had -to do my work at night and improve my singing and dancing by day; but -nothing is accomplished without hard work, is it? And I am glad I went -through the grind because it has brought me a certain amount of reward.” - -One had only to look at Miss Lessing to know she is not easily daunted; -those merry eyes and dimpled cheeks do not detract from the firmness of -the mouth and the expression of determination round the laughing lips. -There was something particularly dainty about the “principal girl” at -Drury Lane, and a sense of refinement and grace one does not always -associate with pantomime. - -“Why, yes,” she afterwards added, “I played all over the States, -and after nine years was engaged by Mr. Arthur Collins to return to -London and appear in the pantomime of _The Sleeping Beauty_. Of -course, I felt quite at home in London, although I must own I nearly -died of fright the first time I played before an English audience. It -seemed like beginning the whole thing over again. Londoners are more -exacting than their American cousins; but I must confess, when they -like a piece, or an artist, they are most lavish in their applause and -approbation.” - -It was cold, and Miss Lessing pulled a warm shawl over her shoulders -and poked the fire. It can be cold even in such a comfortable -dressing-room, with the luxury of a fire, for the draughts outside, -either on the stage or round it, in such a large theatre are incredible -to an ordinary mind. Frequenters of the stalls know the chilly blast -that blows upon them when the curtain rises, so they may form some -slight idea of what it is like behind the scenes on a cold night. - -“After the performance I take off my make-up and have my dinner,” -laughed Miss Lessing. “I don’t think I should enjoy my food if all this -mess were left on; at all events I find it a relief to cold-cream it -off. One gets a little tired of dinners on a tray for weeks at a time -when one is not an invalid; but by the time I’ve eaten mine, and had a -little rest, it is the hour to begin again, for the evening performance -is at hand.” - -“At all events, though, you can read and write between whiles,” I -remarked. - -“That is exactly what one cannot do. I no sooner settle down to a book -or letters than some one wants me. It is the constant disturbance, the -everlasting interruption, that make two performances a day so trying; -but I love the life, even if it be hard, and thoroughly enjoy my -pantomime season.” - -“Have you had many strange adventures in your theatrical life, Miss -Lessing?” - -“None: mine has been a placid existence on the whole, for,” she added, -laughing, “I have not even lost diamonds or husbands!” - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -_SIR HENRY IRVING AND STAGE LIGHTING_ - - Sir Henry Irving’s Position—Miss Geneviève Ward’s - Dress—Reformations in Lighting—The most Costly Play ever - Produced—Strong Individuality—Character Parts—Irving earned - his Living at Thirteen—Actors and Applause—A Pathetic Story—No - Shakespeare Traditions—Imitation is not Acting—Irving’s - Appearance—His Generosity—The First Night of _Dante_—First night of - _Faust_—Two Terriss Stories—Sir Charles Wyndham. - - -Henry Irving is a name which ought to be revered for ever in stageland. -He has done more for the drama than any other actor in any other -country. He has tactfully and gracefully made speeches that have -commanded respect. He has ennobled his profession in many ways. - -As Sir Squire Bancroft was the pioneer of “small decorations,” so Sir -Henry Irving has been the pioneer of “large details.” Artistic effect -and magnificent stage pictures have been his cult; but nothing is too -insignificant for his notice. - -Miss Geneviève Ward told me that in the play of _Becket_ a superb -costume was ordered for her. It cost fifty or sixty guineas, but when -she tried it on she felt the result was disappointing. A little unhappy -about the matter she descended to the stage. - -“Great Heavens, Miss Ward! what have you got on?” exclaimed the actor -manager. - -“My new dress, sire, may it please you well,” was the meek reply, -accompanied by a mock curtsey. - -“You look a cross between a Newhaven fish-wife and a balloon,” he -laughed; “that will never do. It is most unbecoming. As we cannot make -you thinner to suit the dress, we must try and make the dress thinner -to suit you.” - -They chaffed and laughed; but finally it was decided alterations -would spoil the costume—which in its way was faultless—so without -any hesitation Henry Irving relegated it to a “small-part lady,” and -ordered a new dress for Miss Ward. - -Perhaps the greatest reform this actor ever effected was in the matter -of stage lighting. No one previously paid any particular attention to -this subject, a red glass or a blue one achieved all that was thought -necessary, until he realised the wonderful effects that might be -produced by properly thrown lights, and made a study of the subject. - -It was Henry Irving who first started the idea of changing the -scenes in darkness, a custom now so general, not only in Britain but -abroad. He first employed varied coloured lights, and laid stress on -illumination generally. It was he who first plunged the auditorium into -darkness to heighten the stage effects. - -“Stage lighting and grouping,” said Irving on one occasion, “are of -more consequence than the scenery. Without descending to minute -realism, the nearer one approaches to the truth the better. The most -elaborate scenery I ever had was for _Romeo and Juliet_, but as I was -not the man to play _Romeo_ the scenery could not make it a success. -It never does—it only helps the actor. The whole secret of successful -stage management is thoroughness and attention to detail.” - -To Sir Henry Irving is also due the honour of first employing -high-class artists to design dresses, eminent musicians to compose -music which he lavishly introduced. It is said that his production of -_Henry VIII._, a sumptuous play, cost £16,000 to mount, but all his -great costume plays have cost from £3,000 to £10,000 each. - -Sir Henry Irving is famous for his speeches. Few persons know he reads -every word of them. Carefully thought out—for he wisely never speaks at -random—and type-written, his MS. lies open before him, and being quite -accustomed to address an audience, he quietly, calmly, deliberately -reads it off with dramatic declamation. His voice has been a subject of -comment by many. That characteristic intonation so well known upon the -stage is never heard in private life, and even in reading a speech is -little noticeable. - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W._ - -SIR HENRY IRVING.] - -If there ever was a case of striking individuality on the stage it is -surely to be found in Henry Irving. People often ask if it is a good -thing for the exponents of the dramatic profession to possess a strong -personality. It is often voiced that it is bad for a part to have the -prominent characteristics of the actor noticeable, and yet at the same -time there is no doubt about it, it is the men and women of marked -character who are successful upon the stage. They may possess great -capability for “make-up,” they may entirely alter their appearance, -they may throw themselves into the part they are playing; but tricks of -manner, intonations of voice, and peculiarities of gesture appear again -and again, and very often it is this particular personality that the -public likes best. - -In olden days it was the fashion—if we may judge from last century -books—to speak clearly and to “rant” when excited; in modern days it is -the fashion to speak indistinctly, and play with “reserved force.” The -drama has its fancies and its fashions like our dresses or our hats. - -No man upon the stage has gone through a more severe mill than Sir -Henry Irving. Forty-six years ago he was working in the provinces at -a trifling salary on which he had to live. Board, lodging, washing, -clothes, even some of his stage costumes, had to come out of that -guinea a week. The success he has attained has been arrived at—in -addition to his genius and ability—by sheer hard work and conscientious -attempts to do his best, consequently at the age of sixty-five he was -able to fill a vast theatre like Drury Lane when playing in such a -trying part as _Dante_. - -The first years of the actor’s life were spent at an office desk. He -began to earn his own living as a clerk at thirteen; but during that -time he memorised and studied various plays. He learnt fencing, and -at the age of nineteen, when he first took to the stage, he was well -equipped for his new profession. - -For ten years he made little headway, however, and first came into -notice as a comedian. In his early days every one thought Irving ought -to play “character parts.” - -“What that phrase means,” he remarked later, “I never could understand, -for I have a prejudice in the belief that every part should be a -character. I always wanted to play the higher drama. Even in my boyhood -my desire had been in that direction. When at the Vaudeville Theatre, -I recited _Eugene Aram_, simply to get an idea as to whether I could -impress an audience with a tragic theme. In my youth I was associated -in the public mind with all sorts of bad characters, housebreakers, -blacklegs, thieves, and assassins.” - -And this was the man who was to popularise Shakespeare on the modern -English stage—the man to show the world that Shakespeare spelt Fame and -Success. - -That acting is a fatiguing art Irving denies. He once played Hamlet -over two hundred nights in succession, and yet the Dane takes more out -of him than any of his characters. Hamlet is the one he loves best, -however, just as Ellen Terry’s favourite part is Portia. - -In Percy Fitzgerald’s delightful _Life of Henry Irving_ we find the -following interesting and characteristic little story: - -“Perhaps the most remarkable Christmas dinner at which I have ever -been present, was one at which we dined upon underclothing. Do you -remember Joe Robins—a nice, genial fellow who played small parts in -the provinces? Ah, no! that was before your time. Joe Robins was once -in the gentleman’s furnishing business in London city. I think he had -a wholesale trade, and was doing well. However, he belonged to one -of the semi-Bohemian clubs; associated a great deal with actors and -journalists, and when an amateur performance was organised for some -charitable object, he was cast for the clown in a burlesque called _Guy -Fawkes_. - -“Perhaps he played the part capitally; perhaps his friends were making -game of him when they loaded him with praise; perhaps the papers -for which his Bohemian associates wrote went rather too far when -they asserted that he was the artistic descendant and successor of -Grimaldi. At any rate Joe believed all that was said to and written -about him, and when some wit discovered that Grimaldi’s name was also -Joe, the fate of Joe Robins was sealed. He determined to go upon the -stage professionally and become a great actor. Fortunately Joe was -able to dispose of his stock and goodwill for a few hundreds, which -he invested, so as to give him an income sufficient to prevent the -wolf from getting inside his door, in case he did not eclipse Garrick, -Kean, and Kemble. He also packed up for himself a liberal supply of -his wares, and started in his profession with enough shirts, collars, -handkerchiefs, and underclothing to equip him for several years. - -“The amateur success of poor Joe was never repeated on the regular -stage. He did not make an absolute failure; no manager would trust -him with big enough parts for him to fail in; but he drifted down to -“general utility,” and then out of London, and when I met him he was -engaged in a very small way, on a very small salary, at a Manchester -theatre. - -“His income eked out his salary; Joe, however, was a generous, -great-hearted fellow, who liked everybody, and whom everybody liked, -and when he had money, he was always glad to spend it upon a friend or -give it away to somebody more needy than himself. So piece by piece, as -necessity demanded, his princely supply of haberdashery diminished, and -at last only a few shirts and underclothes remained to him. - -“Christmas came in very bitter weather. Joe had a part in the Christmas -pantomime. He dressed with other poor actors, and he saw how thinly -some of them were clad when they stripped before him to put on their -stage costumes. For one poor fellow in especial his heart ached. In the -depth of a very cold winter he was shivering in a suit of very light -summer underclothing, and whenever Joe looked at him, the warm flannel -under-garments snugly packed away in an extra trunk weighed heavily -on his mind. Joe thought the matter over, and determined to give the -actors who dressed with him a Christmas dinner. It was literally a -dinner upon underclothing, for most of the shirts and drawers which -Joe had cherished so long went to the pawnbrokers, or the slop-shop -to provide the money for the meal. The guests assembled promptly, for -nobody else is ever so hungry as a hungry actor. The dinner was to be -served at Joe’s lodgings, and before it was placed on the table, Joe -beckoned his friend with the gauze underclothing into a bedroom, and -pointing to a chair, silently withdrew. On that chair hung a suit of -underwear, which had been Joe’s pride. It was of a comfortable scarlet -colour; it was thick, warm, and heavy; it fitted the poor actor as if -it had been manufactured especially to his measure. He put it on, and -as the flaming flannels encased his limbs, he felt his heart glowing -within him with gratitude to dear Joe Robins. - -“That actor never knew—or, if he knew, could never remember—what he -had for dinner on that Christmas afternoon. He revelled in the luxury -of warm garments. The roast beef was nothing to him in comparison with -the comfort of his under-vest: he appreciated the drawers more than -the plum-pudding. Proud, happy, warm, and comfortable, he felt little -inclination to eat; but sat quietly, and thanked Providence and Joe -Robins with all his heart. - -“‘You seem to enter into that poor actor’s feelings very -sympathetically.’ - -“‘I have good reason to do so,’ replied Mr. Irving, with his sunshiny -smile, ‘_for I was that poor actor!_’” - -Irving, like most theatrical folk, has a weakness for applause. It is -not surprising that hand-clapping should have an exhilarating effect, -or that the volley of air vibrations should set the actor’s blood -a-tingling. Applause is the breath in the nostrils of every “mummer.” -On one occasion the great Kean finding his audience apathetic, stopped -in the middle of his lines and said: - -“Gentlemen, I can’t act if you can’t applaud.” - -There is no doubt about it, a sympathetic audience gets far more out of -the actor than a half-hearted apathetic one. - -“The true value of art,” once said Henry Irving, “as applied to the -drama can only be determined by public appreciation. It is in this -spirit that I have invariably made it my study to present every piece -in such a way that the public can rely on getting as full a return -for their outlay as it is possible to give. I have great faith in the -justice of public discrimination, just as I regard the pit audience of -a London theatre as the most critical part of the house. - -“Art must advance with the time, and with the advance of other arts -there must necessarily be advance in art as applied to the stage. I -believe everything that heightens and assists the imagination in a play -is good. One should always give the best one can. I have lived long -enough to find how short is life and how long is art,” he once pithily -remarked. - -“Have you been guided by tradition in mounting Shakespearian plays?” - -“There is no tradition, nor is there anything written down as to the -proper way of acting Shakespeare,” the great actor replied, and -further added: “Imitation is not acting—there is no true acting where -individuality does not exist. Actors should act for themselves. I -dislike playing a part I have seen acted by any one else, for fear -of losing something of my own reading of the character. We all have -our own mannerisms; I never yet saw any human being worth considering -without them.” - -There is no doubt that Irving’s personality is strong and his -appearance striking. He is a tall man—for I suppose he is about six -feet high—thin and well knit, with curiously dark and penetrating eyes -which are kindly, and have a merry twinkle when amused. The eyebrows -are shaggy and protruding, and, oddly enough, remained black after his -hair turned grey. He almost always wears eyeglasses, which somehow suit -him as they rest comfortably on his aquiline nose. His features are -clear-cut and clean-shaven, and the heavy jaw and slightly underhanging -chin give strength to his face, which is always pale; the lips are thin -and strangely pallid in colouring. Irving, though nearing seventy, has -a wonderfully erect carriage, his shoulders are well thrust back and -his chest forward, and somehow his movements always denote a man of -strength and character. The very dark hair gradually turned grey and is -now almost white; it was fine hair, and has always been worn long and -thrown well back behind the ears. - -There is something about the man which immediately arrests attention; -not only his face and his carriage, but his manner and conversation -are different from the ordinary. He is the kind of man that any one -meeting for the first time would wish to know more about, the kind of -man of whom every one would inquire, “Who is he?” if his face were not -so well known in the illustrated papers. He could not pass unnoticed -anywhere. But after all it is not this personality entirely that has -made his fame, for there are people who dislike it as much as others -admire it; but as he himself says, any success he has attained is due -to the capacity for taking pains. - -That Irving’s success has been great no one can deny. His reign at the -Lyceum was remarkable in every way. He acted Shakespeare’s plays until -he made them the fashion. He employed great artists, musicians, and a -host of smaller fry to give him of their best. He produced wondrous -stage pictures—he engaged a good company, and one and all must own he -was the greatest actor-manager of the last quarter of the last century. -Not only England but the world at large owes him a debt of gratitude. -With him mere money-making has been a secondary consideration, and -this, coupled with his unfailing generosity, has always kept him -comparatively a poor man. No one in distress has ever appealed to him -in vain. He has not only given money, but time and sympathy, to those -less fortunate than himself, and Henry Irving’s list of charitable -deeds is endless. But for this he would never have had to leave the -Lyceum, a theatre with which his name was associated for so many years. - -When Irving opened Drury Lane at Easter, 1903, with _Dante_ he had an -ovation such as probably no man has ever received from an audience -before. It was a pouring wet night; the rain descended in torrents, but -the faithful pittites were there to welcome the popular favourite on -his return from America. It so chanced that the audience were entering -the Opera House next door at the same moment, and this, combined with -the rain, which did not allow people to descend from their carriages -before they reached the theatre doors, made the traffic chaotic. I only -managed to reach my stall a second before the house was plunged in -darkness and the curtain rose. - -And here let me say how much more agreeable it is to watch the play -from a darkened auditorium such as Irving originally instituted than -to sit in the glaring illumination still prevalent abroad. When the -lights went down, the doors were closed, and half the carriage folk -were shut out for the entire first act, thus missing that wondrous -ovation. The great actor looked the very impersonation of Dante, and -as he bowed, and bowed, and bowed again he grew more and more nervous, -to judge by the tremble of his lips and the twitching of his hands. It -was indeed a stirring moment and a proud one for the recipient. As the -play proceeded the audience found all his old art was there and the -magnificent _mise-en-scène_ combined to keep up the traditions of the -old Lyceum. That vast audience at Drury Lane rose _en masse_ to greet -him, and literally thundered their applause at the end of the play. The -programme is on the following page. - - _APRIL 30th, 1903._ - - Theatre Royal - - [Illustration] - - Drury Lane, - - LIMITED. - - Managing Director ARTHUR COLLINS. - - Business Manager SIDNEY SMITH. - - - HENRY IRVING’S SEASON. - - Every Evening, at 8.15. - - Matinée Every Saturday, at 2.30. - - DANTE - - BY - - MM. SARDOU & MOREAU. - - Rendered into English by LAURENCE IRVING. - - Persons in the Play: - - Dante HENRY IRVING - - Cardinal Colonna { _Papal Legate, Resident_ } Mr. WILLIAM MOLLISON - { _at Avignon._ } - - Nello della Pietra (_Husband to Pia_) Mr. NORMAN MCKINNEL - - Bernardino { _Brother to Francesca da Rimini,_ } Mr. GERALD LAWRENCE - { _betrothed to Gemma_ } - - Giotto } { Mr. H. B. STANFORD - Casella } _Friends to Dante_ { Mr. JAMES HEARN - Forese } { Mr. VINCENT STERNROYD - Bellacqua } { Mr. G. ENGLETHORPE - - Malatesta (_Husband to Francesca_) Mr. JEROLD ROBERTSHAW - - Corso (_Nephew to Cardinal Colonna_) Mr. CHARLES DODSWORTH - - Ostasio (_A Familiar of the Inquisition_) Mr. FRANK TYARS - - Ruggieri (_Archbishop of Pisa_) Mr. WILLIAM LUGG - - The Grand Inquisitor Mr. WILLIAM FARREN, - Junr. - - Paolo (_Brother to Malatesta_) Mr. L. RACE DUNROBIN - - Ugolino Mr. MARK PATON - - Lippo } _Swashbucklers_ { Mr. JOHN ARCHER - Conrad } { Mr. W. L. ABLETT - - Enzio (_Brother to Helen of Swabia_) Mr. F. D. DAVISS - - Fadrico Mr. H. PORTER - - Merchant Mr. R. P. TABB - - Merchant Mr. H. GASTON - - Townsman Mr. T. REYNOLD - - Townsman Mr. A. FISHER - - A Servant M. J. IRELAND - - Pia dei Tolomei (_Wife to Nello della Pietra_) } Miss LENA ASHWELL - Gemma (_Her Daughter_) } - - The Abbess of the Convent of Saint Claire Miss WALLIS - - Francesca da Rimini Miss LILIAN ELDÉE - - Helen of Swabia { _Daughter-in-law_ } Miss LAURA BURT - { _to Ugolino_ } - - Sandra (_Servant to Pia_) Miss ADA MELLON - - Picarda } { Miss E. BURNAND - Tessa } { Miss HILDA AUSTIN - Marozia } _Florentine_ { Miss MAB PAUL - Cilia } _Ladies_ { Miss ADA POTTER - Lucrezia } { Miss E. LOCKETT - Julia } { Miss MARY FOSTER - - Fidelia Miss DOROTHY ROWE - - Maria Miss MAY HOLLAND - - Nun Miss EMMELINE CARDER - - Nun Miss E. F. DAVIS - - Custodian of the Convent of Saint Claire Miss GRACE HAMPTON - - A Townswoman Miss MABEL REES - - _Nobles, Guests of the Legate, Pages, Jesters, Nuns, Townsfolk, - Artisans, Street Urchins, Catalans, Barbantines, Servants, etc._ - - - Spirits: - - The Spirit of Beatrice Miss NORA LANCASTER - - Virgil Mr. WALTER REYNOLDS - - Cain Mr. F. MURRAY - - Charon Mr. LESLIE PALMER - - Cardinal Boccasini Mr. F. FAYDENE - - Cardinal Orsini Mr. W. J. YELDHAM - - Jacques Molay (_Commander of the Templars_) Mr. J. MIDDLETON - - _Spirits in the Inferno._ - - -Sir Henry Irving certainly has great magnetic gifts which attract and -compel the sympathy of his audience. He always looks picturesque, he -avoids stage conventionalities, and acts his part according to his own -scholarly instincts. Passion with him is subservient to intellect. - -One American critic in summing him up said: - -“I do not consider Irving a great actor; but he is the greatest -dramatic artist I ever saw.” - -The version of _Faust_ by the late W. G. Wills which modern playgoers -know so well was one of the most elaborate and successful productions -of the Lyceum days, and amongst the beautiful scenic effects some -exquisite visions which appeared in the Prologue at the summons of -Mephistopheles will always be remembered. On the first night of the -production I am told—for I don’t remember the occasion myself—owing to -a temporary break down in the lime-lights, these visions declined to -put in an appearance at the bidding of the Fiend. The great actor waved -his arm and stamped his foot with no result. Again and again he tried -to rouse them from their lethargy, but all to no avail. The visions -came not. As soon as the curtain fell Irving strode angrily to the -wing, even his stride foreboded ill to all concerned, and the officials -trembled at the outburst of righteous wrath which they expected would -break forth. The first exclamations of the irate manager had hardly -left his lips before they were interrupted by a diminutive “call boy,” -who rushed forward with uplifted hand, and exclaimed in a high treble -key to the great actor-manager fresh from his newest triumph: - -“Bear it, bear it bravely! _I_ will explain all to-morrow!” - -The situation was so ridiculous that there was a general peal of -laughter, in which Irving was irresistibly compelled to join. - -The last part played at the Lyceum by the veteran actor Tom Mead was -that of the old witch who vainly strove to gain the summit of the -Brocken, and was always pushed downwards when just reaching the goal. -In despair the wretched hag exclaims, “I’ve been a toiler for ten -thousand years, but never, never reached the top.” On the first night -of _Faust_, the worthy old man was chaffed unmercifully at supper by -some of his histrionic friends who insisted that the words he used -were, “I’ve been _an actor_ for ten thousand years, but never, never -reached the top.” - -Those who saw the wonderful production of _The Corsican Brothers_ at -the Lyceum will remember the exciting duel in the snow by moonlight, -between Irving and Terriss. At the last dress rehearsal, which at the -Lyceum was almost as important a function as a first night, Terriss -noticed that as the combatants moved hither and thither during the -fight he seemed to be usually in shadow, while the face of the great -actor-manager was brilliantly illuminated. Looking up into the flies, -he thus addressed the lime-light man: - -“On me also shine forth, thou beauteous moon—there should be no -partiality in thy glorious beams.” - -A friend relates another curious little incident which occurred during -the run of _Ravenswood_ at the Lyceum. In the last act there was -another duel between William Terriss and Henry Irving. For the play -Terriss wore a heavy moustache which was cleverly contrived in two -pieces. Somehow, in the midst of the scuffle, one side of the moustache -got caught and came off. This was an awkward predicament at a tragic -moment, but Terriss had the presence of mind to swerve round before the -audience had time to realise the absurdity, and finished the scene with -his hair-covered lips on show. When they arrived in the wings Irving -was greatly perturbed. - -“What on earth do you mean spoiling the act by jumping round like -that?” he demanded. “You put me out horribly: it altered the whole -scene.” - -Terriss was convulsed with laughter and could hardly answer; and it -was only when Irving had spent his indignation that he discovered -his friend was minus half his moustache. This shows how intensely -interested actors become in their parts, when one can go through a long -scene and never notice his colleague had lost so important an adjunct. - -Sir Charles Wyndham is one of the most popular actor-managers upon the -stage. He is a flourishing evergreen. Though born in 1841 he never -seems to grow any older, and is just as full of dry humour, just as -able to deliver a dramatic sermon, just as quick and smart as ever he -was. - -He began at the very beginning, did Sir Charles, and he is ending at -the very end. Though originally intended for the medical profession, he -commenced his career as a stock actor in a provincial company, is now a -knight, and manager and promoter of several theatres. What more could -theatrical heart desire? And he has the distinction of having acted in -Berlin in the German tongue. - -Wyndham gives an amusing description, it is said, of one of his first -appearances on the American stage, when he had determined to transfer -his affections from Galen to Thespis. He was naturally extremely -nervous, and on his first entrance should have exclaimed: - -“I am drunk with ecstasy and success.” - -With emphasis he said the first three words of the sentence, and then, -owing to uncontrollable stage fright, his memory forsook him. After a -painful pause he again exclaimed: - -“I am drunk.” Even then, however, he could not recall the context. He -looked hurriedly around, panic seemed to overpower him as he once more -repeated: - -“I am drunk—”; and, amid a burst of merriment from the audience, he -rushed from the stage. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -_WHY A NOVELIST BECOMES A DRAMATIST_ - - Novels and Plays—_Little Lord Fauntleroy_ and his Origin—Mr. - Hall Caine—Preference for Books to Plays—John Oliver Hobbes—J. - M. Barrie’s Diffidence—Anthony Hope—A London Bachelor—A Pretty - Wedding—A Tidy Author—A First Night—Dramatic Critics—How Notices - are Written—The Critics Criticised—Distribution of Paper—“Stalls - Full”—Black Monday—Do Royalty pay for their Seats?—Wild Pursuit of - the Owner of the Royal Box—The Queen at the Opera. - - -It is a surprise to the public that so many novelists are becoming -dramatists. - -The reason is simple enough: it is the natural evolution of romance. -In the good old days of three-volume novels, works of fiction brought -considerable grist to the mill of both author and publisher; after all -it only cost a fraction more to print and bind a three-volume work -which sold at thirty-one shillings and sixpence than it does to-day to -produce a book of almost as many words at six shillings. - -Then again, half, even a quarter of, a century ago there were not -anything like so many novelists, and those who wrote had naturally less -competition; but all this is changed. - -Novels pour forth on every side to-day, and money does not always pour -in, in proportion. One of the first novelists to make a large sum by -a play was Mrs. Hodgson Burnett. She wrote _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ -about 1885, it proved successful, and the book contained the element -of an actable play. She dramatised the story, and she has probably -made as many thousands of pounds by the play as hundreds by the book, -in spite of its enormous circulation. I believe I am right in saying -that _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ has brought more money to its originator -than any other combined novel and play, and the next most lucrative has -probably been J. M. Barrie’s _Little Minister_. - -Herein lies a moral lesson. Both are simple as books and plays, and -both owe their success to that very simplicity and charm. They contain -no problem, no sex question, nothing but a little story of human life -and interest, and they have succeeded in English-speaking lands, and -had almost a wider influence than the more elaborate physiological work -and ideas of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Sudermann, or Pinero. - -For twenty years _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ has stirred all hearts, both -on the stage and off, in England and America, adored by children and -loved by grown-ups. - -Being anxious to know how the idea of the play came about, I wrote -to Mrs. Burnett, and below is her reply in a most characteristically -modest letter: - - “NEW YORK, - - “_November 26th, 1902_. - - “DEAR MRS. ALEC-TWEEDIE, - - “I hope it is as agreeable as it sounds to be ’a-roaming in - Spain.’ It gives one dreams of finding one’s lost castles there. - Concerning the play of _Fauntleroy_; after the publication of the - book it struck me one day that if a real child could be found - who could play _naturally_ and ingenuously the leading part, - a very unique little drama might be made of the story. I have - since found that almost any child can play Fauntleroy, the reason - being, I suppose, that only child emotions are concerned in the - representation of the character. At that time, however, I did - not realise what small persons could do, and by way of proving - to myself that it could—or could not—be done with sufficient - simplicity and convincingness, I asked my own little boy to pretend - for me that he was Fauntleroy making his speech of thanks to the - tenants on his birthday. The little boy in question was the one - whose ingenuous characteristics had suggested to me the writing - of the story, so I thought if it could be done he could do it. He - had, of course, not been allowed to suspect that he himself had any - personal connection with the character of Cedric. He was greatly - interested in saying the speech for me, and he did it with such - delightful warm-hearted naturalness that he removed my doubts as - to whether a child-actor could say the lines without any air of - sophistication—which was of course the point. - - Shortly afterwards we went to Italy, and in Florence I began the - dramatisation. I had, I think, about completed the first act - when I received news from England that a Mr. Seebohm had made a - dramatisation and was producing it. I travelled to London at once - and consulted my lawyer, Mr. Guadella, who began a suit for me. I - felt very strongly on the subject, not only because I was unfairly - treated, but because it had been the custom to treat all writers - in like manner, and it seemed a good idea to endeavour to find a - defence. I was frightened because I could not have afforded to lose - and pay costs—but I felt rather fierce, and made up my mind to - face the risk. Fortunately Mr. Guadella won the case for me. Mr. - Seebohm’s version was withdrawn and mine produced with success both - in England and America—and, in fact, in various other countries. I - never know dates, but I _think_ it was produced in London in ’88. - It has been played ever since, and is played for short engagements - on both sides of the Atlantic every year. I have not the least idea - how many times it has been given. It is a queer little dear, that - story—‘plays may come and books may go, but little Fauntleroy stays - on for ever.’ I am glad I wrote it—I always loved it. I should have - loved it if it had not brought me a penny. I am afraid I am not - very satisfactory as a recorder of detail of a business nature. - I never remember dates or figures. If we were talking together I - should doubtless begin to recall incidents. It is the stimulating - meanderings of conversation which stir the pools of memory.” - -Mrs. Hodgson Burnett may indeed be proud of her success, although she -writes of it in such a simple, unaffected manner. ’Twas well for her -she faced the lawsuit, for ruin scowled on one side while fortune -smiled on the other. - -No novelist’s works have sold more freely than those of Hall Caine and -Miss Marie Corelli. Both are highly dramatic in style, but Miss Corelli -has not taken to play-writing, preferring the novel as a means of -expression. - -Hall Caine, on the other hand, has been tempted by the allurements of -the stage. When I asked him why he took up literature as a profession, -he replied: - -“I write a novel because I love the motive, or the story, or the -characters, or the scene, or all four, and I dramatise it because I -like to see my subject on the stage. If more material considerations -sometimes influence me, more spiritual ones are, I trust, not always -absent. I don’t think the time occupied in writing a book or a play has -ever entered into my calculations, nor do I quite know which gives me -most trouble.” - -Continuing the subject, I ventured to ask him whether he thought drama -or fiction the higher art. - -“I like both the narrative and the dramatic forms of art, but perhaps I -think the art of fiction is a higher and better art than the art of a -drama, inasmuch as it is more natural, more free, and more various, and -yet capable of equal unity. On the other hand, I think the art of the -drama is in some respects more difficult, because it is more artificial -and more limited, and always hampered by material conditions which -concern the stage, the scenery, the actors, and even the audience. I -think,” he continued, “the novel and the drama have their separate joys -for the novelist and dramatist, and also their separate pains and -penalties. - -“On the whole, I find it difficult to compare things so different, and -all I can say for myself is that, notwithstanding my great love of the -theatre, I find it so trying in various ways—owing, perhaps, to my -limitations—that I do not grudge any one the success he achieves as -a dramatist, and I deeply sympathise with the man who fails in that -character.” - -How true that is! By far the most lenient critics are the workers. It -is the man who never wrote a book who criticises most severely, the man -who never painted a picture who is the hardest to please. - -Speaking about the dramatic element of the modern novel, Mr. Caine -continued: - -“But then the novel, since the days of Scott, has so encroached upon -the domain of the drama, and become so dramatic in form that the author -who has ‘the sense of the theatre’ may express himself fairly well -without tempting his fate in that most fascinating but often most fatal -little world.” - -Such was Mr. Caine’s opinion on the novelist as dramatist. - -Hall Caine’s personality is too well known to need describing; but his -handwriting is a marvel. He gets more into a page than any one I know, -unless it be Whistler, Sydney Lee, or Zangwill. Mr. Caine’s calligraphy -at a little distance looks like Chinese, it is beautifully neat and -tidy—but most difficult to read. Like Frankfort Moore, Richard Le -Gallienne, and a host of others, he scribbles with a small pad in his -hand, or on his knee. Some people prefer writing in queer positions, -cramped for room—others, on the contrary, require huge tables and vast -space. - -“John Oliver Hobbes” is the uneuphonious pseudonym chosen by Pearl -Teresa Craigie, another of our novel-dramatists. She has hardly been as -successful with her plays as with her brilliant books, and therefore -it seems unlikely that she will discard the latter for the former. The -world has smiled on Mrs. Craigie, for she was born of rich parents. -Although an American she lives in London (Lancaster Gate), and has a -charming house in the Isle of Wight. She has only one son, so is more -or less independent, can travel about and do as she likes, therefore -her thoughtful work and industry are all the more praiseworthy. Ability -will out. - -Mrs. Craigie is an extremely good-looking woman. She is _petite_, with -chestnut hair and eyes; is always dressed in the latest gowns from -Paris; has a charming voice; is musical and devoted to chess. - -J. M. Barrie, one of the most successful of our novel dramatists, is -most reticent about his work. He is a shy, retiring little man with a -big brain and a charitable heart; but he dislikes publicity in every -form. He seems almost ashamed to own that he writes, and he cannot bear -his plays to be discussed—so when he says, “Please excuse me. I have -such a distaste for saying or writing anything about my books or plays -for publication; if it were not so I should do as you suggest with -pleasure,” one’s hand is tied, and Mr. Barrie’s valuable opinion on the -novel and the drama is lost. - -It was a difficult problem to decide. Naturally the public expect much -mention of J. M. Barrie among the playwrights of the day, for had he -not four pieces running at London theatres at the same moment? But to -make mention means to offend Mr. Barrie and lose a friend. - -This famous author creates and writes, but no one must write about -him. Whether his simple childhood, passed in a quaint little Scotch -village, is the source of this reticence, or whether it is caused by -the oppression of the fortune he has accumulated by his plays, no one -discourses upon Mr. Barrie except at the risk of earning his grave -displeasure. He is probably the most fantastic writer of the day, and -most of the accounts of him have been as fantastic as his work. Thus -the curtain cannot be lifted, while he smokes and dreams delicately -pitiless sentiment behind the scenes so far as this volume is concerned. - -“Anthony Hope” is another dramatic novelist. He began his career as a -barrister, tried for Parliamentary honours, and failed; took to writing -novels and succeeded, and now seems likely to end his days in the -forefront of British dramatists. - -He was educated at Marlborough, became a scholar of Balliol College, -Oxford, where he gained first-class Mods. and first-class Lit. Hum., -so he has gone through the educational mill with distinction, and -is now inclined to turn aside from novels of pure romance to more -psychological studies. This is particularly noticeable in _Quisanté_ -and _Tristram of Blent_. - -The author of _The Prisoner of Zenda_ is one of the best-known men in -London society. He loves our great city. Mr. Hope is most sociable by -nature; not only does he dine out incessantly, but as a bachelor was -one of those delightful men who took the trouble to entertain his lady -friends. Charming little dinners and luncheons were given by this man -of letters, and as he had chambers near one of our largest hotels, he -generally took the guests over to his flat after the meal for coffee -and cigars. Many can vouch what pleasant evenings those were; the -geniality of the host, the frequent beauty of his guests, and the -generally brilliant conversation made those bachelor entertainments -things to be remembered. His charming sister-in-law often played -the _rôle_ of hostess for him; she is a Norwegian by birth, and an -intimate friend of the Scandinavian writer Björnstjerne-Björnson, whose -personality impressed me more than that of any other author I ever met. - -The bachelor life has come to an end. - -[Illustration: - - _From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._ - -MR. ANTHONY HOPE.] - -Nearly twenty years ago Anthony Hope began to write novels with -red-haired heroines—_The Prisoner of Zenda_ is perhaps the best-known -of the series. No one could doubt that he admired warm-coloured hair, -for auburns and reds appeared in all his books. One fine day an -auburn-haired goddess crossed his path. She was young and beautiful, -and just the living girl he had described so often in fiction. Anthony -Hope, the well-known bachelor of London, was conquered by the American -maid. A very short engagement was followed by a beautiful wedding in -the summer of 1903, at that quaint old city church, St. Bride’s, where -his father has been Rector so long. It was a lovely hot day as we drove -along the Embankment, through a labyrinth of printing offices and early -newspaper carts, to the door of the church. All the bustle and heat -of the city outside was forgotten in the cool shade of the handsome -old building, decorated for the occasion with stately palms. Never -was there a prettier wedding or a more lovely bride, and all the most -beautiful women in London seemed to be present. - -The bridegroom, who was wearing a red rosebud which blossomed somewhat -alarmingly during the ceremony, looked very proud and happy as he led -the realisation of twenty years’ romance down the aisle. - -“Anthony Hope” is not his real name, and yet it is, which may appear -paradoxical. He was born a Hawkins, being the second son of the Rev. -E. C. Hawkins, and nephew of Mr. Justice Hawkins, now known as Baron -Brampton. The child was christened Anthony Hope, and when he took to -literature to fill in the gaps in his legal income, he apparently -thought it better for the struggling barrister not to be identified -with the budding journalist, and consequently dropped the latter part -of his name. Thus it was he won his spurs as Anthony Hope, and many -people know him by no other title, although he always signs himself -Hawkins, and calls himself by that nomenclature in private life. Rather -amusing incidents have been the result. People when first introduced -seldom realise the connection, and discuss “Lady Ursula,” or other -books, very frankly with their new acquaintance. Their consequent -embarrassment or amusement may be better imagined than described! -_Aliases_ often lead to awkward moments. - -Literary men are not, as a rule, famed for “speechifying,” but Mr. -Hawkins is an exception. He went to America a few years ago an -indifferent orator, and returned a good one. This was the result of -a lecturing tour—one of those expeditions of many thousand miles of -travel and daily discourse in different towns. Literary men are not -generally more orderly at their writing-tables than they are good at -delivering a speech, but here again Anthony Hope is an exception. -His desk is so neat and precise it reminds one irresistibly of a -punctilious old maid (I trust he will forgive the simile?), so -methodical are his arrangements. He writes everything with his own -hand, and replies to letters almost by return of post, although he is -a busy man, for he not only writes for four or five hours a day, but -attends endless charity meetings, and takes an energetic part among -other things in the working of the Society of Authors, of which he is -chairman. He does nothing by halves; everything he undertakes he is -sure to see through, being most conscientious in all his work. In many -ways Anthony Hope often reminds one of the late Sir Walter Besant, both -alike ever ready to help a colleague in distress, ever willing to aid -by council or advice those in need, and untiring so far as literary -work for themselves, or helping others, is concerned. - -Mr. Hawkins is generally calm and collected, but I remember an occasion -when he was quite the reverse. It was the first performance of one of -his plays, and he stood behind me in a box, well screened from public -gaze by the curtain. First he rested on one foot, then on the other, -always to the accompaniment of rattling coins. Oh, how he turned those -pennies over and over in his pockets, until at last I entreated to be -allowed to “hold the bank” until the fall of the curtain. - -First nights affect playwrights differently, but although they -generally disown it, they seem to suffer tortures, poor creatures. - -For an important production there are as many as two or three thousand -applications for seats on a “first night,” but to a great extent each -theatre has its own audience. The critics are of course the most -important element. As matters stand they know nothing of what they are -going to see, they have not studied or even read the play beforehand, -and yet are expected to sum up the whole drama and criticise the acting -an hour or two later. The idea is preposterous. If serious dramas are -to be considered seriously, time must be given for the purpose, and the -premiers must begin a couple of hours earlier, or a dress rehearsal -for the critics arranged the night before, just as a “press view” is -organised at a picture gallery. As it is, all the critics go in the -first night. - -That is why the bulk of those in the stalls are men. Some take notes -throughout the acts, others jot down pungent lines during the dialogue; -but all are working at high pressure, and however clear the slate of -their mind may be on entering the theatre, it is well covered with -impressions when they leave. From that jumble of ideas they have to -unravel the play, criticise the dramatist’s work, and make a study -of the suitability of the actors to their parts. This unreflecting -impression must be quickly put together, for a critic has no time for -leisurely philosophic judgments. - -The critics, or, rather, “the representatives of the papers,” are given -their seats; but the rest of the house pays. Only people of eminence, -or personal friends of the management, are permitted the honour of a -seat. Their names are on the “first-night list,” and if they apply they -receive, the outside public rarely getting a chance. - -The entrance to a theatre on a first night is an interesting scene. -Many of the best-known men and women of London are chatting to friends -in the hall; but they never forget their manners, and are always in -their places in good time. Between the acts those who are near the end -of a row get up and move about; in any case the critics leave their -seats, and many of them begin their “copy” during the _entr’acte_. -Other men not professionally engaged wander round the boxes and talk -to their friends, and a general air of happy expectation pervades the -auditorium. - -“Stuffed with obesity or anæmia,” exclaimed a well-known dramatist -when describing the dramatic critics. However that may be the dramatic -critic is an important person, and his post no sinecure. It is all very -well when first night representations are given on Saturday, because -then only the handful of Sunday paper writers have to scramble through -their work—but when Wednesday or Thursday is chosen, as sometimes -happens, dozens of poor unfortunate men and women have to work far into -the night over their column—they have no time to consider the comedy -or tragedy from any standpoint beyond the first impression. No doubt -a play should make an impression at once, and that is why the drama -cannot be criticised in the same way as books. The playwright must make -an immediate effect, or he will not make one at all; while the poet or -novelist can be contemplated with serenity and commented on at leisure. - -There are so many problem plays nowadays, however, that it is often -difficult for the critic to make his decision between the close of the -theatre at midnight and his arrival at the nearest telegraph office -(if he be on a provincial paper), or at the London newspaper office, -a quarter of an hour later, when that impression has to be reduced to -paper and ink. Only those who have written at this nervous pressure -know its terrors. To have a “devil” (the printer’s boy) standing at -one’s elbow waiting for “copy” is horrible—the ink is not dry on the -paper as sheet after sheet goes off to the compositor waiting its -arrival. By the time the writer reaches his last sentences the first -pages are all in type waiting his corrections. At 2 a.m. the notice -must be out of his hands for good or ill, because the final “make-up” -of the paper necessitates his “copy” filling the exact space allotted -to him by the editor, and two hours later that selfsame newspaper, -printed and machined, is on its way to the provinces by the “newspaper -trains,” and on sale in Liverpool, Birmingham, or Sheffield, a few -hours only after the latest theatrical criticism has been added to its -columns. - -The stage is necessarily intimately connected with the press, and a -free hand is imperative if the well-reasoned essay, and not merely a -reporter’s account, is to be of value. - -Wise critics refuse to know personally the objects of their criticism, -and so avoid many troubles, for many actors are hyper-sensitive by -nature. The press is naturally a great factor, but it cannot make or -mar a play any more than it can make or mar a book; it can fan the -flame, but it cannot make the blaze. - -At the O.P. Club Alfred Robbins recently delivered an address on -“Dramatic Critics: _Are they any use?_” He pertinently remarked: - -“A play is like a cigar—if it is bad no amount of puffing will make -it draw; but if good then every one wants a box.” He held that the -great danger was that the critic should lack pluck to protest against -a revolting play on a well-advertised stage, and follow the lead of -the applause of programme-sellers in a fashionable house; while making -up for it by hunting for faults with a microscope in the case of a -young author or manager. The critic should tell not so much how the -play affected him as how it affected the audience. Critics were always -useful when they were interesting, but not when they tried to instruct. - -E. F. Spence, as a critic himself, pointed out that some critics had -no words that were not red and yellow, while others wrote entirely -in grey. When one man said a play was “not half bad,” and another -described it as an “unparalleled masterpiece,” they meant often the -same thing. And the readers of each, accustomed to their tone and -style, knew what to expect from their words. - -Mrs. Kendal thought “criticism would be better after three weeks, when -the actor had learnt to know his points.” All agreed that the critics -of to-day are scrupulously conscientious. - -G. Bernard Shaw wrote: “A dramatic criticism is a work of literary art, -useful only to the people who enjoy reading dramatic criticisms, and -generally more or less hurtful to everybody else concerned.” - -Clement Shorter’s opinion was: “I do not in the least believe in the -utility of dramatic critics. The whole sincerity of the game has been -spoilt. The hand of the dramatic critic is stayed because the dramatist -and the important actor have a wide influence with the proprietors of -newspapers.” - -An anonymous manager wrote: “The few independent critics are of great -use, but the critic who turns his attention to play-writing should not -be allowed to criticise, for he is never fair to any author’s work -except his own. It has paid managers to accept plays from critics even -if they don’t produce them.” - -Apart from criticism the theatre is in daily touch with the papers, for -one of the greatest expenses in connection with a theatre is the “Press -Bill.” From four to six thousand pounds a year is paid regularly for -newspaper advertising, just for those advertisements that appear “under -the clock,” and in those columns announcing plays, players, and hours. - -The distribution of “paper” is a curious custom, some managers prefer -to fill their houses by such means, others disdain the practice, -especially the Kendals, who are as adverse to “free passes” as they -are to dress rehearsals, and who always insist on paying for their -own tickets to see their friends act. An empty house is nevertheless -dispiriting—dispiriting to the audience and dispiriting to the -performers—so a little paper judiciously used may often bolster up a -play in momentary danger of collapse. - -“Stalls full.” “Dress Circle full.” “House full.” Such notices are -often put outside the playhouse during a performance, and in London -they generally mean what they say. In the provinces, however, a -gentleman arrived at an hotel, and after dinner went off to the theatre -as he had no club. He saw the placards, but boldly marched up to the -box office in the hope that perchance he might obtain an odd seat -somewhere. - -“A stall, please.” - -“Yes, sir, which row?” When he got inside he found the place half -empty, in spite of the legend before the doors. - -A well-known singer wired for a box in London one night—it being an -understood thing that professional people may have seats free if they -are not already sold. She prepaid the answer to the telegram as usual. -It ran: - -“So sorry, no boxes left to-night.” - -The next day she met a friend at luncheon who had been to that -particular theatre the night before. He remarked: - -“It was a most depressing performance: the house was half empty, and -the actors dull in consequence.” - -Then the singer told her story, and both had a good laugh over the -telegram. - -There are certain bad weeks which appear with strict regularity in the -theatrical world. Bank-holiday time means empty houses in the West End. -Just before Easter or Christmas are always “off” nights. Royal mourning -reduces the takings, and one night’s London fog half empties the house. -Lent does not make anything like so great a difference as formerly; -indeed, in some theatres its advent is hardly noticed at all. Saturday -always yields the biggest house. Whether this is because Sunday being a -day of rest people need not get up so early, or because Saturday is pay -day, or because it is either a half or whole holiday, no one knows; but -it always produces the largest takings of the week, just as Monday is -invariably the fattest booking-day. This may possibly be due to Sunday -callers discussing the best performances, and recommending their -friends to go to this or that piece. The good booking of Monday is more -often than not followed by a bad house on Monday night, which is the -“off” day of the week. A play will run successfully for weeks, suddenly -Black Monday arrives, and at once down, down, down goes the sale, until -the play is taken off; no one can tell why it declines any more than -they can predict the success or failure of a play until after its first -two or three performances. - -It seems to be generally imagined that Royalty do not pay for their -seats; but this is a mistake. One fine day a message comes from one -of the ticket agents to the theatres to say that the King and Queen, -or Prince and Princess of Wales, will go to that theatre on a certain -night. Generally a couple of days’ notice is given. Consternation often -ensues, for it sometimes happens the Royal box has been sold. The -purchaser has to be called upon to explain that by Royal command his -box is required for the night in question, and will he graciously take -it some other evening instead? or he is offered other seats. People are -generally charming about the matter and ready to meet the manager at -once—but sometimes there are difficulties. Wild pursuit of the owner -of the box occasionally occurs; indeed, he sometimes has not been -traceable at all, and has even arrived at the theatre, only to be told -the situation. - -The box is duly paid for by the library; Royalty never accept their -seats, and are most punctilious about paying for them. - -At the back of the Royal box there is generally a retiring-room, where -the gentlemen smoke, and sometimes coffee is served. The King, who is -so noted for his cordiality, usually sends for the leading actor and -actress during an _entr’acte_, and chats with them for a few minutes in -the ante-room; but the Queen rarely leaves her seat. After the death -of Queen Victoria it was a long time, a year in fact, before the King -went to the theatre at all. After that he visited most of the chief -houses in quick succession, but he did not send for the players for at -least six months, not, in fact, till the Royal mourning was at an end. -His Majesty is probably the warmest and most frequent supporter of the -drama in Britain, as the Queen is of the opera. - -In olden days Royal visits were treated with much ceremony. Cyril Maude -in his excellent book on the Haymarket Theatre tells how old Buckstone -was a great favourite with Queen Victoria. The Royal entrance in those -days was through the door of “Bucky’s” house which adjoined the back of -the theatre in Suffolk Street. At the street door the manager waited -whenever the Royal box had been commanded. In either hand he carried a -massive silver candlestick, and, walking backwards, escorted the Royal -party with monstrous pomp to their seats. As soon as he had shown them -to their box, however, the amiable comedian had to hurry off to take -his place upon the stage. - -Nothing of that kind is done nowadays, although the manager generally -goes to meet them; but if the manager be the chief actor too, he sends -his stage manager just to see that everything is in order—Royal folk -like to come and go as unostentatiously as possible. - -Many theatres have a private door for Royalty to enter by. As a rule -they are punctual, and if not the curtain gives them a few minutes’ -grace before rising. If they are not in their seats within ten minutes, -the play begins, and they just slip quietly into their places. - -At the Opera on gala nights it is different—the play waits. When they -enter, the band strikes up “God Save the King,” and every one stands -up. It is a very interesting sight to see the huge mass of humanity at -Covent Garden rise together, and see them all stand during the first -verse in respect to Royalty. The Queen on ordinary occasions occupies -the Royal box on the right facing the stage on the grand tier, and -three back from the stage itself, so there are tiers of boxes above and -one below; the Queen sits in the corner the farthest from the stage; -the King often joins her during the performance, otherwise he sits in -the omnibus box below with his men friends. So devoted is Her Majesty -to music she sometimes spends three evenings a week at the Opera. She -often has a book of the score before her, and follows the music with -the greatest interest. - -On ordinary operatic nights the Queen dresses very quietly; generally -her bodice is cut square back and front with elbow-sleeves, and not -off the shoulders as it is at Court. More often than not she wears -black with a bunch of pink malmaisons—of course the usual heavy collar -composed of many rows of pearls is worn, and generally some hanging -chains of pearls. No tiara, but diamond wings or hair combs of that -description. In fact, at the Opera our Queen is one of the least -conspicuously dressed among the many duchesses and millionairesses who -don tiaras and gorgeous gowns. No Opera-house in the world contains so -many beautiful women and jewels as may nightly be seen in London. - -In front is a number above each box, and at the back of the box is the -duplicate number with the name of the person to whom it belongs. They -are hired for a season, and cost seven and a half to eight guineas a -night on the grand tier. These boxes hold four people, and are usually -let for ten or twelve weeks: generally for two nights a weeks to each -set of people. Thus the total cost of one of the best boxes for the -season is, roughly speaking, from one hundred and fifty, to one hundred -and eighty guineas for two nights a week. - -At the theatre Queen Alexandra dresses even more simply than at the -opera. In winter her gown is often filled in with lace to the neck. -She is always a quiet, but a perfect dresser. Never in the fashion, -yet always of the fashion, she avoids all exaggerations, moderates -her skirts and her sleeves, and yet has just enough of the _dernier -cri_ about them to make them up to date. She probably never wore a big -picture hat in her life, and prefers a small bonnet with strings, to a -toque. - -Royalty thoroughly enjoy themselves at the play. They laugh and chat -between the acts, and no one applauds more enthusiastically than King -Edward VII. and his beautiful Queen. They use their opera-glasses -freely, nod to their friends, and thoroughly enter into the spirit of -the evening’s entertainment. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -_SCENE-PAINTING AND CHOOSING A PLAY_ - - Novelist—Dramatist—Scene-painter—An Amateur Scenic Artist—Weedon - Grossmith to the Rescue—Mrs. Tree’s Children—Mr. Grossmith’s Start - on the Stage—A Romantic Marriage—How a Scene is built up—English - and American Theatres Compared—Choosing a Play—Theatrical - Syndicate—Three Hundred and Fifteen Plays at the Haymarket. - - -A novelist describes the surroundings of his story. He paints in words, -houses, gardens, dresses, anything and everything to heighten the -picture and show up his characters in a suitable frame. - -The dramatist cannot do this verbally; but he does it in fact. He -definitely decides the style of scene necessary for each act, and -draws out elaborate plans to achieve that end. It is the author -who interviews the scene-painter, talks matters over with the -costume-artist, the dressmaker, and the upholsterer. It is the author -who generally chooses the cretonnes and the wall-papers—that is to -say, the more important authors invariably do. Mr. Pinero, Mr. W. S. -Gilbert, and Captain Robert Marshall design their own scenes to the -minutest detail, but then all three of them are capable artists and -draughtsmen themselves. - -Scene-painting seems easy until one knows something about its -difficulties. To speak of a small personal experience—when we got up -those theatricals in Harley Street, mentioned in a previous chapter, -my father told me I must paint the scenery, to which I gaily agreed. -Having an oil painting on exhibition at the Women Artists’, I felt I -could paint scenery without any difficulty. - -First of all I bought yards and yards of thick canvas, a sort of -sacking. It refused to be joined together by machine, and broke endless -needles when the seams were sewn by hand. It appeared to me at the time -as if oakum-picking could not blister fingers more severely. After all -my trouble, when finished and stretched along a wall in the store-room -in the basement, with the sky part doubled over the ceiling (as the -little room was not high enough to manage it otherwise), the surface -was so rough that paint refused to lie upon it. - -I had purchased endless packets of blue and chrome, vermilion and -sienna, umber and sap-green; but somehow the result was awful, and the -only promising thing was the design in black chalk made from a sketch -taken on Hampstead Heath. Sticks of charcoal broke and refused to draw; -but common black chalk at last succeeded. I struggled bravely, but the -paint resolutely refused to adhere to the canvas, and stuck instead to -every part of my person. - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Hall, New York._ - -MR. WEEDON GROSSMITH.] - -At last some wiseacre suggested whitewashing the canvas, and, after -sundry boilings of smelly size, the coachman and I made pails of -whitewash and proceeded to get a groundwork. Alas! the brushes -when full of the mixture proved too heavy for me to lift, and the -unfortunate coachman had to do most of that monotonous field of white. - -So far so good. Now came “the part,” as the gallant jehu was pleased to -call it. - -It took a long time to get into the way of painting it at all. The -window had to be shut, the solitary gas-jet lighted, endless lamps -unearthed to give more illumination while I struggled with smelling -pots. - -Oh, the mess! The floor was bespattered, and the paint being mixed with -size, those spots remain as indelible as Rizzio’s blood at Holyrood. -Then the paint-smeared sky—my sky—left marks on the ceiling—my -father’s ceiling—and my own dress was spoilt. Then up rose Mother in -indignation, and promptly produced an old white garment—which shall -be nameless, although it was decorated with little frills—and this I -donned as a sort of overall. With arms aching from heavy brushes, and -feet tired from standing on a ladder, with a nose well daubed with -yellow paint, on, on I worked. - -In the midst of my labours “Mr. Grossmith” was suddenly announced, -and there below me stood Weedon Grossmith convulsed with laughter. At -that time he was an artist and had pictures “on the line” at the Royal -Academy. His studio was a few doors from us in Harley Street. - -“Don’t laugh, you horrid man,” I exclaimed; “just come and help.” - -He took a little gentle persuading, but finally gave in, and being -provided with another white garment he began to assist, and he and I -finally finished that wondrous scene-painting together. - -After a long vista of years Mrs. Beerbohm Tree—who, it will -be remembered, also acted with us in Harley Street—and Weedon -Grossmith—who helped me paint the scenery for our little -performance—were playing the two leading parts together at Drury Lane -in Cecil Raleigh’s _Flood Tide_. - -The two little daughters of the Trees, aged six and eight respectively, -were taken by their father one afternoon to see their mother play at -the Lane. They sat with him in a box, and enjoyed the performance -immensely. - -“Well, do you like it better than _Richard II._?” asked Tree. - -There was a pause. Each small maiden looked at the other, ere replying: - -“It isn’t quite the same, but we like it just as much.” - -When they reached home they were asked by a friend which of the two -plays they really liked best. - -“Oh, mother’s,” for naturally the melodrama had appealed to their -juvenile minds, “but we did not like to tell father so, because we -thought it might hurt his feelings.” - -The part that delighted them most at Drury Lane was the descent of the -rain, that wonderful rain which had caused so much excitement, and -which was composed of four tons of rice and spangles thrown from above, -and verily gave the effect of a shower of water. - -But to return to Weedon Grossmith. Whether he found art didn’t pay at -the studio in Harley Street, or whether he was asked to paint more -ugly old ladies than pretty young ones, I do not know; but he gave up -the house, and went off to America for a trip. So he said at the time, -but the trip meant that he had accepted an engagement on the stage. He -made an instantaneous hit. When he returned to England, sure of his -position, as he thought, he found instead that he had a very rough time -of it, and it was not until he played with Sir Henry Irving in _Robert -Macaire_ that he made a London success. Later he “struck oil” in Arthur -Law’s play, _The New Boy_ under his own management. - -Round the _The New Boy_ circled a romance. Miss May Palfrey, who had -been at school with me, was the daughter of an eminent physician who -formerly lived in Brook Street. She had gone upon the stage after -her father’s death, and was engaged to play the girl’s part. The -“engagement” begun in the theatre ended, as in the case of Forbes -Robertson, in matrimony, and the day after _The New Boy_ went out, the -new girl entered Weedon Grossmith’s home as his wife. - -Success has followed success, and they now live in a delightful -house in Bedford Square, surrounded by quaint old furniture, Adams’ -mantelpieces, overmantels, and all the artistic things the actor -appreciates. A dear little girl adds brightness to the home life of Mr. -and Mrs. Weedon Grossmith. - -Artist, author, actor, manager, are all terms that may be applied -to Weedon Grossmith, but might not scene-painter be added after his -invaluable aid in the Harley Street store-room with paints and size? - -So much for the amateur side of the business: now for the real. - -The first thing a scenic artist does is to make a complete sketch of -a scene. This, when approved, he has “built up” as a little model, a -miniature theatre, in fact, such as children love to play with. It is -usually about three feet square, exactly like a box, and every part is -designed to scale with a perfection of detail rarely observed outside -an architect’s office. - -One of the most historic painting-rooms was that of Sir Henry Irving -at the Lyceum, for there some of the most elaborate stage settings -ever produced were constructed, inspired by the able hand of Mr. Hawes -Craven. - -A scene-painter’s workshop is a large affair. It is very high, and -below the floor is another chamber equally lofty, for the “flats,” or -large canvases, have to be screwed up or down for the artist to be able -to get at his work. They cannot be rolled wet, so the entire “flat” has -to ascend or descend at will. - -To make the matter clear, a scene on the stage, such as a house or a -bridge, is known as a “carpenter’s scene.” The large canvases at the -back are called “flats,” or “painters’ cloths.” “Wings” are unknown -to most people, but really mean the side-pieces of the scene which -protrude on the stage. The “borders” are the bits of sky or ceiling -which hang suspended from above, and a “valarium” is a whole roof as -used in classical productions. - -A scene-painter’s palette is a strange affair; it is like a large -wooden tray fixed to a table, and that table is on wheels; along one -side of the tray are divisions like stalls in a stable, each division -containing the different coloured paints, while in front is a flat -piece on which the powders can be mixed. The thing that strikes -one most is the amount of exercise the scenic artist takes. He is -constantly stepping back to look at what he has done, for he copies on -a large scale the minute sketch he has previously worked out in detail. -Assistants generally begin the work and lay the paint on; but all the -finishing touches are done by the master, who superintends the whole -thing being properly worked out from his model. - -The most elaborate scenery in the world is to be found in London, and -Sir Henry Irving, as mentioned before, was the first to study detail -and effect so closely. Even in America, where many things are so -extravagant, the stage settings are quite poor compared with those of -London. - -Theatres in England and America differ in many ways. The only thing I -found cheaper in the United States than at home was a theatre stall, -which in New York cost eight shillings instead of ten and sixpence. -They are also ahead of us inasmuch as they book their cheaper seats, -which must be an enormous advantage to those unfortunate people who can -always be seen—especially on first nights—wet or fine, hot or cold, -standing in rows outside a London pit door. - -There is no comparison between the gaiety of the scene of a London -theatre and that of New York. Long may our present style last. In -London every man wears evening dress in the boxes, stalls, and -generally in the dress circle, and practically every woman is in -evening costume, at all events without her hat. Those who do not care -to dress, wisely go to the cheaper seats. This is not so across the -Atlantic. It is quite the exception for the male sex to wear dress -clothes; they even accompany ladies to the stalls in tweeds, probably -the same tweeds they have worn all day at their office “down town,” and -it is not the fashion for women to wear evening dress either. What we -should call a garden-party gown is _de rigueur_, although a lace neck -and sleeves are gradually creeping into fashion. Little toques are much -worn, but if the hat be big, it is at once taken off and disposed of in -the owner’s lap. Being an American she is accustomed to nursing her hat -by the hour, and does not seem to mind the extra discomfort, in spite -of fan, opera-glass, and other etceteras. - -The result of all this is that the auditorium is in no way so smart as -that of a London theatre. The origin of the simplicity of costume in -the States of course lies in the fact that fewer people in proportion -have private carriages, cabs are a prohibitive price, and every one -travels in a five cents (2½_d._) car. The car system is wonderful, -if a little agitating at first to a stranger, as the numbers of the -streets—for they rarely have names in New York—are not always so -distinctly marked as they might be. It is far more comfortable, -however, to get into one’s carriage, a hansom, or even a dear old -ramshackle shilling “growler” at one’s own door, than to have to walk -to the nearest car “stop” and find a succession of electric trams full -when you arrive there, especially if the night happens to be wet. The -journey is cheap enough when one does get inside, but payment of five -cents does not necessarily ensure a seat, so the greater part of one’s -life in New York is spent hanging on to the strap of a street car. - -“Look lively,” shouts the conductor, almost before one has time to look -at all, and either life has to be risked, or the traveller gets left -behind altogether. - -Not only travelling in cars, but many things in the States cost -twopence halfpenny. It seems a sort of tariff, that five cents, or -nickle, as it is called. One has to pay five cents for a morning or -evening paper, five cents to get one’s boots blacked, and even in the -hotels they only allow a darkie to perform that operation as a sort of -favour. - -It is a universal custom in the States to eat candies during a -performance at the theatre, but when do Americans refrain from eating -candies—one dare not say “chewing-gum,” for we are told that no -self-respecting American ever chews gum nowadays! - -The theatres I visited in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, New Orleans, -and even in far-away San Antonio, Texas, were all comfortable, well -warmed, well ventilated, and excellently managed, but the audience -were certainly not so smart as our own, not even at the Opera House -at New York, where the performers are the same as in London, and the -whole thing excellently done, and where it is the fashion to wear -evening dress in the boxes. Even there one misses the beauty of our -aristocracy, and the glitter of their tiaras. - -Choosing a play is no easy matter. Hundreds of things have to be -considered. Will it please the public? Will it suit the company? If -Miss So-and-So be on a yearly engagement and there is no part for her, -can the theatre afford out of the weekly profits of the house to pay -her a large salary merely as an understudy? What will the piece cost to -mount? What will the dramatist expect to be paid? This latter amount -varies as greatly as the royalties paid to authors on books. - -As nearly every manager has a literary adviser behind his back, -so almost every actor-manager has a syndicate in the background. -Theatrical syndicates are strange institutions. They have only come -into vogue since 1880, and are taken up by commercial gentlemen as a -speculation. When gambling ceases to attract on the Stock Exchange, the -theatre is an exciting outlet. - -The actor-manager consequently is not the “sole lessee” in the sense -of being the only responsible person. He generally has two or three -backers, men possessed of large incomes who are glad to risk a few -thousand pounds for the pleasure of a stall on a first night, or an -occasional theatrical supper. Sometimes the syndicate does extremely -well: at others ill; but that does not matter—the rich man has had his -fun, the actor his work, the critic his sneer, and so the matter ends. - -The actor-manager draws his salary like any other member of the -company; but should the play prove a success his profits vary according -to arrangement. - -If, on the other hand, the venture turn out a failure, in the case of -the few legitimate actor-managers—if one may use the term—he loses all -the outgoing expenses. Few men can stand that. Ten thousand pounds have -been lost through a bad first night, for although some condemned plays -have worked their way to success, or, at least, paid their expenses, -that is the exception and by no means the rule. - -Many affirm there should be no actor-managers: the responsibility is -too great; but then no man is sure of getting the part he likes unless -he manages to secure it for himself. - -Every well-known manager receives two or three hundred plays per annum. -Cyril Maude told me that three hundred and fifteen dramas were left at -the Haymarket Theatre in 1903, and that he and Frederick Harrison had -actually read, or anyway looked through, every one of them. They enter -each in a book, and put comments against them. - -“The good writing is Harrison’s,” he remarked, “and the bad scribble -mine”; but that was so like Mr. Maude’s modesty. - -After that it can hardly be said there is any lack of ambition in -England to write for the stage. The extraordinary thing is that only -about three per cent. of these comedies, tragedies, burlesques, or -farces are worth even a second thought. Many are written without the -smallest conception of the requirements of the theatre, while some -are indescribably bad, not worth the paper and ink wasted on their -production. - -It may readily be understood that every manager cannot himself read all -the MSS. sent him for consideration, neither is the actor-manager able -to see himself neatly fitted by the parts written “especially for him.” -Under these circumstances it has become necessary of late years at some -theatres to employ a literary adviser, as mentioned on the former page. -All publishing-houses have their literary advisers, and woe betide the -man who condemns a book which afterwards achieves a great success, or -accepts one that proves a dismal failure! So likewise the play reader. - -Baskets full of dramatic efforts are emptied by degrees, and the few -promising productions they contain are duly handed over to the manager -for his final opinion. - -In spite of the enormous number of plays submitted yearly, every -manager complains of the dearth of suitable ones. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -_THEATRICAL DRESSING-ROOMS_ - - A Star’s Dressing-room—Long Flights of Stairs—Miss Ward at - the Haymarket—A Wimple—An Awkward Predicament—How an Actress - Dresses—Herbert Waring—An Actress’s Dressing-table—A Girl’s - Photographs of Herself—A Grease-paint Box—Eyelashes—White - Hands—Mrs. Langtry’s Dressing-room—Clara Morris on Make-up—Mrs. - Tree as Author—“Resting”—Mary Anderson on the Stage—An Author’s - Opinion—Actors in Society. - - -After ascending long flights of stone stairs, traversing dreary -passages with whitewashed walls, and doors on either side marked one, -two, or three, we tap for admission to a dressing-room. - -Where is the fairy pathway? where the beauty?—ah! where? That long -white corridor resembles some passage in a prison, and the little -chambers leading off it are not very different in appearance from -well-kept convict cells, yet this is the home of our actors or -actresses for many hours each day. - -In some country theatres the dressing-rooms are still disgraceful, and -the sanitary arrangements worse. - -Even in London it is only the “stars” who have an apartment to -themselves. At such an excellently conducted theatre as the Haymarket, -Miss Winifred Emery has to mount long flights between every act. -Suppose she has to change her costume four times in the play, she must -ascend those stone stairs five times in the course of each evening, -or, in other words, walk up two hundred and fifty steps in addition -to the fatigue of acting and the worry of quick changing, while on -_matinée_ days this exertion is doubled. She is a leading lady; she -has a charming little room when she reaches it, and the excitement, -the applause, and the pay of a striking part to cheer her—but think of -the sufferers who have the stairs without the redeeming features. An -actress once told me she walked, or ran, up eight hundred steps every -night during her performance. - -While speaking of dressing-rooms I recall a visit I paid to Miss -Geneviève Ward at the Haymarket during the run of _Caste_ (1902). It -was a _matinée_, and, wanting to ask that delightful woman and great -actress a question, I ventured to the stage door and sent up my card. - -“Miss Ward is on the stage; but I will give it to her when she comes -off in four minutes,” said the stage-door-keeper. - -Accordingly I waited near his room. - -The allotted time went by—it is known in a theatre exactly how long -each scene will take—and at the expiration of the four minutes Miss -Ward’s dresser came to bid me follow her up to the lady’s room. The -dresser was a nice, complacent-looking woman, _l’âge ordinaire_, as the -French would say, arrayed in a black dress and big white apron. - -Miss Ward had ascended before us, and was already seated on her little -sofa. - -“Delighted to see you, my dear,” she exclaimed. “I have three-quarters -of an hour’s wait, so I hope you will stay to cheer me up.” - -How lovely she looked. Her own white hair was covered by a still -whiter front wig, while added colour had given youth to her face, and -the darkened eyelids made those wondrous grey orbs of hers even more -striking. - -“Why, you look about thirty-five,” I exclaimed, “and a veritable -_grande dame_!” - -“It is all the wimple,” she said. - -“And what may that be?” - -“Why, this little velvet string arrangement from my bonnet, with the -bow under my chin; when you get old, my dear, you must wear a wimple -too; it holds back those double, treble, and quadruple chins that are -so annoying, and restores youth—_me voilà_.” - -Miss Ward was first initiated into the mysteries and joys of a wimple -when about to play in _Becket_ at the Lyceum. - -While we chatted she took up her knitting—being as untiring in -that line as Mrs. Kendal. Miss Ward was busy making bonnets for -hospital children, and during all those long hours she waited in her -dressing-room, this indefatigable woman knitted for the poor. After -about half an hour her dresser returned and said: - -“It is time for you to dress, madame.” - -“Shall I leave?” I asked. - -“Certainly not—there is plenty of room for us all;” and in a moment the -knitting was put aside, and her elaborate blue silk garment taken off -and hung on a peg between white sheets. Rapidly Miss Ward transformed -herself into a sorrowing mother—a black skirt, a long black coat and -bonnet were placed in readiness, when lo, the dresser, having turned -everything over, exclaimed: - -“I cannot see your black bodice.” - -Miss Ward looked perturbed. - -“I do believe I have left it at home—I went back in it last night, if -you remember, because I was lazy; and forgot all about it. Never mind, -no one will see the bodice is missing when I put on my cloak, if I -fasten it tight up, and I must just melt inside its folds.” - -But when the cloak was fastened there still appeared a decidedly -_décolleté_ neck. Time was pressing, the “call boy” might arrive at any -moment. Miss Ward seized a black silk stocking, which she twirled round -her neck, secured it with a jet brooch, powdered her face to make it -look more doleful, and was ready in her garb of woe ere the boy knocked. - -Then we went down together. - -These theatrical dressers become wonderfully expert. I have seen an -actress come off the stage after a big scene quite exhausted, and yet -only have a few minutes before the next act. She stood in the middle -of her dressing-room while we talked, and at once her attendant set -to work. The great lady remained like a block. Quickly the dresser -undid her neck-band, and unhooked the bodice after removing the lace, -took away the folded waistband, slipped off the skirt, and in a -twinkling the long ball dress was over the actress’s head and being -fastened behind. Her arms were slipped into the low bodice, and while -she arranged the jewels or her corsage the dresser was doing her up at -the back. Down sat the actress in a chair placed for her, and while -she rouged more strongly to suit the gaiety of the scene, the dresser -was putting feathers and ornaments into her hair, pinning a couple of -little curls to her wig to hang down her neck, and just as they both -finished this rapid transformation the call boy rapped. - -Off went my friend. - -“I shall be back in seven minutes,” she exclaimed, “so do wait, as I -have fourteen minutes’ pause then.” - -The dresser caught up her train and her cloak, and followed the great -lady to the wings, where I saw her arranging the actress’s dress before -she went on, and waiting to slip on the cloak and gloves which she was -supposed in the play to come off and fetch. - -A good dresser is a treasure, and that is why most people prefer their -own to those provided at the theatres. - -_Apropos_ of knowing exactly how long an actor is on the stage, I may -mention that Herbert Waring once invited me to tea in his dressing-room. - -“At what time?” I naturally asked. - -“I’ll inquire from my dresser,” was his reply. “I really don’t know -when I have my longest ‘wait.’” - -Accordingly a telegram arrived next day, which said “tea 4.25,” so at -4.25 I presented myself at the stage door, where Mr. Waring’s man was -waiting to receive me. - -Others joined us. A tin tray was spread with a clean towel; as usual, -the theatrical china did not match, and the spoons and the seats -were insufficient, but the tea and cakes were delicious, and the -rough-and-tumble means of serving them in a star’s dressing-room only -in keeping with the usual arrangements of austere simplicity behind the -scenes. - -“What was the most amusing thing that ever happened to you on the -stage?” - -Mr. Waring looked perplexed. - -“I haven’t the slightest idea. Nothing amusing ever happens; it is -the same routine day, alas, after day, the same dressing, undressing, -acting, finishing, going gleefully home, and returning next day to -begin exactly the same thing over again. I must be a very dull dog, but -I cannot ferret out anything ‘amusing’ from the back annals of a long -theatrical career,” and up he jumped to slip on his powdered wig—which -he had removed to cool his head—and away he ran to entertain his -audience. - -Mr. Waring’s amusing experiences, or lack of them, seem very usual in -theatrical life. What a delightful man he is, and what a gentleman in -all his dealings. He is always loved by the companies with whom he -acts, and never makes a failure with his parts. - -The most important thing in an actress’s dressing-room is her -table—verily a curious sight. It is generally very large, more often -than not it is composed of plain deal, daintily dressed up in muslin -flouncings over pink or blue calico. There seems to be a particular -fashion in this line, probably because the muslin frills can go to the -wash—a necessary proviso for anything connected with the theatre. In -the middle usually reposes a large looking-glass, and as one particular -table is in my mind’s eye, I will describe it, as it is typical of -many, and belonged to a beautiful comic-opera actress. - -The looking-glass was ornamented with little muslin frills and tucks, -tied with dainty satin bows, on to which were pinned a series of the -actress’s own photographs. These cabinet portraits formed a perfect -garniture, they represented the lady in every conceivable part she had -ever played, and were tied together with tiny scarlet ribbons, the -foot of one being fixed to the head of the next. The large mirror over -the fireplace—for she was a star and had a fireplace—was similarly -ornamented, so was the cheval glass, and above the chimneypiece was a -complete screen composed of another set of her own photographs from -another piece. These had to stand up, so the little red bows which -fixed them went from side to side, by which means they stood along -the board zig-zag fashion, like a miniature screen, without tumbling -down. She was not in the least egotistical, it was simply the craze for -photographs, which all theatrical folk seem to have, carried a little -further than usual, and in her own dressing-room she essayed to have -her own photographs galore. As she was very pretty and many of the -costumes charming, she showed her good taste. - -In front of the looking-glass was a large pincushion stuffed with a -multiplication of pins of every shape and size, endless hat-pins, -safety-pins, and little brooches, in fact, a supply sufficient to pin -everything on to her person that exigency might require. There were -large pots of powder, flat tablets of rouge, hares’ feet, for putting -on the rouge, fine black pencils for darkening eyes, blue chalk pencils -for lining the lids, wonderful cherry-red arrangements for painting -Cupid’s lips, for even people with large mouths can by deft artistic -treatment be made to appear to have small ones. There were bottles -of white liquid for hands and neck, because it is more important, of -course, to paint the hands than the face, otherwise they are apt to -look appallingly red or dirty behind the footlights. - -There were two barber’s blocks on which stood the wigs for the -respective acts, since it is much quicker and less trouble to put on a -wig than adjust one’s hair, and probably no one, except Mrs. Kendal, -has ever gone through an entire theatrical career and only twice donned -a wig. - -Of course there were endless powders as well as perfumes of every sort -and kind. There were hand-mirrors and three-fold mirrors, and electric -light that could be moved about, for it is important to look well from -all sides when trotting about the stage. - -Theatrical dressing-rooms are so small that the dressing-table is their -chief feature, and if there be room for a sofa or arm-chair, they are -accounted luxurious. - -All the costumes, as a rule, are hung against the wall, which is -first covered with a calico sheet, then each dress is hung on its own -peg, over which other calico sheets fall. This does not crush them, -keeps all clean, and avoids creases; nevertheless, the most brilliant -theatrical costumes look like a series of melancholy ghosts when not in -use. - -One of the actress’s most important possessions is the grease -paint-box, which in tin, separated into compartments for paints, -costs about ten and sixpence. Into these little compartments she puts -vaseline, coco butter, Nuceline, and Massine for cleaning the skin. For -the face has to be washed, so to speak, with grease, preparatory to -being made up. - -A fair woman first lays on a layer of grease paint of a cream ground. -On to that she puts light carmine on her cheeks, and follows the lines -of her own colour as much as she can. Some people have colour high up -on the cheek-bones, others low down, and it is as well to follow this -natural tint if possible. - -She blue-pencils round her eyes to enhance their size, gets the blue -well into the corners and down a little at the outside edges to enlarge -those orbs. Then she powders her face all over to get rid of that look -of grease which is so distressing, and soften down the general make-up, -and then proceeds to darken her eyelashes and eyebrows. - -One little actress told me she always wound a piece of cotton round a -hairpin, on to which she put a blob of cosmetic, heated it in the gas -or candle, and when it was melted, blinked her eyelashes up and down -upon it so that they might take on the black without getting it in -hard lumps, but as a level surface. She put a little red blob in the -corner of her eyes to give brightness, and a red line in the nostrils -to do away with the black cavern-like appearance caused by the strong -lights of the stage. - -“I never make up the lips full size,” she said, “or else they look -enormous from the front. I put on very bright little ‘Cupid’s bow’ -middles, which gives all the effect that is necessary. After I have -powdered my face and practically finished it, I just dust on a little -dry rouge with a hare’s foot to get the exact amount of colour I wish -for each act. Grease paints are absolutely necessary to get the make-up -to stay on one’s face, but they have to be well powdered down or they -will wear greasy.” - -“I always think the hands are so important,” I remarked. - -“Oh yes,” she replied. “Of course, for common parts, such as servants, -one leaves one’s hands to look red, for the footlights always make them -look a dirty red, but for aristocratic ladies we have to whiten our -hands, arms, and neck, and I make a mixture of my own of glycerine and -chalk, because it is so much cheaper than buying it ready-made. - -“Sometimes it takes me an hour to make up my face. You see, a large -nose can be modified; and a small nose can be made bigger by rouging -it up the sides and leaving a strong white line down the middle. It is -wonderful how one can alter one’s face with paint, though I think it is -better to make up too little than too much.” - -Thus it will be seen an hour is quite a usual length of time for an -actress to sit in front of her dressing-table preparatory to the -performance. - -Mrs. Langtry’s dressing-room at the Imperial Theatre may be mentioned. -An enormous mirror is fastened against one wall, and round it, in -the shape of a Norman arch, are three rows of electric lights giving -different colour effects. The plain glass is to dress by in the -ordinary way; pink tones give sunset and evening effect; while the -third is a curious smoked arrangement to simulate moonlight or dawn. -Dresses can be chosen and the face painted accordingly to suit the -stage colouring of the scene. The lights turn on above, below, or at -the sides, so the effect can be studied from every point of view. - -While on the subject of making up, a piece of advice from the great -actor Jefferson to the wonderful American actress, Clara Morris, is of -interest: - -“Be guided as far as possible by Nature. When you make up your face, -you get powder on your eyelashes. Nature made them dark, so you are -free to touch the lashes themselves with ink or pomade, but you should -not paint a great band about your eye, with a long line added at the -corner to rob it of expression. And now as to the beauty this lining is -supposed to bring, some night when you have time I want you to try a -little experiment. Make up your face carefully, darken your brows and -the lashes of _one eye_; as to the other eye, you must load the lashes -with black pomade, then draw a black line beneath the eye, and a -broad line on its upper lid, and a final line out from the corner. The -result will be an added lustre to the make-up eye and a seeming gain in -brilliancy; but now, watching your reflection all the time, move slowly -backwards from the glass, and an odd thing will happen; that made-up -eye will gradually grow smaller and will gradually look like a black -hole, absolutely without expression.” - -Clara Morris followed Jefferson’s counsel and never blued or blacked -her eyes again. - -I once paid an interesting visit to a dressing-room: it came about in -this wise. - -In 1898 the jubilee of Queen’s College, in Harley Street, was -celebrated. It was founded fifty years previously as _the first college -open to women_. A booklet in commemoration of the event was got up, and -many old girls were persuaded to relate their experiences. Among them -were Miss Sophia Jex Blake, M.D., Miss Dorothea Beale (of Cheltenham), -Miss Adeline Sargent, the novelist, Miss Louisa Twining, whose work on -pauperism and workhouses is well known, Miss Mary Wardell, the founder -of the Convalescent Home, etc. Mrs. Tree agreed to write an article -on the stage as a profession for women. At the last moment, when all -the other contributions had gone to press, hers was not amongst them. -It was a _matinée_ day, and as editor I went down to Her Majesty’s, -and bearded the delinquent in her dressing-room. She was nearly ready -for the performance, in the midst of her profession, so to speak; but -realising the necessity of doing the work at once or not at all, she -seized some half-sheets of paper, and between her appearances on the -stage jotted down an excellent article. It was clever, to the point, -and full of learning. It appeared a few days later, and some critic was -unkind enough to say “her husband or some other man had written it for -her.” I refute the charge; for I myself saw it hastily sketched in with -a pencil at odd moments on odd scraps of paper. - -Mrs. Tree is a woman who would have succeeded in many walks of life, -for she is enthusiastic and thorough, a combination which triumphantly -surmounts difficulties. She has a strong personality. In the old -Queen’s College days she used to wear long æsthetic gowns and hair cut -short. Bunches of flowers generally adorned her waist, offerings from -admiring young students, whom she guided through the intricacies of -Latin or mathematics. - -The Beerbohm Trees have a charming old-fashioned house at Chiswick, -and three daughters of various and diverse ages, for the eldest is -grown up while the youngest is quite small. Both parents are devoted -to reading and fond of society, but their life is one long rush. Books -from authors line their shelves, etchings and sketches from artists -cover their walls; both have great taste with a keen appreciation of -genius. Few people realise what an unusually clever couple the Beerbohm -Trees are, or how versatile are their talents. They fly backwards and -forwards to the theatre in motor-cars, and pretend they like it in -spite of midnight wind and rain. - -Theatrical work means too much work or none. It is a great strain to -play eight times a week, to dress eight times at each performance, as -in a Drury Lane drama, and to rehearse a new play or give a _matinée_ -performance as well, and yet this has to be done when the work is -there, for what one refuses, dozens, aye dozens, are waiting eagerly to -take. Far more actors and actresses are “resting” every evening than -are employed in theatres, poor souls. - -“_Resting!_” That word is a nightmare to men and women on the stage. -It means dismissal, it means weary waiting—often actual want—yet it is -called “resting.” It spells days of unrest—days of dreary anxiety and -longing, days when the unfortunate actor is too proud to beg for work, -too proud even to own temporary defeat—which nevertheless is there. - -A long run of luck, the enjoyment of many months, perhaps years, when -all looked bright and sunny, when money was plentiful and success -seemed assured, suddenly stops. There is no suitable part available, -new blood is wanted in the theatre, and the older hands must go. Then -comes that cruelly enforced “rest,” and, alas! more often than not, -nothing has been laid by for the rainy day, when £10 a week ceases even -to reach 10_s._ Expenses cannot easily be curtailed. Home and family -are there, the actor hopes every week for new work, he refuses to -retrench, but lives on that miserable farce “keeping up appearances,” -which, although sometimes good policy, frequently spells ruin in the -end. - -[Illustration: - - _Photo by Bassano, 25, Old Bond Street, W._ - -MRS. BEERBOHM TREE.] - -Some of the best actors and actresses of the day are forced into -this unfortunate position; indeed, they suffer more than the smaller -fry—for each theatre requires only one or two stars in its firmament. -Theatrical folk are sometimes inclined to be foolish and refuse to -play a small part for small pay, because they think it beneath their -dignity, so they prefer to starve on their mistaken grandeur, which is, -alas! nothing more nor less than unhappy pride. - -Clara Morris, one of America’s best-known actresses, shows the possible -horrors, almost starvation, of an actress’s early years in her -delightful volume, _Life on the Stage_. - -She nearly died from want of food, and after years and years of work -all over the States made her first appearance as “leading lady” at -Daly’s Theatre in New York at a salary of thirty-five dollars a week, -starting with only two dollars (eight shillings) in her pocket. - -Her first triumph she discussed with her mother and her dog over a -supper of bread and cheese. She had attained success—but even then it -was months and months, almost years, before she earned enough money -either to live in comfort or be warmly clothed. - -The beautiful Mary Anderson, in her introduction to the volume, says: - -“I trust this work will help to stem the tide of girls who so blindly -rush into a profession of which they are ignorant, for which they are -unfitted, and in which dangers unnumbered lurk on all sides. If with -Clara Morris’s power and charm so much had to be suffered, what is—what -must be—the lot of so many mediocrities who pass through the same -fires to receive no reward in the end?” - -Every one who knows the stage, knows what weary suffering is endured -daily by would-be actors who are “resting”; and as they grow older -that “resting” process comes more often, for, as one of the greatest -dramatists of the day said to me lately: - -“The stage is only for the young and beautiful, they can claim -positions and salaries which experience and talent are unable to -keep. By the time youth has thoroughly learnt its art it is no longer -physically attractive, and is relegated to the shelf.” - -“That seems very hard.” - -“Ah, but it is true. At the best the theatrical is a poor profession, -and ends soon. Believe me, it is only good for handsome young men and -lovely girls. When the bloom of youth has gone, good acting does not -command the salary given to beautiful inexperience.” - -“How cruelly sad!” - -“Perhaps—but truth is often sad. When a girl comes to me and says she -has had an offer of marriage, but she doesn’t want to give up her Art, -I reply: - -“‘Marry the man before your Art gives you up.’” - -This was severe, but I have often thought over the subject since, and -seen how true were the words of that man “who knew.” - -Half a century ago only a few favoured professionals were admitted into -the sacred circle called Society, and then only on rare occasions, but -all that is now changed: actors and actresses are the fashion, and may -be found everywhere and anywhere. Their position is remarkable, and -they appear to enjoy society as much as society enjoys them. They are -_fêted_ and feasted, the world worships at their feet. In London the -position of an actor or actress of talent is a brilliant one socially. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -_HOW DOES A MAN GET ON THE STAGE?_ - - A Voice Trial—How it is Done—Anxious Faces—Singing into Cimmerian - Darkness—A Call to Rehearsal—The Ecstasy of an Engagement—Proof - Copy; Private—Arrival of the Principals—Chorus on the - Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours a Day for Nine Weeks without Pay. - - -“How does a man get on the stage?” is a question so continually asked -that the mode of procedure, at any rate for comic opera, may prove of -interest. - -After application the would-be actor-singer, if lucky, receives a card, -saying there will be a “voice trial” for some forthcoming musical -comedy at the theatre on such a date at two o’clock. Managements that -have a number of touring companies arrange voice trials regularly once -a week, but others organise them only when necessary. - -Let us take a case of Special Trial for some new production. There are -usually so many persons anxious to procure employment, that three days -are devoted to these trials from two till seven o’clock. - -Upon receiving a card the would-be artist proceeds to his destination -in a state of wild excitement and overpowering nervousness at a quarter -to two, having in the greenness of inexperience arranged to meet a -friend at three o’clock, expecting by then to be able to tell him he -has been engaged. - -On arriving at the corner of the street the youth is surprised to see -a seething mass of struggling humanity striving to get near the stage -door; something like a gallery entrance on a first night. At this -spectacle his nervousness increases, for he has a vague fear that some -of these voices and dramatic powers may be better than his own. During -the wait outside, people recognise and hail friends whom they have -played with in other companies on tour, or met on the concert platform, -or perhaps known in a London theatre. Every one tries to look jaunty -and gay, none would care to acknowledge the cruel anxiety they are -enduring, or own how much depends on an engagement. - -After half an hour, or probably an hour’s wait, the keen young man -reaches the stage door, and finally gets into the passage. In his -eagerness he fancies he sees space in that passage to slip past -a number of people who are waiting round the door-keeper’s room, -and congratulates himself on his smartness in circumventing them. -Somehow he contrives to get through, and finally runs gaily down a -flight of stairs, to find himself—not on the stage, as he had hoped, -but underneath it. A piano and voice are heard overhead. Quickly -retracing his steps he mounts higher and higher in his anxiety to -be an early performer, tries passage after passage, to find nothing -but dressing-rooms, until he arrives breathless at the top of the -building opposite two large apartments relegated later to the chorus. -Utterly bewildered by the intricacies of the theatre, and a sound of -music which he cannot locate, the poor novice is almost in despair of -reaching the stage at all. One more effort, and a man who looks like a -carpenter remarks: - -“These ’ere is the flies, sir: there’s the stage,” and he points down -below over some strange scaffolding. - -The singer looks. Lo, there are fifty or sixty people on the stage. - -“And those people?” - -“All trying for a job, sir; but, bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty -will get anything.” - -This sounds cheerless to the stage beginner, whose only recommendation -is a good, well-trained voice. - -With directions from the carpenter he wends his way down again, not -with the same elastic step with which he bounded up the stairs. “Bless -yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything” was not a pleasant -piece of news. - -Ah, here is a glass door, through which—oh joy! he sees the stage -at last. He is about to enter gaily when he is stopped by a theatre -official who demands his “form.” - -“Form? What form? I have none.” - -“Go back to the stage door, sign your name and address there, and -fill in the printed form you will get there,” says this gentleman in -stentorian tones that cause the poor youth to tremble while he inquires: - -“Where _is_ the stage door?” - -“Up those stairs, first to the right, and second to the left.” - -Back he goes, and after another wait, during which he notes many others -filling in forms one by one and asking endless questions, he gets the -book, signs his name, and receives a form in which he enters _name_, -_voice_, _previous experience_, _height_, and _age_. There is also a -column headed “_Remarks_,” which the would-be actor feels inclined -to fill with superlative adjectives, but is informed that “the stage -manager fills in this column himself.” - -At last he is on the stage, and after all the ladies have sung and -some of the men, his name is called and he steps breezily down to the -footlights. Ere he reaches them, however, some one to his left says: - -“Where is your music?” and some one else to his right: - -“Where is your form?” - -He hands the form to a person seated at a table, and turning round -sees a very ancient upright piano, where he gives his music to the -accompanist. Then comes a trying moment. The youth has specially chosen -a song with a long introduction so as to allow time to compose himself. -But that introduction is omitted, for the accompanist in a most -inconsiderate manner starts two bars from the end of it and says: - -“Now then, please, if you’re ready.” - -The singer gets through half a verse, when he is suddenly stopped by: - -“Sing a scale, please.” - -He sings an octave, and is about to exhibit his beautiful tenor notes, -when he is again interrupted by the question: - -“How low can you go?” - -He climbs down, and with some difficulty manages an A. - -“Is that as deep as you can get?” - -“Yes, but I’m a tenor. Shall I sing my high notes?” - -A voice from the front calls out, “Your name.” - -All this is abruptly disconcerting, and the lad peers into Cimmerian -darkness. In the stalls he sees two ghost-like figures, as “in a glass -dimly.” These are the manager and the composer of the new piece, while -a few rows behind, two or three more spirits may be noted flitting -restlessly about in the light thrown from the stage. - -“Mr. A——” again says that voice from the front. - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Did you say you were a tenor?” - -“Yes.” - -“Ah, I’m afraid we’ve just chosen the last one wanted. We had a voice -trial yesterday, you know.” And the tone sounded a dismissal. - -“May I not sing the last verse of my song?” the young fellow almost -gasps. - -“If you like.” He does like, and the two figures in front lean over in -conversation; but he thinks he detects a friendly nod. - -“Have we your address?” asks one of them. - -“Yes, sir, I left it at the stage door.” - -“Thank you; we’ll communicate with you should we require your -services.” The tenor is about to murmur his thanks, when another voice -from the side of the stage calls, “Mr. Jones, please,” and he hurries -off, hearing the same questions from the two attendant spirits, “Where -is your form?” “Where is your music?” addressed to the new-comer. - -Just as he reaches the door he hears Mr. Jones stopped after three bars -with “Thank you, that will do. Mr. Smith, please.” - -This is balm to his soul; after all, he was not hurried off so quickly, -and he passes out into the light of day with the “Where is your form?” -“Where is your music?” “Bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get -anything,” still ringing in his ears. And so to tea with what appetite -he may bring at a quarter to seven instead of three o’clock as arranged. - -Ten weary days pass—he receives no letter, hears nothing. He has almost -given up all hope of that small but certain income, when a type-written -missive arrives: - -“Kindly attend rehearsal at the —— Theatre on Tuesday next at twelve -o’clock.” - -The words swim before his eyes. Can it be true? Can he be among the -successful ones after all? He is so excited he is scarcely able to -eat or sleep, waiting for Tuesday to come. It does come at last, and -he sets out for the theatre, thinking he will not betray further -ignorance, and arrives fashionably late at a quarter to one. This time -he sees no signs of life at the stage door. - -“Of course, now that I belong to the theatre, I must go in through the -front of the house, not at the side entrance,” he says to himself. -Round, therefore, he goes to the front, where some one sitting in the -box office asks: - -“What can I do for you?” - -“Nothing, thanks; I am going to rehearsal.” - -“You’re late. The chorus have started nearly an hour.” - -Good chance here to make an impression. - -“Chorus? I’m a principal.” This is not quite true at the moment, but -may be in a year or two. - -“Principal? Then you’re too early, sir! Principals won’t be called for -another three weeks.” - -The tenor slinks out and goes round to the stage door again, where -“You’re very late, sir,” is the door-keeper’s greeting. “I should -advise you to hurry up, they started some time ago. You’ll find them up -in the saloon. On to the stage, straight through to the front of the -house, and up to the back of the circle.” - -He goes down on the stage, where he finds the same old piano going, -and some one sitting in the stalls, watching a girl in a blouse and -flaming red petticoat, who is dancing, whilst three or four other girls -in various coloured petticoats, none wearing skirts, are waiting their -turn. In the distance he hears sounds of singing, which make the most -unpleasant discord with the dance tune on the stage. The accompanist -points to an iron door at the side, passing through which the youth -finds himself outside another door leading to the stalls, and, guided -by his ear, finally reaches the saloon. He enters unobserved to find it -filled with some forty girls and men, standing or sitting about, and -singing from printed copies of something. Sitting down he looks over -his neighbour’s shoulder, and notices that each copy has printed on it -“PROOF COPY. PRIVATE.” After half an hour the stage manager, who has -been standing near the piano, says: - -“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that will do: back in an hour, -please. Is Mr. A—— here? And Mr. A—— replies “Yes,” and is told to -wait, and asked why he did not answer to his name before. - -“I was a little late, I fear.” - -“Don’t be late again, or I shall have to fine you.” - -Off he goes to luncheon, and returns with the rest, who after a further -three hours’ work are dismissed for the day. - -This goes on for six hours a day, during a fortnight, when the chorus -is joined by eight more ladies and gentlemen styled “Small-part -people,” who, however, consider themselves very great people all the -same. - -Next the young man is told that in two days every one must be able to -sing without music, as rehearsals will commence on the stage. In due -course comes the first rehearsal on the stage, and after a couple of -days _Position_, _Gestures_, and _Business_ are all taken up in turn. - -The saloon is then used by the principals, who have now turned up, and -in the intervals of rest the chorus can hear sounds of music floating -toward them. - -In another week the principals join the company on the stage, and -are told their places, while all principals read from their parts at -first, such being the etiquette even if they know their lines. Books -are soon discarded, however, and rehearsals grow rapidly longer, -while everything shows signs of active progress towards production. -Scenery and properties begin to be on view, and every one is sent to be -measured for costumes, wigs, and boots. Then comes the first orchestral -rehearsal, and finally, a week before the production, night rehearsals -start in addition to day, so that people positively live in the theatre -from 11.30 in the morning till 11.30 at night or later. Apart from -all the general rehearsals there are extra rehearsals before or after -these, for the dances. - -There are generally two or three semi-dress rehearsals, followed by the -full-dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon at two o’clock, or sometimes -seven in the evening, when all the reserved seats are filled with -friends of the management or company, various professionals connected -in any way with the stage, and a number of artists and journalists, -making sketches for the papers. At the end of each act the curtain is -rung up and flash-light photographs taken of the effective situation -and the _finale_, and so at last the curtain rises on the first night. -Nine weeks’ rehearsal were given for a comic opera lately, and no one -was paid for his or her services during all that time. It only ran for -six weeks, when the salaries ceased. - -In comic opera there are such constant changes, of dialogue, songs, and -alterations, that the company have a general rehearsal at least once a -fortnight on the average, right through the run of a piece, and there -is always an entire understudying company ready to go on at any moment. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -_A GIRL IN THE PROVINCES_ - - Why Women go on the Stage—How to prevent it—Miss Florence St. - John—Provincial Company—Theatrical Basket—A Fit-up Tour—A Theatre - Tour—Répertoire Tour—Strange Landladies—Bills—The Longed-for - Joint—Second-hand Clothes—Buying a Part—Why Men Deteriorate—Oceans - of Tea—E. S. Willard—Why he Prefers America—A Hunt for Rooms—A - Kindly Clergyman—A Drunken Landlady—How the Dog Saved an Awkward - Predicament. - - -It is continually being asked: Why do women crowd the stage? - -The answer is a simple one—because men fail to provide for them. -If every man, willing and able to maintain a wife, married, there -would still be over a million women left. Many women besides these -“superfluous” ones will never marry—many husbands will die, and leave -their widows penniless, and therefore several millions of women in -Great Britain must work to live. Their parents bring them into the -world, but they do not always give them the means of livelihood. - -Marriage with love is entering a heaven with one’s eyes shut, but -marriage without love is entering hell with them open. - -What then? - -Women must work until men learn to protect and provide for, not only -their wives, but their mothers, daughters, and sisters. All men should -respect the woman toiler who prefers work to starvation, as all must -deplore the necessity that forces her into such a position. Women of -gentle blood are the greatest sufferers; brought up in luxury, they -are often thrust on the world to starve through no fault of their own -what ever. The middle-class father should also be obliged to make some -provision by insurance for every baby girl, which will enable her to -live, and give her at least the necessities of life, so that she may -not be driven to sell herself to a husband, or die of starvation. -The sons can work for themselves, and might have a less expensive -up-bringing, so that the daughters may be provided for by insurance, if -the tragedies of womanhood now enacted on every side are to cease. - -It is no good for young men to shriek at the invasion of the labour -market by women: the young men must deny themselves a little and -provide for their women folk if it is to be otherwise. It is no good -grinding down the wages of women workers, for that does harm to men -and women alike, and only benefits the employer. Women must work as -things are, and women do work in spite of physical drawbacks, in spite -of political handicap, in spite—too often—of lack of sound education. -The unfortunate part is that women work for less pay than men, under -far harder conditions, and the very men who abuse them for competing -on their own ground, are the men who do not raise a hand to make -provision for their own women folk, or try in any way to help the -present disastrous condition of affairs. - -Men can stop this overcrowding of every profession by women if they -really try, and until they do so they should cease to resent a state of -affairs which they themselves have brought about. - -Luckily there is hardly any trade or profession closed to women to-day. -They cannot be soldiers, sailors, firemen, policemen, barristers, -judges, or clergymen in England, but they can be nearly everything -else. Even now, in these so-called enlightened days, men often leave -what money they have to their sons and let chance look after their -daughters. They leave their daughters four alternatives—to starve, to -live on the bitter bread of charity, to marry, or to work. Independent -means is a heritage that seldom falls to the lot of women. There are -too many women on the stage as there are too many women everywhere -else; but on the stage as in authorship, women are at least fairly -treated as regards salary, and can earn, and do earn, just as much as -men. - -The provinces are the school of actors and actresses, so let us now -turn to a provincial company, for after all the really hard work of -theatrical life is most severely felt in the provinces. A pathetic -little account of early struggles appeared lately from the pen of Miss -Florence St. John. At fourteen years of age she sang with a Diorama -along the South coast, and a few months after she married. Her parents -were so angry they would have nothing more to do with her, and not -long afterwards her husband’s health failed and he died. Sheer want -pursued her during those years. - -“My efforts to secure work seemed almost hopeless.” - -That is the _crux_ of so many theatrical lives. Those eight words so -often appear—and yet there are sanguine people who imagine employment -can always be obtained on the stage for the mere asking, which is not -so; but let us now follow the fortunes of a lucky one. - -After a play has been sufficiently coached in London, at the last -rehearsal a “call” is put up on the board, which says: - -“_Train call._ All artistes are to be at —— Station at —— o’clock on such -and such a date. Train arrives at A—— at —— o’clock.” - -When the actors reach the station they find compartments engaged for -them, it being seldom necessary nowadays to charter a private train. -Those compartments are labelled in large lettering with the name of the -play for which they have been secured. The party travel third class, -the manager as a rule reserving first-class compartments for himself -and the stars. Generally the others go in twos and twos according to -their rank in the theatre, that is to say, the first and second lady -travel together, the third and fourth, and so on. Often the men play -cards during the whole journey; generally the women knit, read, or -enliven the hours of weary travel by making tea and talk! - -At each of the stations where the train pauses people look into the -carriages in a most unblushing manner, taking a good stare at the -theatrical folk, as if they were wild beasts at the Zoo instead of -human beings. Sometimes also they make personal and uncomplimentary -remarks, such as: - -“Well, she ain’t pretty a bit,” or, “My! don’t she look different hoff -and hon!” - -Each actress has two supplies of luggage, one of which, namely, a -“_theatrical basket_,” contains her stage dresses, and the other the -personal belongings which she will require at her lodgings. As a rule, -ere leaving London she is given two sets of labels to place on her -effects, so that the baggage-man may know where to take her trunks and -save her all further trouble. - -Naturally theatrical folk must travel on Sunday. On a “Fit-Up” tour, -when they arrive at the station of the town in which they are to play, -each woman collects her own private property, and those who can afford -the expense drive off in a cab, while the others—by far the more -numerous—deposit it in the “Left Luggage Office.” After securing a -room, the tired traveller returns to the station and employs a porter -to deliver her belongings. - -Sometimes a girl experiences great difficulty in finding a suitable -temporary abode, for, although in large towns a list of lodgings can -be procured, in smaller places no such help is available, and she may -have to trudge from street to street to obtain a decent room at a cheap -rate. By the time what is wanted is found, she generally feels so weary -she is only too thankful to share whatever the landlady may chance to -have in the way of food, instead of going out and procuring the same -for herself. - -On a “Theatre Tour” the members of a company nearly always engage -their rooms beforehand and order dinner in advance, because they can -go to recognised theatrical lodgings, a list of which may be procured -by applying to the Actors’ Association, an excellent institution -which helps and protects theatrical folk in many ways. When rooms can -be arranged beforehand, life becomes easier; but this is not always -possible, and then poor wandering mummers meet with disagreeable -experiences, such as finding themselves in undesirable lodgings, or -at the tender mercy of a landlady who is too fond of intoxicants. A -liberal use of insect powder is necessary in smaller towns. - -A girl friend who decided to go on the stage has given me some -valuable information gathered during six or seven years’ experience of -provincial theatrical life. Hers are the experiences of the novice, and -bear out Mrs. Kendal’s advice in an earlier chapter. She was not quite -dependent on her profession, having small means, but for which she says -she must have starved many a time during her noviciate. - -“One comes across various types of landladies,” she explained, “but -they are nearly always good-natured, otherwise they would never put up -with the erratic hours for meals, and the late return of their lodgers. -Some of them have been actresses themselves in the olden days, but, -having married, they desire to ‘lead a respectable life,’ by which -remark they wish one to understand that the would-be lodger is not -considered ‘respectable’ so long as she remains in the theatrical -profession. - -“They are sometimes very amusing, at others the reminiscences of their -own experiences prove a little trying; but after all, even such folk -are better than the type of lodging-house-keeper who has come down -in the world, and is always referring to her ‘better days.’ A great -many of these people do not appear ever to have had better days. -Now and then, however, one finds a genuine case and receives every -possible attention, being made happy with flowers—a real luxury when -on tour—nice table linen, fresh towels, all things done in a civilised -manner, and oh dear! what a joy it is to come across such a home.” - -“Are the rooms, then, generally very bare?” I asked. - -“One never finds any luxuries. As a rule one has to be content with -horsehair-covered chairs and sofas, woollen antimacassars, wax or bead -flowers under glass cases, often with the addition of a stuffed parrot -brought home by some favourite sailor son. But simplicity does not -matter at all so long as the lodgings do not smell stuffy. The bedroom -furniture generally consists of the barest necessaries, and if one’s -couch have springs or a soft mattress it proves indeed a delightful -surprise. - -“There is a terrible type of landlady who rushes one for a large bill -just at the last moment. As a rule the account should be brought up on -Saturday night and settled, but this sort of woman generally manages to -put off producing hers until the last moment on Sunday morning, when -one’s luggage is probably on its way to the station. Then she brings -forth a document which takes all the joy out of life, and sends the -unhappy lodger off without a penny in her pocket. Arguing is not of the -slightest use, and if one happens to be a woman, as in my case, she has -to pay what is demanded rather than risk a scene.” - -My friend’s experiences were so practical I asked her many questions, -in reply to some of which she continued: - -“I have always managed to share expenses with some one I knew, which -arrangement, besides being less lonely, reduced the cost considerably; -but even then there is a terrible sameness about one’s food. An egg -for breakfast is very general, as some ‘ladies’ even object to cooking -a rasher of bacon. Jam and other delicacies are beyond our means. -Everlasting chop or steak with potatoes for dinner. One never sees -a joint; it is not possible unless a slice can be begged from the -landlady, in which case one often has to pay dearly for the luxury. - -“We generally have supper after we return from the theatre, from -which we often have to walk home a mile or more after changing. Many -landladies refuse to cook anything hot at night, in which case tinned -tongue or potted meat suffice; but a hot meal, though consisting only -of a little piece of fish or poached eggs, is such a joy when one comes -home tired and worn out, that it is worth a struggle to try to obtain. - -“The least a bill ever comes to in a week is fifteen shillings, and -that after studying economy in every way possible. Even though two of -us lived together I never succeeded in reducing my share below that.” - -“What is the usual day?” - -“One has breakfast as a rule between ten and eleven—earlier, of course, -if a rehearsal has been called for eleven, in which case ten minutes’ -grace is given for the difference in local clocks; any one late after -that time gets sharply reprimanded by the management. After rehearsal -on tour a walk till two or three, a little shopping, dinner 4.30, a -rest, a cup of tea at 6.30, after which meal one again proceeds to the -theatre, home about 11.30, supper and bed. Week in, week out it is -pretty much the same. - -“For the first four years I only earned a guinea a week, and as it was -necessary for me to find all my own costumes for the different parts -in the companies in which I played, I had to visit second-hand shops -and buy ladies’ cast-off ball dresses and things of that sort, although -cheap materials and my sewing machine managed to supply me with day -garments. It is extraordinary what wonderful effects one can get over -the footlights with a dress which by daylight looks absolutely filthy -and tawdry, provided it be well cut; that is why it is advisable to buy -good second-hand clothes when possible. - -“In my own theatre basket I have fourteen complete costumes, and with -these I can go on any ordinary tour. I travelled for some time with a -girl who, though well-born, had out of her miserable guinea a week to -help members of her family at home. She was an excellent needlewoman, -and used to send her sewing-machine with her basket to the theatre, -where she sat nearly all day making clothes or cutting them out for -other members of the company. By these means she earned a few extra -shillings a week, which helped towards the expenses of her kinsfolk. -She was a nice girl, but delicate, and I always felt she ought to have -had all the fresh air possible instead of bending over a sewing-machine -in a stuffy little dressing-room. - -“Of course it is necessary for us to take great care of our private -clothes, and in order to save them I generally keep an old skirt for -trudging backwards and forwards through the dust and dirt, and for -rehearsals, since at some of the ill-kept provincial theatres a good -gown would be ruined in a few days; added to which, one often gets -soaked on the way to and from the theatre, for we can rarely afford -cabs, and even if we could, on a wet night the audience take all -available vehicles, so that by the time the performers are ready to -leave, not one is to be procured.” - -Perhaps it may be well to say a little more concerning the theatre -basket. It looks like a large washing basket, but being made of -wicker-work is light. It is lined inside with mackintosh, and bears the -name of the company to which it belongs on the outside. It is taken to -the theatre on Sunday when the party arrives in the town, and as a rule -each actress goes first thing on Monday morning for rehearsal and to -unpack. The ordinary provincial company usually comprises about five -men and five women, but in important dramas there are many more, and -sometimes a dozen women and girls will have to dress in one room. - -Of course the principal actresses select the best dressing-rooms, and -each chooses according to her rank. Round the wall of the room a table -is fastened, such a table as one might find in a dairy, under which -the dress baskets stand. Those who can afford it, provide their own -looking-glass and toilet-cover to put over their scrap of table, also -sheets to cover the dirty walls, ere hanging up their skirts; but as -every one cannot afford to pay for the washing of such luxuries, many -have to dispense with them. - -There is seldom a green-room in the provinces, so as a rule the -actresses sit upon their own baskets during the waits; and as in many -theatres there are no fireplaces in these little dressing-rooms, and -not always artificial heat, there they remain huddled in shawls waiting -their “call.” - -“The most interesting form of company,” said my friend, “is the -‘Répertoire,’ for that will probably give three different pieces a -week, which is much more lively than performing in the same play every -night for months. - -[Illustration: - - _From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook._ - -MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL.] - -“If any one falls out of the cast through illness or any other reason, -and a new man or woman join the company, a fortnight is required for -rehearsals, and during that fortnight we unfortunate players have to -give our gratuitous services every day for some hours.” - -On asking her whether she thought it wise for a girl to choose the -stage as a profession, she shook her head sadly. - -“I do not think a woman should ever choose the stage as a profession -if she have any person depending upon her, for it is practically -impossible to live on one’s precarious earnings. It is only the lucky -few who can ever hope to make a regular income, and certainly in the -provinces very few of us do even that. Many managers like to engage -husbands and wives for their company, as this means a joint salary and -a saving in consequence. These married couples do not generally get on -well, and certainly fail to impress one with the bliss of professional -wedded life.” - -“What are the chances of success?” I inquired. - -“The chances of getting on at all on the stage are small in these days, -when advancement means one must either have influence at headquarters, -or be able to bring grist to the manager’s mill. It is heart-breaking -for those who feel they could succeed if they were but given a -chance, to see less talented but more influential sisters pushed into -positions. One gradually loses all hope of true merit finding its own -reward, while it is no uncommon thing for a girl to pay down £20 to -be allowed to play a certain part. She may be utterly unfitted for -the _rôle_, but £20 is not to be scoffed at, and she is therefore -pitchforked into it to succeed or fail. In most cases she fails, and -cannot get another engagement unless she produces a second £20. - -“No, I do not consider the stage a good profession for a girl, simply -because there is no authority over her, and few people take enough -interest in the young creature to even warn her of the peril. In the -theatrical profession, and especially on tour, the sexes meet on an -equal footing. No chivalry need be expected, and is certainly rarely -received, because when one is vouchsafed any little attention or -politeness, such as one would naturally claim in society or take for -granted in daily intercourse, it is merely because the man has some -natural instinct which causes him to be polite in spite of adverse -circumstances. - -“The majority of men upon the stage to-day are so-called gentlemen, -but there is something in the life which does not conduce to keep -them up to the standard from which they start. They become careless -in their manners, dress, and conversation, and keep their best side -for the audience. As a rule they are kind-hearted and willing to help -women, but men upon the stage get ‘petty.’ I do not know whether it is -the effect of the paint, the powder, and the clothes, or the fact of -their doing nothing all day, but they certainly deteriorate; one sees -the decadence month by month. They begin by being keen on sport, for -instance, but gradually they find even moving their bicycles about an -expense and leave them behind. They have nowhere to go, are not even -temporary members of clubs, so gradually get into the habit of staying -in bed till twelve or even two o’clock for lack of something to -interest them, and finish the rest of the day in a ‘gin crawl,’ which -simply means sitting in public-houses drinking and smoking. - -“Unfortunately this love of drink sometimes increases, and as alcohol -can be readily procured by the dresser, men and women too, feeling -exhausted, often take things which had better be avoided. You see their -meals are not sufficiently substantial—how can they be on the salary -paid? Girls live on small rations of bread, butter, and oceans of tea, -and the men on endless sausage rolls and mugs of beer.” - -This reminds me of a little chat I had with E. S. Willard. On the -fiftieth night of that excellent play _The Cardinal_, by Louis N. -Parker, at the St. James’s Theatre, a mutual friend came to ask me to -pay a visit behind the stage to the great Mr. Willard. - -We arrived in Mr. Alexander’s sitting-room described elsewhere, at -the end of the third act, and a moment later the rustling silk of the -Cardinal’s robe was heard in the passage. - -“I’m afraid this is unkind of me,” I said: “after that great scene you -deserve a ‘whisky and soda’ instead of a woman and talk.” - -“Not at all,” said this splendid-looking ecclesiastic, seating himself -gaily. “I never take anything of that sort till my work is done.” - -“But you must be fearfully exhausted after such a big scene?” - -“No. It is the eighth performance this week, and the second to-day; -but I’m not really tired, and love my work, although I do enjoy my -Sunday’s rest.” - -Mr. Willard looks handsomer off the stage than on. His strong face -seems to have a kindlier smile, his manner to be even more courtly, -and I was particularly struck with the fact that he wore little or no -make-up. - -“You are an Englishman,” I said, “and yet you have deserted your native -land for America?” - -“Not so. I’m English, of course, though I love America,” was the reply. -“Seven years ago I went across the Atlantic and was successful, then -I had a terrible illness which lasted three years. When I was better -I did not dare start afresh in England and risk failure, so I began -again in the States, where I was sure of the dollars. They have been -so kind to me over there that I do not now like to leave them. You see -America is so enormous, the constant influx of emigrants so great, one -can go on playing the same piece for years and years, as Jefferson is -still doing in _Rip van Winkle_. Here new plays are constantly wanted, -and even if an actor is an old favourite he cannot drag a poor play to -success. Management in London has become a risky matter. Expenses are -enormous, and a few failures mean ruin.” - -Alas! at that moment the wretched little bell which heralds a new act -rang forth, and I barely had time to reach the box before Mr. Willard -was once more upon the stage, continuing his masterly performance. He -is an actor of strong personality, and can ill be spared from England’s -shores. - -But to return to the provinces, and the experiences of the pretty -little actress. - -“The familiarity which necessarily exists between the sexes,” continued -she, “both in acting together at night, and rehearsing together by day, -is in itself a danger to some girls who are unfortunate enough to be -thrown into close companionship with unprincipled men, and have not -sufficient worldly wisdom or instinct to guard against their advances. - -“The idea of the stage door being besieged by admirers is far from true -in the provinces. With musical comedies of rather a low order there may -be a certain amount of hanging about after the performance, but in the -case of an ordinary company this rarely happens. The real danger in the -provinces does not come from outside. - -“Life on tour for a single man is anything but agreeable. He has no one -to look after his clothes, for, needless to say, no landlady will do -that, and therefore both his theatre outfit and his private garments -are always getting torn and worn. As a rule, however, there are capable -women in the company who are willing to sew on buttons, mend, or -darn, and if it were not for their good nature, many men would find -themselves in sorry plight.” - -She was an intelligent, clever girl, and I asked her how she got on the -stage. - -“After having been trained under a well-known manager for six months -and paying him thirty guineas for his services, I was offered an -engagement in one of his companies then starting for a ‘Fit-Up’ -tour through Scotland at a £1 week, payable in two instalments, -namely, 10_s._ on Wednesday and 10_s._ on Saturday. Fortunately, -being a costume play, dresses were provided, but I had to buy tights, -grease-paint, sandals, and various ornaments, give two weeks’ -rehearsals in London free, play for three nights and live for three -days in Scotland before I received even the first ten shillings. - -“Happily I was the proud possessor of small means, and shared my rooms -and everything with a girl friend who had trained at the same time as -myself, consequently we managed with great care to make both ends meet; -but it was hard work for us even with my little extra money, and what -girls do who have to live entirely on their pay, and put by something -for the time when they are out of an engagement, a time which often -comes, I do not pretend to know. - -“A ‘Fit-Up’ tour is admittedly the most expensive kind of work for -actors, because it means that three nights is the longest period one -ever remains in any town, most of the time being booked for ‘one-night -places’ only. On this particular tour of sixteen weeks there were no -less than sixty ‘one-night places,’ and my total salary amounted to £16. - -“It may sound ridiculous to travel with a dog, but mine proved of the -greatest use to me on more than one occasion. Our first hunt was always -for rooms; the term sounds grand, for the ‘rooms’ generally consisted -of one chamber with a bed sunk into the wall, as they are to-day at a -great public school like Harrow. To get to this abode we sometimes had -to pass through the family apartments, a most embarrassing proceeding, -as the members had generally retired to rest before our return from the -theatre; but still, ‘beggars cannot be choosers,’ and in some ways we -often felt ourselves in that position. - -“Supposing we arrived at a one-night place, we would sally forth and buy - - ¼ lb. tea, - ¼ lb. butter, - 1 small loaf, - ½ lb. steak or chop for dinner, - 2 eggs for breakfast. - -“The landlady’s charge as a rule for two lodgers sharing expenses -varied from 2_s._ 6_d._ to 3_s._ for a single night, or 5_s._ for three -nights, so that the one-night business was terribly extravagant. - -“Being our first tour we were greatly interested by the novelty of -everything; it was this novelty and excitement which carried us -through. We really needed to be sharp and quick, for in that particular -play we had to change our apparel no less than six times. We were Roman -ladies, slaves, and Christians intermittently during the evening, -being among those massacred in the second act, and resuscitated to be -eaten by lions at the end of the play; therefore, while the audience -were moved to tears picturing us being devoured by roaring beasts, we -were ourselves roaring in the wings in imitation of those bloodthirsty -animals. - -“A ‘Fit-Up’ carries all its own scenery, and nearly always goes to -small towns which have no theatre, only a Town Hall or Corn Exchange, -while the dressing-rooms, especially in the latter, are often extremely -funny, being like little stalls in a stable, where we sometimes found -corn on the floor, and could look over at each other like horses in -their stalls. - -“The ‘Fit-Up’ takes its own carpenter, who generally plays two or three -parts during the evening. He has to make the stage fit the scenery or -_vice versâ_, and get everything into working order for the evening -performance. - -“On one occasion we arrived at a little town in Scotland and started -off on our usual hunt for rooms. We were growing tired and depressed; -time was creeping on, and if we did not obtain a meal and rooms soon, -we knew we should have to go to the theatre hungry, and spend that -night in the wings. Matters were really getting desperate when we met -two other members of the company in similar plight. One of them was -boldly courageous, however, and when we saw a clergyman coming towards -us, suggested she should ask him if he knew of any likely place. She -did so, and he very kindly told her to mention his name at an inn where -he was sure they would, if possible, put her and her friend up, but -he added, ‘There is only one room.’ This, of course, did not help my -friend and myself, so after the two had started off we stood wondering -what was to become of us. - -“‘Can you not tell us of any other place?’ we asked. No, he could not, -but at this moment a lady appeared on the scene who asked what we -wanted. We explained the difficulty of our situation, and she pondered -and thought, but intimated there was no lodging she could recommend, -whereupon we proceeded disconsolately on our way, not in the least -knowing what we were to do. - -“A moment or two afterwards we heard some one running behind. It was -the clergyman. Taking off his hat and almost breathless, he exclaimed, -‘My wife wishes to speak to you,’ and lo and behold that dear wife -hurried after him to say she felt so sorry for the position in which we -were placed that she would be very glad if my friend and I would give -her the pleasure of our company and stay at her house for the night. - -“We went. She sent from the vicarage to the station for our belongings, -and we could not have been more kindly treated if we had been her -dearest friends. She had a fire lighted in our bedroom, and there were -lovely flowers on the table when we returned from the theatre. They -took us for a charming expedition to some old ruins on the following -morning, invited friends to meet us at luncheon, and although they did -not go to the theatre themselves at night, they sat up for us and had a -delightful little supper prepared against our return. - -“I shall never forget the great kindness they showed us. I am sure -there are very few people who would be tempted to proffer such courtesy -and hospitality to two wandering actresses; and yet if they only knew -how warmly their goodness was appreciated and how beneficent its -influence proved, they would feel well repaid. - -“In the afternoon when it was time to leave, rain was pouring down, -but that fact did not deter the clergyman from accompanying us to the -station, carrying an umbrella in one hand and a bag in the other, while -his little son followed with a great bunch of flowers. - -“As if to take us down after such luxurious quarters, we fell upon evil -days at the very next town, where we were told it was difficult to get -accommodation at all, and therefore made up our minds to take the first -we met. It did not look inviting, but the woman said that by the time -we had done our shopping she would have everything clean and straight. -We bought our little necessaries, and as the door was opened by a small -boy handed them in to him, saying we were going for a walk but would -be back in less than an hour for tea. On our return we were admitted, -but saw no signs of tea, so rang the bell. No one came. We waited ten -minutes and rang again. A pause. Suddenly the door was burst open and -in reeled the landlady, who banged down a jug of boiling water on the -table and departed. We gazed at each other in utter consternation, -feeling very much frightened, for we both realised she was drunk. - -“We rang again after a time, but as no one attempted to answer our -summons, and it being impossible to make a meal off hot water, I crept -forth to reconnoitre. There was not a soul to be seen, not even the -little boy, but I ventured into the kitchen to try if I could not find -the bread, butter, and tea, so that we might prepare something to eat -for ourselves. While so engaged a sonorous sound made me turn round, -and there upon the floor with her head resting upon a chair in the -corner of the room lay our landlady, dead drunk. It was an appalling -sight. We gathered our things together as quickly as we could and -determined to leave, put a shilling on the table to appease the good -woman’s wrath when she awoke, and were glad to shake the dust of her -home from our feet. - -“Not far off was a Temperance Hotel, the sight of which after our -recent experience we hailed with delight, and where we engaged a -bedroom, to which we repaired, when our evening’s work was finished. - -“My dog, who always lay at the foot of my bed, woke us in the middle of -the night by his low growls. He seemed much perturbed, so we lay and -listened. The cause of his anxiety soon became clear; _some one was -trying to turn the handle of the door_, while the voices of two men -could be heard distinctly, one of which said: - -“‘Only two actresses, go on,’ and then the door handle turned again -and his friend was pushed in. It was all dark, but at that moment my -dog’s growls and barks became so furious and angry as he sprang from -the bed that the man precipitately departed, and we were left in peace, -although too nervous to sleep. - -“Of course we complained next morning, but equally of course the -landlady knew nothing about the matter. These were our best and worst -experiences during my first tour.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -_PERILS OF THE STAGE_ - - Easy to Make a Reputation—Difficult to Keep One—The Theatrical - Agent—The Butler’s Letter—Mrs. Siddons’ Warning—Theatrical - Aspirants—The Bogus Manager—The Actress of the Police - Court—Ten Years of Success—Temptations—Late Hours—An Actress’s - Advertisement—A Wicked Agreement—Rules Behind the Scenes—Edward - Terry—Success a Bubble. - - -Mankind curses bad luck, but seldom blesses good fate. It is -comparatively easy to make a reputation once given a start by kindly -fate; but extremely difficult to maintain one in any walk of life, and -this applies particularly to the stage. - -Happening to meet a very pretty girl who had made quite a hit in the -provinces and was longing for a London engagement, I asked her what her -experience of theatrical agents had been. - -“Perfectly horrible,” she replied, “and heart-breaking into the -bargain. For three whole months I have been daily to a certain office, -and in all this weary time I have only had five interviews with the -manager.” - -“Is it so difficult to get work?” - -“It is almost impossible. When I arrive, the little stuffy office is -more or less crowded; there are women seeking engagements for the -music halls, fat, common, vulgar women who laugh loud and make coarse -jokes; there are sickly young men who want to play lovers’ parts on the -legitimate stage, and who, according to the actors’ habit, never take -their hats off. It is a strange fact that actors invariably rehearse in -hats or caps, and sit in them on all occasions like Jews in synagogues. - -“There are children who come alone and wait about daily for an -engagement, children who have been employed in the pantomime, and whose -parents are more or less dependent on their gains, and there is one -girl, she is between thirteen and fourteen, whom I have met there every -day for weeks and weeks. Seventy-four days after the pantomime closed -she was still without work, and I watched that child get thinner and -paler time by time as she told me with tears in her eyes she was the -sole support of a sick mother. - -“When I go there, the gentleman who has the office makes me shrivel up. - -“‘Do you specialise?’ he asks, peeping over the edge of his gold-rimmed -spectacles. He jots down my replies on a sheet of paper. ‘Character or -juvenile parts?’ he inquires. ‘What salary? Whom have you played with?’ -And having made these and other inquiries he looks through a series -of books, turns over the pages, says, ‘I am sorry I have nothing for -you to-day, you might look in again to-morrow.’ And this same farce or -tragedy is repeated every time.” - -“But is it worth while going?” I asked. - -“Hardly; one wears out one’s shoe-leather and one’s temper; and yet -after all the theatrical agent is practically my only chance of an -engagement. This man is all right, he is not a bogus agent, but he -simply has a hundred applicants for every single post he has to fill.” - -She went back day after day, and week after week, and each time -the same scene was enacted, but no engagement came of it. Finally, -brought to the verge of starvation, she had to accept work again in -the provinces, and so desert an invalid father. She happened to be a -lady, but of course many applicants for histrionic fame ought to be -kitchen-maids or laundry-maids: they have no qualifications whatever to -any higher walk of life. - -Below is an original letter showing the kind of person who wants to go -on the stage. It was sent to one of our best-known actresses when she -was starring with her own company. - - “... CASTLE - “_Oct 19th 1897_ - - “DEAR MADAM - - “i writ you this few lins to see if you would have a opening for me - as i would be an Actor on the Stage for my hole thought and life - is on the stage and when i have any time you will always feind me - readin at some play i make a nice female as i have a very soft - voice Dear Madam i hop you will not refuse me i have got no frends - alive to keep me back and every one tells me that you would make - the best teacher that i could get Dear lady i again ask you not to - refuse me i will go on what ever termes you think best i have been - up at the theatre 4 times seeing you i enclose my Card to let you - see it plese to send it back again and i enclose 12 stamps to you - to telegraf by return if you would like to see me or if you would - like to come down to the Castle to see me No more at present - - “but remans your - “Obedient servant - “Peter W——.” - -This was a letter from a man with aspirations, and below is a letter -from Mrs. Siddons. If this actress, whose position was probably the -grandest and greatest of any woman on the stage, can express such -sentiments, what must be the experiences of less successful players? - - “Mrs. Siddons presents her compliments to Miss Goldsmith, & takes - the liberty to inform her, that altho’ herself she has enjoyed all - the advantages arising from holding the first situation in the - drama, yet that those advantages have been so counterbalanced by - anxiety & mortification, that she long ago resolved never to be - accessory to bringing any one into so precarious & so arduous a - profession.” - -The deterrent words of Mrs. Siddons had little effect in her day, -just as the deterrent words of those at the top of the profession -have little effect now. Consequently, not only does the honest agent -flourish, but the bogus agent and bogus manager grow rich on the -credulity of young men and women. - -Speaking of the bogus manager, Sir Henry Irving observed: - -“The actor’s art is thought to be so easy—in fact, many people deny it -is an art at all—and so many writers persistently assert no preparation -is needed for a career upon the stage, that it is little wonder deluded -people only find out too late that acting, as Voltaire said, is one of -the most rare and difficult of arts. The allurements, too, held forth -by unscrupulous persons, who draw money from foolish folk under the -pretence of obtaining lucrative engagements for them, help to swell -very greatly the list of unfortunate dupes. I hope that these matters -may in time claim the attention of serious-minded persons, for the -increasing number of theatrical applicants for charity, young persons, -too, is little less than alarming.” - -This remark of Sir Henry’s is hardly surprising when below is a -specimen application received by the manager of a London suburban -theatre from a female farm servant in Essex: - - “DEER SUR,—I works hon a farm but wants to turn actin. Would lik - ingagement for the pantomin in hany ways which you think I be fit - for. I sings in the church coir and plais the melodion. I wants to - change my work for the stage, has am sik of farm wark, eas last - tater liftin nigh finished me.” - -Another was written in an almost illegible hand which ran: - - “HONOURED SIR,—i wants to go on the staige i am a servent and my - marster sais i am a good smart made so i wod like to play act mades - parts untill i can do laidies i doant mind wages for a bit as i - like your acting i’d like to act in your theter so i am going to - call soon.” - -Truly the assurance of people is amazing; to imagine they can enter the -theatrical profession without even common education is absurd. Only -lately another stage-struck servant appeared in the courts. Although an -honest girl, she was tempted to steal from her mistress to pay £3 7_s._ -to an agent for a problematical theatrical engagement. She is only one -of many. - -One day a woman stood before a manager. She had been so persistent for -days in her desire to see him, and appeared so remarkable, that the -stage door-keeper at last inquired if he might admit her. - -“Please, sir, I wants to be an actress,” she began, on entering the -manager’s room. - -“Do you? And what qualifications have you?” - -“I’m a cook.” - -“That, my good woman, will hardly help you on the stage.” - -“And I’ve been to the the-a-ters with my young man—I’m keeping company -with ’im ye know, and——” - -“Well, well.” - -“And ’e and I thinks you ain’t got the right tone of hactress for them -parts. Now I’m a real cook I am, and I don’t wear them immoral ’igh -’eels, and tiny waists, I dresses respectable I do, and I’d just give -the right style to the piece. My pal—she’s a parlourmaid she is—could -do duchesses and them like—she’s the air she ’as—but I ain’t ambitious, -I’d just like to be what I am, and show people ’ow a real cook should -be played—Lor’ bless ye, sir, I don’t cook in diamond rings.” - -That manager did not engage the lady; but he learnt a lesson in realism -which resulted in Miss FitzClair being asked to dispense with her rings -on the stage that night. - -With a parting nod the “lady” said as she left the door: - -“Your young man don’t make love proper neither, you should just see -’ow ’Arry makes love you should, he’d make you all sit up, I know, he -does it that beautiful he do—your man’s a arf-’arted bloke ’e is, seems -afraid of the gal, perhaps it’s ’er ’igh ’eels and diamonds ’e’s afraid -of, eh?” - -The lady took herself off. - -These are only a few instances to show how all sorts and conditions of -people are stage-struck. That delightful man Sir Walter Besant lay down -an excellent rule for young authors, “Never pay to produce a book”—it -spells ruin to the aspirant. The same may be said of the stage. _Never -part with money to get on the stage._ It may be advisable to accept a -little if one cannot get much; but never, never to pay for a footing. -Services will be accepted while given free or paid for, and dispensed -with when the time comes for payment to be received. - -Among the many temptations of stage life is drink. The actor feels a -little below par, he has a great scene before him, and while waiting -in his dressing-room for the “call boy” he flies to a glass of whiskey -or champagne. He gets through the trying ordeal, comes off the boards -excited and streaming at every pore, flings himself into a chair, and -during the time his dresser is dragging him out of his clothes, or -rubbing him down, yields to the temptation of another glass. Many of -our actors are most abstemious, though more than one prominent star has -been known to mumble incoherently on the stage. - -_Matinée_ days are always a strain for every one in the theatre, and -there are people foolish enough to think a little stimulant will enable -them to get through, not knowing a continuance of forced strength -spells damnation. - -Yes. The stage is surrounded by temptations. Morally, extravagantly, -and alcoholically the webs of excess are ready to engulf the unwary, -and therefore, when people keep straight, run fair, and save their -pennies, they are to be congratulated, and deserve the approbation of -mankind. He who has never been tempted, is not a hero in comparison -with the man who has turned aside from the enticing wiles of sin. - -There is a certain class of woman who continually appears in the police -courts, described as an “actress.” She is always “smartly dressed,” -and is generally up before the magistrate or judge for being “drunk -and disorderly”—suing her husband or some one else for maintenance—or -claiming to have some grievance for a breach of promise or lost -jewellery. - -These “ladies” often describe themselves as actresses: and perhaps -they sometimes are; but if so they are no honour to their profession. -There is another stamp of woman who becomes an actress by persuading -some weak man to run a theatre for her. Sympathy between men and women -is often dangerous. She generally ends by ruining him, and he in -running away from her. These bogus actresses, with their motor cars and -diamonds, are more dangerous and certainly more attractive than the -bogus manager. They are the vultures who suck young men’s blood. They -are the flashy, showy women who attract silly servant-girls with the -idea the stage spells wealth and success; but they are the scourge of -the profession. - -Good and charming women are to be found upon the stage. Virtue usually -triumphs; they are happy in their home life, devoted to their children, -sympathetic to their friends, and generous almost to a fault. The -leading actresses are, generally speaking, not only the best exponents -of their art, but the best women too. The flash and dash come to the -police courts, and end their days in the workhouse. - -The stage at best means very, very hard work, and theatrical success -is only fleeting in most cases. It must be seized upon when caught -and treated as a fickle jade, because money and popularity both take -wings and fly away sooner than expected. In all professions men and -women quickly reach their zenith, and if they are clever may hold that -position for ten years. After that decline is inevitable and more -rapid than the ascent has been. - -If a reputation is to be made, it is generally achieved by either -man or woman before the age of forty. By fifty the summit of fame is -reached, and the downward grade begun. One can observe this again and -again in every profession. - -A great actor, doctor, lawyer, writer, or painter has ten years of -success, and if he does not provide for his future during those ten -years, ’tis sad for him. As the tide turns on the shore, so the tide -turns on the careers of men and women alike. - -Public life is not necessarily bad. In the first place, it is only -the man with strong individuality who can ever attain publicity. He -must be above the ordinary ruck and gamut, or he will never receive -public recognition. If, therefore, he is stronger than his brother, -he should be stronger also to resist temptation, to disdain self-love -or vainglory. The moment his life becomes public he is under the -microscope, and should remember his influence is great for good or -ill. Popular praise is pleasant, but after all it means little; one’s -own conscience is the thing, that alone tells whether we have given -of our best or reached our ideal. The true artist is never satisfied, -therefore the true artist never suffers from a swelled head; it is the -minor fry who enjoy that ailment. - -The temptations behind the footlights are enormous. It is useless -denying the fact. One may love the stage, and count many actors and -actresses among one’s friends; but one cannot help seeing that -theatrical life is beset by dangers and pitfalls. - -Young men and women alike are run after and fawned upon by foolish -people of both sexes. Morally this is bad. Actors are flattered and -worshipped as though they were little gods. This in itself tends to -evoke egotism. The gorgeous apparel of the theatre makes men and -women extravagant in their dress; the constant going backwards and -forwards in all weathers inclines them to think they must save time or -themselves by driving; the fear of catching cold makes them indulge -in cabs and carriages they cannot afford, and extravagance becomes -their besetting sin. Every one wants to look more prosperous than his -neighbour, every recipient of forty shillings a week wishes the world -to think his salary is forty pounds. - -Apart from pay, the life is exacting. The leaders of the profession -seldom sup out: they are tired after the evening’s work, and know that -burning the candle at both ends means early extinction, but the Tottie -Veres and Gladys Fitz-Glynes are always ready to be entertained. - -The following advertisement appeared one day in a leading London paper: - - “STAGE.—I am nearly eighteen, tall, fair, good-looking, have - a little money, and wish to adopt the stage as a profession. - Engagement wanted.” - -What was the result? Piles of letters, containing all sorts of -offers to help Miss A—— to her doom. A certain gentleman wrote from -a well-known fashionable club, the letter being marked _Private_, -saying: “I should like if possible to assist you in your desire to -go on the stage, but I am not professional myself in any way. This -is purely a matter in which I might be happy to take an interest and -assist, if you think proper to communicate with me by letter, stating -exactly the circumstances, and when I can have an interview with you -on the subject.” This letter might be capable of many interpretations. -The gentleman might, of course, have been purely philanthropic in his -motives; we will give him the benefit of the doubt. - -Others were yet more strange and suggestive of peril for the girl of -eighteen. - -What might have been the end of all this? Supposing Miss A—— had -granted an interview to No. 1. Supposing further he had advanced the -money for the novice to buy an engagement, what might have proved -her fate? She would have been in his clutches—young, inexperienced, -powerless, in the hands of a man who, if really philanthropic, could -easily have found persons needing interest and assistance among his own -immediate surroundings, instead of going wide afield to dispense his -charity and selecting for the purpose an unknown girl of eighteen who -innocently stated she was good-looking. - -Miss Geneviève Ward, a woman who has climbed to the top of her -profession, allows me to tell the following little story about herself -as a warning to others, for it was only her own genius—a very rare -gift—which dragged her to the front. - -[Illustration: - - _By permission of W. Boughton & Sons, Photographers, Lowestoft._ - - _Here I am_— - - _my dear old friend!_ - - “_Gee Gee_” - -MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH.] - -When she first came to England, with a name already well established -in America, expecting an immediate engagement, she could not get work -at all. She applied to the best-known theatrical agents in London. Day -after day she went there, she a woman in her prime and at the top of -her profession, and yet she was unable to obtain work. - -“Tragedy is dead, Miss Ward,” exclaimed Mr. B——. “Young women with fine -physical developments are what we want.” - -It was not talent, not experience, that were required according to this -well-known agent, but legs and arms—a poor standard, truly, for the -drama of the country. - -However, at last there came a day, after many weary months of waiting, -when some one was wanted to play tragedy at Manchester. It was only -a twelve weeks’ engagement, and the pay but £8 a week. It was a -ridiculous sum for one in Miss Ward’s position to accept, but she was -worn out with anxiety, and determined not to go back to America and own -herself vanquished; therefore she accepted the offer, paid the agent -heavily, and went to Manchester, where she played for twelve weeks as -arranged. Before many nights had passed, however, she had signed a -further engagement at double the pay. Her chance in England had come -and she had won. - -If such delay, such misery, such anxiety can befall those whose -position is already established, and whose talents are known, what must -await the novice? - -“I suppose I have kept more girls off the stage than any living woman,” -said Miss Ward. “Short, ugly, fat, common, hopeless girls come to me to -ask my advice. There is not one in twenty who has the slightest chance, -not the very slightest chance, of success. Servants come, dressmakers, -wives of military men, daughters of bishops and titled folk. The mania -seems to spread from high to low, and yet hardly one of them has a -voice, figure, carriage, or anything suitable for the stage, even -setting dramatic talent aside.” - -“What do you say to them?” - -“Tell them right out. I think it is kinder to them, and more generous -to the drama. ‘Mind you,’ I say, ‘I am telling you this for your own -good; if I consulted personal profit I should take you as a pupil and -fill my pocket with your guineas; but you are hopeless, nothing could -possibly make you succeed with such a temperament, or voice, or size, -or whatever it may be, so you had better turn your attention at once to -some other occupation.’” - -I have known several cases in which Miss Ward has been most kind by -helping real talent gratuitously; many of the women on the stage to-day -owe their position to her timely aid. - -“Warn girls,” she continued, “when asked for a bonus, _never_, NEVER to -give one.” - -It is no uncommon thing for a bogus agent to ask for a £10 bonus, and -promise to secure an engagement at £1 a week. That engagement is never -procured, or, if it be, lasts only during rehearsals—which are not paid -for—or for a couple of weeks, after which the girl is told she does -not suit the part, and dismissed. Thus the matter ends so far as a -triumphal stage entry is concerned. - -It may be well here to give an actual case of bonus as an example. - -A wretched girl signed an agreement to the following effect. She was -to pay £20 down to the agent as a fee, to provide her own dresses and -travelling expenses, and to play the first four months without any -salary at all. At the expiration of that time she was to receive 10_s._ -a week for six months, with an increase of £1 a week for the following -year. - -On this munificent _want_ of salary the girl was expected to pay -rent, dress well for the stage, have good food so as to be able to -fulfil her engagements properly, attend endless rehearsals, and withal -consider herself fortunate in obtaining a hearing at all. She broke -the engagement on excellent advice, and the agent wisely did not take -action against her, as he at first threatened to do. - -In the sixties Edward Terry essayed the stage. Seeing an advertisement, -the future comedian offered his services at a salary of 15_s._ a week. - -Above the door was announced in grand style: - -“Madame Castaglione’s Dramatic Company, taking advantage of the closing -of the Theatres Royal Covent Garden, Drury Lane, Lyceum, etc., will -appear at Christchurch for six nights only.” - -It was an extraordinary company, in which several parts were acted by -one person during the same evening. There was only one play-book, from -which every actor copied out his own part, no one was ever paid, and -general chaos reigned. Edward Terry had fallen into the hands of one of -the most notorious bogus managers of his time. His next engagement was -more lucrative. He was always sure of playing eighteen parts a week, -and sometimes received 20_s._ in return. Matters are better now; but -strange stories of early struggle crop up occasionally, and the bogus -manager-agent, in spite of the Actors’ Association and the Benevolent -Fund, still exists. - -Edward Terry had to fight hard in order to attain a position, and -thoroughly deserves all the success that has fallen to his lot; but all -stage aspirants are not Edward Terrys, and then their plight in the -hands of the bogus agent is sad indeed, especially in the provinces -where he flourishes. - -Those who know the stage only from the front of the house little -realise the strict regulations enforced behind the scenes in our -first-class London theatres, the discipline of which is almost as -severe as that of a Government office. Each theatre has its code of -rules and regulations, which generally number about twenty, but are -sometimes so lengthy they are embodied in a handbook. These rules and -regulations have to be signed by every one, from principal to super, -and run somewhat in this wise: - -“The hair of the face must be shaven if required by the exigencies of -the play represented.” - -“All engagements to be regarded as exclusive, and no artiste shall -appear at any other theatre or hall without the consent in writing of -the manager or his representative.” - -“All artistes engaged are to play any part or parts for which they may -be cast, and to understudy if required.” - -“In the event of the theatre being closed through riot, fire, public -calamity, royal demise, epidemic, or illness of principal, no salary -shall be claimed during such closing.” - -A clause in a comic opera agreement ran: - -“No salary will be payable for any nights or days on which the artiste -may not perform, whether absenting himself by permission, or through -illness, or any other unavoidable cause, and should the artiste -be absent for more than twelve consecutive performances under any -circumstances whatever, this engagement may be cancelled by the manager -without any notice whatsoever.” - -Thus it will be seen an engagement even when obtained hangs on a -slender thread, and twelve days’ illness, although an understudy may -step in to take the part, threatens dismissal for the unfortunate -sufferer. - -Of course culpable negligence of the rules may be punished by instant -dismissal, but for ordinary offences fines are levied, in proportion -to the salary of the offender. Sometimes a fine is sixpence, sometimes -a guinea, but an ordinary one is half a crown “for talking behind the -scenes during a performance.” Some people are always being fined. - -In the case of legitimate drama the actor is not permitted to “build -up” his part at his own sweet will; in comic opera, however, “gagging” -and “business” have often gone far to make success. - -The upholder of law and order behind the scenes is the stage manager. -If power gives happiness he should be happy, but his position is such -a delicate one, and tact so essential, that it is often difficult -for him to be friendly with every one and yet a strict and impartial -disciplinarian. - -Life is a strange affair. We all try to be alike in our youth, -and individual in our middle age. As we grow up we endeavour to -shake ourselves out of that jelly-mould shape into which school -education forces us, although we sometimes mistake eccentricity for -individuality. Just as much real joy comes to the woman who has -darned a stocking neatly or served a good dinner, as is vouchsafed -by public praise; just as much pleasure is felt by the man who has -helped a friend, or steered a successful bargain. In the well-doing is -the satisfaction, not in indiscriminate and ofttimes over-eulogistic -applause. - -Stage aspirants soon learn those glorious press notices count for -naught, and they cease to bring a flutter to the heart. - -Success is but a bubble. It glistens and attracts the world as the -soap globe glistens and attracts the child. It is something to strive -for, something to catch, something to run after and grasp securely; -yet, after all, what is it? It is but a shimmer—the bubble bursts in -the child’s hand, the glistening particles are nothing, the ball once -gained is gone. Is not success the same? We long for, we strive to -attain our goal, and then find nothing but emptiness. - -If we are not satisfied with ourselves, if we know our best work has -not yet been attained, that we have not reached our own high standard, -worldly success has merely pricked the bubble of ambition, that bubble -we had thought meant so much and which really is so little. People -are a queer riddle. One might liken them to flowers. There are the -beautiful roses, the stately lilies, the prickly thorns and clinging -creepers; there are the weeds and poisonous garbage. Society is the -same. People represent flowers. Some live long and do evil, some live -a short while and do good, sweetening all around them by the beauty of -their minds. Our friends are like the blooms in a bouquet, our enemies -like the weeds in our path. - -What diversified people we like. This woman excites our admiration -because she is beautiful, that one because she is clever, yon lady is -sympathetic, and the trend of the mind of the fourth stimulates our -own. They are absolutely dissimilar, that quartette, we like them all, -and yet they have no points in common. It does us good to be with some -people, they have an ennobling, refining, or softening effect upon -us—it does us harm to be with others. - -And so we are all many people in one. We adapt ourselves to our friends -as we adapt our clothes to the weather. We expand in their sunshine and -frizzle up in their sarcasm. We are all actors. All our life is merely -human drama, and imperceptibly to ourselves we play many parts, and -yet imagine during that long vista of years and circumstances we are -always the same. - -We act—you and I—but we act ourselves, and the professional player acts -some one else; but that is the only difference, and it is less than -most folk imagine. - -Love of the stage is the fascination of the mysterious, which is the -most insidious of all fascinations. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -“_CHORUS GIRL NUMBER II. ON THE LEFT_” - -+A Fantasy Founded on Fact+ - - Plain but Fascinating—The Swell in the - Stalls—Overtures—Persistence—Introduction at Last—Her Story—His - Kindness—Happiness crept in—Love—An Ecstasy of Joy—His Story—A Rude - Awakening—The Result of Deception—The Injustice of Silence—Back to - Town—Illness—Sleep. - - -The curtain had just risen; the orchestra was playing the music of -the famous operetta _Penso_, when a man in the prime of life in a -handsome fur coat entered the stalls. He was alone. Having paid for his -programme and taken off his furs, he quietly sat down to survey the -scene. - -The chorus was upon the stage; sweeping his glasses from end to end -of the line of girls upon the boards, his eyes suddenly lighted upon -the second girl on the left. She was not beautiful. She had a pretty -figure, and a most expressive face; but her features were irregular -and her mouth was large. Far more lovely girls stood in that row, many -taller, with finely chiselled features and elegant figures, but only -that girl—_Number II. on the Left_—caught and riveted his attention. -He looked and looked again. What charm did she possess, he wondered, -which seemed to draw him towards her? She was singing, and making -little curtsies like the others in time to the music: she was waving -her arms with those automatic gesticulations the chorus learn; she was -smiling, and yet behind it all he seemed to see an unutterable sadness -in the depths of her dark grey eyes. The girl fascinated him; he -listened not to the music of _Penso_, he hardly looked at any one else; -so long as _Number II. on the Left_ remained upon the stage his entire -thoughts were with her. She enchained, she almost seemed to hypnotise -him, and yet she seldom looked his way. During the _entr’acte_ Allan -Murray went outside to try and discover the name of _Number II. on the -Left_. No one, however, was able to tell him, or if they were, they -would not. - -Disappointed he returned to his seat in time for the second act. She -had changed her dress, and the new one was perhaps less becoming than -the first. - -“She is not pretty,” he kept repeating to himself, “but she is young. -She is neither a great singer nor a dancer, but she is a gentlewoman.” - -So great was the fascination she had exerted over the man of the world, -that he returned the next night to a seat in the stalls, and as he -gazed upon the operetta he felt more than ever convinced that there was -some great tragedy lying hidden behind the smiling face of _Number II. -on the Left_. He desired to unravel it. - -A short time before Christmas, being absolutely determined to find out -who she was, he succeeded in worming the information from some one -behind the scenes. Her real name was Sarah Hopper—could anything be -more hideous?—her professional one Alwyn FitzClare—could anything be -more euphonious? He went off to his club after one of the performances -was over, and wrote her a note. Days went by and he received no answer. -Then he purchased some beautiful flowers and sent them to the stage -door for Miss Alwyn FitzClare with his compliments. Still no answer; -but in the meantime he had been back to the theatre, and had been even -more struck than before with the appearance of the girl, and felt sorry -for the look of distress he thought he saw lurking behind her smiles. - -It was now two days before Christmas, and writing her a note begging -her not to take it amiss from a stranger, who wished her a very -pleasant Christmas, he enclosed two five-pound notes, hoping she would -drink his health and remember she had given great pleasure to one of -her audience. - -Christmas morning brought him back the two notes with a formal stiff -little letter, saying that Miss FitzClare begged to return her thanks -and was quite unable to accept gifts from a stranger. - -For weeks and weeks he occupied a stall at the theatre, whenever he -had an off-night. He continued to write little notes to Miss Alwyn -FitzClare, but never received any reply. However, at last he ventured -to beg that she would grant him an interview. If she would only tell -him where she came from, or give him an inkling of her position, he -would find some means to obtain a formal introduction. She answered -this letter not quite so stiffly as the former one containing the -bank-notes, and stated that she came from Ipswich. Time passed; he -succeeded in gaining an introduction, and sent it formally to _Number -II. on the Left_. At the same time he invited her to lunch with him -at a famous restaurant. She accepted; she came out of curiosity, she -ultimately vowed, although in spite of the introduction, and in spite -of the months of persuasion on his part, she felt doubtful as to the -wisdom of doing so. - -The girl who had looked plain but interesting upon the stage, appeared -before him in a neat blue serge costume, well fitting and undecorated, -and struck Mr. Murray as very much better looking, and smarter -altogether in the capacity of a private person than she did in the -chorus. “A gentlewoman” was writ big all over her. No one could look at -her a second time and not feel that she was well born. - -“Do you know,” she said, “I often have funny letters from people on the -other side of the footlights; but yours is the only one I ever answered -in my life. Tell me why you have been so persistent?” - -“Because of the trouble in your face,” he answered. - -“In mine? But I am always laughing on the stage—that is part of the -duty of the chorus.” - -“Yes,” he replied, “you laugh outwardly; but you cry inwardly. It was -your sad expression which first attracted my attention.” - -He was very sympathetic and very kind, and gradually she told him her -story. Her father had been a solicitor of good birth. He had a large -practice, but dying suddenly left a family of nine children, all under -the age of twenty, practically unprovided for, for the small amount for -which his life was insured soon dwindled away in meeting the funeral -expenses and settling outstanding bills. - -“I was not clever enough to become a governess,” she said, “I had not -been educated for a secretary—in fact, I had no talent of any sort or -kind except the ability to sing a little. Luck and hard work brought me -the chance of being able to earn a guinea a week on the stage, out of -which I manage to live and send home a shilling or so to help mother -and the children.” - -It was a tragic little story—one of many which a great metropolis -can unfold, where men bring children into the world without giving a -thought to their future, and leave them to be dragged up on the bitter -bread of charity, or to work in that starvation-mill which so many -well-born gentlewomen grind year after year. - -The rich gentleman and _Number II. on the Left_ became warm friends. -Months went by and they often met. She lunched with him sometimes; -they spent an occasional Sunday on the river, and she wrote to him, -and he to her, on the days when they did not meet. She was very proud; -she would accept none of his presents, she would not take money, and -was always most circumspect in her behaviour. Gradually that sad look -melted away from her eyes, and a certain beauty took its place. He was -kind to her, and by degrees, little by little, the interest aroused by -her mournful expression deepened—as it disappeared—into love. She, -on her side, looked upon him as a true friend, practically the only -disinterested friend she had in London; and so time wore on, bringing -happiness to both: neither paused to think. Her life was a happy one. -She grew not to mind her work at the theatre, or the sewing she did for -the children at home, sitting hour by hour alone in her little attic -lodging, looking forward to those pleasant Sunday trips which brought a -new joy into her existence. His companionship and friendship were very -precious to this lonely girl in London. - -One glorious hot July Sunday which they spent near Marlow-on-Thames -seemed to Sarah Hopper the happiest day of her life. She loved him, -and she knew it. He loved her; and had often told her so; but more -than that had never passed between them. It was nearly two years since -they first met, during which time the only bright hours in the life -of _Number II. on the Left_ had been those spent in Allan Murray’s -company. His kindness never changed. His consideration for her seemed -to Alwyn delightful. - -On that sunny afternoon they pulled up under the willows for tea, which -she made from a little basket they always took with them. They were -sitting chatting pleasantly, watching the water-flies buzzing on the -stream, throwing an occasional bit of cake to a swan, and thoroughly -enjoying that delightful sense of laziness which comes upon most of us -at the close of a hot day, when seated beneath the shady trees that -overhang the river. - -He took her hand, and played with it absently for a while. - -“Little girl,” he said at last, “this cannot go on. I love you, and -you know it; you love me, and I know that too; but do you love me -sufficiently to give yourself to me?” - -“I don’t think I could love you any more,” she replied, “however hard -I tried, for you have been my good angel for two happy years, you have -been the one bright star of hope, the one pleasant thing in my life. -I love you, _I love you_, I LOVE YOU,” she murmured, as she leaned -forward and laid her cheek upon his hand. He felt her warm breath -thrill through him. - -“I know it, dear,” he said, and a sad pained look crossed his face; -“but what I want to know is, do you care for me sufficiently?” - -“I hardly understand,” she answered, frightened she knew not why. - -“Will you give me the right to keep you in luxury and protect you from -harm?” - -She looked up anxiously, there was something in his words and something -in his tone she did not comprehend. His face was averted, but she saw -how pale and haggard he looked. - -“What do you mean?” she questioned, turning sick with an inexplicable -dread. - -“Could you give up the stage, the world for me? Instead of being your -friend I would be your slave.” - -She seemed to be in a dream; his words sounded strange, his halting -speech, his ashen hue denoted evil. - -“Tell me what you mean,” she cried. - -“Dearest,” he murmured, and then words seemed to fail him. - -“But?” and she looked him through and through, a terrible suspicion -entering her soul, “but——” - -“But,” he replied, turning away from her, “you can never be my wife.” - -“Great God!” exclaimed the girl. “This from the one friend I thought I -had on earth, from the one man I had learned to love and respect. Not -your wife?” she repeated. “Am I losing my senses or are you?” - -“You cannot be my wife,” he reiterated desperately. - -“So you think 1 am not good enough?” she gasped almost hysterically. -“It is true I am only _Number II. on the Left_, and yet I was born a -lady. I am your equal in social standing, and no breath of scandal has -ever soiled my name. You have made love to me for two years, you have -vowed you love me, and now, when you know my whole heart is given to -you, you turn round and coolly say, ‘You are not good enough to be my -wife.’” - -“My darling,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing her fingers until -the blood seemed to stand still within them, “this is torture to me.” - -“And what do you suppose it is to me?” she retorted. “It is not only -torture but insult. You have brought me to this. I loved you so -intensely and trusted you so implicitly, I never paused to think. -I have lived like a blind fool in the present, happy when with -you, dreaming of you when away, drifting on, on, in wild Elysium, -hoping—yes, hoping, I suppose—that some day I might be your wife, or -if not that, at any rate that I could still continue to respect myself -and respect you. To think that you, you, whom I trusted so much, should -insult me like this,” and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed. - -“My darling, I cannot marry,” he replied. “It is not your position, -it is not the stage, it is nothing to do with you that makes me say -so. Had it been possible I should have asked you to be my wife a year -ago or more, but, little girl, dearest love, how can I tell you?” and -almost choking with emotion he added, “_I am a married man_.” - -She left his side and staggered to the other end of the boat, where, -throwing herself upon the cushions, she wept as if her heart would -break. - -“Have I deserved this,” she cried, “that you in smiling guise should -come to me as an emblem of happiness? You have stolen my love from me, -and oh, your poor, poor, wretched wife!” - -She was a good, honest, womanly girl, and even in her own anguish of -heart did not forget she was not the only sufferer from such treachery. - -In a torrent of words he told her how he had married when a student -at the ’Varsity—married beneath him—how his life had ever since -been misery. How the pretty girl-bride had developed into a vulgar -woman, how for years she and her still commoner family had dogged his -footsteps, how he had paid and paid to be rid of her, how his whole -existence had been ruined by the indiscretion of his youth, and the -wiles of the designing landlady’s daughter, how he had never felt -respect and love for woman until he had met her, _Number II. on the -Left_. - -It was a tragic moment in both their lives. He felt the awful sin he -had committed in not telling her from the first that he could never -marry. He felt the injustice of it all, the punishment for his own -folly that had fallen upon him, and she, poor soul, not only realised -the shock to her ideal, but the horrible barrier that had risen between -them. - - * * * * * - -They travelled up to town together, both silent—each feeling that all -the world was changed. They parted at Victoria—she would not let him -see her home. - -The idol of two years was rudely shattered, the happy dreams of life -had suddenly turned to miserable reality. - -He returned to his chambers, where he cursed himself, and cursed his -luck, as he walked up and down his rooms all night, and realised -the root of the misery lay in the deception he had practised. -He, whose life had been ruined by the deception of a designing, -low-class minx, had himself in his turn committed the selfsame sin of -misrepresentation. The thought was maddening; his remorse intense. But -alack! the past cannot be recalled, and the curse that had followed him -for many years he had, alas! cast over a sinless girl. - -Sarah Hopper returned to her cheap little lodging at Islington, for -after two years’ hard work her salary was still only 30_s._ a week, -and throwing herself into an arm-chair, she sat and thought. Her head -throbbed as if it would burst, her eyes seemed on fire as she reviewed -the whole story from every possible side. She had been a blind fool; -she had trusted in a man she believed a good man, the web of fate had -entangled her, and this—this was the end. She could never see him again. - -By morning she was in a high state of fever, and when the landlady came -to her later in the day she was so alarmed at her appearance she sent -at once for the doctor. The doctor came. - -“Mental shock,” he said. - -Days went by and in wild delirium the little chorus girl lay upon her -bed in the lodging, till one night when the landlady had fallen asleep -the broken-hearted girl managed to scramble up, and getting a piece of -paper and an envelope wrote: - -“You have killed me, but for the sake of the honest love of those two -years, I forgive you all.” - -She addressed it in a firm hand to Alan Murray, and crawling back into -bed fell asleep. - -A few hours later the landlady awoke; all was silent in the room—so -silent, in fact, that she began to wonder. The wild raving had ceased, -the restless head was no longer tossing about on the pillow. Drawing -back the muslin curtains to let the light of early morning—that soft -gentle light of a summer’s day—pour into the room, she went across to -the bed. - -The kindly old woman bent over the broken-hearted girl to find her -sleeping peacefully—the sleep of death. - - - _Printed and bound by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., - London and Aylesbury._ - - - - - * * * * * * - - - - -Transcriber’s note: - -The spelling, punctuation, hyphenation and accentuation are as the -original with the exception of apparent typographical errors, which have -been corrected. - - - -***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS*** - - -******* This file should be named 55492-0.txt or 55492-0.zip ******* - - -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: -http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/5/4/9/55492 - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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- page-break-after: always; - } -} - -@media handheld -{ - p.drop-cap:first-letter - { - float: none; - margin: 0; - font-size: 100%; - } -} - -@media handheld -{ - p.drop-cap1:first-letter - { - float: none; - margin: 0; - font-size: 100%; - } -} - - h1.pg { font-weight: bold; - font-size: 190%; - page-break-before: avoid; } - h2.pg { font-weight: bold; - font-size: 135%; } - h3,h4 { text-align: center; - clear: both; } - hr.full { width: 100%; - margin-top: 3em; - margin-bottom: 0em; - margin-left: auto; - margin-right: auto; - height: 4px; - border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ - border-style: solid; - border-color: #000000; - clear: both; } - </style> -</head> -<body> -<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, Behind the Footlights, by Mrs (Ethel) -Alec-Tweedie</h1> -<p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States -and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this -eBook or online at <a -href="http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you are not -located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this ebook.</p> -<p>Title: Behind the Footlights</p> -<p>Author: Mrs (Ethel) Alec-Tweedie</p> -<p>Release Date: September 6, 2017 [eBook #55492]</p> -<p>Language: English</p> -<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8</p> -<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS***</p> -<p> </p> -<h4>E-text prepared by MWS, Brian Wilcox,<br /> - and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> - (<a href="http://www.pgdp.net">http://www.pgdp.net</a>)<br /> - from page images generously made available by<br /> - Internet Archive<br /> - (<a href="https://archive.org">https://archive.org</a>)</h4> -<p> </p> -<table border="0" style="background-color: #ccccff;margin: 0 auto;" cellpadding="10"> - <tr> - <td valign="top"> - Note: - </td> - <td> - Images of the original pages are available through - Internet Archive. See - <a href="https://archive.org/details/behindfootlights00twee"> - https://archive.org/details/behindfootlights00twee</a> - </td> - </tr> -</table> -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p> </p> - -<p id="half-title"><span class="largest">BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS</span></p> - -<div class="bbox" id="BY_THE_SAME_AUTHOR"> -<p class="center large"><em>BY THE SAME AUTHOR.</em></p> - -<p class="hangingindent4">MEXICO AS I SAW IT. <cite>Third Edition.</cite></p> - -<p class="hangingindent4">THROUGH FINLAND IN CARTS. <cite>Third Edition.</cite></p> - -<p class="hangingindent4">A WINTER JAUNT TO NORWAY. <cite>Second Edition.</cite></p> - -<p class="hangingindent4">THE OBERAMMERGAU PASSION PLAY. <i>Out of print.</i></p> - -<p class="hangingindent4">DANISH VERSUS ENGLISH BUTTER MAKING. <cite>Reprint from “Fortnightly.”</cite></p> - -<p class="hangingindent4">WILTON, Q.C. <cite>Second Edition.</cite></p> - -<p class="hangingindent4">A GIRL’S RIDE IN ICELAND. <cite>Third Edition.</cite></p> - -<p class="hangingindent4 padb1">GEORGE HARLEY, F.R.S.; or, the Life of a London Physician. <cite>Second -Edition.</cite></p></div> - -<div class="figcenter padt1" id="i_frontis"> -<img src="images/i_frontis.jpg" width="377" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><cite>From a Sketch by Percy Anderson.</cite></p> - -<p class="caption">MISS CONSTANCE COLLIER AS PALLAS ATHENE IN “ULYSSES.”</p> - -<p class="noindent"><i>Frontispiece.</i>]</p></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h1><span class="smcap largest">Behind the<br /> -Footlights</span></h1> - -<p class="center"><span class="small">BY</span></p> -<h2 class="nobreak">MRS. ALEC-TWEEDIE</h2> - -<p class="center"><span class="small">AUTHOR OF<br /> -“MEXICO AS I SAW IT,” “GEORGE HARLEY, F.R.S.,” ETC.</span></p> - -<p class="center padt2 padb2 small"><i>WITH TWENTY ILLUSTRATIONS</i></p> - -<p class="center"><span class="large">NEW YORK<br /> -DODD MEAD AND COMPANY</span><br /> -<span class="small">1904</span></p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p class="center smaller padt2 padb2"> -PRINTED BY<br /> -<br /> -HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD.,<br /> -<br /> -LONDON AND AYLESBURY,<br /> -<br /> -ENGLAND.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p> -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</a></h2> -</div> - -<div class="center"> -<table class="my100" border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1" summary="toc"> -<tr> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">CHAPTER I</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2"><i>THE GLAMOUR OF THE STAGE</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<th> </th> -<th class="tdr normal smallest">PAGE</th> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Girlish Dreams of Success—Golden Glitter—Overcrowding—Few -Successful—Weedon Grossmith—Beerbohm Tree—How -Mrs. Tree made Thousands for the War Fund—The Stage -Door Reached—Glamour Fades—The Divorce Court and the -Theatre—Childish Enthusiasm—Old Scotch Body’s Horror—Love -Letters—Temptations—Emotions—How Women began -to Act under Charles I.—Influence of the Theatre for Good -or Ill</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">1</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER II</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>CRADLED IN THE THEATRE</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Three Great Aristocracies—Born on the Stage—Inherited Talent—Interview -with Mrs. Kendal—Her Opinions and Warning -to Youthful Aspirants—Usual Salary—Starving in the Attempt -to Live—No Dress Rehearsal—Overdressing—A Peep at -Harley Street—Voice and Expression—American Friends—Mrs. -Kendal’s Marriage—Forbes Robertson’s Romance—Why -he Deserted Art for the Stage—Fine Elocutionist—Bad -Enunciation and Noisy Music—Ellen Terry—Gillette—Expressionless -Faces—Long Runs—Charles Warner—Abuse -of Success</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">21</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER III</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>THEATRICAL FOLK</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Miss Winifred Emery—Amusing Criticism—An Actress’s Home -Life—Cyril Maude’s first Theatrical Venture—First Performance—A -Luncheon Party—A Bride as Leading Lady—No -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</a></span> -Games, no Holidays—A Party at the Haymarket—Miss -Ellaline Terriss and her First Appearance—Seymour Hicks—Ben -Webster and Montagu Williams—The Sothern Family—Edward -Sothern as a Fisherman—A Terrible Moment—Almost -a Panic—Asleep as Dundreary—Frohman at Daly’s -Theatre—English and American Alliance—Mummers</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">46</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER IV</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Interview with Ibsen—His Appearance—His Home—Plays -Without Plots—His Writing-table—His Fetiches—Old at -Seventy—A Real Tragedy and Comedy—Ibsen’s First Book—Winter -in Norway—An Epilogue—Arthur Wing Pinero—Educated -for the Law—As Caricaturist—An Entertaining -Luncheon—How Pinero writes his Plays—A Hard Worker—First -Night of <cite>Letty</cite></p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">74</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER V</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>THE ARMY AND THE STAGE</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Captain Robert Marshall—From the Ranks to the Stage—£10 for -a Play—How Copyright is Retained—I. Zangwill as Actor—Copyright -Performance—Three First Plays (Pinero, Grundy, -Sims)—Cyril Maude at the Opera—<cite>Mice and Men</cite>—Sir -Francis Burnand, <cite>Punch</cite>, Sir John Tenniel, and a Cartoon—Brandon -Thomas and <cite>Charley’s Aunt</cite>—How that Play was -Written—The Gaekwar of Baroda—Changes in London—Frederick -Fenn at Clement’s Inn—James Welch on Audiences</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">92</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER VI</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>DESIGNING THE DRESSES</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Sarah Bernhardt’s Dresses and Wigs—A Great Musician’s Hair—Expenses -of Mounting—Percy Anderson—<cite>Ulysses</cite>—<cite>The -Eternal City</cite>—A Dress Parade—Armour—Over-elaboration—An -Understudy—Miss Fay Davis—A London Fog—The -Difficulties of an Engagement</p> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">111</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER VII</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>SUPPER ON THE STAGE</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Reception on the St. James’s Stage—An Indian Prince—His -Comments—The Audience—George Alexander’s Youth—How -he missed a Fortune—How he learns a Part—A Scenic -Garden—Love of the Country—Actors’ Pursuits—Strain of -Theatrical Life—Life and Death—Fads—Mr. Maude’s Dressing-room—Sketches -on Distempered Walls—Arthur Bourchier -and his Dresser—John Hare—Early and late Theatres—A -Solitary Dinner—An Hour’s Make-up—A Forgetful Actor—<cite>Bonne -Camaraderie</cite>—Theatrical Salaries—Treasury Day—Thriftlessness—The -Advent of Stalls—The Bancrofts—The -Haymarket Photographs—A Dress Rehearsal</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">125</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER VIII</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Sarah Bernhardt and her Tomb—The Actress’s Holiday—Love -of her Son—Sarah Bernhardt Shrimping—Why she left the -Comédie Française—Life in Paris—A French Claque—Three -Ominous Raps—Strike of the Orchestra—Parisian Theatre -Customs—Programmes—Late Comers—The <i>Matinée</i> Hat—Advertisement -Drop Scene—First Night of <cite>Hamlet</cite>— Madame -Bernhardt’s own Reading of <cite>Hamlet</cite>—Yorick’s Skull—Dr. -Horace Howard Furness—A Great Shakesperian Library</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">151</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER IX</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>AN HISTORICAL FIRST NIGHT</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">An Interesting Dinner—Peace in the Transvaal—Beerbohm Tree -as a Seer—How he cajoled Ellen Terry and Mrs. Kendal to -Act—First-nighters on Camp-stools—Different Styles of Mrs. -Kendal and Miss Terry—The Fun of the Thing—Bows of -the Dead—Falstaff’s Discomfort—Amusing Incidents—Nervousness -behind the Curtain—An Author’s Feelings</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">173</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER X -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>OPERA COMIC</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">How W. S. Gilbert loves a Joke—A Brilliant Companion—Operas -Reproduced without an Altered Line—Many Professions—A -Lovely Home—Sir Arthur Sullivan’s Gift—A Rehearsal of -<cite>Pinafore</cite>—Breaking up Crowds—Punctuality—Soldier or no -Soldier—<cite>Iolanthe</cite>—Gilbert as an Actor—Gilbert as Audience—The -Japanese Anthem—Amusement</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">186</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XI</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>THE FIRST PANTOMIME REHEARSAL</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Origin of Pantomime—Drury Lane in Darkness—One Thousand -Persons—Rehearsing the Chorus—The Ballet—Dressing-rooms—Children -on the Stage—Size of “The Lane”—A -Trap-door—The Property-room—Made on the Premises—Wardrobe-woman—Dan -Leno at Rehearsal—Herbert Campbell—A -Fortnight Later—A Chat with the Principal Girl—Miss -Madge Lessing</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">200</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XII</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>SIR HENRY IRVING AND STAGE LIGHTING</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Sir Henry Irving’s Position—Miss Geneviève Ward’s Dress—Reformations -in Lighting—The most Costly Play ever Produced—Strong -Individuality—Character Parts—Irving earned his -Living at Thirteen—Actors and Applause—A Pathetic Story—No -Shakespeare Traditions—Imitation is not Acting—Irving’s -Appearance—His Generosity—The First Night of -<cite>Dante</cite>—First Night of <cite>Faust</cite>—Two Terriss Stories—Sir -Charles Wyndham</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">222</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XIII</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>WHY A NOVELIST BECOMES A DRAMATIST</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Novels and Plays—<cite>Little Lord Fauntleroy</cite> and his Origin—Mr. -Hall Caine—Preference for Books to Plays—John Oliver -Hobbes—J. M. Barrie’s Diffidence—Anthony Hope—A -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_ix" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</a></span> -London Bachelor—A Pretty Wedding—A Tidy Author—A -First Night—Dramatic Critics—How Notices are Written—The -Critics Criticised—Distribution of Paper—“Stalls Full”—Black -Monday—Do Royalty pay for their Seats?—Wild -Pursuit of the Owner of the Royal Box—The Queen at the -Opera</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">240</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XIV</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>SCENE-PAINTING AND CHOOSING A PLAY</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Novelist—Dramatist—Scene-painter—An Amateur Scenic Artist—Weedon -Grossmith to the Rescue—Mrs. Tree’s Children—Mr. -Grossmith’s Start on the Stage—A Romantic Marriage—How -a Scene is built up—English and American Theatres -Compared—Choosing a Play—Theatrical Syndicate—Three -Hundred and Fifteen Plays at the Haymarket</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">263</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XV</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>THEATRICAL DRESSING-ROOMS</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">A Star’s Dressing-room—Long Flights of Stairs—Miss Ward at -the Haymarket—A Wimple—An Awkward Predicament—How -an Actress Dresses—Herbert Waring—An Actress’s -Dressing-table—A Girl’s Photographs of Herself—A Greasepaint -Box—Eyelashes—White Hands—Mrs. Langtry’s Dressing-room—Clara -Morris on Make-up—Mrs. Tree as Author—“Resting”—Mary -Anderson on the Stage—An Author’s -Opinion—Actors in Society</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">275</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XVI</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>HOW DOES A MAN GET ON THE STAGE?</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">A Voice Trial—How it is Done—Anxious Faces—Singing into -Cimmerian Darkness—A Call to Rehearsal—The Ecstasy -of an Engagement—Proof Copy; Private—Arrival of the -Principals—Chorus on the Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours -a Day for Nine Weeks without Pay</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">292</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XVII -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_x" id="Page_x">[Pg x]</a></span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>A GIRL IN THE PROVINCES</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Why Women go on the Stage—How to prevent it—Miss Florence -St. John—Provincial Company—Theatrical Basket—A Fit-up -Tour—A Theatre Tour—Répertoire Tour—Strange Landladies—Bills—The -Longed-for Joint—Second-hand Clothes—Buying -a Part—Why Men Deteriorate—Oceans of Tea—E. -S. Willard—Why he Prefers America—A Hunt for Rooms—A -Kindly Clergyman—A Drunken Landlady—How the -Dog Saved an Awkward Predicament</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">302</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XVIII</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i>PERILS OF THE STAGE</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Easy to Make a Reputation—Difficult to Keep One—The Theatrical -Agent—The Butler’s Letter—Mrs. Siddons’ Warning—Theatrical -Aspirants—The Bogus Manager—The Actress of -the Police Court—Ten Years of Success—Temptations—Late -Hours—An Actress’s Advertisement—A Wicked Agreement—Rules -Behind the Scenes—Edward Terry—Success a -Bubble</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">325</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">CHAPTER XIX</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">“<i>CHORUS GIRL NUMBER II. ON THE LEFT</i>”</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><span class="old">A Fantasy Founded on Fact</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">Plain but Fascinating—The Swell in the Stalls—Overtures—Persistence—Introduction -at Last—Her Story—His Kindness—Happiness -crept in—Love—An Ecstasy of Joy—His Story—A -Rude Awakening—The Result of Deception—The Injustice -of Silence—Back to Town—Illness—Sleep</p></td> -<td class="tdr vertb"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">345</a></td> -</tr></table></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_xi" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</a></span></p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 id="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS">LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> -</div> - -<div class="center"> -<table class="my100" border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1" summary="loi"> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MISS CONSTANCE COLLIER AS PALLAS ATHENE IN “ULYSSES”</p></td> -<td class="tdr small" colspan="2"><a href="#i_frontis"><i>Frontispiece</i></a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc small" colspan="3"><i>From a sketch by Percy Anderson.</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MRS. KENDAL AS MISTRESS FORD IN “MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR”</p></td> -<td class="tdc small"><i>To face p.</i></td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_020fp">20</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MR. W. H. KENDAL</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_032fp">32</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MR. J. FORBES-ROBERTSON</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_036fp">36</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc small" colspan="3"><i>From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MISS WINIFRED EMERY AND MR. CYRIL MAUDE IN -“THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL”</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_048fp">48</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MR. AND MRS. SEYMOUR HICKS</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_064fp">64</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">DR. HENRIK IBSEN</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_076fp">76</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MR. ARTHUR W. PINERO</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_084fp">84</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">DRAWING OF COSTUME FOR JULIET</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_112fp">112</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc small" colspan="3"><i>By Percy Anderson.</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MR. GEORGE ALEXANDER</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_128fp">128</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT AS HAMLET</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_152fp">152</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MR. BEERBOHM TREE AS FALSTAFF</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_176fp">176</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MISS ELLEN TERRY AS QUEEN KATHERINE</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_184fp">184</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MR. W. S. GILBERT</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_192fp">192</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">SIR HENRY IRVING</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_224fp">224</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MR. ANTHONY HOPE</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_248fp">248</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc small" colspan="3"><i>From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MR. WEEDON GROSSMITH</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_264fp">264</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MRS. BEERBOHM TREE</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_288fp">288</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_312fp">312</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc small" colspan="3"><i>From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><p class="indent">MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH</p></td> -<td class="tdc">„</td> -<td class="tdr"><a href="#i_336fp">336</a></td> -</tr></table></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span> -<p class="largest center padt2 padb2" id="BEHIND_THE_FOOTLIGHTS">BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I<br /> -<br /> -<i>THE GLAMOUR OF THE STAGE</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Girlish Dreams of Success—Golden Glitter—Overcrowding—Few -successful—Weedon Grossmith—Beerbohm Tree—How Mrs. Tree made -Thousands for the War Fund—The Stage Door reached—Glamour fades—The -Divorce Court and the Theatre—Childish Enthusiasm—Old Scotch Body’s -Horror—Love Letters—Temptations—Emotions—How Women began to Act -under Charles I.—Influence of the Theatre for Good or Ill.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap">“I WANT to go on the stage,” declared a girl as she sat one day -opposite her father, a London physician, in his consulting-room.</p> - -<p>The doctor looked up, amazed, deliberately put down his pen, cast a -scrutinising glance at his daughter, then said tentatively:</p> - -<p>“Want to go on the stage, eh?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I wish to be an actress. I have had an offer—oh, such a -delightful offer—to play a girl’s part in the forthcoming production at -one of our best theatres.”</p> - -<p>Her father made no comment, only looked again<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span> steadily at the girl in -order to satisfy himself that she was speaking seriously. Then he took -the letter she held out, read it most carefully, folded it up—in what -the would-be actress thought an exasperatingly slow fashion—and after a -pause observed:</p> - -<p>“So this is the result of allowing you to play in private theatricals. -What folly!”</p> - -<p>The girl started up—fire flashed from her eyes, and her lips trembled -as she retorted passionately:</p> - -<p>“I don’t see any folly, I only see a great career opening before me. I -want to go on the stage and make a name.”</p> - -<p>The doctor looked more grave than ever, but replied calmly:</p> - -<p>“You are very young—you have only just been to your first ball; you -know nothing whatever about the world or work.”</p> - -<p>“But I can learn, and intend to do so.”</p> - -<p>“Ah yes, that is all very well; but what you really see at this moment -is only the prospect of so many guineas a week, of applause and -admiration, of notices in the papers, when at one jump you expect to -gain the position already attained by some great actress. What you do -<em>not</em> see, however, is the hard work, the dreary months, nay years, -of waiting, the many disappointments that precede success—you do not -realise the struggle of it all, or the many, many failures.”</p> - -<p>She looked amazed. What possible struggle could there be on the stage? -she wondered.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Is this to be the end of my having worked for you,” he asked -pathetically, “planned for you, given you the best education I could, -done everything possible to make your surroundings happy, that at the -moment when I hoped you were going to prove a companion and a comfort, -you announce the fact that you wish to choose a career for yourself, to -throw off the ties—I will not call them the pleasures—of home, and seek -work which it is not necessary for you to undertake?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” murmured the girl, by this time almost sobbing, for the glamour -seemed to be rolling away like mist before her eyes, while glorious -visions of tragedy queens and comic soubrettes faded into space.</p> - -<p>“I will not forbid you,” he went on sadly but firmly—“I will not forbid -you, after you are twenty-one, for then you can do as you like; but -nearly four years stretch between now and then, and during those four -years I shall withhold my sanction.”</p> - -<p>Tears welled up into her eyes. Moments come in the lives of all of us -when our nearest and dearest appear to understand us least. Even in our -youth we experience unreasoning sadness.</p> - -<p>“I do not wish,” he continued, rising and patting her kindly on the -back, “to see my daughter worn to a skeleton, working when she should -be enjoying herself, taking upon her shoulders cares and worries which -I have striven for years to avert—therefore I must save you from -yourself. During the next four years I will try to show you what going<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> -on the stage really means, and the labour it entails.”</p> - -<p>She did not answer, exultation had given place to indignation, -indignation to emotion, and the aspirant to histrionic fame felt sick -at heart.</p> - -<p>That girl was the present writer—her father the late Dr. George Harley, -F.R.S., of Harley Street.</p> - -<p class="padt1">During those four years he showed me the work and anxiety connection -with the stage involves, and as it was not necessary for me to earn my -living at that time, I waited his pleasure, and, finally, of my own -free will abandoned the girlish determination of becoming an actress. -Wild dreams of glory and success eventually gave place to more rational -ideas. The glamour of the footlights ceased to shine so alluringly—as I -realised that the actor’s art, like the musician’s, is ephemeral, while -the work and anxiety are great in both.</p> - -<p>The restlessness of youth was upon me when I mooted the project, and an -injudicious word then would have sent me forth at a tangent, probably -to fail as many another has done before and since.</p> - -<p>There may still be a few youthful people in the world who believe -the streets of London are paved with gold—and there are certainly -numbers of boys and girls who think the stage is strewn with pearls -and diamonds. All the traditions of the theatre are founded in mystery -and exaggeration; perhaps it is as well, for too much realism destroys -illusion.</p> - -<p>Boys and girls dream great dreams—they fancy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> themselves leading actors -and actresses, in imagination they dine off gold, wear jewels, laces, -and furs, hear the applause of the multitude—and are happy. But all -this, as said, is in their dreams, and dreams only last for seconds, -while life lasts for years.</p> - -<p>One in perhaps a thousand aspirants ever climbs to the top of the -dramatic ladder, dozens remain struggling on the lower rung, while -hundreds fall out weary and heart-sore before passing even the first -step. Never has the theatrical profession been more overcrowded than at -the present moment.</p> - -<p>Many people with a wild desire to act prove failures on the stage, -their inclinations are greater than their powers. Rarely is it the -other way; nevertheless Fanny Kemble, in spite of her talent, hated -the idea of going on the stage. At that time acting was considered -barely respectable for a woman (1829). She was related to Sarah Siddons -and John Kemble, a daughter of Charles and Fanny Kemble, and yet no -dramatic fire burned in her veins. She was short and plain, with large -feet and hands, her only charm her vivacity and expression. Ruin was -imminent in the family when the girl was prevailed upon after much -persuasion to play Juliet. Three weeks later she electrified London. -Neither time nor success altered her repugnance for the stage, however. -When dressed as Juliet her white satin train lying over the chair, she -recalled the scene in the following words:</p> - -<p>“There I sat, ready for execution, with the palms of my hands pressed -convulsively together, and the tears I in vain endeavoured to repress -welling up<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> into my eyes, brimming slowly over, down my rouged cheeks.”</p> - -<p>There is a well-known actor upon the stage to-day who feels much as -Fanny Kemble did.</p> - -<p>“I hate it all,” he once said to me. “Would to Heaven I had another -profession at my back. But I never really completed any studies in my -youth, and in these days of keen competition I dare not leave an income -on the stage for an uncertainty elsewhere.”</p> - -<p>To some people the stage is an alluring goal, religion is a recreation, -while to others money is a worship. The Church and the Stage cast -their fascinating meshes around most folk some time during the course -of their existences. It is scarcely strange that such should be the -case, for both hold their mystery, both have their excitements, and man -delights to rush into what he does not understand—this has been the -case at all times and in all countries, and, like love and war, seems -likely to continue to the end of time.</p> - -<p>We all know the stage as seen from before the footlights—we have all -sat breathless, waiting for the curtain to rise, and there are some who -have longed for the “back cloth” to be lifted also, that they might -peep behind. In these pages all hindrances shall be drawn away, and the -theatre and its workings revealed from behind the footlights.</p> - -<p>As every theatre has its own individuality, so every face has its own -expression, therefore one can only generalise, for it is impossible to -treat each theatrical house and its customs separately.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span></p> - -<p>The strong personal interest I have always felt for the stage probably -originated in the fact that from childhood I had heard stories of James -Sheridan Knowles writing some of his plays, notably <cite>The Hunchback</cite>, -at my grandfather’s house, Seaforth Hall, in Lancashire. Charles -Dickens often stayed there when acting for some charity in Liverpool. -Samuel Lover was a constant visitor at the house, as also the great -American tragedian, Charlotte Cushman. Her beautiful sister Susan (the -Juliet of her Romeo) married my uncle, Sheridan Muspratt, author of -the <cite>Dictionary of Chemistry</cite>. From all of which it will be seen that -theatrical stories were constantly retailed at home; therefore when I -was about to “come out,” and my father asked if I would like a ball, I -replied:</p> - -<p>“No, I should prefer private theatricals.”</p> - -<p>This was a surprise to the London physician; but there being no -particular sin in private theatricals, consent was given, “<em>provided</em>,” -as he said, “<em>you paint the scenery, make your own dresses, generally -run the show, and do the thing properly</em>.”</p> - -<p>A wise proviso, and one faithfully complied with. It gave an enormous -amount of work but brought me a vast amount of pleasure.</p> - -<p>Mr. L. F. Austin, a clever contributor to the <cite>Illustrated London -News</cite>, wrote a most amusing account of those theatricals—in which he, -Mr. Weedon Grossmith, and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree assisted—in his little -volume <cite>At Random</cite>. Sir William Magnay, then a well-known amateur, and -now a novelist,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> was one of our tiny company. <cite>Sweethearts</cite>, Mr. W. S. -Gilbert’s delightful little comedy, was chosen for the performance, -but at the last moment the girl who should have played the maid was -taken ill. Off to Queen’s College, where I was then a pupil, I rushed, -dragged Maud Holt—who became Mrs Tree a few weeks later—back with me, -and that same night she made her first appearance on any stage. Very -shortly afterwards Mrs. Beerbohm Tree adopted acting as a profession, -and appeared first at the Court Theatre. Subsequently, when her husband -became a manager, she joined his company for many years.</p> - -<p>We all adored her at College: she was tall and graceful, with a -beautiful figure: she sang charmingly, and read voraciously. In those -days she was a great disciple of Browning, and so was Mr. Tree; in -fact, the poet was the leading-string to love and matrimony.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Beerbohm Tree considers that almost the happiest moments of her -life were spent in reciting <cite>The Absent-minded Beggar</cite> for the War -Fund. It came about in this wise. She had arranged to give a recitation -at St. James’s Hall on one particular Wednesday. On the Friday before -that day she saw announced in the <cite>Daily Mail</cite> that a new poem by -Rudyard Kipling on the Transvaal war theme would appear in the Tuesday -issue. This she thought would be a splendid opportunity to declaim a -topical song at the concert, so she wrote personally to the editor of -the paper, and asked him if he could possibly let her have an advance -copy of the poem, so that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> she might learn and recite it on Wednesday, -as the Tuesday issue would be too late for her purpose.</p> - -<p>Through the courtesy of Mr. Harmsworth she received the proof of <cite>The -Absent-minded Beggar</cite> on Friday evening, and sitting in her dining-room -in Sloane Street with her elbows on the table she read and re-read it -several times. This, she thought, might bring grist to the war mill. -Into a hansom she jumped, and off to the Palace Theatre she drove, -boldly asking for the manager. Her name was sufficient, and she was -ushered into the august presence.</p> - -<p>“This is a remarkable poem,” she said, “by Mr. Rudyard Kipling, so -remarkable that I think if recited in your Hall nightly it would bring -some money to the fund, and if you will give me £100 a week——”</p> - -<p>Up went the manager’s hand in horror.</p> - -<p>“One hundred pounds a week, Mrs. Tree?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, £100 a week, I will come and recite it every evening, and hand -over the cheque intact to the War Fund.”</p> - -<p>It was a large sum, and the gentleman could not see his way to -accepting the offer on his own responsibility, but said he would sound -his directors in the morning.</p> - -<p>Before lunch-time next day Mrs. Tree received a note requesting her to -recite the poem nightly as suggested, and promising her £100 a week -for herself or the fund in return. For ten weeks she stood alone every -evening on that vast stage, and for ten minutes she recited “Pay, pay, -pay.” There never have been such record houses at the Palace either -before or since, and at the end of ten weeks she handed over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> a cheque -for £1,000 to the fund. Nor was this all, large sums were paid into -the collecting boxes in the Palace Theatre. In addition Mrs. Tree made -£1,700 at concerts, and £700 on one night at a Club. More than that, -endless people followed her example, and the War Fund became some -£20,000 richer for her inspiration in that dining-room in Sloane Street.</p> - -<p>This was one of the plums of the theatrical cake; but how different is -the performance and the gold and glitter as seen from the front of the -curtain, to the real thing behind. How little the audience entering -wide halls, proceeding up pile carpeted stairs, sweeping past stately -palms, or pushing aside heavy plush curtains, realise the entrance to -the playhouse on the other side of the footlights.</p> - -<p>At the back of the theatre is the stage door. Generally up an alley, -it is mean in appearance, more like an entrance to some cheap -lodging-house than to fairyland. Rough men lounge about outside, those -scene-shifters, carpenters, and that odd list of humanity who jostle -each other “behind the scenes,” work among “flies,” and adjust “wings” -in no ornithological sense, but merely as the side-pieces of the -stage-setting.</p> - -<p>Just inside this door is a little box-like office; nothing grand about -it, oh dear no, whitewash is more often found there than mahogany, and -stone stairs than Turkey carpets. Inside this little bureau sits that -severe guardian of order, the stage door keeper. He is a Pope and a -Czar in one. He is always busy, refuses to listen to explanations; even -a card<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> is not sent in unless that important gentleman feels assured -its owner means business.</p> - -<p>At that door, which is dark and dreary, the glamour of the stage begins -to wane. It is no portal to a palace. The folk hanging about are not -arrayed in velvets and satins; quite the contrary; torn cashmeres and -shiny coats are more <em>en évidence</em>.</p> - -<p>Strange people are to be found both behind and upon the stage, as in -every other walk through life; but there are plenty of good men and -women in the profession, men and women whose friendship it is an honour -to possess. Men and women whose kindness of heart is unbounded, and -whose intellectual attainments soar far above the average.</p> - -<p>Every girl who goes upon the stage need not enjoy the privilege of -marrying titled imbecility, nor obtain the notoriety of the Divorce -Court, neither being creditable nor essential to her calling, although -both are chronicled with unfailing regularity by the press.</p> - -<p>The Divorce Court is a sad theatre where terrible tragedies of human -misery are acted out to the bitter end. Between seven and eight hundred -cases are tried in England every year—not many, perhaps, when compared -with the population of the country, which is over forty millions. But -then of course the Divorce Court is only the foam; the surging billows -of discontent and unhappiness lie beneath, and about six thousand -judicial separations, all spelling human tragedy, are granted yearly by -magistrates, the greater number of such cases being undefended. They<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> -record the same sad story of disappointed, aching hearts year in year -out.</p> - -<p>Divorces are not more common amongst theatrical folk than any other -class, so, whatever may be said for or against the morality of the -stage, the Divorce Court does not prove theatrical life to be less -virtuous than any other.</p> - -<p>The fascination of the stage entraps all ages—all classes. Even -children sometimes wax warm over theatrical folk. Once I chanced to be -talking to a little girl concerning theatres.</p> - -<p>“Do you know Mr. A. B. C.?” she asked excitedly, when the conversation -turned on actors.</p> - -<p>“Yes, he is a great friend of mine.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, do tell me all about him,” she exclaimed, seizing my arm.</p> - -<p>“Why do you want to know?”</p> - -<p>“Because I adore him, and all the girls at school adore him, he is like -a real prince; we save up our pocket-money to buy his photographs, and -May Smith <em>has actually got his autograph</em>!”</p> - -<p>“But tell me why you all adore him?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Because he is so lovely, so tall and handsome, has such a melodious -voice, and oh! doesn’t he look too beautiful in his velvet suit -as——? He is young and handsome, isn’t he? Oh, do say he is young and -handsome,” implored the enthusiastic child.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid I cannot, for it would not be true; Mr. A. B. C. is not -tall—in fact, he is quite short.” She looked crestfallen. “He has a -sallow complexion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span>.”</p> - -<p>“Sallow! Oh, not really sallow! but he <em>is</em> handsome and young, isn’t -he?”</p> - -<p>“I should think he is about fifty-two.”</p> - -<p>“Fifty-two!” she almost shrieked. “<em>My</em> A. B. C. fifty-two. Oh no. You -are chaffing me; he must be young and beautiful.”</p> - -<p>“And his hair is grey,” I cruelly added.</p> - -<p>“Grey?”—she sobbed. “Not grey? Oh, you hurt me.”</p> - -<p>“You asked questions and I have answered them truthfully,” I replied. -She stood silent for a moment, then in rather a subdued tone murmured:</p> - -<p>“He is not married, is he?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, he has been married for five-and-twenty years.”</p> - -<p>The child looked so crestfallen I felt I had been unkind.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear, oh dear,” she almost sobbed, “won’t the girls at school be -surprised! Are you quite, quite sure he is not young and beautiful? he -looks so lovely on the stage.”</p> - -<p>“Quite, quite sure. You have only seen him from before the footlights. -He is a good fellow, clever and charming, and he works hard, but he is -no lover in velvet and jerkin, no hero of romance, and the less you -worry your foolish little head about him the better, my dear.”</p> - -<p>How many men and women believe like this child that there are only -princes and princesses on the stage.</p> - -<p>There was an old Scotch body—an educated,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> puritanical person—who once -informed me, “The the-a-ter is very bad, very wicked, ma’am.”</p> - -<p>“Why?” I asked, amazed yet interested.</p> - -<p>“It’s full of fire and lights like Hell. They just discuss emotions -there, ma’am, and it’s morbid to discuss emotions and just silly -conceit to think about them. I like deeds, and not talk—I do!”</p> - -<p>“You seem to think the theatre a hotbed of iniquity?”</p> - -<p>“Aye, indeed I do, ma’am. They even make thunder. Fancy daring to make -thunder for amusement as the good God does to show His wrath—thunder -with a machine—it’s just dreadful, it is.”</p> - -<p>The grosser the exaggeration the more readily it provokes conversation. -I was dying to argue, but fearing to hurt her feelings, I merely -smiled, wondering what the old lady would say if she knew even prayers -were made by a machine in countries where the prayer-wheel is used.</p> - -<p>“Have you ever been to a theatre?” I ventured to ask, not wishing to -disturb the good dame’s peace of mind.</p> - -<p>“The Lord forbid!”</p> - -<p>That settled the matter; but I subsequently found that the old body -went to bazaars, and did not mind a little flutter over raffles, and on -one occasion had even been to hear the inimitable George Grossmith in -Inverness, when——</p> - -<p>“He was not dressed-up-like, so it wasn’t a regular the-a-ter, and he -was just alone, ma’am, wi’ a piano, so there was no harm in that,” -added the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span> virtuous dame, complacently folding her hands across her -portly form.</p> - -<p>Wishing to change the subject, I asked her how her potatoes were doing.</p> - -<p>“Bad, bad,” she replied, “they’re awfu’ bad, the Lord’s agin us the -year; but we must jist make the best of it, ma’am.”</p> - -<p>She was a thoroughly good woman, and this was her philosophy. She would -make the best of the lack of potatoes, as that was a punishment from -above; but she could not sanction play-acting any more than riding a -bicycle on the Sabbath.</p> - -<p>Her horror of the wickedness of the stage was as amusing as the absurd -adoration of the enthusiastic child.</p> - -<p>Every good-looking man or woman who “play acts” is the recipient of -foolish love-letters. Pretty girls receive them from sentimental youth -or sensual old age, and handsome men are pestered with them from old -maids, or unhappily married women. Some curious epistles are sent -across the footlights, even the most self-respecting woman cannot -escape their advent, although she can, and, does, ignore them.</p> - -<p>Here is a sample of one:</p> - -<p>“For <em>five</em> nights I have been to the theatre to see you play in——. I -was so struck by your performance last week that I have been back every -night since. Vainly I hoped you would notice me, for I always occupy -the same seat, and last night I really thought you did smile at me” -(she had done nothing of the kind, and had never even seen the man), -“so I went<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> home happy—oh so happy. I have sent you some roses the last -two nights, and felt sorry you did not wear them. Is there any flower -you like better? I hardly dare presume to ask you for a meeting, but if -you only knew how much I admire you, perhaps you would grant me this -great favour and make me the happiest man on earth. I cannot sleep for -thinking of you. You are to me the embodiment of every womanly grace, -and if you would take supper with me one night after the performance -you would indeed confer a boon on a lonely man.”</p> - -<p>No answer does not mean the end of the matter. Some men—and, alas! some -women—write again and again, send flowers and presents, and literally -pester the object of their so-called adoration.</p> - -<p>For weeks and weeks a man sent a girl violets; one night a diamond ring -was tied up in the bunch—those glittering stones began her ruin—she -wrote to acknowledge them, a correspondence ensued.</p> - -<p>That man proved her curse. She, the once beautiful and virtuous girl, -who was earning a good income before she met her evil genius, died -lately in poverty and obscurity. The world had scoffed at her and -turned aside, while it still smiled upon the man, although he was the -villain; but can he get away from his own conscience?</p> - -<p>Every vice carries with it a sting, every virtue a balm.</p> - -<p>There are many perils on the stage, to which of course only the weak -succumb; but the temptations are necessarily greater than in other -professions. Its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span> very publicity spells mischief. There is the horrid -man in all audiences who tries to make love and ogle pretty women -across the footlights, the class of creature who totally forgets that -the best crown a man or woman can wear is a good reputation.</p> - -<p>Temptations lie open on all sides for the actor and actress, and those -who pass through the ordeal safely are doubly to be congratulated, -for the man who meets temptation and holds aloof is surely a finer -character than he who is merely “good” because he has never had a -chance of being anything else.</p> - -<p>Journalism, domestic service, and the stage probably require less -knowledge and training for a beginning than any other occupations.</p> - -<p>It costs money and time to learn to be a dressmaker, a doctor, an -architect, even a shorthand writer; but given a certain amount of -cleverness, experience is not necessary to do “scissor-and-paste” work -in journalism, rough housework, or to “walk on” on the stage; but -oh! what an amount of work and experience is necessary to ensure a -satisfactory ending, more particularly upon the boards, where all is -not gold that glitters. At best the crown is only brass, the shining -silver merely tin, and in nine theatres out of every ten the regal -ermine but a paltry rabbit-skin.</p> - -<p>Glitter dazzles the eye. Nevertheless behind it beat good hearts and -true; while hard work, patient endurance, and courage mark the path of -the successful player.</p> - -<p>Work does not degrade a man; but a man often degrades his work.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span></p> - -<p>If, as the old body said, it be morbid to discuss emotions, and -egotistical to feel them, it is still the actor’s art, and that is -probably why he is such a sensitive creature, why he is generally in -the highest spirits or deepest depths of woe, why he is full of moods -and as varying as a weathercock. Still he is charming, and so is his -companion in stageland—the actress. Both entertain us, and amusement is -absolutely essential to a healthy existence.</p> - -<p>When one considers the wonderful success of women upon the stage -to-day, and their splendid position socially, it seems almost -impossible to believe that they never acted in England until the reign -of Charles I., when a French Company which numbered women among its -players crossed the Channel, and craved a hearing from Queen Henrietta -Maria. One critic of the time called them “unwomanish and graceless”; -another said, “Glad am I they were hissed and hooted”; but still they -had come to stay, and slowly, very slowly, women were allowed to take -part in theatrical performances. We all know the high position they -hold to-day.</p> - -<p>In 1660 there were only two theatres in London, the King’s and the -Duke of York’s, the dearest seats were the boxes at four shillings, -the cheapest the gallery at one shilling. Ladies wore masks at the -play, probably because of the coarse nature of the performances, which -gradually improved with the advent of actresses.</p> - -<p>In days gone by the playhouse was not the orderly place it is -nowadays, and the unfortunate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> “mummers” had to put up with every kind -of nuisance until Colley Cibber protested, and Queen Anne issued a -Proclamation (1704) against disturbances. In those days folk arrived in -sedan chairs, and their noisy footmen were allowed free admission to -the upper gallery to wait for their lords and ladies, added to which -the orange girls called their wares and did a brisk trade in carrying -love-missives from one part of the house to the other. Before the -players could be heard they had to fight their way on to the boards, -where gilded youth lolled in the wings and even crossed the stage -during the rendering of a scene.</p> - -<p>It was about this time that Queen Anne made a stand against the -shocking immorality of the stage, and ordered the Master of the Revels -(much the same post as the Lord Chamberlain now holds) to correct these -abuses. All actors, mountebanks, etc., had to submit their plays or -entertainments to the Master of the Revels in Somerset House from that -day, and nothing could be performed without his permission.</p> - -<p>The stage has a curious effect on people. Many a person has gone to -see a play, and some line has altered the whole course of his life. -Some idea has been put forth, some tender note played upon which has -opened his eyes to his own selfishness, his own greed of wealth, -his harshness to a child, or indifference to a wife. There is no -doubt about it, the stage is a great power, and that is why it is so -important the influence should be used for good, and that illicit love -and demoralising thoughts should be kept out<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> of the theatre with its -mixed audiences and susceptible youth. According to a recent report:</p> - -<p>“The Berne authorities, holding that the theatre is a powerful -instrument for the education of the masses, have decided that on two -days of the week the seats in the theatre, without exception, shall -be sold at a uniform price of fivepence. ‘Under the direction of -the manager,’ writes a correspondent, ‘the tickets are enclosed in -envelopes, and in this form are sold to the public. The scheme has -proved a great success, especially among the working classes, whom it -was meant to benefit. To prevent ticket speculators making a “corner,” -the principle of one ticket for one person has been adopted, and the -playgoer only knows the location of his seat after he enters the -theatre. No intoxicants are sold and no passes are given. The expenses -exceed the receipts, but a reserve fund and voluntary contributions are -more than sufficient to meet the deficit.’”</p> - -<p>Constantly seeing vice portrayed tends to make one cease to think -it horrible. Love of gain should not induce a manager to put on a -piece that is public poison. Some queer plays teach splendid moral -lessons—well and good; but some strange dramas drag their audience -through mire for no wise end whatever. The manager who puts such upon -his stage is a destroyer of public morality.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_020fp"> -<img src="images/i_020fp.jpg" width="419" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MRS. KENDAL AS MISTRESS FORD IN “MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR.”</p></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II<br /> -<br /> -<i>CRADLED IN THE THEATRE</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Three Great Aristocracies—Born on the Stage—Inherited -Talent—Interview with Mrs. Kendal—Her Opinions and Warning -to Youthful Aspirants—Usual Salary—Starving in the Attempt -to Live—No Dress Rehearsal—Overdressing—A Peep at Harley -Street—Voice and Expression—American Friends—Mrs. Kendal’s -Marriage—Forbes Robertson’s Romance—Why he deserted Art for the -Stage—Fine Elocutionist—Bad Enunciation and Noisy Music—Ellen -Terry—Gillette—Expressionless Faces—Long Runs—Charles Warner—Abuse -of Success.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">LONDON is a great world: it contains three aristocracies:</p> - -<p>The aristocracy of blood, which is limited;</p> - -<p>The aristocracy of brain, which is scattered;</p> - -<p>And the aristocracy of wealth, which threatens to flood the other two.</p> - -<p>The most powerful book in the world at the beginning of the twentieth -century is the cheque-book. Foreigners are adored, vulgarity is -sanctioned; indeed, all are welcomed so long as gold hangs round their -skirts and diamonds and pearls adorn their bodies. Wealth, wealth, -wealth, that is the modern cry, and there seems nothing it cannot buy, -even a transient position upon the stage.</p> - -<p>Many of our well-known actors and actresses have,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> however, been “born -on the stage”—that is to say, they were the children of theatrical -folk, and have themselves taken part in the drama almost from babyhood.</p> - -<p>The most successful members of the profession are those possessed of -inherited talent, or that have gone on the stage from necessity rather -than choice, men and women who since early life have had to fight -for themselves and overcome difficulties. It is pleasant to give a -prominent example of the triumph which may result from the blending of -both influences in the person of one of our greatest actresses, Mrs. -Kendal, who has led a marvellously interesting life.</p> - -<p>She was born early in the fifties, and her grandfather, father, -uncles, and brother (T. W. Robertson) were all intimately connected -with the stage as actors and playwrights. When quite a child she began -her theatrical career, and made her London <em>début</em> in 1865, when she -appeared as Ophelia under her maiden name of Madge Robertson, Walter -Montgomery playing the part of <cite>Hamlet</cite>. Little Madge was only three -years old when she first trod the boards, whereon she was to portray a -blind child, but when she espied her nurse in the distance, she rushed -to the wings, exclaiming, “Oh, Nannie, look at my beautiful new shoes!”</p> - -<p>Her bringing up was strict; she had no playfellows and never went to -school, a governess and her father were her teachers. Every morning -that father took her for a walk, explaining all sorts of things as they -went along, or teaching her baby lips<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> to repeat Shelley’s “Ode to a -Foxglove.” On their return home, he would read Shakespeare with her, so -that the works of the bard were known to her almost before she learnt -nursery rhymes.</p> - -<p>“I was grown up at ten,” exclaimed Mrs. Kendal, “and first began to -grow young at forty.”</p> - -<p>When about fourteen, she was living with her parents in South Crescent, -off Tottenham Court Road. One Sunday—a dreary heavy, dull, rainy London -day—her father and mother had been talking together for hours, and she -wearily went to the window to look out, the mere fact of watching a -passer-by seeming at the moment to afford relaxation. Tears rolled down -the girl’s cheeks—she was longing for companions of her own age, she -was leaving the dolls of childhood behind and learning to be a woman. -Her father noticed that she was crying, and exclaimed in surprise, -“Why, Daisy, what’s the matter?”</p> - -<p>“I feel dull,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Dull, dear?—dull, with your mother and <em>me</em>?”</p> - -<p>A pathetic little story, truly: the parents were so wrapped up in -themselves, they never realised that sometimes the rising generation -might feel lonely.</p> - -<p>“My father and mother were then old,” said Mrs. Kendal, “I was their -youngest child. All the others were out in the world, trying to find a -place.”</p> - -<p>Early struggles, hopes and fears, poverty and luxury, followed in quick -succession in this remarkable woman’s life, but any one who knows -her must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> realise it was her indomitable will and pluck, coupled, of -course, with good health and exceptional talent, which brought her the -high position she holds to-day.</p> - -<p>If Mrs. Kendal makes up her mind to do a thing, by hook or by crook -that object is accomplished. She has great powers of organisation, and -a capacity for choosing the right people to help her. “Never say die” -is apparently her watchword.</p> - -<p>She, like Miss Geneviève Ward, was originally intended for a singer, -and songs were introduced into her parts in such plays as <cite>The Palace -of Truth</cite>. Unfortunately she contracted diphtheria, which in those -days was not controlled and arrested by antitoxin as it is now, and an -operation had to be performed. All this tended to weaken her voice, -which gradually left her. Consequently she gave up singing, or rather, -singing gave her up, and she became a “play-actress.” She so thoroughly -realises the disappointments and struggles of her profession that one -of Mrs. Kendal’s pet hobbies is to try and counteract the evil arising -from the wish of inexperienced girls to “go upon the stage.”</p> - -<p>“If only the stage-struck young woman could realise all that an -actress’ life means!” she said to me on one occasion. “To begin with, -she is lucky if she gets a chance of ‘walking on’ at a pound a week. -She has to attend rehearsals as numerous and as lengthy as the leading -lady, who may be drawing £40 or £50 for the same period; though, mark -you, there are very few leading ladies, while there are thousands and -thousands of walkers-on who will never be anything<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> else. This ill-paid -girl has not the interest of a big part, which stimulates the ‘star’ -to work; she has only the dreariness of it all. Unless she be in a -ballet, chorus, or pantomime, the girl has to find herself in shoes, -stockings, and petticoats for the stage—no light matter to accomplish -out of twenty shillings a week. Of course, in a character-part the -entire costume is found, but in an ordinary case the girl has to board, -lodge, dress herself, pay for her washing, and get backwards and -forwards to the theatre in all weathers and at all hours on one pound a -week, besides supplying those stage necessaries. Thousands of women are -starving in the attempt.</p> - -<p>“A girl has to dress at the theatre in the same room with others, she -is thrown intimately amongst all sorts of women, and the result is not -always desirable. For instance, some years ago, a girl was playing with -us, and, mentioning another member of the company, she remarked, ‘She -has real lace on her under-linen.’</p> - -<p>“I said nothing, but sent for that lace-bedecked personage and had a -little private talk with her, telling her that things must be different -or she must go. I tried to show her the advantages of the straight -path, but she preferred the other, and has since been lost in the sea -of ultimate despair.”</p> - -<p>So spoke Mrs. Kendal, the famous actress, in 1903, standing at the top -of her profession; later we will see what a girl struggling at the -bottom has to say on the same subject.</p> - -<p>“Remember,” continued Mrs. Kendal, “patience,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> courage, and talent -<em>may</em> bring one to the winning-post, but few ever reach that line; by -far the greater number fall out soon after the start—they find the -pay inadequate, the hours too long; the back of a stage proves to be -no enchanted land, only a dark, dreary, dusty, bustling place; and, -disheartened, they wisely turn aside. Many of them drift aimlessly into -stupid marriages for bread and butter’s sake, where discontent turns -the bread sour and the butter rancid.</p> - -<p>“The theatrical profession is not to blame—it is this terrible -overcrowding. There are numbers of excellent men and women upon the -stage who know that there is nothing so gross but what a good man or -woman can elevate, nothing so lofty that vice cannot cause to totter.</p> - -<p>“I entirely disapprove of a dress rehearsal,” continued Mrs. Kendal. -“It exhausts the actors and takes off the excitement and bloom. One -must have one’s real public, and play <em>for</em> them and <em>to</em> them, and not -to empty benches. We rehearse in sections. Every one in turn in our -company acts in costume, so that we know each individual get-up and -make-up is right; but we never dress all the characters of the play at -the same time until the night of production.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kendal is very severe on the subject of overdressing a part.</p> - -<p>“Feathers and diamonds,” she said “are not worn upon the river. Why, -then, smother a woman with them when she is playing a boating scene?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> -The dress should be entirely subservient to the character. If one is -supposed to be old and dowdy, one should look old and dowdy. I believe -in clothing the character in character, and not striving after effect. -Overdressing is as bad as over-elaboration of stage-setting: it dwarfs -the acting and handicaps the performers.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kendal is an abused, adored, and wonderful woman. Like all busy -people, she finds time for everything, and has everything in its place. -Her house is neatness exemplified, her table well arranged, the dishes -dainty, and the attendance of spruce parlourmaids equally good. She -believes in women and their work and employs them whenever possible.</p> - -<p>There is an old-fashioned idea that women who earn their living are -untidy in their dress and slovenly in their household arrangements, to -say nothing of being unhappy in their home life. Those of us who know -women workers can refute the charge: the busier they are, the more -method they bring to bear; the more highly educated they are, the more -capable in the management of their affairs. Mrs. Kendal is no exception -to this rule, and in spite of her many labours, she lately encroached -upon her time by undertaking another self-imposed task, namely, some -charity work, which entailed endless correspondence, to say nothing of -keeping books, and lists, and sorting cheques; but she managed all most -successfully, and kept what she did out of the papers.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Dissuade every one you know,” Mrs. Kendal entreated me one day, “from -going on the stage. There are so few successes and so many failures! So -many lives are shattered and hearts broken by that everlasting <em>waiting -for an opportunity</em> which only comes to a few. In no profession is -harder work necessary, the pay in the early stages more insignificant -or less secure. To be a good actress it is essential to have many -qualifications: first of all, health and herculean strength; the -sweetest temper and most patient temperament, although my remark once -made about having ‘the skin of a rhinoceros’ was delivered in pure -sarcasm, which, however, was unfortunately taken seriously.</p> - -<p>“I really feel very strongly about this rush to go on the stage. In -the disorganisation of this democratic period we have all struggled -to ascend one step, and many of us have tumbled down several in the -attempt. Domestic servants all want to be shop-girls, and shop-girls -want to be actresses—stars, mind you! Everything is upside-down, for -are not the aristocracy themselves selling wine, coals, tea-cakes, and -millinery?”</p> - -<p>“Why have you succeeded?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Because I was born to it, cradled in the profession, my family have -been upon the stage for some hundred years. To make a first-class -actress, talent, luck, temperament, and opportunity must combine; but, -mark you, the position of the stage does not depend upon her. It is -those on the second and third rungs of the ladder who do the hardest of -the work, and most firmly uphold the dignity of the stage, just as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> it -is the middle classes which rivet and hold together this vast Empire.”</p> - -<p>Although married to an actor-manager, Mrs. Kendal has nothing whatever -to do with the arrangements of the theatre. She does not interfere with -anything.</p> - -<p>“I never signed an agreement in all my life, either for myself or -for anyone else. I never engage or dismiss a soul. Once everything -is signed, sealed, and delivered, and all is ready, then, but not -till then, my work begins, and I become stage-manager. On the stage I -supervise everything, and attend to all the smallest details myself. -To be stage-manager is not an enviable position, for one is held -responsible for every fault.”</p> - -<p>The Kendals lived for years in Harley Street, which is chiefly noted -for its length, and being the home of doctors. Their house was at the -end farthest from Cavendish Square, at the top on the left. I know the -street well, for I was born in the house where Baroness Burdett-Coutts -spent her girlhood, and have described in my father’s memoirs how, -when he settled in Harley Street in 1860 as a young man, there was -scarcely a doctor’s plate in that thoroughfare, or, indeed, in the -whole neighbourhood. Sir William Jenner, Sir John Williams, Sir Alfred -Garrod, Sir Richard Quain, and Sir Andrew Clark became his neighbours; -and later Sir Francis Jeune, Lord Russell of Killowen, the present -Speaker of the House of Commons (Mr. Gully), Sir William McCormac, Sir -William Church, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> Mr. Gladstone settled quite near. Mr. Sothern -(the original impersonator of Lord Dundreary and David Garrick) lived -for some time in the street; but, so far as I know, he and the Kendals -were the only representatives of the stage. A few years ago, not being -able to add to the house they then occupied as they wished, the Kendals -migrated to Portland Place, which is now their London residence, while -Filey claims them for sea air and rest.</p> - -<p>The Kendals spent five years in the United States. It was during those -long and tedious journeys in Pullman-cars that Mrs. Kendal organised -her “Unselfish Club.” It was an excellent idea for keeping every one -in a good temper. At one end of the car the women used to meet to -mend, make, and darn every afternoon, while one male member of the -company was admitted to read aloud, each taking this duty in turn. -Many pleasant and useful hours were spent in speeding over the dreary -prairie in this manner. Only those who have traversed thousands of -miles of desert can have any idea of the weariness of those days passed -on the cars. The railway system is excellent, everything possible is -done for one’s comfort, but the monotony is appalling.</p> - -<p>Two things are particularly interesting about this great actress—her -keen sense of humour and her love of soap. She is always merry and -cheerful, has endless jokes to tell, has a quick appreciation of the -ridiculous, and can be just as amusing off the stage as on it.</p> - -<p>Her love of soap-and-water is apparent in all her surroundings; she is -always most carefully groomed;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> there is nothing whatever artificial -about her—anything of that sort which is necessary upon the boards is -left behind at the theatre. That is one of her greatest charms. She -uses no “make-up,” and, consequently, she looks much younger off the -stage than she does upon it.</p> - -<p>Her expressions and her voice are probably Mrs. Kendal’s greatest -attractions. Speaking of the first, she laughingly remarked, “My face -was made that way, I suppose; and as for my acting voice, I have taken -a little trouble to train it. We all start in a high key, but as we get -older our voices often grow two or three notes lower, and generally -more melodious, so that, while we have to keep them down in our youth, -we must learn to get them up in our old age, for the head voice of -comedy becomes a throat voice if not properly produced, and tends to -grow hard and rasping.”</p> - -<p>We had been discussing plays, good, bad, and indifferent.</p> - -<p>“I have the greatest objection to the illicit love of the modern -drama,” she remarked. “It is quite unnecessary. Every family has its -tragedy, and many of these tragedies are far more thrilling, far more -heart-breaking, than the unfortunate love-scenes put upon the stage.”</p> - -<p>The charming impersonator of the “Elder Miss Blossom,” one of the -most delightful touches of comedy-acting on record, almost invariably -dresses in black. A strong, healthy-looking woman, untouched by art, -and gently dealt with by years, Mrs.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> Kendal wears her glorious auburn -hair neatly parted in front and braided at the back. Fashion in this -line does not disturb her; she has always worn it in the same way, and -even upon the stage has rarely donned a wig. She tells a funny little -story of how a dear friend teased and almost bullied her to be more -fashionable about her head. Every one was wearing fringes at the time, -and the lady begged her not to be so “odd,” but to adopt the new and -becoming mode. Just to try the effect, Mrs. Kendal went off to a grand -shop, told the man to dress her hair in the very latest style, paid a -guinea for the performance, and went home. Her family and servants were -amazed; but when she arrived at her friend’s house that evening her -hostess failed to recognise her. So the fashionable hairdressing was -never repeated.</p> - -<p>“I worked the hardest,” said Mrs. Kendal, in reply to a question, “in -America. For months we gave nine performances a week. The booking -was so heavy in the different towns, and our time so limited, that -we actually had to put in a third <em>matinée</em>, and as occasionally -rehearsals were necessary, and long railway journeys always essential, -it was really great labour.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_032fp"> -<img src="images/i_032fp.jpg" width="423" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Alfred Ellis, Upper Baker Street, W.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MR. W. H. KENDAL.</p></div> - -<p>“As a rule I was dressed by ten, and managed to get in an hour’s walk -before the <em>matinée</em>. Back to the hotel after the performance for a -six o’clock meal, generally composed of a cutlet and coffee, quickly -followed by a return to the theatre and another performance. To -change one’s dress fourteen <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span>times a day, as I did when playing <cite>The -Ironmaster</cite>, becomes a little wearisome when it continues for months.”</p> - -<p>“Did you not find that people in America were extraordinarily -hospitable?” I inquired, remembering the great kindness I received in -Canada and the States.</p> - -<p>“Undoubtedly; but we had little time for anything of that sort, which -has always been a great regret to me. It is hard lines to be in a -place one wants to see, among people one wants to know, and never to -have time for play, only everlasting work. We did make many friends on -Sundays, however, and I have the happiest recollections of America.”</p> - -<p>Pictures are a favourite hobby of the Kendals, and they have many -beautiful canvases in their London home. Every corner is filled by -something in the way of a picture, every one of which they love for -itself, and for the memories of the way they came by it, more often -than not as the result of some successful “run.” They have built their -home about them bit by bit. Hard work and good management have slowly -and gradually attained their ends, and they laugh over the savings -necessary to buy such and such a treasure, and love it all the more for -the little sacrifices made for its attainment. How much more we all -appreciate some end or some thing we have had difficulty in acquiring. -That which falls at our feet seems of little value compared with those -objects and aims secured by self-denial.</p> - -<p>“There is no doubt about it,” Mrs Kendal finished<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> by saying, -“theatrical life is hard; hard in the beginning, and hard in the end.”</p> - -<p>Such words from a woman in Mrs. Kendal’s position are of vast import. -She knows what she is talking about; she realises the work, the -drudgery, the small pay, and weary hours, and when she says, “Dissuade -girls from rushing upon the stage,” those would-be aspirants for -dramatic fame should listen to the advice of so experienced an actress -and capable woman.</p> - -<p>As said at the beginning of this chapter, Mrs. Kendal was cradled in -the theatre: she was also married on the stage.</p> - -<p>Madge Robertson and William Kendal Grimston were playing in Manchester -when one fine day they were married by special licence. A friend of Mr. -Kendal’s had the Town Hall bells rung in honour of the event, and the -young couple were ready to start off for their honeymoon, when Henry -Compton, the great actor, who was “billed” for the following nights, -was telegraphed for to his brother’s deathbed.</p> - -<p>At once the arrangements had to be altered. <cite>As You Like It</cite> was -ordered, and Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were caught just as they were leaving -the town, and bidden to play Orlando and Rosalind to the Touchstone of -Buckstone. The honeymoon had to be postponed.</p> - -<p>The young couple found the house unusually full on their wedding night, -although they believed no one knew of their marriage until they came -to the words, “Will you, Orlando, have to wife this Rosalind?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span>” when -the burst of applause and prolonged cheering assured them of the good -wishes of their public friends.</p> - -<p>Another little romance of the stage happened to the Forbes Robertsons. -Just before I sailed for Canada, in August, 1900, Mr. Johnston Forbes -Robertson came to dinner. He had been away in Italy for some months -recruiting after a severe illness, and was just starting forth on an -autumn tour of his own.</p> - -<p>“Have you a good leading lady?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“I think so,” he replied. “I met her for the first time this morning, -and had never seen her before.”</p> - -<p>“How indiscreet,” I exclaimed. “How do you know she can act?”</p> - -<p>“While I was abroad I wrote to two separate friends in whose judgment -I have much confidence, asking them to recommend me a leading lady. -Both replied suggesting Miss Gertrude Elliott as suitable in every -way. Their opinions being identical, and so strongly expressed, I -considered she must be the lady for me, and telegraphed, offering her -an engagement accordingly. She accepted by wire, and at our first -rehearsal this morning promised very well.”</p> - -<p>I left England almost immediately afterwards, and eight or ten weeks -later, while in Chicago, saw a big newspaper headline announcing the -engagement of a pretty American actress to a well-known English actor. -Naturally I bought the paper at once to see who the actor might be, -and lo! it was Mr. Forbes Robertson. It seemed almost impossible: but -impossible things have a curious knack of being true,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> and the signed -photograph I had with me of Forbes Robertson, among those of other -distinguished English friends, proved useful to the American press, who -were glad of a copy for immediate reproduction. Almost as quickly as -this handsome couple were engaged, they were married. Was not that a -romance?</p> - -<p>Mr. Forbes Robertson originally intended to be an artist, and his -going on the stage came about by chance. He was a student at the -Royal Academy, when his friend the late W. G. Wills was in need of an -actor to play the part of Chastelard in his <cite>Mary Stuart</cite>, then being -given at the Princess’s Theatre. It was difficult to procure exactly -the type of face he wanted, for well-chiselled features are not so -common as one might suppose. Young Forbes Robertson possessed those -features, his clear-cut profile being exactly suitable for Chastelard. -Consequently, after much talk with the would-be artist, who was loth to -give up his cherished profession, W. G. Wills introduced his friend to -the beautiful Mrs. Rousby, with the result that young Forbes Robertson -undertook the part at four days’ notice.</p> - -<p>Thus it was his face that decided his fate. From that moment the stage -had been his profession and art his hobby; but a newer craze is rapidly -driving paints and brushes out of the field, for, like many another, -the actor has fallen a victim to golf.</p> - -<p>There is no finer elocutionist on the stage than Forbes Robertson, and -therefore it is interesting to know that he expresses it as his opinion -that:</p> - -<p>“Elocution can be taught.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_036fp"> -<img src="images/i_036fp.jpg" width="485" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MR. J. FORBES-ROBERTSON.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p> - -<p>Phelps was his master, and he attributes much of his success to that -master’s careful training. What a pity Phelps cannot live among us -again, to teach some of the younger generation to speak more clearly -than they do.</p> - -<p>Bad enunciation and noisy music often combine to make the words from -the stage inaudible to the audience. Why an old farmer should arrive -down a country lane to a blare of trumpets is unintelligible: why a -man should plot murder to a valse, or a woman die to slow music, is a -conundrum, but such is the fashion on the stage. One sometimes sits -through a performance without hearing any of what ought to be the most -thrilling lines.</p> - -<p>Johnston Forbes Robertson has lived from the age of twenty-one in -Bloomsbury. His father was a well-known art critic until blindness -overtook him, and then the responsibility of the home fell on the -eldest son’s shoulders. His father was born and bred in Aberdeen, and -came as a young man to London, where he soon got work as a journalist, -and wrote much on art for the <cite>Sunday Times</cite>, the <cite>Art Journal</cite>, etc. -His most important work was <cite>The Great Painters of Christendom</cite>.</p> - -<p>The West Central district of London, with its splendid houses, its -Adams ceilings and overmantels, went quite out of fashion for more -than a quarter of a century. With the dawn, however, of 1900, people -began to realise that South Kensington stood on clay, was low and -damp, and consequently they gradually migrated back to the Regent’s -Park and those fine old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span> squares in Bloomsbury. One after another the -houses were taken, and among Mr. Forbes Robertson’s neighbours are -George Grossmith and his brother Weedon, Mr. and Mrs. Seymour Hicks, -Lady Monckton, “Anthony Hope,” and many well-known judges, aldermen, -solicitors, and architects.</p> - -<p>In the old home in Bloomsbury the artistic family of Forbes Robertson -was reared. Johnston, as we know, suddenly neglected his easel for -the stage; his sister Frances took up literature as a profession; and -his brothers, known as Ian Robertson and Norman Forbes, both adopted -the theatrical profession. So the Robertsons may be classed among the -theatrical families.</p> - -<p>Who in the latter end of the nineteenth century did not weep with -Miss Terry?—who did not laugh with her well-nigh to tears? A great -personality, a wondrous charm of voice and manner, a magnetic influence -on all her surroundings—all these are possessed by Ellen Terry.</p> - -<p>In the days of their youth Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen Terry played -together, but many years elapsed between then and the Coronation -year of Edward VII., when they met again behind the footlights, in a -remarkable performance which shall be duly chronicled in these pages.</p> - -<p>Like Mrs. Kendal, Miss Ellen Terry began her theatrical life as a -child. She was born in Coventry in 1848—not far from Shakespeare’s -home, which later in life became such an attractive spot for her. Her -parents had theatrical engagements at Coventry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> at the time of her -birth, so that verily she was cradled on the stage. She was one of -four remarkable sisters, Kate, Ellen, Marion, and Florence, all clever -actresses and sisters of Fred Terry; while another brother, although -not himself an actor, was connected with the stage, Miss Minnie Terry -being his daughter. Altogether ten or twelve members of the Terry -family have been in the profession.</p> - -<p>Ellen Terry, like Irving, Wyndham, Hare, Mrs. Kendal, and Lady -Bancroft, learnt her art in stock companies.</p> - -<p>Miss Ellen Terry has always had the greatest difficulty in learning -her parts, and as years have gone on, even in remembering her lines in -oft-acted plays; but every one knows how apt she is to be forgetful, -and prompt her over her difficulties. Irving, on the other hand, is -letter-perfect at the first rehearsal, and rarely wants help of any -kind.</p> - -<p>Ellen Terry is so clever that even when she has forgotten her words she -knows how to “cover” herself by walking about the stage or some other -pretty by-play until a friend comes to her aid. Theatrical people are -extremely good to one another on these occasions. Somebody is always -ready to come to the rescue. After the first week everything goes -smoothly as a rule, until the strain of a long run begins to tell, and -they all in turn forget their words, much to the discomfiture of the -prompter.</p> - -<p>Forgetting the words is a common thing during a long run. I remember -Miss Geneviève Ward telling me that after playing <cite>Forget-Me-Not</cite> some -five<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> hundred times she became perfectly dazed, and that Jefferson had -experienced the same with <cite>Rip van Winkle</cite>, which he has to continually -re-study. Miss Gertrude Elliott suffered considerably in the same way -during the long run of <cite>Mice and Men</cite>.</p> - -<p>Much has been said for and against a long run; but surely the “against” -ought to have it. No one can be fresh and natural in a part played -night after night—played until the words become hazy, and that dreadful -condition “forgetting the lines” arrives.</p> - -<p>At a charming luncheon given by Mr. Pinero for the American Gillette, -when the latter was creating such a <em>furore</em> in England with <cite>Sherlock -Holmes</cite>, I ventured to ask that actor how long he had played the part -of the famous detective.</p> - -<p>“For three years,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“Then I wonder you are not insane.”</p> - -<p>“So do I, ma’am, I often wonder myself, for the strain is terrible, and -sometimes I feel as if I could never walk on to the stage at all; but -when the theatre is full, go I must, and go I do; though I literally -shun the name of <em>Sherlock Holmes</em>.”</p> - -<p>We quickly turned to other subjects, and discussed the charm of -American women, a theme on which it is easy for an English woman to wax -eloquent.</p> - -<p>If a man like Gillette, with all his success, all his monetary gain, -and no anxiety—for he did not finance his own theatres—could feel like -that about a long run, what horrors it must present to others less -happily situated.</p> - -<p>Long runs, which are now so much desired by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> managers in England and -America, are unknown on the Continent. In other countries, where -theatres are more or less under State control, they never occur. Of -course the “long run” is the outcome of the vast sums expended on the -production. Managers cannot recoup themselves for the outlay unless the -play draws for a considerable while. But is this the real end and aim -of acting? Does it give opportunity for any individual actor to excel?</p> - -<p>But to return to Ellen Terry. She has played many parts and won the -love of a large public by her wonderful personality, for there is -something in her that charms. She is not really beautiful, yet she can -look lovely. She has not a strong voice, yet she can sway audiences at -will to laughter or tears. She has not a fine figure, yet she can look -a royal queen or simple maiden. Once asked whether she preferred comedy -or tragedy, she replied:</p> - -<p>“I prefer comedy, but I should be very sorry if there were no sad -plays. I think the feminine predilection for a really good cry is -one that should not be discouraged, inasmuch as there are few things -that yield us a truer or a deeper pleasure; but I like comedy as the -foundation, coping-stone, and pillar of a theatre. Not comedies for the -mere verbal display of wit, but comedies of humour with both music and -dancing.”</p> - -<p>Miss Ellen Terry has a cheery disposition, invariably looks on the -bright side of things, and not only knows how to work, but has actually -done so almost continuously from the age of eight.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p> - -<p>One of Miss Terry’s greatest charms is her mastery over expression. -It is really strange how little facial and physical expression are -understood in England. We are the most undemonstrative people. It is -much easier for a Frenchman to act than for an Englishman; the former -is always acting; the little shrug of the shoulders, the movement of -the hand and the head, or a wink of the eye, accompany every sentence -that falls from his lips. He is full of movement, he speaks as much -with his body as with his mouth, and therefore it is far less difficult -for him to give expression to his thoughts upon the stage than it is -for the stolid Britisher, whose public school training has taught him -to avoid showing feeling, and squeezed him into the same mould of -unemotional conventionality as all his other hundreds of schoolfellows. -There is no doubt about it that everything on the stage must be -exaggerated to be effective. It is a world of unreality, and the more -pronounced the facial and physical expression brought to bear, the more -effective the representation of the character.</p> - -<p>To realise the truth of these remarks, one should visit a small theatre -in France, a theatre in some little provincial town, where a quite -unimportant company is playing. They all seem to act, to be thoroughly -enamoured of their parts, and to play them with their whole heart and -soul. It is quite wonderful, indeed, to see the extraordinary capacity -of the average French actor and actress for expressing emotion upon -the stage. Of course it is their characteristic; but on the other -hand, the German nation is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> quite as stolid as our own, and yet the -stage is held by them in high esteem, and the amount of drilling gone -through is so wonderful that one is struck by the perfect playing of an -ordinary provincial German. At home these Teutonic folk are hard and -unemotional, but on the boards they expand. One has only to look at the -German company that comes over to London every year to understand this -remark. They play in a foreign tongue, the dresses are ordinary, one -might say poor, the scenery is meagre, there is nothing, in fact, to -help the acting in any way; and yet no one who goes to see one of their -performances can fail to be impressed by the wonderful thoroughness and -the general playing-in-unison of the entire company. Of course they do -not aim so high as the Meiningen troupe, for they were a State company -and the personal hobby of the Duke whose name they bore. We have no -such band of players in England, although F. R. Benson has done much -without State aid to accomplish the same result, and in many cases has -succeeded admirably.</p> - -<p>We have heard a great deal lately about the prospect of a State-Aided -Theatre and Opera in London; and there is much to be said for and -against the scheme. Municipal administration is often extravagant and -not unknown to jobbery, neither of which would be advisable; but the -present system leads to actor-managers and powerful syndicates, which -likewise have their drawbacks. There is undoubtedly much to be said -both for and against each system, and the British public has to decide. -Meantime we learn that the six<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> Imperial theatres in Russia (three in -St. Petersburg and three in Moscow), with their schools attached, cost -the Emperor some £400,000 a year. “It is possible to visit the opera -for 5<i>d.</i>, to see Russian pieces for 3<i>d.</i>, French and German for -9<i>d.</i>” These cheap seats are supposed to be a source of education to -the populace, but there are expensive ones as well.</p> - -<p>Some Englishmen understand the art of facial expression. A little -piece was played for a short time by Mr. Charles Warner, under the -management of Mrs. Beerbohm Tree. The chief scene took place in front -of a telephone, through which instrument the actor heard his wife and -child being murdered many miles away in the country, he being in Paris. -It was a ghastly idea, but Charles Warner’s face was a study from the -first moment to the last. He grew positively pale, he had very little -to say, and yet he carried off an entire scene of unspeakable horror -merely by his facial and physical expression.</p> - -<p>Some of our actors are amusingly fond of posing off the stage as well -as on. One well-known man was met by a friend who went forward to shake -his hand.</p> - -<p>“Ah, how do you do?” gushed the Thespian, striking an attitude, “how do -you do, old chap? Delighted to see you,” then assuming a dramatic air, -“but who the —— are you?”</p> - -<p>And this was his usual form of greeting after an effusive handshake.</p> - -<p>In a busy life it is of course impossible to remember every face, and -the nonentities should surely forgive the celebrities, for it is so -easy to recognise a well-known<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> person owing to the constant recurrence -of his name or portrait in the press, and so easy to forget a nonentity -whom nothing recalls, and whose face resembles dozens more of the same -type.</p> - -<p>One often hears actors and actresses abused—that is the penalty of -success. Mediocrity is left alone, but, once successful, out come the -knives to flay the genius to pieces; in fact, the more abused a man is, -the more sure he may feel of his achievements. Abuse follows success in -proportion to merit, just as foolish hopes make the disappointments of -life.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III<br /> -<br /> -<i>THEATRICAL FOLK</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Miss Winifred Emery—Amusing Criticism—An Actress’s Home Life—Cyril -Maude’s first Theatrical Venture—First Performance—A Luncheon -Party—A Bride as Leading Lady—No Games, no Holidays—A Party at the -Haymarket—Miss Ellaline Terriss and her First Appearance—Seymour -Hicks—Ben Webster and Montagu Williams—The Sothern Family—Edward -Sothern as a Fisherman—A Terrible Moment—Almost a Panic—Asleep -as Dundreary—Frohman at Daly’s Theatre—English and American -Alliance—Mummers.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">ANOTHER striking instance of hereditary theatrical talent is Miss -Winifred Emery, than whom there is no more popular actress in -London. This pretty, agreeable little lady—who, like Mrs. Kendal -and Miss Terry, may be said to have been born in the theatre—is the -only daughter of Samuel Sanderson Emery, a well-known actor, and -grand-daughter of John Emery, who was well known upon the stage. Her -first appearance was at Liverpool, at the advanced age of eight.</p> - -<p>The oldest theatrical names upon the stage to-day are William Farren -and Winifred Emery. Miss Emery’s great-grandfather was also an actor, -so she is really the fourth generation to adopt that profession, but -her grandmother and herself are the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> only two women of the name of -Emery who have appeared on playbills.</p> - -<p>As is well known, Miss Emery is the wife of Mr. Cyril Maude, lessee -with Mr. Frederick Harrison—not the world-renowned Positivist writer—of -the Haymarket Theatre.</p> - -<p>Although Mrs. Maude finds her profession engrossing, she calls it a -very hard one, and the necessity of being always up to the mark at a -certain hour every day is, she owns, a great strain even when she is -well, and quite impossible when she is ill.</p> - -<p>Some years ago, when she was even younger than she is now, and not -overburdened with this world’s gold, she was acting at the Vaudeville. -It was her custom to go home every evening in an omnibus. One -particularly cold night she jumped into the two-horse vehicle and -huddled herself up in the farthest corner, thinking it would be warmer -there than nearer the door in such bitter weather. She pulled her fur -about her neck, and sat motionless and quiet. Presently two women at -the other end arrested her attention; one was nudging the other, and -saying:</p> - -<p>“It is ’er, I tell yer; I know it’s ’er.”</p> - -<p>“Nonsense, it ain’t ’er at all; she couldn’t have got out of the -theayter so quick.”</p> - -<p>“It is ’er, I tell yer; just look at ’er again.”</p> - -<p>The other looked.</p> - -<p>“No it ain’t; she was all laughing and fun, and that ’ere one looks -quite sulky.”</p> - -<p>The “sulky one,” though thoroughly tired and weary, smiled to herself.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span></p> - -<p>I asked Miss Emery one day if she had ever been placed in any awkward -predicament on the stage.</p> - -<p>“I always remember one occasion,” she replied, “tragedy at the time, -but a comedy now, perhaps. I was acting with Henry Irving in the -States when I was about eighteen or nineteen, and felt very proud of -the honour. We reached Chicago. <cite>Louis XI.</cite> was the play. In one act—I -think it was the second—I went on as usual and did my part. Having -finished, as I thought, I went to my room and began to wash my hands. -It was a cold night, and my lovely white hands robbed of their paint -were blue. The mixture was well off when the call boy shouted my name. -Thinking he was having a joke I said:</p> - -<p>“‘All right, I’m here.’</p> - -<p>“‘But Mr. Irving is waiting for you.’</p> - -<p>“‘Waiting for me? Why, the act isn’t half over.’</p> - -<p>“‘Come, Miss Emery, come quick,’ gasped the boy, pushing open the door. -‘Mr. Irving’s on the stage and waiting for you.’</p> - -<p>“Horrors! In a flash I remembered I had two small scenes as Marie in -that act, and usually waited in the wing. Had I, could I have forgotten -the second one?</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_048fp"> -<img src="images/i_048fp.jpg" width="399" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.</i></p> -<p class="caption">MISS WINIFRED EMERY AND MR. CYRIL MAUDE IN “THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.”</p></div> - -<p>“With wet red hands, dry white arms, my dress not properly fastened at -the back, towel in hand, along the passage I flew. On the stage was -poor Mr. Irving walking about, talking—I know not what. On I rushed, -said my lines, gave him my lobster-coloured wet hand to kiss—a pretty -contrast to my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> ashen cheeks, and when the curtain fell, I dissolved in -tears.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Irving sent for me to his room. In fear and trembling I went.</p> - -<p>“‘This was terrible,’ he said. ‘How did it happen?’</p> - -<p>“‘I forgot, I forgot, why I know not, but I forgot,’ I said, and my -tears flowed again. He patted me on the back.</p> - -<p>“‘Never mind,’ he said kindly, ‘but please don’t let it occur again.’”</p> - -<p>Once when I was talking to this clever little lady the conversation -turned on games.</p> - -<p>“Games!” she exclaimed. “I know nothing of them: as a child I never had -time to play, and when I was sixteen years old I had to keep myself and -my family. Of late years I have been far too busy even to take up golf.”</p> - -<p>Mrs. Maude has two charming daughters, quaint, old-fashioned little -creatures, and some years their junior is a small brother.</p> - -<p>The two girls were once invited to a fancy dress ball in Harley Street: -it happened to be a Saturday, and therefore <em>matinée</em> day. Their mother -arranged their dresses. The elder was to wear the costume of Lady -Teazle, an exact replica of the one reproduced in this volume, and -which Mrs. Maude wore when playing that part, while the younger was to -be dressed as a Dutch bride, also a copy of one of Miss Emery’s dresses -in the <cite>Black Tulip</cite>. They all lunched together, and as the mother was -going off<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> to the theatre, she told the nurse to see that the children -were dressed properly, and take them to the house at a certain hour.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but, mummy, we can’t go unless you dress us,” exclaimed the elder -child; “we should never be right.” And therefore it was settled that -the two little people should be arrayed with the exception of the final -touches, and then driven round by way of the Haymarket Theatre, so that -their mother might attend to their wigs, earrings, hat or cap, as the -case might be.</p> - -<p>What a pretty idea. The mother, who was attracting rounds of applause -from a crowded house every time she went on the stage, running back to -her dressing-room between the scenes, to drop down on her knees and -attend to her little girls, so that they should be all right for their -party.</p> - -<p>Admiring the costume of the younger one, I said:</p> - -<p>“Why, you have got on your mother’s dress.”</p> - -<p>“No, it’s not mother’s,” she replied. “It’s <em>my</em> dress, and <em>my</em> shoes, -and <em>my</em> stockings—all my very own; but it’s mother’s gold cap, and -mother’s earrings, and mother’s necklace, and mother’s apron—with a -tuck in,” and she nodded her wise little head.</p> - -<p>This was a simple child, not like the small American girl whose mother -was relating wonderful stories of her precocity to an admiring friend, -when a shrill voice from the corner called out:</p> - -<p>“But you haven’t told the last clever thing I said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> mamma,” evidently -wishing none of her brilliant wit to be lost.</p> - -<p>They looked sweet, those two children of Mrs. Maude’s, and the way the -elder one attended upon her smaller sister was pretty to see.</p> - -<p>In a charming little house near the Brompton Oratory Mrs. Maude lived -for years, surrounded by her family, perfectly content in their -society. She is in every sense a thoroughly domesticated woman, and -warmly declares she “loves housekeeping.”</p> - -<p>One cannot imagine a happier home than the Maudes’, and no more -charming gentleman walks upon the stage than this well-known descendant -of many distinguished army men. Mr. Maude was at Charterhouse, one of -our best public schools, and is a most enthusiastic old Carthusian. So -is General Baden-Powell, whose interest in the old place went so far as -to make him spend his last night in England among his old schoolfellows -at the City Charterhouse when he returned invalided on short leave from -the Transvaal. The gallant soldier gave an excellent speech, referring -to Founders’ Day, which they were then commemorating, and delighted his -boy hearers and “Ancient Brethren” equally.</p> - -<p>On Charterhouse anniversaries Mr. Maude drops his jester’s cap and -solemnly, long stick in hand, takes part in the ceremony at the old -Carthusian Church made popular by Thackeray’s <cite>Newcomes</cite>.</p> - -<p>Cyril Maude was originally intended for another profession, but, in -spite of family opposition, elected to go upon the stage, and as -his parents did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> approve of such a proceeding, he commenced his -theatrical career in America, where he went through many vicissitudes. -He began in a Shakespearian <em>rèpertoire</em> company, playing through -the Western mining towns of the States, where he had to rough it -considerably.</p> - -<p>“I even slept on a bit of carpet on a bar-room floor one night,” he -said; “but our beautiful company burst up in ’Frisco, and I had to come -home emigrant fashion, nine days and nine nights in the train, with -a little straw mattress for my bed, and a small tin can to hold my -food. They were somewhat trying experiences, yet most interesting, and -gave great opportunities for studying mankind. I have played in every -conceivable sort of play, and once ‘walked on’ for months made up as -Gladstone in a burlesque, to a mighty dreary comic song.”</p> - -<p>So Mr. Maude, like the rest who have climbed to the top, began at the -bottom of the ladder, and has worked his way industriously up to his -present position, which he has held at the Haymarket since 1896, and -where—he laughingly says—he hopes to die in harness.</p> - -<p>Cyril Maude gives rather an amusing description of his first theatrical -performance. When he was a boy of eighteen his family took a house at -Dieppe for six months, and he was sent every day to study French with -<em>Monsieur le Pasteur</em>.</p> - -<p>“One day, when I had been working with him for three or four weeks, he -asked me what I was going to make my profession.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p> - -<p>“‘Comédien,’ I replied.</p> - -<p>“‘Comment? Comédien? Etes-vous fou?’ he exclaimed, horrified and -astounded at such a suggestion, and added more gravely, ‘I am quite -sure you have not the slightest idea how to act; so, my boy, you had -better put such a ridiculous idea out of your head and stick to your -books. Besides, you must choose a profession fit for a gentleman.’</p> - -<p>“Of course I felt piqued, and as I walked home that evening I just -wondered if there were not some way by which I could show the old man -that I <em>could</em> act if I chose.</p> - -<p>“The Pasteur had a resident pupil of the name of Bishop, a nice young -fellow, and to him I related my indignation.</p> - -<p>“‘Of course you can act,’ he said; so between us we concocted the -brilliant idea that I should dress up as Bishop’s aunt and go and call -upon the Pasteur, with the ostensible view of sending another nephew -to his excellent establishment. Overjoyed at the scheme I ransacked my -mother’s wardrobe, and finally dressed myself up to resemble a somewhat -lean, cadaverous English old maid.</p> - -<p>“I walked down the street to the house, and to my joy the servant did -not recognise me. The old man received me with great cordiality and -politeness. I told him in very bad French, with a pronounced Cockney -accent, that I was thinking of sending another of my nephews to him -if he had room. At this suggestion the Pasteur was delighted, took me -upstairs, showed me all the rooms, and made<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> quite a fuss over me. -Then he called ‘my nephew,’ who nearly gave the show away by choking -with laughter when I affectionately greeted him with a chaste salute. -This was the only part of the business I did not really enjoy! As we -were coming downstairs, the Pasteur well in front, I smiled—perhaps I -winked—at Bishop, anyhow I slipped, whereupon the polite old gentleman -turned round, was most <em>désolé</em> at the accident, gave me his arm, and -assisted me most tenderly all the rest of the way to the dining-room, -his wife following and murmuring:—</p> - -<p>“‘Prenez garde, madame, prenez garde.’</p> - -<p>“Having arrived at the <em>salle-à-manger</em> the dear old Pasteur said he -would leave me for a moment with his wife, in case there was anything -I might like to discuss with her, and to my horror I was left closeted -with madame, nervously fearing she might touch on subjects fit only for -ladies’ ears, but not for the tender years of my manly youth. Needless -to say I escaped from her clutches as quickly as possible.</p> - -<p>“For two days I kept up the joke. Then it became too much for me, -and as we were busily working at French verbs, in the curé’s study, -I changed my voice and returned to the old lady’s Cockney French -intonations, which was not in the least difficult, as my own French -was none of the brightest. The Pasteur turned round, looked hard at -me for a moment, and then went back to the verbs. I awaited another -opportunity, and began again. This time he almost glared at me, and -then,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> clapping his hands to his head and bursting into laughter, he -exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“‘Mais c’était vous, c’était vous la tante de Bishop?’</p> - -<p>“It turned out he had written that morning to Bishop’s real aunt, -accepting her second nephew as a pupil, and arranging all the details -of his arrival. How surprised the good lady must have been.”</p> - -<p>June 3rd, 1899, was the eleventh anniversary of Cyril Maude and -Winifred Emery’s wedding day, and they gave a delightful little -luncheon party at their pretty house in Egerton Crescent, where they -then lived. The host certainly looked ridiculously young to have been -married eleven years, or to be the father of the big girl of nine and -the smaller one of six who came down to dessert.</p> - -<p>Their home was a very cosy one—not big or grand in those days, but -thoroughly carried out on a small scale, with trees in the gardens in -front, trees in the back-yard behind, and the aspect was refreshing on -that frightfully hot Oaks day.</p> - -<p>Winifred Emery had a new toy—a tiny little dog, so small that it could -curl itself up quite happily in the bottom of a man’s top hat, but yet -wicked enough to do a vast amount of damage, for it had that morning -pulled a blouse by the sleeves from the bed to the floor, and had -calmly dissevered the lace from the cambric.</p> - -<p>The Maudes are a most unconventional theatrical pair. They love -their home and their children, and seem to wish to get rid of every -remembrance of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> the theatre once they pass their own front door. And -yet it is impossible to get rid of the theatre in the summer, for -besides having eight performances a week of <cite>The Manœuvres of Jane</cite> -at that time—which was doing even better business at the end of nine -months than it was at the beginning—those unfortunate people were -giving charity performances every week for seven consecutive weeks, -which of course necessitated rehearsals apart from the performances -themselves. Really the charity distributed by the theatrical world is -enormous.</p> - -<p>We had a delightful luncheon: much of my time was spent gazing at Miss -Ellaline Terriss, who is even prettier off the stage than she is on.</p> - -<p>When Mrs. Maude said she had been married for eleven years, with the -proudest air in the world Mrs. Hicks remarked:</p> - -<p>“And we have been married nearly six.”</p> - -<p>But certainly to look at Ellaline Terriss and Seymour Hicks made it -seem impossible to believe that such could be the case. Hard work seems -to agree with some people, and the incessant labour of the stage had -left no trace on these young couples.</p> - -<p>After luncheon the Maudes’ eldest little girl recited a French poem -she had learnt at school, and it was quite ridiculous to see the small -child already showing inherited talent. She was calm and collected, and -when she had done and I congratulated her, she said in the simplest way -in the world:</p> - -<p>“I am going to be an actress when I am grown up, and so is Baby,” -nodding her head at the other small<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> thing of six, for the boy had not -then arrived to usurp “Baby’s” place.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes, so am I,” said little six-year-old. But when I asked her to -recite something, she said:</p> - -<p>“I haven’t learnt yet, but I shall soon.”</p> - -<p>The Maudes were then eagerly looking forward to some weeks’ holiday -which they always enjoy every autumn.</p> - -<p>“I like a place where I need not wear gloves, and a hat is not a -necessity,” she said. “I have so much dressing-up in my life that it is -a holiday to be without it.”</p> - -<p>Somehow the conversation turned on a wedding to which they had just -been, and Winifred Emery exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“I love going to weddings, but I always regret I am not the bride.”</p> - -<p>“Come, come,” said her husband, “that would be worse than the Mormons. -However many husbands would you have?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I always want to keep my own old husband, but I want to be the -bride.” At which he laughed immoderately, and said:</p> - -<p>“I declare, Winifred, you are never happy unless you are playing the -leading lady.”</p> - -<p>“Of course not,” she retorted; “women always appreciate appreciation.”</p> - -<p>They were much amused when I told them the story of my small boy, who, -aged about seven, was to go to a wedding as a page in gorgeous white -satin with lace ruffles and old paste buttons.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I don’t want to go,” he remarked; “I hate weddings”—for he had -officiated twice before. Something he said leading me to suppose he was -a little shy, I soothingly answered:</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, every one will be so busy looking at the bride that they -will never look at you.”</p> - -<p>To which the small gentleman indignantly replied:</p> - -<p>“If they aren’t even going to look at me, then I don’t see why I need -go at all!”</p> - -<p>So after all there is a certain amount of vanity even in a small boy of -seven.</p> - -<p>“I cannot bear a new play,” Mrs. Maude once said. “I am nervous, -worried, and anxious at rehearsal, and it is not until I have got on -my stage clothes that it ceases to be a trouble to me. Not till I have -played it for weeks that I feel thoroughly at home in a new part.</p> - -<p>“It is positively the first real holiday I have ever had in my life,” -she exclaimed to me at the time of her illness; “for although we always -take six weeks’ rest in the summer, plays have to be studied and work -is looming ahead, whereas now I have six months of complete idleness in -front of me. It is splendid to have time to tidy my drawers in peace, -ransack my bookshelves, see to a hundred and one household duties -without any hurry, have plenty of time to spend with the children, and -actually to see something of my friends, whom it is impossible to meet -often in my usually busy life.”</p> - -<p>So spoke Miss Winifred Emery, and a year later Mrs. Kendal wrote, “I’ve -had ten days’ holiday<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span> this year, and am now rehearsing literally day -and night.”</p> - -<p>After that who can say the life of the successful actress is not a -grind? A maidservant or shopgirl expects her fortnight’s holiday in a -twelvemonth, while one of the most successful actresses of modern times -has to be content with ten days during the same period. Yet Mrs. Kendal -is not a girl or a beginner, she is in full power and at the top of her -profession.</p> - -<p>All theatrical life is not a grind, however, and it has its brighter -moments. For instance, one beautiful warm sunny afternoon, the -anniversary of their own wedding day—the Cyril Maudes gave an “At Home” -at the Haymarket. Guests arrived by the stage door at the back of the -famous theatre, and to their surprise found themselves at once upon the -stage, for the back scene and Suffolk Street are almost identical. Mrs. -Maude, with a dear little girl on either side, received her friends, -and an interesting group of friends they were. Every one who was any -one seemed to have been bidden thither. The stage was, of course, not -large enough for this goodly throng, so a great staircase had been -built down from the footlights to where the stalls usually stand. -The stalls, however, had gone—disappeared as though they had never -existed—and where the back row generally cover the floor a sumptuous -buffet was erected. It was verily a fairy scene, for the dress-circle -(which at the Haymarket is low down) was a sort of winter garden of -palms and flowers behind which the band was ensconced.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p> - -<p>What would the players of old, Charles Mathews, Colley Cibber, Edmund -Kean, Liston, and Colman, have said to such a sight? What would -old Mr. Emery have thought could he have known that one day his -grand-daughter would reign as a very queen on the scene of his former -triumphs? What would he have said had he known that periwigs and old -stage coaches would have disappeared in favour of closely-cut heads, -electric broughams, shilling hansoms with C springs and rubber tyres, -or motor cars? What would he have thought of the electric light in -place of candle dips and smelling lamps? How surprised he would have -been to find neatly coated men showing the audience to their seats at -a performance, instead of fat rowdy women, to see the orange girls and -their baskets superseded by dainty trays of tea and ices, and above all -to note the decorous behaviour of a modern audience in contrast to the -noisy days when Grandpapa Emery trod the Haymarket boards.</p> - -<p>Almost the most youthful person present, if one dare judge by -appearances, was the actor-manager, Cyril Maude. There is something -particularly charming about Mr. Maude—there is a merry twinkle -in his eyes, with a sound of tears in his voice, and it is this -combination, doubtless, which charms his audience. He is a low -comedian, a character-actor, and yet he can play on the emotional -chord when necessity arises. He and his co-partner, Mr. Harrison, are -warm friends—a delightful situation for people so closely allied in -business.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p> - -<p>Immediately off the stage is the green-room, now almost unused. -Formerly the old green-room on the other side of the stage was a -fashionable resort, and the green-rooms at the Haymarket and Drury -Lane were crowded nightly at the beginning of the last century with -all the fashionable men of the day. Kings went there to be amused, -plays began at any time, the waits between the acts were of any length, -and general disorder reigned in the candle and oil-lighted theatres—a -disorder to which a few visitors did not materially add. All is -changed nowadays. The play begins to the minute, and ends with equal -regularity. Actors do not fail to appear without due notice, so that -the under-study has time to get ready, and order reigns both before and -behind the footlights. Therefore at the Haymarket no one is admitted to -the green-room, in fact, no one is allowed in the theatre “behind the -scenes” at all, except to the dressing-room of the particular star who -has invited him thither.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Maude made a charming hostess at that party.</p> - -<p>I think the hour at which we were told on the cards “to leave” was 6.0, -or it may have been 6.30; at any rate, we all streamed out reluctantly -at the appointed time, and the stage carpenters streamed in. Away went -the palms, off came the bunting, down came the staircase, and an hour -later the evening audience were pouring in to the theatre, little -knowing what high revelry had so lately ended.</p> - -<p>Some people seem to be born old, others live long and die young; -judging by their extraordinary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> juvenility, Mr. Seymour Hicks and his -charming wife, <em>née</em> Ellaline Terriss, belong to the latter category. -They are a boyish man and a girlish woman, in the best sense of -lighthearted youthfulness, yet they have a record of successes behind -them, of which many well advanced in years might be proud. No daintier, -prettier, more piquante little lady trips upon our stage than Ellaline -Terriss. She is the personification of everything mignonne, and whether -dressed in rags as <cite>Bluebell in Fairyland</cite>, or as a smart lady in a -modern play, she is delightful.</p> - -<p>It is a curious thing that so many of our prominent actors and -actresses have inherited their histrionic talents from their parents -and even grandparents, and Mrs. Hicks is no exception, for she is -the daughter of the late well-known actor, William Terriss. She was -not originally intended for the stage, and her adoption of it as a -profession was almost by chance. A letter of her own describes how this -came about.</p> - -<p>“I was barely sixteen when Mr. Calmour, who wrote <cite>The Amber Heart</cite> -and named the heroine after me, suggested we should surprise my father -one day by playing <cite>Cupid’s Messenger</cite> in our drawing-room, and that I -should take the leading part. We had a brass rod fixed up across the -room, and thus made a stage, and on the preceding night informed a -few friends of the morrow’s performance. The news greatly astonished -my father, who laughed. I daresay he was secretly pleased, though he -pretended not to be. A couple of months passed, and I heard that Miss -Freke was engaged at the Haymarket to play the part I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> had sustained. -Oh, how I wished it was I! Little did I think my wish was so near -fulfilment. I was sitting alone over the fire one day when a telegram -was handed to me, which ran:</p> - -<p>“‘<em>Haymarket Theatre. Come up at once. Play Cupid’s Messenger, -to-night.</em>’</p> - -<p>“I rushed to catch a train, and found myself at the stage door of the -theatre at 7.15 p.m. All was hurry and excitement. I did not know how -to make-up. I did not know with whom I was going to appear, and Miss -Freke’s dress was too large for me. The whole affair seemed like a -dream. However, I am happy to say Mr. Tree stood by and saw me act, and -I secured the honour of a ‘call.’ I played for a week, when Mr. Tree -gave me a five-pound note, and a sweet letter of thanks. My father then -said that if it would add to my happiness I might go on the stage, and -he would get me an engagement.”</p> - -<p>How proud the girl must have been of that five-pound note, for any -person who has ever earned even a smaller sum knows how much sweeter -money seems when acquired by one’s own exertions. Five-pound notes have -come thick and fast since then, but I doubt if any gave the actress so -much pleasure as Mr. Beerbohm Tree’s first recognition of her talent.</p> - -<p>Thus it really was quite by accident Miss Terriss entered on a -theatrical career. Her father, knowing the hard work and many -disappointments attendant on stage life, had not wished his daughter to -follow his own calling. But talent will out. It waits its<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> opportunity, -and then, like love, asserts itself. The opportunity came in a kindly -way; the talent was there, and Miss Terriss was clever and keen enough -to take her chance when it came and make the most of it. From that -moment she has never been idle, even her holidays have been few and far -between.</p> - -<p>Every one in London must have seen <cite>Bluebell in Fairyland</cite>, which ran -nearly a year. Indeed, at one time it was being played ten times a -week. Think of it. Ten times a week. To go through the same lines, the -same songs, the same dances, to look as if one were enjoying oneself, -to enter into the spirit and fun of the representation, was indeed -a herculean task, and one which the Vaudeville company successfully -carried through. But poor Mrs. Hicks broke down towards the close, and -was several times out of the bill.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_064fp"> -<img src="images/i_064fp.jpg" width="403" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by London Stereoscopic Co., Ltd., Cheapside, E.C.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MR. AND MRS. SEYMOUR HICKS.</p></div> - -<p>It is doubtful whether Seymour Hicks will be better known as an actor -or an author in the future, for he has worked hard at both professions -successfully. He was born at St. Heliers, Jersey, in 1871, and is the -eldest son of Major Hicks, of the 42nd Highlanders. His father intended -him for the army, but his own taste did not lie in that direction, and -when only sixteen and a half he elected to go upon the stage, and five -years later was playing a principal light comedy part at the Gaiety -Theatre. Like his wife, he has been several times in America, where -both have met with success, and when not acting, at which he is almost -constantly employed, this energetic man occupies his time by writing -plays, of a light and <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span>musical nature, which are usually successful. -<cite>One of the Best</cite>, <cite>Under the Clock</cite>, <cite>The Runaway Girl</cite>, <cite>Bluebell in -Fairyland</cite>, and <cite>The Cherry Girl</cite> have all had long runs.</p> - -<p>When the Hicks find time for a holiday their idea of happiness is an -out-of-door existence, with rod or gun for companions. Most of our -actors and actresses, whose lives are necessarily so public, love the -quiet of the country coupled with plenty of exercise when able to -take a change. The theatre is barely closed before they rush off to -moor or fen, to yacht or golf—to anything, in fact, that carries them -completely away from the glare of the footlights.</p> - -<p>Another instance of theatrical heredity is Ben Webster, whose talent -for acting doubtless comes from his grandfather. Originally young -Ben read for the Bar with that eminent and amusing man, Mr. Montagu -Williams. It was just at that time that poor Montagu Williams’s throat -began to trouble him: later on, when no longer able to plead in court, -he was given an appointment as magistrate. I only remember meeting him -once—it was at Ramsgate. When walking along the Esplanade one day—I -think about the year 1890—I found my father talking to a neat, dapper -little gentleman in a fur coat, thickly muffled about the throat. He -introduced his friend as Montagu Williams, a name very well known at -that time. Alas! the eminent lawyer was hardly able to speak—disease -had assailed his throat well-nigh to death, and the last time I saw -that wonderful painter and charming man Sir John Everett Millais,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> at -a private view at the Royal Academy, he was almost as speechless, poor -soul.</p> - -<p>Well, Montagu Williams was made a magistrate, and young Ben Webster, -realising his patron’s influence was to a certain extent gone, and -his own chances at the Bar consequently diminished, gladly accepted -an offer of Messrs. Hare and Kendal to play a companion part to his -sister in the <cite>Scrap of Paper</cite>, then on tour. He had often acted as -an amateur; and earned some little success during his few weeks’ -professional engagement, so that when he returned to town and found -Montagu Williams removed from active practice at the Bar, he went at -once to Mr. Hare and asked for the part of Woodstock in <cite>Clancarty</cite>. -Thus he launched himself upon the stage, although his grandfather had -been dead for three years, and so had not directly had anything to do -with his getting there.</p> - -<p>Old Grandfather Ben seems to have been a very irascible old gentleman, -and a decidedly obstinate one. On one occasion his obstinacy saved his -life, however, so his medical man stoutly declared.</p> - -<p>The doctor had given Ben Webster up: he was dying. Chatterton and -Churchill were outside the room where he lay, and the medico when -leaving told them “old Ben couldn’t last an hour.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, dear, dear!” said Chatterton; “poor old Ben going at last,” and he -sadly nodded his head as he entered the room.</p> - -<p>“Blast ye! I’m not dead yet,” roared a voice from the bed, where old -Ben was sitting bolt upright. “I’m not going to die to please any of -you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span>.”</p> - -<p>He fell back gasping; but from that moment he began to get better.</p> - -<p>Another eminent theatrical family, the Sotherns, were born on the -stage, so to speak, and took to the profession as naturally as ducks to -water, while their contemporaries the Irvings and Boucicaults have done -likewise.</p> - -<p>It must have been towards the end of the seventies that my parents -took a house one autumn in Scarborough. We had been to Buxton for -my father’s health, and after a driving tour through Derbyshire, -finally arrived at our destination. To my joy, Mr. Sothern and his -daughter, who was then my schoolfellow in London, soon appeared upon -the scene. He had come in consequence of an engagement to play at the -Scarborough Theatre in <cite>Dundreary</cite> and <cite>Garrick</cite>, and had secured a -house near us. Naturally I spent much of my time with my girl friend, -and we used often to accompany her father in a boat when he went on -his dearly-loved fishing expeditions. Never was there a merrier, more -good-natured, pleasanter gentleman than this actor. He was always -making fun which we children enjoyed immensely. Practical jokes to him -seemed the essence of life, and I vaguely remember incidents which, -though amusing to him, rather perturbed my juvenile mind. At the time -I had been very little to theatres, but as he had a box reserved every -night, I was allowed now and then to go and gaze in wild admiration at -<cite>Garrick</cite> and <cite>Dundreary</cite>.</p> - -<p>One afternoon I went to the Sotherns for a meat<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> tea before proceeding -to the theatre, but the great comedian was not there. “Pops,” for -so he was called by his family, had gone out at four o’clock that -morning with a fisherman, and still remained absent. The weather had -turned rough, and considerable anxiety was felt as to what could have -become of him. His eldest son, Lytton, since dead, appeared especially -distressed. He had been down to the shore to inquire of the boatmen, -but nothing could be heard of his father. We finished our meal—Mr. -Sothern’s having been sent down to be kept warm—and although he had -not appeared, it was time to go to the theatre. Much perturbed in his -mind, Lytton escorted his sister and myself thither, and leaving us in -the box, went off once more to inquire if his father had arrived at the -stage door; again without success.</p> - -<p>This seemed alarming; the wind was still boisterous and the stage -manager in a fright because he knew the only attraction to his audience -was the appearance of Edward Sothern as Lord Dundreary. It was the -height of the season, and the house was packed. Lytton started off -again to the beach, this time in a cab; the stage manager popped his -head into our box to inquire if the missing hero had by chance arrived, -the orchestra struck up, but still no Mr. Sothern. It was a curious -experience. The “gods” became uneasy, the pit began to stamp, the -orchestra played louder, and at last, dreading a sudden tumult, the -stage manager stepped forward and began to explain that “Mr. Sothern, -a devoted fisherman, had gone out at four o’clock that morning; but -had<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> failed to return. As they knew, the weather was somewhat wild, -therefore, they could only suppose he had been detained by the storm——”</p> - -<p>At this juncture an unexpected and dishevelled figure appeared on the -scene. The usually spick-and-span, carefully groomed Mr. Sothern, with -his white locks dripping wet and hanging like those of a terrier dog -over his eyes, hurried up, exclaiming:</p> - -<p>“I am here, I am here. Will be ready in a minute,” and the weird -apparition disappeared through the opposite wing. Immense relief and -some amusement kept the audience in good humour, while with almost -lightning rapidity the actor changed and the play began.</p> - -<p>In one of the scenes the hero goes to bed and draws the curtain to -hide him from the audience. Mr. Sothern went to bed as usual, but when -remarks should have been heard proceeding from behind the curtain, no -sound was forthcoming. The other player went on with his part; still -silence from the bed. The stage manager became alarmed, knowing that -Sothern was terribly fatigued and had eaten but little food, he tore -a small hole in the canvas which composed the wall of the room, and, -peeping through, saw to his horror that the actor was fast asleep. This -was an awkward situation. He called him—no response. The poor man on -the stage still gagged on gazing anxiously behind him for a response, -till at last, getting desperate, the stage manager seized a broom and -succeeded in poking Sothern’s ribs with the handle. The actor awoke -with a huge yawn, quite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> surprised to find himself in bed wearing -Dundreary whiskers, which proved a sharp reminder he ought to have been -performing antics on the stage.</p> - -<p>Actor and fisherman had experienced a terrible time in their boat. The -current was so strong that when they turned to come back they were -borne along the coast, and as hour after hour passed poor Sothern -realised that not only might he not be able to keep his appointment at -the theatre, but was in peril of ever getting back any more. He made -all sorts of mental vows never to go out fishing again when he was -due to play at night; never to risk being placed in such an awkward -predicament, never to do many things; but in spite of this experience, -when once safe on land, his ardour was not damped, for he was off -fishing again the very next day.</p> - -<p>When I went to America in 1900 Mrs. Kendal kindly gave me some -introductions, and one among others to Mr. Frohman. His is a name to -conjure with in theatrical circles on that side of the Atlantic, and is -becoming so on this side, for he controls a vast theatrical trust which -either makes or mars stage careers.</p> - -<p>I called one morning by appointment at Daly’s Theatre, and as there -happened to be no rehearsal in progress all was still except at the box -office. I gave my card, and was immediately asked to “step along to Mr. -Frohman’s room.”</p> - -<p>Up dark stairs and along dimly lighted passages I followed my -conductor, till he flung open the door of a beautiful room, where at -a large writing-table<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> sat Mr. Frohman. He rose and received me most -kindly, and was full of questions concerning the Kendals and other -mutual friends, when suddenly, to my surprise, I saw a large photograph -hanging on the wall, of a Hamlet whose face I seemed to know.</p> - -<p>“Who is that?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Mr. Edward Sothern, the greatest Hamlet in America, the son of the -famous Dundreary.”</p> - -<p>“I had the pleasure of playing with that Hamlet many times when I was a -little girl,” I remarked; “for although ‘Eddy’ was somewhat older, he -used often to come to the nursery in Harley Street to have games with -us children when his mother lived a few doors from the house in which I -was born.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Frohman was interested, and so was I, to hear of the great success -of young Edward Sothern, for of course Sam Sothern is well known on the -English stage.</p> - -<p>The sumptuous office of Mr. Frohman is at the back of Daly’s Theatre. -It is a difficult matter to gain admittance to that sacred chamber, -but preliminaries having been arranged, the attendant who conducts -one thither rings a bell to inform the great man that his visitor is -about to enter. Mr. Frohman was interesting and affable. He evidently -possesses a fine taste, for pieces of ancient armour, old brocade, and -the general air of a <em>bric-à-brac</em> shop pervaded his sitting-room.</p> - -<p>“English actors are as successful over here,” he said, “as Americans -are in London, and the same may be said of plays, the novelty, I -suppose, in each case<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span>.”</p> - -<p>The close alliance between England and America is becoming more -emphasised every day. Why, in the matter of acting alone we give them -our best and they send us their best in return. So much is this the -case that most of the people mentioned in these pages are as well known -in New York as in London; for instance, Sir Henry Irving, Miss Ellen -Terry, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal, Mr. Weedon Grossmith, Mr. E. S. Willard, -Miss Fay Davis, Madame Sarah Bernhardt, Miss Winifred Emery, Mr. Cyril -Maude, Miss Ellaline Terriss, Mr. Seymour Hicks, Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm -Tree, Mr. W. S. Gilbert, Mr. Anthony Hope, Mr. A. W. Pinero, and a host -of others. Sir Henry Irving has gone to America, for the eighth time -during the last twenty years, with his entire company. That company -for the production of <cite>Dante</cite> consists of eighty-two persons, and no -fewer than six hundred and seventy-three packages, comprising scenery, -dresses, and properties.</p> - -<p>“No author should ever try to dramatise his own books: he nearly always -fails,” Mr. Frohman added later during our pleasant little chat, after -which he took me round his theatre, probably the most celebrated in the -United States, for it was built by the famous Daly, and still maintains -its position at the head of affairs. On the whole, American theatres -are smaller than our own, the entire floor is composed of stalls which -only cost 8<i>s.</i> 4<i>d.</i> each, and there is no pit. In the green-room, -halls, and passages Mr. Frohman pointed out with evident delight -various pictures of Booth as Hamlet, since whose time no one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> had been -so successful till Edward Sothern junior took up that <em>rôle</em> in 1900. -There was also a large portrait of Charlotte Cushman, and several -pictures of Irving, Ellen Terry, Jefferson, and others, as well as some -photographs of my old friend Mr. Sothern.</p> - -<p>I have quoted the Terrys, Kendals, Ellaline Terriss, Ben Webster, -Winifred Emery, and the Sotherns as products of the stage, but there -are many more, including Dion and Nina Boucicault, whose parents were a -well-known theatrical couple, George and Weedon Grossmith, the sons of -an entertainer, and George’s son is also on the stage. Both the Irvings -are sons of Sir Henry of that ilk, and so on <em>ad infinitum</em>.</p> - -<p>From the above list it will be seen that most of our successful actors -and actresses were cradled in the profession. They were “mummers” in -the blood, if one may be forgiven the use of such a quaint old word to -represent the modern exponents of the drama.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV<br /> -<br /> -<i>PLAYS AND PLAYWRIGHTS</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Interview with Ibsen—His Appearance—His Home—Plays Without -Plots—His Writing-table—His Fetiches—Old at Seventy—A Real Tragedy -and Comedy—Ibsen’s First Book—Winter in Norway—An Epilogue—Arthur -Wing Pinero—Educated for the Law—As Caricaturist—An Entertaining -Luncheon—How Pinero writes his Plays—A Hard Worker—First Night of -<cite>Letty</cite>.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">PROBABLY the man who has had the most far-reaching influence on modern -drama is Henrik Ibsen. Half the dramatic world of Europe admire his -work as warmly as the other half deplore it.</p> - -<p>Ibsen has a strange personality. The Norwegian is not tall, on the -contrary, rather short and thick-set—one might almost say stout—in -build, broad-shouldered, and with a stooping gait. His head is -splendid, the long white hair is a glistening mass of tangled locks. -He has an unusually high forehead, and in true Norse fashion wears his -plentiful hair brushed straight back, so that, being long, it forms a -complete frame for the face. He has whiskers, which, meeting in the -middle, beneath his chin, leave the chin and mouth bare. Under the -upper lip one sees by the indentation the decision of the mouth,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> and -the determination of those thin lips, which through age are slightly -drawn to one side. He has a pleasant smile when talking; but in repose -the mouth is so firmly set that the upper lip almost disappears.</p> - -<p>The great dramatist has lived for many years in Christiania, and it -was in that town, on a cold snowy morning in 1895 I first met him. -The streets were completely buried in snow; even the tram-lines, -despite all the care bestowed upon them, were embedded six or seven -inches below the surface of the frozen mass. It can be very cold -during winter in Christiania, and frost-bite is not unknown, for the -thermometer runs down many degrees below zero. That is the time to -see Norway. Then everything is at its best. The sky clear, the sun -shining—all Nature bright, crisp, and beautiful. Icicles many feet long -hung like a sparkling fringe in the sunlight as I walked—or rather -stumbled—over the snow to the Victorian Terrasse to see the celebrated -man. Tall posts leaning from the street gutters to the houses reminded -pedestrians that deep snow from the roofs might fall upon them.</p> - -<p>The name of Dr. Henrik Ibsen was written in golden letters at the -entrance to the house, with the further information that he lived -on the first floor. There was nothing grand about his home, just an -ordinary Norwegian flat, containing eight or ten good rooms; and -yet Ibsen is a rich man. His books have been translated into every -tongue, his plays performed on every stage. His work has undoubtedly -revolutionised the drama. He started the idea of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> play without plot, -a character-sketch in fact, a psychological study, and introduced -the “no-ending” system. Much he left to the imagination, and the -imagination of various nationalities has run in such dissimilar lines -that he himself became surprised at the thoughts he was supposed to -have suggested.</p> - -<p>Brilliant as much of his work undoubtedly is, there is quite as much -which is repellent and certainly has not added to the betterment of -mankind. His characters are seldom happy, for they too often strive -after the impossible.</p> - -<p>The hall of his home looked bare, the maid was capless and apronless, -according to Norwegian fashion, while rows of goloshes stood upon -the floor. The girl ushered me along a passage, at the end of which -was the great man’s study. He rose, warmly shook me by the hand, and -finding I spoke German, at once became affable and communicative. -He is of Teutonic descent, and in many ways has inherited German -characteristics. When he left Norway in 1864—when, in fact, Norway -ceased to be a happy home for him—he wandered to Berlin, Dresden, -Paris, and Rome, remaining many years in the Fatherland.</p> - -<p>“The happiest summer I ever spent in my life was at Berchtesgaden in -1880,” he exclaimed. “But to me Norway is the most lovely country in -the world.”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_076fp"> -<img src="images/i_076fp.jpg" width="434" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">DR. HENRIK IBSEN.</p></div> - -<p>Ibsen’s writing-table, which is placed in the window so that the -dramatist may look out upon the street, was strewn with letters, all -the envelopes of which <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span>had been neatly cut, for he is faddy and tidy -almost to the point of old-maidism. He has no secretary, it worries -him to dictate, and consequently all communications requiring answers -have to be written by the Doctor himself. His calligraphy is the -neatest, smallest, roundest imaginable. It is representative of the -man. The signature is almost like a schoolboy’s—or rather, like what a -schoolboy’s is supposed to be—it is so carefully lettered; the modern -schoolboy’s writing is, alas! ruined by copying “lines” for punishment, -time which could be more profitably employed learning thought-inspiring -verses.</p> - -<p>On the table beside the inkstand was a small tray. Its contents were -extraordinary—some little wooden carved Swiss bears, a diminutive black -devil, small cats, dogs, and rabbits made of copper, one of which was -playing a violin.</p> - -<p>“What are those funny little things?” I ventured to ask.</p> - -<p>“I never write a single line of any of my dramas unless that tray and -its occupants are before me on the table. I could not write without -them. It may seem strange—perhaps it is—but I cannot write without -them,” he repeated. “Why I use them is my own secret.” And he laughed -quietly.</p> - -<p>Are these little toys, these fetishes, and their strange fascination, -the origin of those much-discussed dolls in <cite>The Master Builder</cite>? Who -can tell? They are Ibsen’s secret.</p> - -<p>In manner Henrik Ibsen is quiet and reserved; he speaks slowly and -deliberately, so slowly as to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> remind one of the late Mr. Bayard, the -former American Minister to the Court of St. James, when he was making -a speech. Mr. Bayard appeared to pause between each word, and yet the -report in the papers the following day read admirably. This slowness -may with Ibsen be owing to age, for he was born in 1828 (although in -manner and gait he appears at least ten years older), or it may be -from shyness, for he is certainly shy. How men vary. Ibsen at seventy -seemed an old man; General Diaz, the famous President of Mexico, young -at the same age. The one drags his feet and totters along; the other -walks briskly with head erect. Ibsen was never a society man in any -sense of the word, a mug of beer and a paper at the club being his idea -of amusement. Indeed, in Christiania, until 1902, he could be seen any -afternoon at the chief hotel employed in this way, for after his dinner -at two o’clock he strolled down town past the University to spend a few -hours in the fashion which pleased him.</p> - -<p>Norwegian life is much more simple than ours. The inhabitants dine -early and have supper about eight o’clock. Entertainments are -hospitable and friendly, but not as a rule costly, and although Ibsen -is a rich man, the only hobby on which he appears to have spent much -money is pictures. He loves them, and wherever he has wandered his -little gallery has always gone with him.</p> - -<p>Ibsen began to earn his own living at the age of sixteen, and for five -or six years worked in an apothecary’s shop, amusing himself during -the time by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> reading curious books and writing weird verses. Only -twenty-three copies of his first book were sold, the rest were disposed -of as waste paper to buy him food. Those long years of struggle -doubtless embittered his life, but relief came when he was made manager -of the Bergen Theatre with a salary of £67 a year. For seven years he -kept the post, and learnt the stage craft which he later utilised in -his dramas.</p> - -<p>A strange comedy and tragedy was woven into the lives of Ibsen and -Björnson. As young men they were great friends; then politics drove -them apart; they quarrelled, and never met for years and years. Strange -fate brought the children of these two great writers together, and -Björnson’s daughter married Ibsen’s only child. The fathers met after -years of separation at the wedding of their children.</p> - -<p>Verily a real comedy and tragedy, woven into the lives of Scandinavia’s -two foremost writers of tragedy and comedy.</p> - -<p>I spent part of two winters in Norway, wandering about on snow-shoes -(ski) or in sledges, and during various visits to Christiania tried -hard to see some plays by Ibsen or Björnson acted; but, strange as it -may seem, plays by a certain Mr. Shakespeare were generally in the -bill, or else amusing doggerel such as <cite>The Private Secretary</cite>.</p> - -<p>At last, however, there came a day when <cite>Peer Gynt</cite> was put on the -stage. This play has never been produced in England, and yet it is one -of Ibsen’s best, at all events one of his most poetic. The hero is -supposed to represent the Norwegian character,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> vacillating, amusing, -weak, bound by superstition, and lacking worldly balance. The author -told me he himself thought it was his best work, though <cite>The Master -Builder</cite> gave him individually most satisfaction.</p> - -<p>In 1898 Ibsen declared, “My life seems to me to have slipped by like -one long, long, quiet week”; adding that “all who claimed him as a -teacher had been wrong—all he had done or tried to do was faithfully, -closely, objectively to paint human nature as he saw it, leaving -deductions and dogmatism to others.” He declared he had never posed as -a reformer or as a philosopher; all he had attempted was to try and -work out that vein of poetry which had been born in him. “Poetry has -served me as a bath, from which I have emerged cleaner, healthier, -freer.” Thus spoke of himself the man who practically revolutionised -modern drama.</p> - -<p>In the early days of the twentieth century Ibsen finished his life’s -work—he relinquished penmanship. The celebrity he had attained failed -to interest him, just as attack and criticism had failed to arouse him -in earlier years. His social and symbolical dramas done, his work in -dramatic reform ended, he folded his hands to await the epilogue of -life. It is a pathetic picture. He who had done so much, aroused such -enthusiasm and hatred, himself played out—he whose works had been read -in every Quarter of the globe, living in quiet obscurity, waiting for -that end which comes to all.</p> - -<p>It is a proud position to stand at the head of English dramatists; a -position many critics allot to Arthur<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> Wing Pinero. The Continent has -also paid him the compliment of echoing that verdict by translating -and producing many of his plays: and if in spite of translation -they survive the ordeal of different interpretations and strange -surroundings, may it not be taken as proof that they soar above the -ordinary drama?</p> - -<p>About the year 1882 Mr. Pinero relinquished acting as a profession—like -Ibsen, it was in the theatre he learnt his stage craft—and devoted -himself to writing plays instead. Since that period he has steadily and -surely climbed the rungs of that fickle ladder “Public Opinion” and -planted his banner on the top.</p> - -<p>Look at him. See the strength of the man’s mind in his face. Those -great shaggy eyebrows and deep-set, dark, penetrating eyes, that round -bald head, within which the brain is apparently too busy to allow -anything outside to grow. Though still young he is bald, so bald that -his head looks as if it had been shaven for the priesthood. The long -thin lips and firm mouth denote strength of purpose, which, coupled -with genius make the man. Under that assumed air of self-possession -there is a merry mind. His feelings are well under control—part of the -actor’s art—but he is human to the core. Pinero is no ordinary person, -his face with its somewhat heavy jaw is full of thought and strength. -He has a vast fund of imagination, is a keen student of human nature, -and above all possesses the infinite capacity for taking pains, no -details being too small for him. He and Mr. W. S. Gilbert will,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> at -rehearsals, go over a scene again and again. They never get angry, even -under the most trying circumstances; but politely and quietly show -every movement, every gesture, give every intonation of the voice, and -in an amiable way suggest:</p> - -<p>“Don’t you think that so and so might be an improvement?”</p> - -<p>They always get what they want, and no plays were ever more successful -or better staged.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pinero believes in one-part dramas, and women evidently fascinate -him. Think of <cite>Mrs. Tanqueray</cite> and <cite>Mrs. Ebbsmith</cite>, for instance, both -are women’s plays; in both are his best work. He is always individual; -individual in his style, and individual in the working out of his -characters. During the whole of one August Mr. Pinero remained in his -home near Hanover Square finishing a comedy of which he superintended -rehearsals in the September following. He must be alone when he works, -and apparently barred windows and doors, and a charwoman and her cat, -when all London is out of town, give him inspiration.</p> - -<p>London is particularly proud of Arthur Pinero, who was born amid -her bustle in 1855. The only son of a solicitor in the City, he was -originally intended for the law, but when nineteen he went upon the -stage, where he remained for about seven years. One can only presume, -however, that he did not like it, or he would not so quickly have -turned his attention to other matters. Those who remember his stage -life declare he showed great promise as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> young actor. But be this -as it may, it is a good thing he turned his back upon that branch of -the profession and adopted the <em>rôle</em> of a dramatist, for therein he -has excelled. Among his successful plays are <cite>The Magistrate</cite>, <cite>Dandy -Dick</cite>, <cite>Sweet Lavender</cite>, <cite>The Cabinet Minister</cite>, <cite>The Second Mrs. -Tanqueray</cite>, <cite>The Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith</cite>, <cite>Trelawny of the Wells</cite>, -<cite>The Gay Lord Quex</cite>, and <cite>Iris</cite>.</p> - -<p>Among other attributes not usually known, Mr. Pinero is an excellent -draughtsman, and can make a remarkable caricature of himself in a -few moments. His is a strong and striking head which lends itself to -caricature, and he is one of those people who, while poking fun at -others, does not mind poking fun at himself.</p> - -<p>When asked to what he attributed his success, Mr. Pinero replied:</p> - -<p>“Such success as I have obtained I attribute to small powers of -observation and great patience and perseverance.”</p> - -<p>His work is always up-to-date, for Mr. Pinero is modern to his -finger-tips.</p> - -<p>How delightful it is to see people who have worked together for years -remaining staunch friends. One Sunday I was invited to a luncheon the -Pineros gave at Claridge’s. The room was marked “Private” for the -occasion, and there the hospitable couple received twenty guests, while -beyond was a large dining-room, to which we afterwards adjourned. That -amusing actor and charming man, John Hare, with whom Pinero has been -associated for many years,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> was present; Miss Irene Vanbrugh, his Sophy -Fullgarney in the <cite>Gay Lord Quex</cite>, and Letty, in the play of that name, -that dainty and fascinating American actress, Miss Fay Davis, and Mr. -Dion Boucicault. There they were, all these people who had worked so -long together, and were still such good friends as to form a merry, -happy little family party.</p> - -<p>Gillette, the American hero of the hour, was also present, and charming -indeed he proved to be; but he was an outsider, so to speak, for most -of the party had acted in Pinero’s plays, and that was what seemed -so wonderful; because just as a secretary sees the worst side of his -employer’s character, the irritability, the moments of anxious thought -and worry, so the actor generally finds out the angles and corners of a -dramatist. Only those who live in the profession can realise what such -a meeting as that party at Claridge’s really meant, what a fund of good -temper it proclaimed, what strength of character it represented, what -forbearance on all sides it proved.</p> - -<p>That party was representative of friendship, which, like health, is -seldom valued until lost.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_084fp"> -<img src="images/i_084fp.jpg" width="477" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MR. ARTHUR W. PINERO.</p></div> - -<p>There are as many ways of writing a play as there are of trimming a -hat. Some people, probably most people, begin at the end, that is to -say, they evolve some grand climax in their minds and work backwards, -or they get hold of the chief situations as a nucleus, from which they -work out the whole. Some writers let the play write itself, that is -to say, they <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span>start with some sort of idea which develops as they go -on, but the most satisfactory mode appears to be for the writer to -decide everything even to the minutest detail, and then sketch out each -situation. In a word, he ought to know exactly what he means to do -before putting pen to paper.</p> - -<p>The plots of Mr. Pinero’s plays are all conceived and born in movement. -He walks up and down the room. He strolls round Regent’s Park, or -bicycles further afield, but the dramas are always evolved while his -limbs are in action, mere exercise seeming to inspire him with ideas.</p> - -<p>It is long before he actually settles down to write his play. He thinks -and ponders, plans and arranges, makes and remakes his plots, and -never puts pen to paper until he has thoroughly realised, not only his -characters, but the very scenes amid which these characters are to move -and have their being.</p> - -<p>He knows every room in which they are to enact their parts, he sees -in his mind’s eye every one of his personalities, he dresses them -according to his own individual taste, and so careful is he of the -minutest details that he draws a little plan of the stage for each act, -on which he notifies the position of every chair, and with this before -him he moves his characters in his mind’s eye as the scene progresses. -His play is finished before it is begun, that is to say, before a line -of it is really written.</p> - -<p>His mastery of stage craft is so great that he can definitely arrange -every position for the actor, every gesture, every movement, and thus -is able to give<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> those minute details of stage direction which are so -well known in his printed plays.</p> - -<p>In his early days he wrote <cite>Two Hundred a Year</cite> in an afternoon; <cite>Dandy -Dick</cite> occupied him three weeks; but as time went on and he became more -critical of his own work, he spent fifteen months in completing <cite>The -Notorious Mrs. Ebbsmith</cite>, nine months over <cite>The Second Mrs. Tanqueray</cite>, -and six months over <cite>The Gay Lord Quex</cite>, helped in the latter drama, as -he said, “by the invigorating influence of his bicycle.”</p> - -<p>He is one of the most painstaking men alive, and over <cite>Letty</cite> he spent -two years.</p> - -<p>“I think I have done a good day’s work if I can finish a single speech -right,” he remarked, and that sums up the whole situation.</p> - -<p>Each morning he sees his secretary from eleven to twelve, dictates -his letters, and arranges his business; takes a walk or a ride till -luncheon, after which he enjoys a pipe and a book, and in the afternoon -lies down for a couple of hours’ quiet.</p> - -<p>When he is writing a play he never dines out, but after his afternoon -rest enjoys a good tea (is it a high tea?), shuts the baize doors of -that delightful study overlooking Hanover Square, and works until quite -late, when he partakes of a light supper.</p> - -<p>No one dare disturb him during those precious hours, when he smokes -incessantly, walks about continually, and rarely puts a line on paper -until he feels absolutely certain he has phrased that line as he wishes -it to remain.</p> - -<p>Pinero’s writing-table is as tidy as Ibsen’s; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> while Ibsen’s study -is small and simply furnished, Pinero’s is large, contains handsome -furniture, interesting books, sumptuous <em>Éditions de luxe</em>, charming -sketches, portraits, caricatures, handsome carpets, and breathes an air -of the owner’s luxurious taste.</p> - -<p>Like his writing-table, his orthography is a model of neatness. When he -has completed an act he carefully copies it himself in a handwriting -worthy of any clerk, and sends it off at once to the printers. But few -revisions are made in the proof, so sure is the dramatist when he has -perfected his scheme.</p> - -<p>Mr. Pinero keeps a sort of “day-book,” in which he jots down -characters, speeches, and plots likely to prove of use in his work. It -is much the same sort of day-book as that kept by Mr. Frankfort Moore, -the novelist, who has the nucleus of a hundred novels ever in his -waistcoat pocket.</p> - -<p>Formerly men jotted down notes on their shirt-cuffs, from which the -laundress learned the wicked ways of society. The figures now covering -wristbands are merely the winnings or losings at Bridge.</p> - -<p>The dramatist loves ease and luxury, and his plays represent such -surroundings.</p> - -<p>“Wealth and leisure,” he remarked, “are more productive of dramatic -complications than poverty and hard work. My characters force me in -spite of myself to lift them up in the world. The lower classes do not -analyse or meditate, do not give utterance either to their thoughts or -their emotions, and yet it is easier to get a low life part well played -than one of high society<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span>.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Pinero is a delightful companion and he has the keenest sense of -humour. He tells a good story in a truly dramatic way, and his greatest -characteristic is his simple modesty. He never boasts, never talks big; -but is always a genial, kindly, English gentleman. He rarely enters -a theatre; in fact, he could count on his fingers the times he has -done so during the last twenty years. Life is his stage, men and women -its characters, his surroundings the scenes. He does not wish a State -theatre, and thinks Irving has done more for the stage than any man in -any time. He has the greatest love for his old master, and considers -Irving’s Hamlet the “most intelligent performance of the age.” He waxes -warm on the subject of Irving’s “magnetic touch,” which influences all -that great actor’s work. Pinero’s love for, and belief in, the powers -of the stage for good or ill are deep-seated, and each year finds him -more given to careful psychological study, the only drawback to which -is the fear that in over-elaboration freshness somewhat vanishes. Ibsen -always took two years over a play, and Pinero seems to be acquiring the -same habit.</p> - -<p>A Pinero first night is looked upon as a great theatrical event, -and rightly so. It was on a wet October evening (1903) that the -long-anticipated <cite>Letty</cite> saw the light.</p> - -<p>Opposite is the programme.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"> -<table class="my100" border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1" summary="duke of york theatre programme"> -<tr> -<td class="tdc largest" colspan="5"><b>Duke of York’s Theatre,</b></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc large" colspan="5"><span class="sans"><b>ST. MARTIN’S LANE, W.C.</b></span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">Proprietors</td> -<td class="tdc" colspan="3">Mr. & Mrs. <span class="smcap">Frank Wyatt</span>.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Sole Lessee and Manager</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">CHARLES FROHMAN.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_089_1.jpg" width="450" height="14" alt="" /> -</div></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5">EVERY EVENING at a Quarter to Eight</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5"><span class="sans"><b>CHARLES FROHMAN</b></span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc smaller padt1" colspan="5">Presents</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5">A Drama, in Four Acts and an Epilogue, entitled</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_089_2.jpg" width="450" height="47" alt="letty" /> -</div></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="5">By ARTHUR W. PINERO.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Nevill Letchmere</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">Mr. <span class="smcap">H. B. Irving</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Ivor Crosbie</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">Mr. <span class="smcap">Ivo Dawson</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Coppinger Drake</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">Mr. <span class="smcap">Dorrington Grimston</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Bernard Mandeville</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">Mr. <span class="smcap">Fred Kerr</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Richard Perry</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">Mr. <span class="smcap">Dion Boucicault</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Neale</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">(<i>A Commercial Traveller</i>)Mr. <span class="smcap">Charles Troode</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Ordish</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">(<i>Agent for an Insurance Company</i>)Mr. <span class="smcap">Jerrold Robertshaw</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Rugg</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">(<i>Mr. Letchmere’s Servant</i>) Mr. <span class="smcap">Clayton Greene</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Frédéric</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">(<i>A Maître d’Hôtel</i>) M. <span class="smcap">Edouard Garceau</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Waiters</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">Mr. <span class="smcap">W. H. Haigh</span> & Mr. <span class="smcap">Walter Hack</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">Mrs. Ivor Crosbie</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">Miss <span class="smcap">Sarah Brooke</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Letty Shell</td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">}</span></td> -<td class="tdc"><i>Clerks at</i></td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">{</span></td> -<td class="tdr">Miss <span class="smcap">Irene Vanbrugh</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Marion Allardyce</td> -<td class="tdc"><i>Dugdale’s</i></td> -<td class="tdr">Miss <span class="smcap">Beatrice Forbes Robertson</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" rowspan="2">Hilda Gunning</td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">{</span></td> -<td class="tdc"><i>An Assistant at Madame</i></td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">}</span></td> -<td class="tdr" rowspan="2">Miss <span class="smcap">Nancy Price</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc"><i>Watkins’s</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="2">A Lady’s-maid</td> -<td class="tdr" colspan="3">Miss <span class="smcap">May Onslow</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_089_3.jpg" width="450" height="14" alt="" /> -</div></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl padt1" colspan="5"><span class="small">The Scene is laid in London:—the First and Fourth Acts at Mr. Letchmere’s Flat in -Grafton Street, New Bond Street; the Second at a house in Langham Street; the -Third in a private room at the Café Régence; and the Epilogue at a photographer’s -in Baker Street. The events of the four acts of the drama, commencing on a Saturday -in June, take place within the space of a few hours. Between the Fourth Act and the -Epilogue two years and six months are supposed to elapse.</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5">THE PLAY PRODUCED UNDER THE PERSONAL DIRECTION -OF THE AUTHOR.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5">The Scenery Painted by Mr. <span class="smcap">W. Hann</span>.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5"><span class="sans"><b>FIRST MATINÉE SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17th, at 2.</b></span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl padt1" colspan="2">General Manager</td> -<td class="tdc padt1">(for <span class="smcap">Charles Frohman</span>)</td> -<td class="tdr padt1" colspan="2">W. LESTOCQ.</td> -</tr></table></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p> - -<p>For once the famous dramatist descended from dukes and duchesses to -a typewriter girl and a Bond Street swell. For once he left those -high-class folk he finds so full of interest, moods, whims, ideas, -self-analysis, and the rest of it, and cajoled a lower stratum of life -to his pen.</p> - -<p>Almost the first actor to appear was H. B. Irving—what a reception he -received, and, brilliant cynic-actor though he be, his nervousness -overpowered him to the point of ashen paleness and unrestrained -twitching of the fingers. His methods, his tact, his cynicism were -wonderful, and as Nevill Letchmere his resemblance to his father was -remarkable.</p> - -<p>What strikes one most in a Pinero play is the harmony of the whole. -Every character is a living being. One remembers them all. The -limelight is turned on each in turn, and not as at so many theatres -on the actor-manager only. The play is a complete picture—not a frame -with the actor-manager as the dominant person. He is so often the only -figure on the canvas, his colleagues mere side-show puppets, that it is -a real joy to see a play in England where every one is given a chance. -Mr. Pinero does that. He not only creates living breathing studies of -humanity, but he sees that they are played in a lifelike way. What is -the result? A perfect whole. A fine piece of mosaic work well fitted -together. We may not altogether care for the design or the colour, but -we all admire its aims, its completeness, and feel the touch of genius -that permeates the whole.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p> - -<p>No more discriminating audience than that at the first night of <cite>Letty</cite> -could possibly have been brought together. Every critic of worth was -there. William Archer sat in the stalls immediately behind me, W. L. -Courtney and Malcolm Watson beyond, J. Knight, A. B. Walkley, and A. -E. T. Watson near by. Actors and actresses, artists, writers, men and -women of note in every walk of life were there, and the enthusiasm -was intense. Mr. Pinero was not in the house, no call of “author” -brought him before the footlights, but his handsome wife—a prey to -nervousness—was hidden behind the curtains in the stage box.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V<br /> -<br /> -<i>THE ARMY AND THE STAGE</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Captain Robert Marshall—From the Ranks to the Stage—£10 for a -Play—How Copyright is Retained—I. Zangwill as Actor—Copyright -Performance—Three First Plays (Pinero, Grundy, Sims)—Cyril Maude -at the Opera—<cite>Mice and Men</cite>—Sir Francis Burnand, <cite>Punch</cite>, Sir John -Tenniel, and a Cartoon—Brandon Thomas and <cite>Charley’s Aunt</cite>—How that -Play was Written—The Gaekwar of Baroda—Changes in London—Frederick -Fenn at Clement’s Inn—James Welch on Audiences.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">ONE of our youngest dramatists, for it was only in 1897 that Captain -Robert Marshall’s first important play appeared, has suddenly leapt -into the front rank. His earlier days were in no way connected with the -stage.</p> - -<p>It is not often a man can earn an income in two different professions; -such success is unusual. True, Earl Roberts is a soldier and a writer; -Forbes Robertson, Weedon Grossmith, and Bernard Partridge are actors -as well as artists; Lumsden Propert, the author of the best book on -miniatures, was a doctor by profession; Edmund Gosse and Edward Clodd -have other occupations besides literature. Although known as a writer, -W. S. Gilbert could earn an income at the Bar or in Art;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> A. W. Pinero -is no mean draughtsman; Miss Gertrude Kingston writes and illustrates -as well as acts; and Harry Furniss has shown us he is as clever with -his pen as with his brush in his <cite>Confessions of a Caricaturist</cite>. -Still, it is unusual for any one to succeed in two ways.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless Captain Robert Marshall, once in the army, is now a -successful dramatist. He was born in Edinburgh in 1863, his father -being a J.P. of that city. Educated at St. Andrews, the ancient -town famous for learning and golf, he later migrated to Edinburgh -University. While studying there his brother entered Sandhurst at the -top of the list, and left in an equally exalted position. This inspired -the younger brother with a desire for the army, and he enlisted in -the Highland Light Infantry, then stationed in Ireland. The ranks -gave him an excellent training, besides affording opportunities for -studying various sides of life. Three years later he entered the Duke -of Wellington’s West Riding Regiment as an officer, receiving his -Captaincy in 1895, after having filled the post of District Adjutant at -Cape Town and A.D.C. to the Governor of Natal, Sir W. Hely-Hutchinson.</p> - -<p>No one looking at Captain Marshall now would imagine that ill-health -had ever afflicted him; such, however, was the case, and but for the -fact that a delicate chest necessitated retiring from the army, he -would probably never have become a dramatist by profession. It was -about 1898 that he left the Service; but he has made good use of the -time since<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> then, for such plays as <cite>His Excellency the Governor</cite>, -<cite>A Royal Family</cite>, <cite>The Noble Lord</cite>, and <cite>The Second in Command</cite> have -followed in quick succession. Then came an adaptation of M.M. Scribe -and Legouvé’s <cite>Bataille de Dames</cite>, which he called <cite>There’s Many a -Slip</cite>, but which T. Robertson translated with immense success as <cite>The -Ladies’ Battle</cite> some years before.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kendal, <em>àpropos</em> of this, writes me the following:</p> - -<p>“My dear brother Tom had been dead for years before I ever played -in <cite>The Ladies’ Battle</cite>. He translated and sold it to Lacy, an old -theatrical manager and agent, for about £10. Mr. Kendal and Mr. Hare -revived it at the Court Theatre when I was under their management.”</p> - -<p>What would a modern dramatist say to a £10 note? What, indeed, would -Captain Marshall say for such a small reward, instead of reaping a -golden harvest as he did with his translation of the very same piece. -Times have changed indeed during the last few years, for play-writing -is now a most remunerative profession when it proves successful.</p> - -<p>I remember once at a charming luncheon given by the George Alexanders -at their house in Pont Street, hearing Mr. Lionel Monckton bitterly -complaining of the difficulty of getting royalties for musical plays -from abroad. Since then worse things have happened, and pirated copies -of favourite songs have been sold by hundreds of thousands in the -streets of London for which the authors, composers, and publishers have -never received a cent. Mr. J. M. Barrie, who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> sitting beside me, -joined in, and declared, if I am not mistaken, that he had never got a -penny from <cite>The Little Minister</cite> in America, or <cite>The Window in Thrums</cite>; -indeed, it was not till <cite>Sentimental Tommy</cite> appeared in 1894 that he -ever received anything at all from America, so <cite>The Little Minister</cite>, -like <cite>Pinafore</cite>, was acted thousands of times without any royalties -being paid to the respective authors by the United States.</p> - -<p>Of course there was no copyright at all in England till 1833, and until -that date a play could be produced by any one at any time without -payment. The idea was preposterous, and so much abused that the Royal -Assent was given in Parliament to a copyright bill proposed by the Hon. -George Lamb, and carried through by Mr. Lytton Bulwer, who afterwards -became famous as Lord Lytton. Still, even this, unfortunately, does not -prevent piracy. Pirate thieves of other people’s brains have had a good -innings lately.</p> - -<p>The only way to safeguard against the confiscation of a play without -the author receiving any dues is to give a “copyright performance.” -With this end in view the well-known writer, Mr. I. Zangwill, gave an -amusing representation of his play called <cite>Merry Mary Ann</cite>, founded -on his novel of the same name. The performance took place at the Corn -Exchange, Wallingford, and Mr. Zangwill was himself stage manager. This -took place a week before it was given with such success in Chicago, and -secured the English copyright to its author as well as the American.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span></p> - -<p>The <em>modus operandi</em> under these circumstances is:</p> - -<p>(1) To pay a two-guinea fee for a licence.</p> - -<p>(2) To hire a hall which is licensed for stage performances.</p> - -<p>(3) To notify the public by means of posters that the play will take -place.</p> - -<p>To make some one pay for admission. If only one person pay one guinea, -that person constitutes an audience, which, if small, is at least -unanimous.</p> - -<p>Having arranged all these preliminaries the author and his friends -proceed to read, or whenever possible act, the parts of the drama, and -a very funny performance it sometimes is.</p> - -<p>Mr. Zangwill’s caste was certainly amusing. Mr. Jerome K. Jerome, -author of <cite>Three Men in a Boat</cite>, was particularly good; but then he is -an old actor. He lives at Wallingford-on-Thames, where he represents -literature and journalism, G. F. Leslie, R.A., representing art; both -joined forces for one afternoon at that strange performance which was -in many ways a record. Sir Conan Doyle, of Sherlock Holmes fame, was to -have played; but was called away at the last moment.</p> - -<p>Mr. Zangwill is an old hand at this sort of thing; when a copyright -performance of Hall Caine’s <cite>Mahdi</cite> was given at the Haymarket Theatre -he began at first by playing his allotted part; but as one performer -after another threw up their <em>rôles</em> he was finally left to act them -all. The female parts he played in his shirt-sleeves, with a high -pitched voice. Mr. Clement Scott gave a long and favourable notice in -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> <cite>Daily Telegraph</cite> next day. Mr. Zangwill has lately taken unto -himself a wife, none too soon, as he was the only member left in his -Bachelor Club!</p> - -<p>It is rather amusing to contrast the first plays of various men; -for instance, Mr. Pinero, writing in the <cite>Era Annual</cite>, graphically -described his beginning thus:</p> - -<p>“First play of all: <cite>Two Hundred a Year</cite>. This was written for my old -friends Mr. R. C. Carton and Miss Compton (Mrs. Carton) as a labour -of love when I was an actor, and was produced at the Globe in 1877. -The love, however, was and is more considerable than the composition, -which did not employ me more than a single afternoon. My next venture -was in the same year, and entitled <cite>Two Can Play at the Game</cite>, a farce -produced at the Lyceum Theatre by Mrs. Bateman in order really to -provide myself with a part. I acted in this many times in London, and -afterwards under Mr. Irving, as he then was, throughout the provinces. -By the way, Mrs. Bateman paid me five pounds for this piece.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Sydney Grundy tells the following story:</p> - -<p>“In 1872 I amused myself by writing a comedietta. I had it printed, -and across the cover of one copy I scrawled in a large bold hand, “You -may play this for nothing,” addressed it to J. B. Buckstone, Esq., -Haymarket Theatre, London, posted it, and forgot all about it. A week -afterwards I received a letter in these terms: ‘Dear Sir,—Mr. Buckstone -desires me to inform you that your comedietta is in rehearsal, and will -be produced at his forthcoming Benefit. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal will play -the principal parts.—Yours<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> faithfully, F. Weathersby.’ New authors -were such rare phenomena in those days, that Mr. Buckstone did not know -how to announce me, so adopted the weird expedient of describing me as -‘Mr. Sydney Grundy, of Manchester.’ The comedietta was a great success -and received only one bad review. One critic was so tickled by the -circumstance that the author lived in Manchester that he mentioned it -no fewer than three times in his ‘notice.’”</p> - -<p>G. R. Sims describes his initial attempt thus:</p> - -<p>“My first play was produced at the Theatre Royal, 113, Adelaide Road, -and was a burlesque of <cite>Leah</cite>; the parts were played by my brothers -and sisters and some young friends. The price of admission to the -day nursery, in which the stage was erected, was one shilling, which -included tea, but visitors were requested to bring their own cake and -jam. The burlesque was in four scenes. Many of the speeches were lifted -bodily from the published burlesque of Henry J. Byron.</p> - -<p>“That was my first play as an amateur. My first professional play -<em>was</em>, <em>One Hundred Years Old</em>, and <em>is</em> now twenty-seven years -old. It was produced July 10th, 1875, at a <em>matinée</em> at the Olympic -Theatre, by Mr. E. J. Odell, and was a translation or adaptation of <cite>Le -Centenaire</cite>, by D’Ennery and another. It was less successful than my -amateur play. It did not bring me a shilling. The burlesque brought me -two—one paid by my father and one by my mother.”</p> - -<p>Such were the first experiences of three eminent dramatic authors.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p> - -<p>It must be delightful when author and actor are in unison. Such a -thing as a difference of opinion cannot be altogether unknown between -them; but no more united little band could possibly be found than that -behind the scenes at the Haymarket Theatre, where the rehearsals are -conducted in the spirit of a family party. The tyrannical author and -the self-assertive representatives of his creations all work in harmony.</p> - -<p>“As one gets up in the Service,” amusingly said Captain Marshall, “one -receives a higher rate of pay, and has proportionately less to do. -Thus it was I found time for scribbling; it was actually while A.D.C. -and living in a Government House that I wrote <cite>His Excellency the -Governor</cite>. Three days after it came out I left the army.”</p> - -<p>“Was that your first play?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“No. My first was a little one-act piece which Mr. Kendal accepted. It -dealt with the flight of Bonnie Prince Charlie from Scotland in 1746. -My first acted play appeared at the Lyceum, and was another piece -in one act, called <cite>Shades of Night</cite>, which finally migrated to the -Haymarket.”</p> - -<p>It is curious how success and failure follow one on the other. No -play of Captain Marshall’s excited more criticism than <cite>The Broad -Road</cite> at Terry’s; but nevertheless it was a failure. It was succeeded -immediately by <cite>A Royal Family</cite> at the Court, which proved popular. -He has worked hard during the last few years, and deserves any meed -of praise that may be given him by the public. Many men on being told -to relinquish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> the profession they loved because of ill-health would -calmly sit down and court death. Not so Robert Marshall. He at once -turned his attention elsewhere, chose an occupation he could take about -with him when driven by necessity to warmer climes, lived in the fresh -air, did as he was medically advised, with the result that to-day he is -a comparatively strong man, busy in a life that is full of interest.</p> - -<p>As a subaltern in the army the embryo dramatist once painted the -scenery for a performance of <cite>The Mikado</cite> in Bermuda, and was known to -write, act, stage-manage, and paint the scenes of another play himself. -Enthusiasm truly; but it was all experience, and the intimate knowledge -then gained of the difficulties of stage craft have since stood him in -good stead.</p> - -<p>Captain Marshall is a broad, good-looking man, retiring by -disposition, one might almost say shy—for that term applies, although -he emphatically denies the charge—and certainly humble and modest -as regards his own work. The author of <cite>The Second in Command</cite> is -athletically inclined; he is fond of golf, fencing, and tennis—the love -of the first he doubtless acquired in his childhood’s days, when old -Tom Morris was so well known on the St. Andrews links.</p> - -<p>The playwright is also devoted to music, and nothing gives him greater -pleasure than to spend an evening at the Opera. One night I happened to -sit in a box between him and Mr. Cyril Maude, and probably there were -no more appreciative listeners in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> the house than these two men, both -intensely interested in the representation of <cite>Tannhäuser</cite>. Poor Mr. -Maude having a sore throat, had been forbidden to act that evening for -fear of losing the little voice which remained to him. As music is his -delight, and an evening at the Opera an almost unknown pleasure, he -enjoyed himself with the enthusiasm of a child, feeling he was having a -“real holiday.”</p> - -<p>Captain Marshall is so fond of music that he amuses himself constantly -at his piano or pianola in his charming flat in town.</p> - -<p>“I like the machine best,” he remarked laughingly, “because it makes no -mistakes, and with a little practice can be played with almost as much -feeling as a pianoforte.”</p> - -<p>When in London Captain Marshall lives in a flat at the corner of -Berkeley Square; but during the winter he migrates to the Riviera -or some other sunny land. The home reflects the taste of its owner; -and the dainty colouring, charming pictures, and solid furniture of -the flat denote the man of artistic taste who dislikes show without -substance even in furniture.</p> - -<p>The first time I met Robert Marshall was at W. S. Gilbert’s delightful -country home at Harrow Weald. The Captain has a most exalted opinion -of Mr. Gilbert’s writings and witticisms. He considers him a model -playwright, and certainly worships—as much as one man can worship at -the shrine of another—this originator of modern comedy.</p> - -<p>One summer, when Captain Marshall found the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> alluring hospitality of -London incompatible with work, he took a charming house at Harrow -Weald, and settled himself down to finish a play. He could not, -however, stand the loneliness of a big establishment by himself—a -loneliness which he does not feel in his flat. Consequently that peace -and quiet which he went to the country to find, he himself disturbed by -inviting friends down on all possible occasions, and being just as gay -as if he had remained in town. He finished his play, however, between -the departure and arrival of his various guests.</p> - -<p>Two of the most successful plays of modern times have been written -by women; the first, by Mrs. Hodgson Burnett, was founded on her own -novel, <cite>Little Lord Fauntleroy</cite>, of which more anon. The second had no -successful book to back it, and yet it ran over three hundred nights.</p> - -<p>This as far as serious drama is concerned—for burlesque touched up may -run to any length—is a record.</p> - -<p><cite>Mice and Men</cite>, by Mrs. Ryley, must have had something in it, something -special, or why should a play from an almost unknown writer have taken -such a hold on the London public? It was well acted, of course, for -that excellent artist Forbes Robertson was in it; but other plays have -been well acted and yet have failed.</p> - -<p>Why, then, its longevity?</p> - -<p>Its very simplicity must be the answer. It carried conviction. It was -just a quaint little idyllic episode of love and romance, deftly woven -together with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> strong human interest. It aimed at nothing great, it -merely sought to entertain and amuse. Love rules the world, romance -enthrals it, both were prettily depicted by a woman, and the play -proved a brilliant success. To have written so little and yet made such -a hit is rare.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, one of our most successful playwrights has been very -prolific in his work. Sir Francis Burnand has edited <cite>Punch</cite> for more -than thirty years, and yet has produced over one hundred and twenty -plays. ’Tis true one of the most successful of these was written in a -night. Mr. Burnand, as he was then, went to the St. James’s Theatre -one evening to see <cite>Diplomacy</cite>, and after the performance walked home. -On the way the idea for a burlesque struck him, so he had something to -eat, found paper and pens, and began. By breakfast-time next morning -<cite>Diplomacy</cite> was completed, and a few days later all London was laughing -over it. There is a record of industry and speed.</p> - -<p>The stage, however, has not claimed so much of his attention of late -years as his large family and Mr. Punch. Sir Francis is particularly -neat and dapper, with a fresh complexion and grey hair. He wears a -pointed white beard, but looks remarkably youthful. He is a busy man, -and spends hours of each day in his well-stocked library at the Boltons -(London, Eng.: as our American friends would say), or at Ramsgate, his -favourite holiday resort, where riding and sea-boating afford him much -amusement, and time for reflection. He is a charming<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> dinner-table -companion, always full of good humour and amusing stories.</p> - -<p>It was when dining one night at the Burnands’ home in the Boltons that -I met Sir John Tenniel after a lapse of some years, for he virtually -gave up dining out early in the ’90’s in order to devote his time to -his <cite>Punch</cite> cartoon. One warm day in July, 1902, however, John Tenniel -was persuaded to break his rule, and proved as kind and lively as ever. -Although eighty-two years of age he drew a picture for me after dinner. -There are not many men of eighty-two who could do that; but then, did -he not draw the <cite>Punch</cite> cartoon without intermission for fifty years?</p> - -<p>“What am I to draw?” he asked. “I have nothing to copy and no model to -help me.”</p> - -<p>“Britannia,” I replied. “That ever-young lady is such an old friend of -yours, you must know every line in her face by heart.” And he did. The -dear old man’s hand was very shaky, until he got the pencil on to the -paper, and then the lines themselves were perfectly clear and distinct; -years of work on wood blocks had taught him precision which did not -fail him even when over fourscore.</p> - -<p>Every one loves Sir John. He never seems to have given offence with -his cartoons as so many have done before and since. Cartoonists and -caricaturists ply a difficult trade, for so few people like to be made -fun of themselves, although they dearly love a joke at some one else’s -expense.</p> - -<p>A few doors from the Burnands’ charming house<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> in Bolton Gardens lives -the author of <cite>Charley’s Aunt</cite>.</p> - -<p>When in the city of Mexico, one broiling hot December day in 1900, I -was invited to dine and go to the theatre. I had only just arrived in -that lovely capital, and was dying to see and do everything.</p> - -<p>“Will there be any Indians amongst the audience?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“Si, Señora. The Indians and half-castes love the theatre, and always -fill the cheaper places.”</p> - -<p>This sounded delightful; a Spanish play acted in Castilian with -beautiful costumes of matadors and shawled ladies—what could be -better? Gladly I accepted the invitation to dine and go to the theatre -afterwards, where, as subsequently proved, they have a strange -arrangement by which a spectator either pays for the whole performance, -or only to witness one particular act.</p> - -<p>We arrived. The audience looked interesting: few, however, even in the -best places wore dress-clothes, any more than they do in the United -States. The performance began.</p> - -<p>It did not seem very Spanish, and somehow appeared familiar. I looked -at the programme. “<span class="smcap">La Tia de Carlos.</span>”</p> - -<p>What a sell! I had been brought to see <cite>Charley’s Aunt</cite>.</p> - -<p>One night after my return to London I was dining with William -Heinemann, the publisher, to meet the great “Jimmy” Whistler. I was -telling Mr. Brandon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span> Thomas, the author of <cite>Charley’s Aunt</cite>, this funny -little experience, when he remarked:</p> - -<p>“I can tell you another. My wife and I had been staying in the Swiss -mountains, when one day we reached Zürich. ‘Let us try to get a decent -dinner,’ I said, ‘for I am sick of <em>table d’hôtes</em>.’ Accordingly we -dined on the best Zürich could produce, and then asked the waiter what -play he would recommend.</p> - -<p>“‘The theatres are closed just now,’ he replied.</p> - -<p>“‘But surely something is open?’</p> - -<p>“‘Ah, well, yes, there’s a sort of music hall, but the <em>Herrschaften</em> -would not care to go there.’</p> - -<p>“‘Why not?’ I exclaimed, longing for some diversion.</p> - -<p>“‘Because they are only playing a very vulgar piece, it would not -please the <em>gnädige Frau</em>, it is a stupid English farce.’</p> - -<p>“‘Never mind how stupid. Tell me its name.’</p> - -<p>“‘It is called,’ replied the waiter, ‘<cite>Die Tante</cite>.’”</p> - -<p>Poor Brandon Thomas nearly collapsed on the spot, it was his very own -play. They went. Needless to say, however, the author hardly recognised -his child in its new garb, although he never enjoyed an evening more -thoroughly in his life.</p> - -<p>The first draft of this well-known piece was written in three weeks, -and afterwards, as the play was considerably cut in the provinces, Mr. -Thomas restored the original matter and entirely re-wrote it before it -was produced in London, when the author played the part of Sir Francis -Chesney himself.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p> - -<p>I have another recollection in connection with <cite>Charley’s Aunt</cite>. It -must have been about 1895 that my husband and I were dining with that -delightful little gentleman and great Indian Prince, the Gaekwar of -Baroda, and the Maharanee (his wife), and we all went on to the theatre -to see <cite>Charley’s Aunt</cite>. At that time His Highness the Gaekwar was -very proud of a grand new theatre he had built in Baroda, and was busy -having plays translated for production. Several Shakespearian pieces -had already been done. He thought <cite>Charley’s Aunt</cite> might be suitable, -but as the play proceeded, turning to me he remarked:</p> - -<p>“This would never do, it would give my people a bad idea of English -education; no, no—I cannot allow such a mistake as that.”</p> - -<p>So good is His Highness’s own opinion of our education that his sons -are at Harrow and Oxford as I write.</p> - -<p><cite>Charley’s Aunt</cite> has been played in every European language—verily -a triumph for its author. How happy and proud a man ought to be who -has brought so much enjoyment into life; and yet Brandon Thomas feels -almost obliged to blush every time the title is mentioned. When Mr. -Penley asked him to write a play, in spite of being in sad need of -cash, he was almost in despair. His eye fell upon the photograph of an -elderly relative, and showing it to Penley he asked:</p> - -<p>“How would you like to play an old woman like that?”</p> - -<p>“Delighted, old chap; I’ve always wanted to play<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> a woman’s character.” -And when the play was written Penley acted the part made up like the -old lady in the photograph which still stands on Brandon Thomas’s -mantelshelf.</p> - -<p>London is changing terribly, although <cite>Charley’s Aunt</cite> seems as if it -would go on for ever. Old London is vanishing in a most distressing -manner. Within a few months Newgate has been pulled down, the Bluecoat -School has disappeared, and now Clifford’s Inn has been sold for -£100,000 and is to be demolished. Many of the sets of chambers therein -contained beautiful carving, and in one of these sets dwelt Frederick -Fenn, the dramatist, son of Manville Fenn, the novelist. He determined -to have a bachelor party before quitting his rooms, and an interesting -party it proved.</p> - -<p>I left home shortly after nine o’clock with a friend, and when we -reached Piccadilly Circus we found ourselves in the midst of the crowd -waiting to watch President Loubet drive past on his way to the Gala -performance at Covent Garden (July, 1903). The streets were charmingly -decorated, and must have given immense satisfaction not only to the -President of France but to the entire Republic he represented. From the -Circus through Leicester Square the crowd was standing ten or fifteen -deep on either side of the road, and we had various vicissitudes in -getting to our destination at all. The police would not let us pass, -and we drove round and round back streets, unable to get into either -the Strand or St. Martin’s Lane. However, at last a mighty cheer told -us the royal party<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> had passed, and we were allowed to drive on our way -to Clifford’s Inn. Up a dark alley beyond the Law Courts we trudged, -and rang the big sonorous bell for the porter to admit us to the -courtyard surrounded by chambers.</p> - -<p>Ascending a spiral stone staircase, carpeted in red for the occasion, -we passed through massive oak doors with their low doorways and entered -Mr. Fenn’s rooms.</p> - -<p>“How lovely! Surely those carvings are by the famous Gibbons?”</p> - -<p>“They are,” he said, “or at any rate they are reputed to be, and in a -fortnight will be sold by auction to the highest bidder.”</p> - -<p>This wonderful decoration had been there for numbers of years, the -over-doors, chimneypieces and window-frames were all most beautifully -carved, and the whole room was panelled from floor to ceiling. The -furniture was in keeping. Beautiful inlaid satinwood tables, settees -covered with old-fashioned brocade, old Sheffield cake-baskets, were in -harmony with the setting.</p> - -<p>It was quite an interesting little party, and I thoroughly enjoyed my -chat with James Welsh, the clever comedian, who played in the <cite>New -Clown</cite> for eighteen months consecutively. Such an interesting little -man, with dark round eyes and pale eyelashes, and a particularly broad -crown to his head.</p> - -<p>“I don’t mind a long run at all,” he said, “because every night there -is a fresh audience. Sometimes they are so dull we cannot get hold of -them at all till the second act, and sometimes it is even the end of -the second act before they are roused to enthusiasm;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> another time -they will see the fun from the first rise of the curtain. Personally I -prefer the audience to be rather dull at the beginning, for I like to -work them up, and to work up with them myself. The most enthusiastic -audiences to my mind are to be found in Scotland—I am of course -speaking of low comedy. In Ireland they may be as appreciative, but -they are certainly quieter. Londoners are always difficult to rouse to -any expression of enthusiasm. I suppose they see too many plays, and so -become <em>blasé</em>.”</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI<br /> -<br /> -<i>DESIGNING THE DRESSES</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Sarah Bernhardt’s Dresses and Wigs—A Great Musician’s Hair—Expenses -of Mounting—Percy Anderson—<cite>Ulysses</cite>—<cite>The Eternal City</cite>—A Dress -Parade—Armour—Over-elaboration—An Understudy—Miss Fay Davis—A -London Fog—The Difficulties of an Engagement.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT is an extraordinary woman. A young artist of my -acquaintance did much work for her at one time. He designed dresses, -and painted the Egyptian, Assyrian, and other trimmings. She was always -most grateful and generous. Money seemed valueless to her; she dived -her hand into a bag of gold, and holding it out bid him take what would -repay him for his trouble. He was a true artist and his gifts appealed -to her.</p> - -<p>“More, more,” she often exclaimed. “You have not reimbursed yourself -sufficiently—you have only taken working-pay and allowed nothing for -your talent. It is the talent I wish to pay for.”</p> - -<p>And she did.</p> - -<p>On one occasion a gorgeous cloak he had designed for her came home; a -most expensive production. She tried it on.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Hateful, hateful!” she cried. “The bottom is too heavy, bring me the -scissors,” and in a moment she had ripped off all the lower trimmings. -The artist looked aghast, and while he stood—</p> - -<p>“Black,” she went on—“it wants black”; and thereupon she pinned a great -black scarf her dresser brought her over the mantle. The effect was -magical. That became one of her most successful garments for many a day.</p> - -<p>“Ah!” said the artist afterwards, “she has a great and generous -heart—she adores talent, worships the artistic, and her taste is -unfailing.”</p> - -<p>Wonderful effects can be gained on the stage by the aid of the make-up -box—and the wig-maker.</p> - -<p>Madame Sarah Bernhardt declares Clarkson, of London, to be the “king -of wig-makers,” and he has made every wig she has worn in her various -parts for many years.</p> - -<p>“She is a wonderful woman,” Mr. Clarkson said, “she knows exactly what -she wants, and if she has not time to write and enclose a sketch—which, -by the way, she does admirably—she sends a long telegram from Paris, -and expects the wig to be despatched almost as quickly as if it went -over by a ‘reply-paid process.’”</p> - -<p>“But surely you get more time than that usually?”</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_112fp"> -<img src="images/i_112fp.jpg" width="425" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="caption">DRAWING OF COSTUME FOR JULIET, BY PERCY ANDERSON.</p></div> - -<p>“Oh yes, of course; but twice I have made wigs in a few hours. Once -for Miss Ellen Terry. I think it was the twenty-fifth anniversary of -<cite>The Bells</cite>—at any rate she was to appear in a small first piece for -one night. At three o’clock that afternoon <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span>the order came. I set six -people to work on six different pieces, and at seven o’clock took them -down to the theatre and pinned them on Miss Terry’s head. The other wig -I had to make so quickly was for Madame Eleonora Duse. She arrived in -London October, 1903, and somehow the wigs went astray. She wired to -Paris to inquire who made the one in <cite>La Ville Morte</cite> with which Madame -Bernhardt strangled her victim. When the reply came she sent for me, -and the same night Madame Duse wore the new wig in <cite>La Gioconda</cite>.”</p> - -<p>By-the-bye, Madame Duse has a wonderful wig-box. It is a sort of -miniature cupboard made of wood, from which the front lets down. -Inside are six divisions. Each division contains one of those weird -block-heads on which perruques stand when being redressed, and on every -red head rests a wig. These are for her different parts, the blocks -are screwed tight into the box, and the wigs are covered lightly with -chiffon for travelling. When the side of the box falls down those six -heads form a gruesome sight!</p> - -<p>Most of the hair used in wig-making comes from abroad, principally from -the mountain valleys of Switzerland, where the peasant-girls wear caps -and sell their hair. A wig costs anything from £2 to £10, and it is -wonderful how little the good ones weigh. They are made on the finest -net, and each hair is sewn on separately.</p> - -<p>When Clarkson was a boy of twelve and a half years old he first -accompanied his father, who was a hairdresser, to the opera, and thus -the small youth<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> began his profession. He still works in the house in -which he was born, so he was reared literally in the wig trade, and now -employs a couple of hundred persons. What he does not know can hardly -be worth knowing—and he is quite a character. Not only does he work -for the stage; but detectives often employ him to paint their faces -and disguise them generally, and he has even decorated a camel with -whiskers and grease paint.</p> - -<p>The most expensive wig he ever made was for Madame Sarah Bernhardt in -<cite>La Samaritaine</cite>. It had to be very long, and naturally wavy hair, so -that she could throw it over her face when she fell at the Saviour’s -feet. In <cite>L’Aiglon</cite> Madame Bernhardt wore her own hair for a long time, -and had it cut short for the purpose: but she found it so difficult to -dress off the stage that she ultimately ordered a wig.</p> - -<p>If Madame Bernhardt is particular about her wigs and her dresses she -has done much to improve theatrical costumes—she has stamped them with -an individuality and artistic grace.</p> - -<p>A well-known musician travelled from a far corner in Europe to ask a -wig-maker to make him a wig. He arrived one day in Wellington Street in -a great state of distress and told his story. He had prided himself on -his beautiful, long, wavy hair, through which he could pass his fingers -in dramatic style, and which he could shake with leonine ferocity over -a passage which called for such sentiments. But alas! there came a day -when the hair began to come out, and the locks threatened to disappear. -He travelled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> hundreds of miles to London to know if the wig-maker -could copy the top of his head exactly before it was too late. Of -course he could, and consequently those raven curls were matched, and -one by one were sewn into the fine netting to form the toupet. Having -got the semi-wig exactly to cover his head, the great musician sallied -forth and had his head shaved. Then, with a little paste to catch it -down in front and at the sides, the toupet was securely placed upon the -bald cranium. For six months that man had his head shaved daily. The -effect was magical. When he left off shaving a new crop of hair began -to grow with lightning rapidity, and he is now the happy possessor of -as beautiful a head of hair as ever.</p> - -<p>Little by little the public has been taught to expect the reproduction -of correct historical pictures upon the stage, and such being the case, -artists have risen to the occasion, men who have given years of their -lives to the study of apparel of particular periods.</p> - -<p>Designing stage dress is no easy matter; long and ardent research is -necessary for old costume pieces, and men who have made this their -speciality read and sketch at museums, and sometimes travel to far -corners of the world, to get exactly what they want. As a rule the -British Museum provides reliable material for historical costume.</p> - -<p>Think of the hundreds, aye hundreds, of costumes necessary for a heavy -play at the Lyceum or His Majesty’s—think of what peasantry, soldiers, -to say nothing of fairies, require, added to which four or five dresses -for each of the chief performers, not only<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> cost months of labour to -design and execute, but need large sums of money to perfect. As much as -£10,000 has often been spent in the staging of a single play.</p> - -<p>This is no meagre sum, and should the play fail the actor-manager who -has risked that large amount (or his syndicate) must bear the loss.</p> - -<p>Some wonderful stage pictures have been produced within the last few -years—and not a few of them were the work of Mr. Percy Anderson, -Sir Alma-Tadema, and Mr. Percy Macquoid. It is an interesting fact -that, while the designs for <cite>Ulysses</cite> cost Mr. Anderson six months’ -continual labour, he managed to draw the elaborate costumes for Lewis -Waller’s production of <cite>The Three Musketeers</cite> in three days, working -eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, because the dresses were wanted -immediately.</p> - -<p>Percy Anderson did not start as an artist in his youth, he was not born -in the profession, but as a mature man allowed his particular bent to -lead him to success. He lives in a charming little house bordering -on the Regent’s Park, where he works with his brush all day, and his -pencil far into the night. His studio is a pretty snuggery built on at -the back of the house, which is partly studio, partly room, and partly -greenhouse. Here he does his work and accomplishes those delightfully -sketchy portraits for which he is famous, his innumerable designs for -theatrical apparel.</p> - -<p>When I asked Mr. Anderson which costumes were most difficult to draw, -he replied:</p> - -<p>“Either those in plays of an almost prehistoric period,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> when the -materials from which to work are extremely scanty, or those that -introduce quite modern and up-to-date ceremonial.</p> - -<p>“As an instance of the former <cite>Ulysses</cite> proved an exceedingly difficult -piece for which to design the costumes, because the only authentic -information obtainable was from castes and sketches of remains found -during the recent excavations at Knossus, in Crete, that have since -been exhibited at the Winter Exhibition at Burlington House, but which -were at the time reposing in a private room at the British Museum, -where I was able to make some rough sketches and notes by the courtesy -of Mr. Sidney Colvin.”</p> - -<p>“How did you manage about colour?”</p> - -<p>“My guide as to the colours in use at that remote period of time -was merely a small fragment of early Mycenean mural decoration -from Knossus, in which three colours, namely, yellow, blue, and a -terra-cotta-red, together with black and white, were the only tones -used, and to these three primary colours I accordingly confined myself, -but I made one introduction, a bright apple-green dress which served -to throw the others into finer relief. From these extremely scanty -materials I had to design over two hundred costumes, none of which were -exactly alike.”</p> - -<p>The brilliancy of the result all playgoers will remember. The -<a href="#i_frontis">frontispiece</a> shows one of the designs.</p> - -<p>As an instance of a play introducing intricate modern ceremonial for -which every garment worn had some special significance, <cite>The Eternal -City</cite> may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> be mentioned. In that Mr. Anderson had the greatest -difficulty in discovering exactly what uniform or vestment would be -worn by the Pope’s <em>entourage</em> on important private occasions, such as -the scene in the Gardens of the Vatican, where His Holiness was carried -in and saluted by the members of his guard before being left to receive -his private audiences.</p> - -<p>Mr. Anderson, however, received invaluable assistance in these matters -from Mr. De La Roche Francis, who, besides having relatives in high -official positions in Rome, had himself been attached to the Papal -Court. All orders and decorations worn by the various characters in -<cite>The Eternal City</cite> were modelled from the originals. Mr. Anderson -usually makes a separate sketch for every costume to be worn by each -character, in order to judge of the whole effect, which picture he -supplements by drawings of the back and side views, reproductions of -hats, head-dresses, hair, and jewellery.</p> - -<p>This is thoroughness—but after all thoroughness is the only thing that -really succeeds. From these sketches the articles are cut out and made -after Mr. Anderson has passed the materials as satisfactory submitted -to him. Sometimes nothing proves suitable, and then something has to be -woven to meet his own particular requirements.</p> - -<p>Mr. Anderson received orders direct from Beerbohm Tree for <cite>King -John</cite>, <cite>Midsummer Night’s Dream</cite>, <cite>Herod</cite>, <cite>Ulysses</cite>, <cite>Merry Wives of -Windsor</cite>, <cite>Resurrection</cite>, and <cite>The Eternal City</cite>, but in some cases the -orders come from the authors. For instance, Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> Pinero wrote asking -him to design those delightful Victorian costumes for <cite>Trelawny of the -Wells</cite>. Captain Basil Hood arranged with him about the dresses for -<cite>Merrie England</cite>, and J. M. Barrie for those in <cite>Quality Street</cite>.</p> - -<p>Some of the old-style dresses do not allow of much movement, and -therefore it is sometimes necessary to make the garments in such a way -that, while the effect remains, the actor has full play for his limbs. -For instance, much adaptation of this sort was necessary for <cite>Richard -II.</cite> at His Majesty’s. Mr. Anderson was about three months designing -the two hundred and fifty dresses for this marvellous spectacle. -He sought inspiration at the British Museum and Westminster, the -Bluemantle at the Heralds’ College giving him valuable information with -regard to the heraldry. All this shows the pains needed and taken to -produce an accurate and harmonious stage picture.</p> - -<p>The designer is given a free hand, he chooses his own materials to -the smallest details—often a guinea a yard is paid for silks and -velvets—and he superintends everything, even the grouping of the -crowds, so as to give most effect to his colouring. “Dress parades,” of -which there are several, are those in which all the chorus and crowds -have to appear, therefore their dresses are usually made first, so -as to admit of ample study of colour before the “principals” receive -theirs. The onlooker hardly recognises the trouble this entails, nor -how well thought out the scheme of colour must be, so that when the -crowd breaks up into groups the dresses shall not clash.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> The artist -must always work up to one broad effect in order to make a decorative -scene.</p> - -<p>It may be interesting to note that there is one particular -colour—French blue—practically the shade of hyacinths, which is -particularly useful for stage effect as it does not lose any of its -tint by artificial light. It can only be dyed in one river at Lyons, -in France, where there is some chemical in the water which exactly -suits and retains the particular shade desired. We are improving in -England, however, and near Haslemere wonderful fabrics and colours are -now produced. There are excellent costumiers in England, some of the -best, in fact, many of whom lay themselves out for work of a particular -period; but all the armour is still made in France. That delightful -singer and charming man, Eugene Oudin, wore a beautiful suit of chain -armour as the Templar in <cite>Ivanhoe</cite>, which cost considerably over £100, -and proved quite light and easy to wear. (During the last five years -armour has become cheaper.) It was a beautiful dress, including a fine -plumed helmet, and as he and my husband were the same size and build he -several times lent it to him for fancy balls. It looked like the old -chain armour in the Tower of London or the Castle of Madrid, and yet -did not weigh as many ounces as they do pounds, so carefully had it -been made to allow ease and movement to the singer.</p> - -<p>After all, it is really a moot question whether tremendous elaboration -of scenery is a benefit to dramatic production. At the present time -much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> attention is drawn from the main interest, and instead of -appreciating the acting or the play, it is the stage carpentering and -gorgeous “mounting” that wins the most applause.</p> - -<p>This is all very well to a certain extent, but it is hardly educating -the public to grasp the real value of play or acting if both be swamped -by scenery and silks. Lately we had an opportunity of seeing really -good performances <em>without</em> their being enhanced by scenic effect, such -as <cite>Twelfth Night</cite>, by the Elizabethan Stage Society, and <cite>Everyman</cite>. -These representations were an intellectual treat, such as one seldom -enjoys, and were certainly calculated to raise the standard of purely -theatrical work. Strictness of detail may do much to make the <em>tout -ensemble</em> perfect, but does not the piece lose more than it gains?</p> - -<p>Again, the careful rehearsing which is now in fashion tends to make -the performers more or less puppets in the hands of the stage manager -or author, rather than real individual actors. Individuality except in -“stars” is not wanted nor appreciated. Further, <em>long runs</em> are the -ruin of actors. Instead of being kept up to the mark, alert, their -brains active by constantly learning and performing new <em>rôles</em>, they -simply become automata, and can almost go through their parts in their -sleep. Surely this is not <em>acting</em>.</p> - -<p>Every important <em>rôle</em> has an understudy. Generally some one playing a -minor part in the programme is allowed the privilege of understudying -a star. By this arrangement he is at the theatre every night, and if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> -the star cannot shine, the minor individual goes on to twinkle instead, -his own part being played by some lesser luminary. Many a man or woman -has found an opening and ultimate success in this way, through the -misfortune of another.</p> - -<p>At some theatres the understudy is paid for performing, or is given a -present of some sort in recognition of his services, while at others, -even good ones, he gets nothing at all, the honour being considered -sufficient reward.</p> - -<p>No one misses a performance if he can possibly help it; there are many -reasons for not doing so; and sometimes actors go through this strain -when physically unfit for work, rather than be out of the bill for a -single night. Theatrical folk go through many vicissitudes in their -endeavour to keep faith with the public.</p> - -<p>For instance, one terribly foggy night in 1902 during the run of <cite>Iris</cite> -all London was steeped in blackness. It was truly an awful fog, just -one of those we share with Chicago and Christiania. Miss Fay Davis, -that winsome American actress, was playing the chief part in Pinero’s -play and went down to the theatre every night from her home in Sloane -Square in a brougham she always hired, with an old coachman she knew -well.</p> - -<p>She ate her dinner in despair at the fog, her mother fidgeted anxiously -and wondered what was to happen, when the bell rang, long before the -appointed time, and the carriage was announced.</p> - -<p>“Oh, we’ll get there somehow, miss,” the old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> coachman remarked; so, -well wrapped up in furs, the daring lady started for her work. They did -get there after an anxious journey, assisted by policemen and torches, -Miss Davis alighted, saying:</p> - -<p>“I daresay it will be all right by eleven, but anyway you must fetch me -on foot if you can’t drive.”</p> - -<p>“Aye, aye, ma’am,” replied her worthy friend, and off he drove. -Miss Davis went to her dressing-room, feeling a perfect heroine for -venturing forth, and when she was half ready there came a knock at the -door.</p> - -<p>“No performance to-night, miss.”</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“Only half the actors have turned up, and there isn’t a single man or -woman in the theatre—pit empty, gallery empty, everything empty—so -they’ve decided not to play <cite>Iris</cite> to-night. No one can see across the -footlights.”</p> - -<p>It was true; so remarkable was that particular fog, several of the -playhouses had to shut-up-shop for the night. How Miss Davis got home -remains a mystery.</p> - -<p>A very beautiful actress of my acquaintance rarely has an engagement. -She acts well, she looks magnificent, and has played many star parts -in the provinces, yet she is constantly among the unemployed. “Why,” I -once asked, “do you find it so difficult to get work?”</p> - -<p>“Because I’m three inches too tall. No man likes to be dwarfed by a -woman on the stage. In a ball-room the smaller the man the taller the -partner he chooses, and this sometimes applies to matrimony, but on the -stage never<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span>.”</p> - -<p>“Can you play with low heels?” she is often asked when seeking an -engagement.</p> - -<p>“Certainly,” is the reply.</p> - -<p>“Would you mind standing beside me?”</p> - -<p>“Delighted.”</p> - -<p>“Too tall, I’m afraid,” says the man.</p> - -<p>“But I can dress my hair low and wear small hats.”</p> - -<p>“Too tall all the same, I’m afraid.”</p> - -<p>And for this reason she loses one engagement after another. Most of the -actor-managers have their own wives or recognised “leading ladies,” so -that in London, openings for new stars are few and far between, and -when the actress, however great her talent or her charm, makes the -leading actor look small, she is waved aside and some one inferior -takes her place.</p> - -<p>On one occasion it was a woman who refused to act with my friend. She -had been engaged for a big part—but when this woman—once the darling of -society, and a glittering star upon the stage—saw her fellow-worker, -she said:</p> - -<p>“I can’t act with you, you would make me look insignificant; besides, -you are too good-looking.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII<br /> -<br /> -<i>SUPPER ON THE STAGE</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Reception on the St. James’s Stage—An Indian Prince—His -Comments—The Audience—George Alexander’s Youth—How he missed -a Fortune—How he learns a Part—A Scenic Garden—Love of the -Country—Actors’ Pursuits—Strain of Theatrical Life—Life and -Death—Fads—Mr. Maude’s Dressing-room—Sketches on Distempered -Walls—Arthur Bourchier and his Dresser—John Hare—Early and -late Theatres—A Solitary Dinner—An Hour’s Make-up—A Forgetful -Actor—<em>Bonne camaraderie</em>—Theatrical Salaries—Treasury -Day—Thriftlessness—The Advent of Stalls—The Bancrofts—The Haymarket -photographs—A Dress Rehearsal.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">ONE of the most delightful theatrical entertainments I ever remember -was held by Mr. George Alexander on the stage of the St. James’s -Theatre. It was in honour of the Coronation of Edward VII., and given -to the Indian Princes and Colonial visitors.</p> - -<p>The play preceding the reception was that charming piece <cite>Paolo and -Francesca</cite>. I sat in the stalls, and on my right hand was a richly -attired Indian, who wore a turban lavishly ornamented with jewels. I -had seen him a short while previously at a Court at Buckingham Palace, -one of those magnificent royal evening receptions Queen Alexandra -has instituted instead of those dreary afternoon Drawing-rooms. This -gentleman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> had been there when the Royalties received the Indian -Princes in June, 1902, the occasion when the royal <em>cortége</em> promenaded -through those spacious rooms with such magnificent effect. It was -the Court held a few days prior to the date first fixed for the -Coronation—a ceremony postponed, as all the world knows, till some -weeks later in consequence of the King’s sudden illness.</p> - -<p>My princely neighbour was very grand. He wore that same huge ruby at -the side of his head, set in diamonds and ornamented with an osprey, -which had excited so much admiration at Buckingham Palace. Although -small he was a fine-looking man and had charming manners. He read his -programme carefully and seemed much interested in the performance, then -he looked through his opera-glasses and appeared puzzled; suddenly I -realised he wanted to know something.</p> - -<p>“You follow the play?” I asked; “or can I explain anything to you?”</p> - -<p>“Thank you so much,” he replied in charming English. “I can follow it -pretty well, but I cannot quite make out whether the lovely young lady -is really going to marry that hump-backed man. Surely she ought to -marry the handsome young fellow. She is so lily-lovely.”</p> - -<p>“No, Francesca marries Giovanni.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, it is too sad, poor thing,” answered the Indian gentleman, -apparently much grieved. He turned to his neighbour, who did not speak -English, and retailed the information. Their distress was really -amusing. Evidently the lovely white lady (Miss Millard) deserved<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span> a -better fate according to their ideas, for he repeatedly expressed his -distress as the play proceeded. Before he left the theatre that night -he crossed the stage, and making a profound bow, thanked me for helping -him to understand the play. His gratitude and Oriental politeness were -charming.</p> - -<p>The St. James’s presented a gay scene. The Indian dresses, the -diamonds, and extra floral decorations rendered it a regular gala -performance. At the usual hour the curtain descended. The general -public left; but invited guests remained. We rose from our seats and -conversed with friends, while a perfect army of stage carpenters and -strange women, after moving out the front row of stalls, brought -flights of steps and made delightfully carpeted staircases lead up to -either side of the stage. Huge palms and lovely flowers banked the -banisters and hid the orchestra. Within a few moments the whole place -resembled a conservatory fitted up as for a rout. It was all done -as if by magic. Methinks Mr. Alexander must have had several “stage -rehearsals” to accomplish results so admirable with such rapidity.</p> - -<p>The curtain rose, the stage had been cleared, and there at the head of -the staircase stood the handsome actor-manager in plain dress clothes, -washed and cleaned from his heavy make-up, and with his smiling wife -ready to receive their guests.</p> - -<p>At the back of the stage the scenery had been arranged to form a second -room, wherein supper was served at a buffet.</p> - -<p>It was all admirably done. Most of the Colonial<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> Premiers were there, -many of the Indian Princes, and a plentiful sprinkling of the leading -lights of London. Of course a stage is not very big and the numbers had -to be limited; but about a couple of hundred persons thoroughly enjoyed -that supper behind the footlights at the St. James’s Theatre. Many of -the people had never been on a stage before, and it was rather amusing -to see them peeping behind the flies, and asking weird questions -from the scene-shifters. Some were surprised to find the floor was -not level, but a gentle incline, for all audiences do not know the -necessity of raising the back figures, so that those in front of the -house may see all the performers.</p> - -<p>A party on the stage is always interesting, and generally of rare -occurrence, although Sir Henry Irving and Mr. Beerbohm Tree both -gave suppers in honour of the Coronation, so England’s distinguished -visitors had several opportunities of enjoying these unique receptions. -At the supper at His Majesty’s Theatre a few nights later the chief -attractions besides the Beerbohm Trees were Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen -Terry, the latter still wearing her dress as Mistress Page. Every one -wanted to shake hands with her, and not a few were saddened to see -her using those grey smoked glasses she always dons when not actually -before the footlights.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_128fp"> -<img src="images/i_128fp.jpg" width="375" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MR. GEORGE ALEXANDER.</p></div> - -<p>George Alexander has had a most successful career, but he was not -cradled on the stage. His father was an Ayrshire man and the boy was -brought up for business. Not liking that he turned to <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>medicine, and -still being dissatisfied he abandoned the doctor’s art at an early -stage and took a post in a silk merchant’s office. This brought him -to London. From that moment he was a constant theatre-goer, and -in September, 1879, made his first bow behind the footlights. He -owes much of his success to the training he received in Sir Henry -Irving’s Company at the Lyceum. There is no doubt much of the business -learned in early youth has stood him in good stead in his theatrical -ventures, and much of the artistic taste and desire for perfection in -stage-mounting so noticeable at the St. James’s was imbibed in the -early days at the Lyceum. It takes a great deal to make a successful -actor-manager; he must have literary and artistic taste, business -capacity, and withal knowledge of his craft.</p> - -<p>In 1891 he took the St. James’s Theatre and began a long series of -successes. He has gone through the mill, worked his way from the bottom -to the top, and being possessed of an exceptionally clear business -head, has made fewer mistakes than many others in his profession.</p> - -<p>Mr. Alexander tells a good story about himself:</p> - -<p>“For many months I continually received very long letters from a lady -giving me her opinion not only on current stage matters, but on the -topics of the hour, with graphic descriptions of herself—her doings—her -likes and dislikes. She gave no address, but her letters usually bore -the postmark of a country town not a hundred miles from London. She -confided in me that she was a spinster, and that she did not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> consider -her relations sympathetic. She was obviously well-to-do—I gathered this -from her account of her home and her daily life as she described them. -Suddenly her letters ceased, and I wondered what had happened. Almost -two months after I received her last letter, I had a communication -from a firm of lawyers asking for an appointment. I met them—two -very serious-looking gentlemen they were too! After a good deal of -preliminary talk they came to their point.</p> - -<p>“‘You know Miss ——’ said the elder of the men.</p> - -<p>“‘No,’ I replied.</p> - -<p>“‘But you do,’ he said. ‘She has written to you continually.’</p> - -<p>“This was very puzzling, but following up the slight clue, I asked:</p> - -<p>“‘Is her Christian name Mary?’</p> - -<p>“‘Yes,’ he replied.</p> - -<p>“‘And she lives at——?’</p> - -<p>“Then I knew whom they meant. Their mission, it seemed, was to tell me -that the lady had been very ill, and fearing she was going to die, had -expressed a wish to alter her will in my favour. As the lawyers had -acted for her family for many years, and were friends of her relations, -they had taken her instructions quietly, but after much discussion in -private had decided to call on me and inform me of the facts, and they -asked me to write a letter to them stating that such a course would -be distasteful to me and unfair to her relations. I did so in strong -terms, and so I lost a little fortune<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>.”</p> - -<p>When Mr. Alexander learns a new part he and his wife retire to their -cottage at Chorley Wood to study. I bicycled thither one day from -Chalfont St. Peter’s, when to my disappointment the servant informed me -they were “out.”</p> - -<p>“Oh dear, how sad!” I said, “for it is so hot, and I’m tired and wanted -some tea.”</p> - -<p>Evidently this wrung her heart, for she said she would “go and see.” -She went, and immediately Mr. Alexander appeared to bid me welcome.</p> - -<p>“I’m working,” he said, “and the maid has orders not to admit any one -without special permission.”</p> - -<p>What a pretty scene. Lying in a hammock in the orchard on that hot -summer’s day was the actor-manager of the St. James’s Theatre. Seated -on a garden chair was his wife, simply dressed in white serge and straw -hat. On her lap lay the new typewritten play in its brown paper covers, -and at her feet was Boris, the famous hound. The Alexanders had been a -fortnight at the cottage working hard at the play, and at the moment of -my arrival Mrs. Alexander was hearing her husband his part. Not only -does she do this, but she makes excellent suggestions. She studies the -plays, too, and her taste is of the greatest value as regards dresses, -stage decorations, or the arrangement of crowds. Although she has never -played professionally, Mrs. Alexander knows all the ins and outs of -theatrical life, and is of the greatest help to her husband in the -productions.</p> - -<p>Had a stranger entered a compartment of a train between Chorley Wood -and London a few days later,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> he might have thought George Alexander -and I were about to commit murder, suicide, or both.</p> - -<p>“What have you got there?” asked the actor when we met on the platform.</p> - -<p>“A gun,” was my reply.</p> - -<p>“A gun?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, a gun. I’m taking it to London to be mended.”</p> - -<p>“Ha ha! I can beat that,” he laughed. “See what I have here,” and -opening a little box he disclosed half a dozen razors.</p> - -<p>“Razors!” I exclaimed.</p> - -<p>“Yes, razors; so be wary with your sanguinary weapon, for mine mean -worse mischief.”</p> - -<p>He was taking the razors to London to be sharpened.</p> - -<p>It was fortunate no accident happened to that train, or a gun and six -razors might have formed food for “public inquiry.”</p> - -<p>It is a curious thing how many actors and actresses like to shake the -dust of the stage from their feet on leaving the theatre. They seem to -become satiated with publicity, to long for the country and an outdoor, -freer life, and in many instances they not only long for it, but -actually succeed in obtaining it, and the last trains on Saturday night -are often full of theatrical folk seeking repose far from theatres till -Monday afternoon.</p> - -<p>Recreation and entire change of occupation are absolutely necessary to -the brain-worker, and the man is wise who realises this. If he does, -and seeks complete<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> rest from mental strain, he will probably have a -long and successful career; otherwise the breakdown is sure to come, -and may come with such force as to leave the victim afflicted for -life, so it is far wiser for the brain-worker of whatever profession -or business to realise this at an early stage. In this respect actors -are as a rule wiser than their fellow-workers, and seek and enjoy -recreation on Sunday and Monday, which is more than can be said of many -lawyers, doctors, painters, or literary men.</p> - -<p>The strain of theatrical life is great. No one should attempt to go -upon the stage who is not strong. If there be any constitutional -weakness, theatrical life will find it out. Extremes of heat and -cold have to be borne. Low dresses or thick furs have to be worn in -succeeding acts. The atmosphere of gas and sulphur is often bad, but -must be endured.</p> - -<p>A heavy part exhausts an actor in a few minutes as much as carrying -a hod of bricks all day does a labourer. He may have to change his -underclothing two or three times in an evening, in spite of all his -dresser’s rubbing down. The mental and physical strain affects the -pores of the skin and exhausts the body, that is why one hardly ever -finds an actor fat. He takes too much physical exercise, takes too much -out of himself, ever to let superfluous flesh accumulate upon his bones.</p> - -<p>Yes, the actor’s life is often a mental strain, of which the following -is a striking instance. A very devoted couple were once caused much -anxiety by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> the wife’s serious and protracted illness. Months wore -on, and every night the husband played his part, wondering what news -would greet him when he returned home. At last it was decided that an -operation was necessary. It was a grave operation, one of life and -death, but it had to be faced.</p> - -<p>One morning the wife bade her bairns and her home good-bye, and drove -off with her spouse to a famous surgical home. That night the poor -actor had to play his comic part, with sad and anxious heart he had to -smile and caper and be amusing. Think of the mockery of it all. Next -morning he was up early, toying with his breakfast, in order to be at -the home before nine o’clock, when that serious operation was to be -performed. He did not see his wife—that would have upset them both—but -like a caged lion he walked up and down, up and down in an adjoining -room. At last came the glad tidings that it was over, and all had so -far gone satisfactorily.</p> - -<p>Back to the theatre he went that night, having heard the latest -bulletin, and played his part with smiling face, knowing his wife was -hovering between life and death. Next morning she was not so well. It -was a <em>matinée</em> day, and in an agony of anxiety and excitement that -poor man played two performances, receiving wires about her condition -between the acts. Think of it! We often laugh at men and women, who may -be for all we know, acting with aching hearts. Comedy and tragedy are -closely interwoven in life, perhaps especially so in theatrical life.</p> - -<p>By way of recreation from work George Alexander<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> rushes off to his -cottage at Chorley Wood to play golf. Sir Charles Wyndham and Sir -Squire and Lady Bancroft for many years enjoyed rambles in Switzerland. -Sir Henry Irving is a tremendous smoker and never happy without a -cigar. Ellen Terry is so devoted to her son and daughter, she finds -recreation in their society. Cyril Maude loves shooting and all country -pursuits. Winifred Emery never mentions the theatre after she leaves -the stage door, and finds relaxation in domesticity. Mrs. Kendal knits. -Lewis Waller motors. Dan Leno retires to the suburbs to look after his -ducks. Arthur Bourchier is fond of golfing whenever he gets a chance. -Miss Marie Tempest lives in a musical set, and is as devoted to her -friends as they are to her.</p> - -<p>The world is governed by fads. Fads are an antidote to boredom—a tonic -to the overworked, and actors enjoy fads like the rest of us; for -instance:</p> - -<p>Eugene Oudin, that most delightful operatic singer, who was cut off -just as he stepped on the top rung of Fame’s ladder, was a splendid -photographer. In 1890 photography was not so much the fashion as it is -nowadays, but even then his pictures were works of art. He portrayed -his contemporaries—the De Reskes, Van Dyck, Calvé, Hans Richter, -Mascagni, Joachim, Tosti, Alma-Tadema, John Drew, Melba, and dozens -more at their work, or in some way that would make a picture as well -as a photograph. Then these worthies signed the copies, which were -subsequently hung round the walls of Oudin’s private study.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p> - -<p>Miss Julia Neilson has a passion for collecting fans. Herbert Waring -is a brilliant whist-player. Mrs. Patrick Campbell adores small dogs, -and nearly always has one tucked under her arm. Many actresses have -particular mascots. Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Lily Hanbury, and a host -more have their lucky ornaments which they wear on first nights. Miss -Irene Vanbrugh is devoted to turquoises, and has a necklace composed of -curious specimens of these stones, presents from her many friends.</p> - -<p>Miss Violet Vanbrugh declares she is “one of those people who somehow -never contrive actively or passively to be the heroine of any little -stage joke.” This is rather an amusing assertion for a lady who is -continually playing stage heroines. Her husband, Mr. Arthur Bourchier, -however, tells a good story against himself.</p> - -<p>“My present servant, or ‘dresser,’ as they are called at the theatre, -was one of the original Gallery First Nighters and a member of the -celebrated Gaiety Gallery Boys. Of course when he joined me I imagined -he had forsaken the auditorium for the stage. One night, however, a -play was produced by me, the dress rehearsal of which he had seen, -and I noticed that he seemed particularly gloomy and morose at its -conclusion. On the first night, when I came back to my dressing-room -from the stage, I found the door locked. Here was a pretty predicament. -It was clear that he had got the key and had mysteriously disappeared. -I had the door broken open, for dress I must as time was pressing, -and sent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> another man to search for my missing servant. The sequel -is as follows. He was caught red-handed in the gallery among his -old associates loudly ‘booing’ his master. Arraigned before me, he -maintained the firmest attitude possible, and asserted boldly:</p> - -<p>“‘No, sir, I am your faithful servant behind the scenes, but as an -independent <em>man</em> and honest gallery <em>boy</em> I am bound to express my -unbiased opinion either for or against any play which I may happen to -see at a first night!’”</p> - -<p>Mr. Hare, like most men, has his hobby, and it is racing: he loves a -horse, and he loves a race meeting. In fact, on one occasion report -says he nearly missed appearing at the theatre in consequence.</p> - -<p>John Hare is one of the greatest character-actors of our day. He is -a dapper little gentleman, and lives in Upper Berkeley Street, near -Portman Square. His house is most tasteful, and while his handsome wife -has had much to say to the decoration, the actor-manager has decided -views of his own in these matters. He has a delightful study at the -back of the house, round the sides of which low book-cases run, while -the walls reflect copper and brass pots, and old blue china. It is here -he is at his best, as he sits smoking a cigarette, perched on the high -seat in front of the fire.</p> - -<p>What an expressive face his is. The fine-chiselled features, the long -thin lips are like a Catholic priest of æsthetic tendency; but as the -expression changes with lightning speed, and the dark deep-set eyes -sparkle or sadden, one realises the actor-spirit.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p> - -<p>Evidence of fads may often be seen in an actor’s dressing-room, where -the walls are decorated according to the particular taste of its -occupant.</p> - -<p>Cyril Maude has a particularly interesting dressing-room at the -Haymarket Theatre. It is veritably a studio, for he has persuaded his -artistic friends to do sketches for him on the distempered walls, and -a unique little collection they make. Phil May, Harry Furniss, Dudley -Hardy, Holman Clarke, Bernard Partridge, Raven Hill, Tom Brown, are -among the contributors, and Leslie Ward’s portrait of Lord Salisbury -is one of the finest ever sketched of the late Prime Minister. It is a -quaint and original idea of Mr. Maude’s, but unfortunately those walls -are so precious he will never dare to disturb the grime of ages and -have them cleaned.</p> - -<p>The St. James’s Theatre, as it stands, is very modern, and therefore -Mr. Alexander is the proud possessor of a charming sitting-room with -a little dressing-room attached. It is quite near the stage, and -has first-floor windows which look out on King Street, next door to -Willis’s Rooms, once so famous for their dinners, and still more famous -at an earlier date as Almack’s, where the <em>beaux</em> and <em>belles</em> of -former days disported themselves.</p> - -<p>Both Mr. Alexander and his wife are fond of artistic surroundings, and -his little room at the theatre is therefore charming. Here on <em>matinée</em> -days the actor-manager dines, an arrangement which saves him much time -and trouble, and his huge dog Boris—the famous boarhound which appeared -in <cite>Rupert</cite><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span> <em>of Hentzau</em>—is his companion, unless Mrs. Alexander pops -in with some little delicacy to cheer him over his solitary meal.</p> - -<p>That is one of the drawbacks of the stage, the poor actor generally has -to eat alone. He cannot expect ordinary mortals to dine at his hours, -and he cannot accommodate himself to theirs. The artist who appears -much in public is forced to live much by himself, and his meals are -consequently as lonely as those of a great Indian potentate.</p> - -<p>If we are to follow Mr. Pinero’s advice we shall all have to eschew -dinner and adopt a “high-tea” principle before the play; but as all -the audience are not agreed upon the subject there seems to be some -difficulty about it.</p> - -<p>Why not have the evening performance as late as usual on <em>matinée</em> -days, to allow the players time to take food and rest, and early on -other days to suit those folk who prefer the drama from seven to ten -instead of nine to twelve? By this means early comers and late diners -would both be satisfied. Instead of which, as matters stand in London, -the late diners arrive gorged and grumbling half through the first act -to disturb every one, and the ’bus and train folk struggle out halfway -through the last act, sad and annoyed at having to leave.</p> - -<p>Most theatrical folk dine at five o’clock. Allowing an hour for this -meal, they are able to get a little rest before starting for the -theatre, which generally has to be reached by seven.</p> - -<p>Preparing for the stage is a serious matter. All that can be put on -beforehand is of course donned.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> Ladies have been known to wear three -pairs of stockings, so that a pair might be taken off quickly between -each act. Then a long time is required to “make up.” For instance -in such a part as Giovanni Malatesta (<cite>Paolo and Francesca</cite>), Mr. -Alexander spent an hour each day painting his face and arranging his -wig. He did not look pretty from the front, but the saffron of his -complexion and the blue of his eyes became absolutely hideous when -beheld close at hand. That make-up, however, was really a work of art.</p> - -<p>An actor’s day, even in London, is often a heavy one. Breakfast between -nine and ten is the rule, then a ride or some form of exercise, and -the theatre at eleven or twelve for a “call,” namely, a rehearsal. -This “call” may go on till two o’clock or later, at which hour light -luncheon is allowed; but if the rehearsal be late, and the meal -consequently delayed, it is impossible to eat again between five and -six, consequently the two meals get merged into one. Rehearsals for -a new play frequently last a whole month, and during that month the -players perform eight times a week in the old piece, and rehearse, -or have to attend the theatre nearly all day as well. Three months -is considered a good run for a play—so, as will be seen, the company -scarcely recover from the exertions of one play before they have to -commence rehearsing for another, to say nothing of the everlasting -rehearsals for charity performances. The actor’s life is necessarily -one of routine, and routine tends to become monotonous.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p> - -<p>A well-known actor was a very absent-minded man except about his -profession, where habit had drilled him to punctuality. One Sunday he -was sitting in the Garrick Club when a friend remarked he was dining at -A——.</p> - -<p>“God bless me, so am I.”</p> - -<p>He rushed home, dressed, and went off to the dinner, during the course -of which his neighbour asked him if he were going to the B.’s.</p> - -<p>“I’d really forgotten it—but if you are going I’ll go too.”</p> - -<p>So he went.</p> - -<p>About midnight he got home. His wife was sitting in full evening dress -with her gloves and cloak on.</p> - -<p>“You are very late,” she said.</p> - -<p>“Late? I thought it was early. It is only a quarter past twelve.”</p> - -<p>“I’ve been waiting for nearly two hours.”</p> - -<p>“Waiting—what for?”</p> - -<p>“Why, you arranged to fetch me a little after ten o’clock to go to the -B’s.”</p> - -<p>“God bless me—I forgot I had a dinner-party, forgot there was a -<em>soirée</em>, and forgot I had a wife.”</p> - -<p>“And where’s your white tie?” asked his wife stiffly.</p> - -<p>“Oh dear, I must have forgotten that too! Dear, dear, what a man I am -away from the stage and my dresser!”</p> - -<p>There is a wonderful <em>bonne camaraderie</em> among all people engaged in -the theatrical profession.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p> - -<p>Theatrical people are as generous to one another in misfortune as the -poor. In times of success they are apt to be jealous; but let a comrade -fall on evil days, let him be forced to “rest” when he wants to work, -and his old colleagues will try and procure him employment, and when -work and health fail utterly, they get up a benefit for him. These -benefits take much organising; they often entail endless rehearsals and -some expense, and yet the profession is ever ready to come forward and -help those in need.</p> - -<p>People on the stage have warm hearts and generous purses, but to give -gracefully requires as much tact as to receive graciously.</p> - -<p>It is a curious thing how few actors have died rich men. Many have made -fortunes, but they have generally contrived to lose them again. Money -easily made is readily lost. He who buys what he does not want ends in -wanting what he cannot buy. Style and show begun in flourishing times -are hard to relinquish. Capital soon runs away when drawn upon because -salary has ceased, even temporarily. Many an actor, once a rich man, -has died poor. Kate Vaughan, once a wealthy woman, died in penury, and -so on <em>ad infinitum</em>.</p> - -<p>Actors, like other people, have to learn there is no disgrace in being -poor—it is merely inconvenient.</p> - -<p>Theatrical salaries are sometimes enormous, although George Edwardes -has informed the public that £100 a week is the highest he ever gives, -because he finds to go beyond that sum does not pay him.</p> - -<p>It seems a great deal for a pretty woman, not highly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> born, nor highly -educated, nor highly gifted—merely a pretty woman who has been well -drilled by author, stage manager, and conductor, to be able to command -£100 a week in a comic opera, but after all it is not for long. It -is never for fifty-two weeks in the year, and only for a few years -at most. Beauty fades, flesh increases, the attraction goes, and she -is relegated to the shelf, a poorer, wiser woman than before. But -meanwhile her scintillating success, the glamour around her, have acted -as a bait to induce others to rush upon the stage.</p> - -<p>The largest salary ever earned by a man was probably that paid to -Charles Kean, who once had a short engagement at Drury Lane for £50 a -night, and on one occasion he made £2,000 by a benefit. Madame Vestris, -however, beat him, for she had a long engagement at the Haymarket at -£40 a night, or £240 a week, a sum unheard of to-day.</p> - -<p>It may be here mentioned that salaries are doled out according to an -old and curious custom.</p> - -<p>“Treasury day” is a great event; theatrical folk never speak of “pay”: -it is always “salaries” and “treasury day.” Each “house” has its own -methods of procedure, but at a great national theatre like Drury Lane -the “chiefs” are paid by cheque, while every Friday night the treasurer -and his assistants with trays full of “salary” go round the theatre and -distribute packets in batches to the endless persons who combine to -make a successful performance. The money is sealed up in an envelope -which bears the name of the receiver, so no one knows what his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> -neighbour gets. It takes five or six hours for the treasurer and his -two assistants to pay off a thousand people at a pantomime, and check -each salary paid.</p> - -<p>There is no field where that little colt imagination scampers more -wildly than in the matter of salaries. For instance, a girl started as -“leading lady” in a well-known play on a provincial tour. Her name, in -letters nearly as big as herself, met her on the hoardings of every -town the company visited. She was given the star dressing-room, and -a dresser to herself. This all meant extra tips and extra expenses -everywhere, for she was the “leading lady”! Wonderful notices appeared -in all the provincial papers and this girl was the draw. The manager -knew that, and advertised her and pushed her forward in every way. All -the company thought she began at a salary of £10 a week, and rumour -said this sum had been doubled after her success. Such was the story. -Now for the truth. She was engaged for the tour at £3 a week, and £3 -a week she received without an additional penny, although the tour of -weeks extended into months. She was poor, others were dependent on her, -and she dared not throw up that weekly sixty shillings for fear she -might lose everything in her endeavour to get more.</p> - -<p>This is only one instance: there are many such upon the stage.</p> - -<p>“I suppose A—— has given more time to rehearsals this year,” said the -wife of a well-known actor, “than any man in London, and yet he has -only drawn ten weeks’ salary. Everything has turned out badly;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span> so we -have had to live for fifty-two weeks on ten weeks’ pay and thirty-four -weeks’ work.”</p> - -<p>Large sums and well-earned salaries have, of course, been made—in fact, -Sir Henry Irving was earning about £30,000 a year at the beginning of -the century, an income very few actor-managers could boast.</p> - -<p>Among thrifty theatrical folk the Bancrofts probably take front rank. -Marie Wilton and her husband amused England for thirty years, and had -the good sense always to spend less than they made. The result was -that, while still young enough to enjoy their savings they bought a -house in Berkeley Square, retired, and have enjoyed a well-earned rest. -More than that, Sir Squire Bancroft stands unique as regards charities. -Although not wishing to be tied any more to the stage, he does not mind -giving an occasional “Reading” of Dickens’s <cite>Christmas Carol</cite>, and he -has elected to give his earnings to hospitals and other charities, -which are over £15,000 the richer for his generosity. Could anything -be more delightful than for a retired actor to give his talent for the -public good?</p> - -<p>I was brought up on Mrs. Bancroft and Shakespeare, so to speak. The -Bancrofts at that time had the Haymarket Theatre, and their Robertson -pieces were considered suitable to my early teens by way of amusement, -while I was taken to Shakespeare’s plays by way of instruction. I -remember I thought the Robertson comedies far preferable, and should -love to see them again.</p> - -<p>It is always averred by old playgoers that Marie<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> Wilton (Lady -Bancroft) was the originator of modern comedy. She and her husband at -one time had a little play-house in an unfashionable part of London, to -which they attracted society people of that day. The theatre was not -then what it is now, the “upper ten” seldom visited the play at that -time, and yet the Prince of Wales’ Theatre known as “The Dust-hole” -drew all fashionable London to the Tottenham Court Road to laugh with -Marie Wilton over Robertson’s comedies.</p> - -<p>Her company consisted of men and women who are actor-managers to-day: -people went forth well drilled in their profession, accustomed to -expending minute care over details, each in their turn to inculcate the -same thoroughness in the next generation. These people numbered John -Hare, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal (Madge Robertson was the younger sister of -the dramatist), H. J. Montague, and Arthur Cecil. Again one finds the -best succeeds, and there is always room at the top, hence the Bancroft -triumph.</p> - -<p>One of their innovations was to rope off the front rows of the pit, -which then occupied the entire floor of the house, and call them -“stalls,” for which they dared ask 6/-apiece. They got it—more were -wanted. Others were added, and gradually the price rose to 10/6, which -is now the charge: but half-guinea stalls, though now universal, are a -modern institution.</p> - -<p>At a dinner given by the Anderson Critchetts in 1891 I sat between -Squire Bancroft and G. Boughton, R.A. Mr. Bancroft remarked in the -course of conversation that he was just fifty, though he looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> much -younger. His tall figure was perfectly erect, and his white hair showed -up the freshness of his complexion. I asked him if he did not miss -acting, the applause, and the excitement of the theatre.</p> - -<p>“No,” he replied. “It will be thirty years this September since I first -went on the stage, and it is now nearly six since I gave it up. No, -I don’t think I should mind much if I never entered a theatre again, -either as spectator or actor—and my wife feels the same. My only regret -about our theatrical career is that we never visited America, but no -dollars would induce Mrs. Bancroft to cross the sea, so we never went.”</p> - -<p>He surprised me by saying that during the latter years of their -theatrical life they never took supper, but dined at 6.0 or 6.30 as -occasion required, and afterwards usually walked to the theatre. During -the performance they had coffee and biscuits, or sometimes, on cold -nights, a little soup, and the moment the curtain was down they jumped -into their carriage, and were in their own house in Cavendish Square, -where they then lived, by 11.30, and in bed a few minutes later. They -were always down to breakfast at 9 o’clock year in year out; an early -hour for theatrical folk.</p> - -<p>I spoke of the autograph photographs which I had seen in the Haymarket -green-room.</p> - -<p>“How curious,” he said, “that you should mention them to-night. We -have always intended to take them away, and only yesterday, after -an interval of six years, I gave the order for their removal. This<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> -evening as we started for dinner they arrived in Berkeley Square. A -strange coincidence.”</p> - -<p>Lady Bancroft has the merriest laugh imaginable. I used to love to see -her act when I was quite a girl, and somehow Miss Marie Tempest reminds -me strongly of her to-day. She has the same lively manner.</p> - -<p>Lady Bancroft’s eyes are her great feature—they are deeply set, with -long dark lashes, and their merry twinkle is infectious. When she -laughs her eyes seem to disappear in one glorious smile, and every one -near her joins in her mirth. Mrs. Bancroft was comparatively a young -woman when she retired from the stage, and one of her greatest joys at -the time was to feel she was no longer obliged to don the same gown at -the same moment every day.</p> - -<p>At some theatres a dress rehearsal is a great affair. The term properly -speaking means the whole performance given privately right through, -without even a repeated scene. The final dress rehearsal, as a rule, -is played before a small critical audience, and the piece is expected -to run as smoothly as on the first night itself—to be, in fact, a sort -of prologue to the first night. This is a dress rehearsal proper, such -as is given by Sir Henry Irving, Messrs. Beerbohm Tree, Cyril Maude, -George Alexander, or the old Savoy Company.</p> - -<p>Before this, however, there are endless “lighting rehearsals,” “scenic -rehearsals,” or “costume parades,” all of which are done separately, -and with the greatest care. As we saw before, Mrs. Kendal disapproves -of a dress rehearsal, but she is almost alone in her opinion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> It is -really, therefore, a matter of taste whether the whole performance be -gone through in separate portions or whether one final effort be made -before the actual first night. As a rule Sir Henry Irving has three -dress rehearsals, but the principals only appear in costume at one of -them. They took nine weeks to rehearse the operetta <cite>The Medal and the -Maid</cite>, yet Irving put <cite>The Merchant of Venice</cite> with all its details on -the Lyceum stage in twenty-three days.</p> - -<p>Sir Henry strongly objects to the public being present at any -rehearsal. “The impression given of an incomplete effort cannot be -a fair one,” he says. “It is not fair to the artistes. A play to be -complete must pass through one imagination, one intellect must organise -and control. In order to attain this end it is necessary to experiment: -no one likes to be corrected before strangers, therefore rehearsals—or -in other words ‘experiments’—should be made in private. Even trained -intellect in an outsider should not be admitted, as great work may be -temporarily spoiled by some slight mechanical defect.”</p> - -<p>In Paris rehearsals used to be great institutions. They were -opportunities for meeting friends. In the <em>foyers</em> and green-rooms of -the theatres, at <em>répètitions générales</em>, every one talked and chatted -over the play, the actors, and the probable success or failure. This, -however, gradually became a nuisance, and early in this twentieth -century both actors and authors struck. They decided that even -privileged persons should be excluded from final rehearsals, which are -always in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> costume in Paris. As a sort of salve to the offended public, -it was agreed that twenty-four strangers should be admitted to the last -great dress rehearsal before the actual production of a new piece, -hence everybody who is anybody clamours to be there.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII<br /> -<br /> -<i>MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Sarah Bernhardt and her Tomb—The Actress’s Holiday—Love of -her Son—Sarah Bernhardt Shrimping—Why she left the Comédie -Française—Life in Paris—A French Claque—Three Ominous Raps—Strike -of the Orchestra—Parisian Theatre Customs—Programmes—Late -Comers—The <em>Matinée</em> Hat—Advertisement Drop Scene—First Night -of <cite>Hamlet</cite>—Madame Bernhardt’s own Reading of <cite>Hamlet</cite>—Yorick’s -Skull—Dr. Horace Howard Furness—A Great Shakespearian Library.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">It is not every one who cares to erect his own mausoleum during his -life.</p> - -<p>There are some quaint and weird people who prefer to do so, however: -whether it is to save their friends and relations trouble after their -demise, whether from some morbid desire to face death, or whether -for notoriety, who can tell? Was it not one of our dukes who built -a charming crematorium for the benefit of the public, and beside it -one for himself, the latter to be given over to general use after he -himself had been reduced to spotless ashes within its walls? He was a -public benefactor, for his wise action encouraged cremation, a system -which for the sake of health and prosperity is sure to come in time.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span></p> - -<p>Madame Sarah Bernhardt has not erected a crematorium, but on one of -the highest spots of the famous <em>Père Lachaise</em> Cemetery in Paris -she has placed her tomb. It is a solid stone structure, like a large -sarcophagus, but it is supported on four arches, so that light may -be seen beneath, and the solidity of the slabs is thereby somewhat -lessened. One word only is engraven on the stone:</p> - -<p class="center">BERNHARDT.</p> - -<p>This is the mausoleum of one of the greatest actresses the world has -ever known. What is lacking in the length of inscription is made up by -the size of the lettering.</p> - -<p>Upon the tomb lay one enormous wreath on the <em>Jour des Morts</em>, 1902, -and innumerable people paid homage to it, or stared out of curiosity at -the handsome erection.</p> - -<p>Though folk say Madame Bernhardt courts notoriety, there are moments -when she seeks solitude as a recreation, and she has a great love of -the sea.</p> - -<p>Every year for two months she disappears from theatrical life. She -forgets that such a thing as the stage exists, she never reads a play, -and as far as theatrical matters are concerned she lives in another -sphere. That is part of her holiday. It is not a holiday of rest, for -she never rests; it is a holiday because of the change of scene, change -of thought, change of occupation. Her day at her seaside home is really -a very energetic one.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_152fp"> -<img src="images/i_152fp.jpg" width="420" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Lafayette, New Bond Street.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT AS HAMLET.</p></div> - -<p>At five the great artiste rises, dons a short skirt, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span>country boots, -and prepares to enjoy herself. Often the early hours are spent in -shooting small birds. She rarely misses her quarry, for her artistic -eye helps her in measuring distance, and her aim is generally deadly. -Another favourite entertainment is to shrimp. She takes off her shoes -and stockings and for a couple of hours will stand in the water -shrimping, for her “resting” is as energetic as everything else she -does. She plies her net in truly professional style, gets wildly -enthusiastic over a good catch, and loves to eat her freshly boiled -fish at <em>déjeuner</em>. Perhaps she has a game with her ten lovely Russian -dogs before that mid-day meal.</p> - -<p>Her surroundings are beautiful. She adores flowers—flowers are -everywhere; she admires works of art—works of art are about her, for -she has achieved her own position, her own wealth, and why should she -not have all she loves best close at hand?</p> - -<p>After <em>déjeuner</em> the guests, of whom there are never more than two or -three, such as M. Rostand (author of <cite>Cyrano de Bergerac</cite>) and his -wife, rest and read. Not so Madame Bernhardt. She sits in the open -air, her head covered with a shady hat, and plays Salta with her son. -This game is a kind of draughts, and often during their two months’ -holiday-making she and her only child Maurice will amuse themselves in -this way for two or three hours in the afternoon; generally she wins, -much to her joy. She simply loves heat, like the Salamanders, and, even -in July, when other people feel too hot, she would gladly wear furs and -have a fire. She can never be too<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span> warm apparently. Her own rooms are -kept like a hothouse, for cold paralyses her bodily and mentally.</p> - -<p>How she adores her son—she speaks of him as a woman speaks of her -lover; Maurice comes before all her art, before all else in the world, -for Maurice to her is life. He has married a clever woman, a descendant -of a Royal house, and has a boy and two girls adored by their -grandmother almost as much as their father. She plays with them, gets -up games for them, dances with them, throws herself as completely into -their young lives as she does into everything else.</p> - -<p>About 3.30 <em>au tennis</em> is the cry. Salta is put aside and every one -has to play tennis. Away to tennis she trips. Sarah never gets hot, -but always looks cool in the white she invariably wears. She wants an -active life, and if her brain is not working her body must be, so she -plays hard at the game, and when tea is ready in the arbour close at -hand, about 6.30, she almost weeps if she has to leave an unfinished -“sett.”</p> - -<p>She must be interested, or she would be bored; she must be amused, -or she would be weary; thus she works hard at her recreations, the -enforced rest while reading a novel being her only time of repose -during her summer holiday. She walks when she has nothing else to do, -and rambles for miles around her seaside home, only occasionally going -on long carriage expeditions, with her tents and her servants, to pitch -camp for the night somewhere along the coast.</p> - -<p>Then comes dinner—dinner served with all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> glories of a Parisian -<em>chef</em>, for Madame, although a small eater, believes well-cooked food -necessary to existence. There is no hurry over dinner, and “guess” -games are all the fashion, games which she cleverly arranges to suit -the children. No evening dresses are allowed, nor <em>décolleté</em> frocks; -except for flowers and well-cooked food, Madame likes to feel she is in -the country and far removed from Paris, therefore a dainty blouse is -all that is permitted. Music is often enjoyed in the evening. Sometimes -on a fine night Madame will exclaim:</p> - -<p>“Let us go and fish,” and off they all go. Down the endless steps cut -in the rock the party stumble, and on the seashore they drag their -nets. Up those same steps every night toil men with buckets of salt -water, for the great actress has a boiling salt water bath every -morning, to which she attributes much of her good health. Fishermen -throw nets for the evening’s catch, but “Sarah” is most energetic in -hauling them in, and gets wildly excited at a good haul. Her unfailing -energy is thrown even into the fishing, and she will stay out till the -small hours enjoying the sport. One summer Madame Bernhardt caught a -devil fish—this delighted her. She took it home and quickly modelled a -vase from her treasure. Seaweed and shells formed its stand, the tail -its stem. She seldom sculpts nowadays, but the power is still there.</p> - -<p>It was in 1880 that she retired from the <em>Comédie Française</em>, not -being content with her salary of £1,200 a year, and she then announced -her intention of making sculpture and painting her profession. After<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> -a rest, however, she fortunately changed her mind, or the stage -would have lost one of the greatest actresses the world has known. -Perhaps the apotheosis of her life was in December, 1896, when she -was acclaimed Queen of the French stage, and the leading poets of her -country recited odes in her honour. On that occasion the heroine of the -<em>fête</em> declared:</p> - -<p>“For twenty-nine years I have given the public the vibrations of my -soul, the pulsations of my heart, and the tears of my eyes. I have -played 112 parts, I have created thirty-eight new characters, sixteen -of which are the work of poets. I have struggled as no other human -being has struggled.... I have ardently longed to climb the topmost -pinnacle of my art. I have not yet reached it. By far the smaller part -of my life remains for me to live; but what matters it? Every day -brings me nearer to the realisation of my dream. The hours that have -flown away with my youth have left me my courage and cheerfulness, for -my goal is unchanged, and I am marching towards it.”</p> - -<p>She was right; there is always something beyond our grasp, and those -who think they have seized it must court failure from that moment. -Those nearest perfection best know how far they really are from it.</p> - -<p>Madame Bernhardt’s mind is penetrating, yet her body never rests. She -can do with very little sleep—can live without butcher’s meat, rarely -drinks alcohol, and prefers milk to anything. Perhaps this is the -reason of her perpetual youth. She loves her holiday, she loves the -simple life of the country,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> the repose from the world, the knowledge -that autograph hunters and reporters cannot waylay her, and in the -country she ceases to be an actress and can enjoy being a woman.</p> - -<p>In Paris her life is very different. She resides in a beautiful -hotel surrounded by works of art, and keeps a <em>table ouverte</em> for -her friends. She rises at eleven, when she has her <em>masseuse</em> and -her boiling bath, sees her servants, and gives personal orders for -everything in the establishment. She is one of those women who find -time for all details, and is capable of seeing to most matters well. -At 12.30 is <em>déjeuner</em>, rarely finished till 2 o’clock, as friends -constantly drop in. Then off to the theatre, where she rehearses till -six. There she sits in a little box, from which point of vantage she -can see everything and yet be out of draughts. She always wears white, -even in the theatre, and looks as smart as though at a party instead of -on business bent. Dresses are brought her for inspection, she alters, -changes, admires, or deplores as fancy takes her; she arranges the -lighting, decides a little more blue or a little less green will give -the tone required; but then she has that inner knowledge of harmony -and the true painter spirit. She is never out of tune. At six high-tea -is served in her dressing-room, for she rarely leaves the theatre. -The meal consists mostly of fish—lobster, crab, cray-fish, shrimps, -scallops cooked or raw—with a little tea and lots of milk. A chat with -a friend, a peep at a new play, and then it is time to dress for the -great work of the day. She changes quickly. After the performance is -over<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> she sees her manager, and rarely leaves the theatre in Paris -before 1.30, when she returns home to a good hot supper. But her day -is not ended even then. She will have a play read to her or read it -herself, study a new part, write letters, and do dozens of different -things before she goes to bed. She can do with little rest, and seems -to have the energy of many persons in one. In spite of this she has -never mastered English, although she can read it.</p> - -<p>Madame Bernhardt will ever be associated in my mind with a night spent -at a theatre behind a French <em>claque</em>. That <em>claque</em> was terrible, but -the actress was so wonderful I almost forgot its existence, and sat -rapt in admiration of her first night of <cite>Hamlet</cite>.</p> - -<p>Till quite lately there was a terrible institution in France known as -the <em>claque</em>, nothing more or less than a paid body of men whose duty -it was to applaud actors and actresses at certain points duly marked in -their play-books.</p> - -<p>At the <em>Comédie Française</em> of Paris a certain individual known as the -<em>Chef de Claque</em> had been retained from 1881 for over twenty years at a -monthly salary of three hundred francs, that is to say, he received £12 -a month, or £3 a week, for “clapping” when required. He was a person -of great importance. Though disliked by the public, he was petted and -feasted by actors and actresses, for a clap at the wrong moment, or -want of applause at the right, meant disaster; besides, there was a -sort of superstitious fear that being on bad terms with the <em>Chef de -Claque</em> foreboded ill luck.</p> - -<p>After performing his duties for twenty-one years<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> with considerable -success, the <em>Chef de Claque</em> was dismissed, and it was decided that -professional applause should be discontinued. Naturally the <em>Chef</em> was -indignant, and in the autumn of 1902 sued the <em>Comédie Française</em> for -30,000 francs damages or a pension. Paris, however, found relief in -the absence of the original <em>claque</em>, and gradually one theatre after -another began to dispense with a nuisance it had endured for long. -History says that during the early days of the <em>claque</em> there was an -equally obnoxious institution, a sort of organised opposition known as -<em>siffleurs</em>. It was then as fashionable to whistle a piece out of the -world as to clap it into success. There was a regular instrument made -for the purpose, known as a <em>sifflet</em>, which was wooden and emitted a -harsh creaking noise. No man thought of going to the theatre without -his <em>sifflet</em>—but the <em>claque</em> gradually clapped him away. Thus died -out the official dispensers of success or failure.</p> - -<p>It so chanced that having bicycled through France from Dieppe along the -banks of the Seine, my sister and I were leaving Paris on the first -occasion of Sarah Bernhardt’s impersonation of Hamlet—that is to say, -in May, 1899. We were so anxious to see her first performance, however, -that we decided to stay an extra day. So far all was well, but not a -single ticket could be obtained. Here was disappointment indeed. Of -course our names were not on the first night list in Paris and, as in -England, it is well-nigh impossible for any ordinary member of the -public to gain admittance on such an occasion.</p> - -<p>The gentleman in the box office became sympathetic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span> at beholding our -distress, and finally suggested he might let us have seats upstairs.</p> - -<p>“It is very high up, but you will see and hear everything,” he added.</p> - -<p>We decided to ascend to the gods, where, instead of finding ourselves -beside Jupiter and Mars, Venus or Apollo, we were seated immediately -behind the <em>claque</em>.</p> - -<p>Never, never shall I forget my own personal experience of the -performance of a <em>claque</em>. Six men sat together in the centre of -the front row. The middle one had a marked book—fancy Shakespeare’s -<cite>Hamlet</cite> marked for applause!—and according to that book’s instructions -the <em>Chef</em> and his friends clapped once, twice, thrice.</p> - -<p>On ordinary occasions the <em>claque</em> slept or read, and only woke up to -make a noise when called upon by the <em>Chef</em>, who seemed to have free -passes for his supporters every night, and took any one he liked to -help him in his curious work. The noise those men made at <cite>Hamlet</cite> -was deafening. The excitement of the leader lest the play should not -go off well on a first night was terrible—and if their hands were not -sore, and their arms did not ache, it was a wonder indeed. They were so -appallingly near us, and so overpowering and disturbing, nothing but -interest in the divine Sarah could have kept us in our seats during -all those hot, stuffy, noisy hours. It was a Saturday night, the piece -began at 8 p.m., and ended at 2 a.m.</p> - -<p>Think of it, ye London first-nighters! Especially in a French theatre, -where the seats are torture racks, the heat equal to Dante’s Inferno, -and no sweet music<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> soothes the savage breast, only long dreary -<em>entr’actes</em> and the welcome—if melancholy—three raps French playgoers -know so well.</p> - -<p>Two years later, when I was again in Paris, there were different -excitements in the air, one a strike of coal-miners, the other—and in -Paris apparently the more important—a strike of the orchestras at the -theatres. A few years previously there could not have been a strike, -for the sufficient reason there were no orchestras; but gradually our -plan of having music during the long waits crept in. The musicians at -first engaged as an experiment were badly paid. When they became an -institution they naturally asked for more money, which was promptly -refused.</p> - -<p>Then came the revolt. From the first violin to the big drum all -demanded higher pay. It seems that theatre, music hall, and concert -orchestras belong to a syndicate of <em>Artistes Musiciens</em> numbering some -sixteen hundred members. During the strike I chanced to be present at -a theatre where there was generally an orchestra—that night one small -cottage piano played by a lady usurped its place. She managed fairly -well—but a piano played by a mediocre musician, does not add to the -gaiety of a theatre although it may decrease its melancholy. When -November came, the strike ceased. The managers capitulated.</p> - -<p>The orchestra in an English theatre is a little world to itself. The -performers never mix with the actors, they have their own band-room, -and there they live when not before the curtain. At the chief -theatres, as is well known, the performers are extremely good,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span> and -that is because they are allowed to “deputise”; when there is a grand -concert at the St. James’s Hall or elsewhere, provided they find -some one to take their place in their own orchestra, they may go and -play. Consequently, when there is a big concert several may be away -from their own theatre. Many of these performers remain in the same -orchestra for years. For instance, Mr. Alexander told me he met a man -one day roving at the back of the stage, so he stopped and asked whom -he wanted. The man smiled and replied:</p> - -<p>“I am in your orchestra, sir, and have been for eleven years.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, yes, so you are; I thought I knew your face; but I am accustomed -to look at it from above, you see!”</p> - -<p>In many London theatres the orchestra is hidden under the stage, a -decided advantage with most plays.</p> - -<p>Parisian theatres are strange places. They are very fashionable, and -yet they are most uncomfortable. The seats are invariably too small and -too high. The result is there is nowhere to lay a cloak or coat, and -short people find their little legs dangling high above the ground. All -this causes inconvenience which ends in annoyance, and the hangers-on -at the theatres are a veritable nuisance. Ugly old women in blue -aprons, without caps, pounce upon one on entering and pester for wraps. -It is difficult to know which is the worse evil, to cling to one’s -belongings in the small space allotted each member of the audience, or -to let one of those women take them away. In the latter case before -the last act she returns with a great deal of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> fuss, hands over the -articles, and demands her sous. If the piece be only in three acts, -one pays for being free of a garment for two of them and is annoyed -by its presence during the third. Again, when one enters a box these -irritating <em>ouvreuses</em> demand tips <em>pour le service de la loge, s’il -vous plaît</em>, and will often insist on forcing footstools under one’s -feet so as to claim the <em>pourboires</em> afterwards. The <em>pourboires</em> of -the <em>vestiaire</em> are also a thorn in the flesh, and the system which -exacts payment from these women turns them from obliging servants into -harpies. How Parisians put up with these disagreeable creatures is -surprising, but they do.</p> - -<p>The stage is conservative in many ways; for instance, that tiresome -plan of charging for programmes still exists in England in some -theatres, and even good theatres too. Programmes cost nothing: the -expense of printing is paid by the advertisements. Free distribution, -therefore, does not mean that the management are out of pocket. Why, -then, do they not present them gratis? As things are it is most -aggravating. Suppose two ladies arrive; as they are shown to their -seats, holding their skirts, opera-bags and fans in their hands, -they are asked for sixpence. While they endeavour to extract their -money they are dropping their belongings and inconveniencing their -neighbours: in the case of a man requiring change the same annoyance is -felt by all around, especially if the play has begun.</p> - -<p>Programmes and their necessary “murmurings” are annoying, and so is -the meagreness of the space<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> between the rows of stalls. There are -people who openly declare they never go to a theatre because they have -not got room for their knees. This is certainly much worse in Parisian -theatres, where the seats are high and narrow as well; but still, -when people pay for a seat they like room to pass to and fro without -inconveniencing a dozen persons <em>en route</em>.</p> - -<p><em>Matinée</em> hats and late arrivals are sins on the part of the audience -so cruel that no self-respecting person would inflict either upon a -neighbour. But some women are so inconsiderate that we shall soon -be reduced to an American notice like the following, “Ladies who -cannot, or are unwilling to, remove their hats while occupying seats -in this theatre, are requested to leave at once; their money will -be returned at the box office.” A gentlewoman never wears a picture -hat at the play; if she arrives in one she takes it off. In the same -way a gentleman makes a point of being in time. People who offend in -these respects belong to a class which apparently knows no better, a -class which complacently talks, or makes love, through a theatrical -entertainment!</p> - -<p>Another strange Parisian custom is the advertisement drop-scene. At the -end of the act, a curtain descends literally covered with pictures and -puffs of pills, automobiles, corsets, or tobacco. After a tragedy the -effect is comical, but this is an age of advertisement.</p> - -<p>But to return to Madame Bernhardt’s Hamlet. When the great Sarah -appeared upon the scene I did not recognise her. Why? Because she -looked so young and so small. This woman, who was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> nearly sixty, -appeared quite juvenile. This famous <em>tragédienne</em>, who had always -left an impression of a tall, thin, willowy being in her wonderful -scenes in <cite>La Tosca</cite>, or <cite>Dame aux Caméllias</cite>, deprived of her train -appeared quite tiny. She had the neatest legs, encased in black silk -stockings, the prettiest feet with barely any heel to give her height, -while her flaxen wig which hung upon her shoulders, made her look a -youth, in the sixteenth century clothes she elected to wear. At first -I felt woefully disappointed; she did not act at all, and when she saw -her father’s ghost, instead of becoming excited, as we are accustomed -to Hamlet’s doing in this country, she insinuated a lack of interest, -an “Oh, is that really my father’s ghost!” sort of style, which seemed -almost annoying; but as she proceeded, I was filled with admiration—her -players’ scene was a great <em>coup</em>.</p> - -<p>On the left of the stage a smaller one was arranged for the players’ -scene, and before it half a dozen torches were stuck in as footlights. -On the right there was a high raised daïs with steps leading up on -either side—a sort of platform erection. The King and Queen sat upon -two seats at the top, the courtiers grouped themselves upon the stairs. -Immediately below the Royal pair sat Ophelia, and at her feet, upon a -white polar-bear-skin rug, reclined Sarah Bernhardt, with her elbow -upon Ophelia’s knee and her hand upon some yellow cushions. As the -play went on she looked up to catch a glimpse of the King, but he was -too high above her, the wall of the platform hid him from view. Very -quietly she rose from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> her seat, crawled round to the back, where she -gradually and slowly pulled herself up towards the daïs, getting upon -a stool in her eagerness to see her victim’s face. The King, in his -excitement, rose from his seat at the fatal moment, and putting his -hand upon the balustrade, peered downwards upon the play-actors.</p> - -<p>At that instant Sarah Bernhardt rose, and the two faces came close -together across the barrier in eager contemplation of each other. It -was a magnificent piece of acting, one which sent a thrill through the -whole house; and as the “divine Sarah” saw the guilt depicted upon her -uncle’s face she gave a shriek of triumph, a perfectly fiendish shriek -of joy, once heard never to be forgotten, and springing down from her -post, rushed to the torch footlights, and seizing one in her hand stood -in the middle of the stage, her back to the audience, waving it on -high and yelling with wild exultant delight as the King and all his -courtiers slunk away, to the fall of the curtain. It was a brilliant -ending to a great act, and Sarah triumphed not only in the novelty of -her rendering, but in the manner of its execution.</p> - -<p>Another hit that struck me as perfectly wonderful in its contrasting -simplicity, was, when she sat upon a sofa, her feet straight out before -her, a book lying idle upon her lap, and murmured, <em>mots, mots</em>, or -again, when she came in through the arch at the back of the stage, and -leaning against its pillar repeated quietly and dreamily the lines “To -be, or not to be.”</p> - -<p><em>Apropos</em> of <cite>Hamlet</cite>, Madame Bernhardt wrote to the <cite>Daily Telegraph</cite>:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span></p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">“Hamlet rêve quand il est seul; mais quand il y a du monde il -parle; il parle pour cacher sa pensée....</span></p> - -<p><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">“On me reproche, dans la scène de l’Oratoire, de m’approcher trop -près du Roi; mais, si Hamlet veut tuer le Roi, il faut bien qu’il -s’approche de lui. Et quand il l’entend prier des paroles de -repentir, il pense que s’il le tue il l’enverra au ciel, et il ne -tue pas le Roi; non pas parcequ’il est irrésolu et faible, mais -parcequ’il est tenace et logique; il veut le tuer dans le péché, -non dans le repentir, car il veut qu’il aille en enfer, et pas -au ciel. On veut absolument voir, dans Hamlet, une âme de femme, -hésitante, imponderée; moi, j’y vois l’âme d’un homme, résolue mais -refléchie. Aussitôt que Hamlet voit l’âme de son père et appréhend -le meurtre, il prend la résolution de le venger; mais, comme il -est le contraire d’Othello, qui agit avant de penser, lui, Hamlet, -pense avant d’agir, ce qui est le signe d’une grande force, d’une -grande puissance d’âme.</span></p> - -<p><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">“Hamlet aime Ophélie! il renonce à l’amour! il renonce à l’étude! -il renonce à tout! pour arriver à son but! Et il y arrive! Il -tue le Roi quand il est pris dans le péché le plus noir, le plus -criminel; mais il ne le tue que lorsqu’il est absolument sûr. -Lorsqu’on l’envoie en Angleterre, à la première occasion qu’il -rencontre il bondit tout seul sur un bateau ennemi et il se nomme -pour qu’on le fasse prisonnier, sûr qu’on le ramenera. Il envoie -froidement Rosencrantz et Guildenstern à la mort. Tout cela est -d’un être jeune, fort et résolu!</span><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Quand il rêve: c’est à son -projet! c’est à sa vengeance! Si Dieu n’avait pas défendu le -suicide, il se tuerait par dégoût du monde! mais, puisqu’il ne peut -pas se tuer, il tuera!</p> - -<p><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">“Enfin, Monsieur, permettez-moi de vous dire que Shakespeare, -par son génie colossal, appartient à l’Univers! et qu’un cerveau -Français, Allemand, ou Russe a le droit de l’admirer et de le -comprendre.</span></p> - -<p class="right">“<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">SARAH BERNHARDT</span>. </p> -<p>“<span class="smcap smaller"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Londres</span></span>, <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">le 16 Juin, 1899</span></i>.”</p></div> - -<p>Madame Bernhardt made Hamlet a man, and a strong man—there was nothing -of the halting, hesitating woman about her performance, one which she -herself loves to play.</p> - -<p>It was a fine touch also when she went into her uncle’s room, where, -finding him on his knees, she crept up close behind, and taking out -her dagger, prepared to kill him. She said nothing, but her play -was marvellous, her expression of hatred and loathing, her pause to -contemplate, and final decision to let the man alone, were done in such -a way as only Sarah Bernhardt could render them.</p> - -<p>Another drama took place on this memorable first night of Hamlet. Two -famous men when discussing whether Hamlet ought to be fat or thin, -struck one another in the face and finally arranged a duel—a duel -fought two or three days later, which nearly cost one of them his life.</p> - -<p>Opposite is the programme of the first night of Sarah Bernhardt’s -Hamlet.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center"> -<table class="my100" border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1" summary="hamlet programme"> -<tr> -<td class="tdl large" colspan="2"><b><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">LA TRAGIQUE HISTOIRE D’</span></b></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 largest" colspan="2"><b>HAMLET</b></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr padt1 large" colspan="2"><b><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">PRINCE DE DANEMARK</span></b></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Drame en 15 Tableaux de</span> <b>William SHAKESPEARE</b></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="2"><i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Traduction en prose de</span></i> <span class="smcap">MM. Eugène MORAND</span> et <span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Marcel SCHWOB</span></span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_169_decoration.jpg" width="250" height="16" alt="page decoration" /> -</div></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc larger" colspan="2"><b><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Mᵐᵉ SARAH BERNHARDT</span></b></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 large" colspan="2"><cite>HAMLET</cite></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"> <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">MM.</span></td> -<td> </td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bremont</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Roi</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Magnier</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl">Laertes</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Chameroy</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl">Polonius</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Deneubourg</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl">Horatio</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Ripert</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Spectre</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Schutz</span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Premier fossoyeur</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Lacroix</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Deuxième</span> „</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Teste</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Roi Comédien</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Scheler</span></td> -<td class="tdl">Osric</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Jean Darav</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl">Rosencrantz</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Jahan</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl">Voltimand</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Colas</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl">Bernardo</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Krauss</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl">Marcellus</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Laurent</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl">Guildenstern</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Barbier</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl">Fortinbras</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap">Stebler</span></td> -<td class="tdl">Deuxᵐᵉ comédien</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Cauroy</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl">Francesco</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Lahor</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Un Prêtre</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bary</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Cornélius</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Caillere</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Troisᵐᵉ comédien</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Bertaut</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Un Gentilhomme</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl padt1"> <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">MMᵐᵉˢ</span></td> -<td> </td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Marthe Mellot</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Ophélie</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Marcya</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Reine Gertrude</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl"><span class="smcap"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Boulanger</span></span></td> -<td class="tdl"><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La reine comédienne</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2"><i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Prêtres, Comédiens, Marins, Officiers, Soldats, etc.</span></i></td> -</tr></table></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span></p> - -<p>There is a famous Hamlet skull in America, known as Yorick’s -skull, which is in the possession of Dr. Horace Howard Furness, of -Philadelphia.</p> - -<p>Dr. Furness is one of the greatest Shakespearian scholars of the day. -Dr. Georg Brandes, of Copenhagen, Mr. Sydney Lee, of London, and he -probably know more of the work of this great genius than any other -living persons.</p> - -<p>When I was in America I had the pleasure of spending a few days at Dr. -Furness’s delightful home at Wallingford, on the shores of the Delaware -River. The place might be in England, from its appearance—a low, -rambling old house with wide balconies, creeper-grown with roses, and -honey-suckle hugging the porch. The dear old home was built more than a -century ago, by some of Dr. Furness’s ancestors, and one sees the love -of those ancestors for the old English style manifest at every turn. -The whole interior bespeaks intellectual refinement.</p> - -<p>He stood on the doorstep to welcome me, a grey-headed man of some -sixty-eight years, with a ruddy complexion, and closely cut white -moustache. His manner was delightful; no more polished gentleman ever -walked this earth than Horace Howard Furness, the great American -writer. His father was an intimate friend of Ralph Waldo Emerson, -whose famous portrait at the Philadelphia Art Gallery was painted by -the doctor’s brother; so young Horace was brought up amid intellectual -surroundings.</p> - -<p>At the back of the house is the world-renowned iron-proof Shakespearian -library, the collection of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> forty ardent years. It is a veritable -museum with its upper galleries, its many tables, and its endless cases -of treasures. The books which line the walls were all catalogued by -the doctor himself. He has many of the earlier editions of Shakespeare -besides other rare volumes. Some original MSS. of Charles Lamb, -beautifully written and signed Elia, are there; a delightful sketch -of Mary Anderson by Forbes Robertson; Lady Martin’s (Helen Faucit) -own acting editions of the parts she played marked by herself; and -in a special glass case lie a pair of grey gauntlet gloves, richly -embroidered in silver, which were worn by Shakespeare himself when an -actor. If I remember rightly they came from David Garrick, and the card -of authenticity is in the case. Then there are Garrick’s and Booth’s -walking-sticks, and on a small ebony stand, the famous Yorick skull -handled in the grave-digging scene by all the great actors who have -visited Philadelphia, and signed by them—Booth, Irving, Tree, Sothern, -etc.</p> - -<p>I never spent a more delightful evening than one in October, 1900, when -the family went off to Philadelphia to see the dramatisation of one of -Dr. Weir Mitchell’s novels by his son, and I was left alone with Dr. -Furness for some hours.</p> - -<p>What a charming companion. What a fund of information and humour, -what a courtly manner, what a contrast to the ruggedness of Ibsen, -or the wild energy of Björnsen. Here was repose and strength. Not an -originator, perhaps, but a learned disciple. How he loved Shakespeare, -with what reverence he spoke of him. He scoffed at the mere<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> mention -of Bacon’s name, and was glad, very glad, so little was known of the -private life of Shakespeare.</p> - -<p>“He was too great to be mortal; I do not want to associate any of -Nature’s frailties with such a mind. His work is the thing, for the -man as a man I care nothing.” This was unlike Brandes, whose brilliant -books on Shakespeare deal chiefly with the man.</p> - -<p>There was something particularly delightful about Horace Furness and -his home. Even the dinner-table appointments were his choice. The -soup-plates were of the rarest Oriental porcelain, and the meat-plates -were of silver with mottoes chosen by himself round the borders.</p> - -<p>“I loved my china, but it got broken year by year, until in desperation -I looked about for something that could not break—solid and plain, like -myself, eh?” he chuckled. The mottoes were well chosen and the idea as -original as everything else about Dr. Furness.</p> - -<p>It was Mrs. Kemble’s readings that first awakened his love for -Shakespeare; but he was nearly forty years old when he gave up law and -devoted himself to writing; much the same age as Dr. Samuel Smiles when -he exchanged business for authorship.</p> - -<p>Dr. Furness loves his Shakespeare and thoroughly enjoys his well-chosen -library; but still an Englishwoman cannot help hoping that when he -has done with them, he will bequeath his treasures to the Shakespeare -Museum at Stratford-on-Avon.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX<br /> -<br /> -<i>AN HISTORICAL FIRST NIGHT</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">An Interesting Dinner—Peace in the Transvaal—Beerbohm Tree -as a Seer—How he cajoled Ellen Terry and Mrs. Kendal to -Act—First-nighters on Camp-stools—Different Styles of Mrs. Kendal -and Miss Terry—The Fun of the Thing—Bows of the Dead—Falstaff’s -Discomfort—Amusing Incidents—Nervousness behind the Curtain—An -Author’s Feelings.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">THE scene was changed.</p> - -<p>It was the 1st of June. I remember the date because it was my birthday, -and this particular June day is doubly engraven on my mind as the most -important Sunday in 1902. It was a warm summer’s evening as I drove -down Harley Street to dine with Sir Anderson and Lady Critchett, whose -dinners are as famous as his own skill as an oculist.</p> - -<p>Most of the company had assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were already -there, Frank Wedderburn, K.C., Mr. Luke Fildes, R.A., who had just -completed his portrait of the King, Mr. Orchardson, R.A., Mr. Lewis -Coward, K.C., and their wives, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Sassoon, Mr. and -Mrs. W. L. Courtney, when the Beerbohm Trees were announced. He bore a -telegram in his hand.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Have you heard the news?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“No,” every one replied, guessing by his face it was something of -importance.</p> - -<p>“Peace has been officially signed,” was the reply.</p> - -<p>Great was the joy of all present. There had been a possibility felt all -day that the good news from South Africa might be confirmed on that -Sunday, although it was supposed it could not be known for certain -until Monday. Sunday is more or less a <em>dies non</em> in London, but as -the tape is always working at the theatre, Mr. Tree had instructed a -clerk to sit and watch the precious instrument all day, so as to let -him have the earliest information of so important an event. As he was -dressing for dinner in Sloane Street, in rushed the clerk, breathless -with excitement, bearing the news of the message of Peace that had sped -across a quarter of the world.</p> - -<p>This in itself made that dinner-party memorable, but it was memorable -in more ways than one, as among the twenty people round that table sat -four of the chief performers in <cite>The Merry Wives of Windsor</cite>, which was -to electrify London as a Coronation performance ten days later.</p> - -<p>Sir Anderson himself is connected with the drama, for his brother is -Mr. R. C. Carton, the well-known dramatic author. Sir Anderson is also -an indefatigable first-nighter, and being an excellent <em>raconteur</em>, -knows many amusing stories of actors of the day. In his early years an -exceptionally fine voice almost<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> tempted him on to the lyric stage, but -he has had no cause to regret that his ultimate choice was ophthalmic -surgery.</p> - -<p>It was a stroke of genius, the genius of the seer, on the part of -Beerbohm Tree, to invite the two leading actresses of England to -perform at his theatre during Coronation season.</p> - -<p>It came about in this way. On looking round the Houses, Mr. Tree -noticed that, although Shakespeare was to the fore in the provinces, -filling two or three theatres, there happened to be no Shakespearian -production—except an occasional <em>matinée</em> at the Lyceum—going on -in London during the Coronation month. Of course London without -Shakespeare is like <cite>Hamlet</cite> without the Dane to visitors from the -Colonies and elsewhere. Something must be done. He decided what. A -good all-round representation, played without any particular star part -would suit the purpose, and a record cast would suit the stranger. -Accordingly Mr. Tree jumped into a hansom and drove to Mrs. Kendal’s -home in Portland Place, where he was announced, and exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“I have come to ask you to act for me at His Majesty’s for the -Coronation month. Your own tour will be finished by that time.”</p> - -<p>For one hour they talked, Mrs. Kendal declaring she had not played -under any management save her husband’s for so many years that the -suggestion seemed well-nigh impossible.</p> - -<p>“Besides,” she added, “you should ask Ellen Terry, who is my senior, -and stands ahead of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> me in the profession. She has not yet appeared -since she returned from America. There is your chance.”</p> - -<p>Whereupon there ensued further discussion, till finally Mrs. Kendal -laughingly remarked:</p> - -<p>“Well, if you can get Ellen Terry to act, I will play with you both -with pleasure.”</p> - -<p>Off went Mr. Tree to the hansom, and directed the driver to take him -at once to Miss Terry’s house, for he was determined not to let the -grass grow under his feet. He brought his personal influence to bear -on the famous actress for another hour, at the end of which time she -had consented to play <em>if</em> Sir Henry Irving would allow her. This -permission was quickly obtained, and two hours after leaving Portland -Place Mr. Tree was back to claim Mrs. Kendal’s promise. It was sharp -work; one morning overcame what at the outset seemed insurmountable -obstacles, and thus was arranged one of the best and luckiest -performances ever given. For weeks and weeks that wonderful cast played -to overflowing houses. The month wore on, but the public taste did not -wear out, July found all these stars still in the firmament, and even -in August they remained shining in town.</p> - -<p>Moral: the very best always receives recognition. The “best” lay in -the acting, for as a play the <cite>Merry Wives</cite> is by no means one of -Shakespeare’s best. It is said he wrote it in ten days by order of -Queen Elizabeth. How delighted Bouncing Bess would have been if she -could have seen the Coronation performance!</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_176fp"> -<img src="images/i_176fp.jpg" width="412" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by London Stereoscopic Co., Ltd., Cheapside, E.C.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MR. BEERBOHM TREE AS FALSTAFF.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span></p> - -<p>I passed down the Haymarket early in the morning preceding that famous -first night. There, sitting on camp-stools, were people who had been -waiting from 5 a.m. to get into the pit and gallery that evening. They -had a long wait, over twelve hours some of them, but certainly they -thought it worth while if they enjoyed themselves as much as I did. It -was truly a record performance.</p> - -<p>The house was packed; in one box was the Lord Chief Justice of -England, in the stalls below him Sir Edward Clarke, at one time -Solicitor-General, and who has perhaps the largest practice at the Bar -of any one in London. Then there was Mr. Kendal not far off, watching -his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree’s daughter—showing a strong -resemblance to both parents—was in a box; Princess Colonna was likewise -there; together with some of the most celebrated doctors, such as Sir -Felix Semon, learned in diseases of the throat, Sir Anderson Critchett, -our host of a few nights before, while right in the front sat old Mrs. -Beerbohm, watching her son with keen interest and enjoyment, and, a -little behind, that actor’s clever brother, known on an important -weekly as “Max,” a severe and caustic dramatic critic.</p> - -<p>The enthusiasm of the audience was extraordinary. When some one had -called for the feminine “stars” at one of the rehearsals, Mrs. Kendal, -with ready wit, seized Ellen Terry by the hand, exclaiming:</p> - -<p>“Ancient Lights would be more appropriate, methinks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span>!”</p> - -<p>Below is the programme.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="center chapter"> -<table class="my100" border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1" summary="merry wives of windsor programme"> -<tr> -<td class="tdc larger" colspan="5">TUESDAY, JUNE 10th, 1902, at 8.15</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc large padt1 padb1" colspan="5">SHAKESPEARE’S COMEDY</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc" colspan="5"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_178.jpg" width="550" height="74" alt="the merry wives of windsor" /> -</div></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Sir John Falstaff</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Tree</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Master Fenton</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Gerald Lawrence</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Justice Shallow</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">J. Fisher White</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Master Slender</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">(<i>Cousin to Shallow</i>) </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Charles Quartermain</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Master Ford</td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">}</span></td> -<td class="tdc"><i>Gentlemen dwelling at</i></td> -<td class="tdl" rowspan="2"><span class="double">{</span></td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Oscar Asche</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Master Page</td> -<td class="tdc"><i>Windsor</i></td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">F. Percival Stevens</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Sir Hugh Evans</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">(<i>a Welsh Parson</i>) </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Courtice Pounds</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Dr. Caius</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">(<i>a French Physician</i>) </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Henry Kemble</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="3">Host of the “Garter” Inn</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Lionel Brough</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Bardolph</td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="3"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_178_2.jpg" width="8" height="60" alt="" /> -</div></td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="3"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_178_3.jpg" width="8" height="60" alt="" /> -</div></td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Allen Thomas</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Nym</td> -<td class="tdc"><i>Followers of Falstaff</i></td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">S. A. Cookson</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Pistol</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Julian L’Estrange</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Robin</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">(<i>Page to Falstaff</i>) </td> -<td class="tdl"> Master <span class="smcap">Vivyan Thomas</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Simple</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">(<i>Servant to Slender</i>) </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">O. B. Clarence</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Rugby</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">(<i>Servant to Dr. Caius</i>) </td> -<td class="tdl"> Mr. <span class="smcap">Frank Stanmore</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl vertt">Mistress Page</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Ellen Terry</span><br /> -<span class="smaller">(By the Courtesy of Sir <span class="smcap">Henry Irving</span>)</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Mistress Anne Page</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">(<i>Daughter to Mrs. Page</i>) </td> -<td class="tdl"> Mrs. <span class="smcap">Tree</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Mistress Quickly</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">(<i>Servant to Dr. Caius</i>) </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Zeffie Tilbury</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl vertt">Mistress Ford</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mrs. <span class="smcap">Kendal</span><br /> -<span class="smaller">(By the Courtesy of Mr. <span class="smcap">W. H. Kendal</span>)</span></td> -</tr></table></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><cite>The Merry Wives of Windsor</cite> is a comedy, but it was played on the -first night as a comedy of comedies, every one, including Lionel Brough -as the Innkeeper, being delightfully jovial. Every one seemed in the -highest spirits, and all those sedate actors and actresses thoroughly -enjoyed a romp. When the two<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> ladies of the evening appeared on the -scene hand in hand, convulsed with laughter, they were clapped so -enthusiastically that it really seemed as if they would never be -allowed to begin.</p> - -<p>What a contrast they were, in appearance and style. They had played -together as children, but never after, till that night. During the -forty years that had rolled over Ellen Terry’s head since those young -days she has developed into a Shakespearian actress of the first rank. -Her life has been spent in declaiming blank verse, wearing mediæval -robes, and enacting tragedy and comedy of ancient days by turn, and -added to her vast experience, she has a great and wonderful personality.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kendal, on the other hand, who stands at the head of the comedians -of the day, and is also mistress of her art, has played chiefly modern -parts and depicted more constantly the sentiment of the time; but has -seldom attacked blank verse; therefore, the two leading actresses of -England are distinctly dissimilar in training and style. No stronger -contrast could have been imagined; and yet, although neither part -actually suited either, the finished actress was evident in every -gesture, every tone, every look of both, and it would be hard to say -which achieved the greatest triumph, each was so perfect in her own -particular way.</p> - -<p>Miss Ellen Terry did not know her words—she rarely does on a first -night, and is even prone to forget her old parts. Appearing in a new -character that she was obliged to learn for the occasion, she had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> -been able to memorise it satisfactorily; but that did not matter in the -least. She looked charming, she was charming, the prompter was ever -ready, and if she did repeat a line a second time while waiting to be -helped with the next, no one seemed to think that of any consequence. -When she went up the stairs to hide while Mrs. Kendal (Mrs. Ford) made -Tree (Falstaff) propose to her, Mrs. Kendal packed her off in great -style, and then wickedly and with amusing emphasis remarked:</p> - -<p>“Mistress Page, remember your cue,” which of course brought down the -house.</p> - -<p>Their great scene came in the third act, when they put Falstaff into -the basket. Mr. Tree was excellent as the preposterously fat knight—a -character verily all stuff and nonsense. He is a tall man, and in his -mechanical body reaches enormous girth. Falstaff and the Merry Wives -had a regular romp over the upset of the basket, and the audience -entering into the fun of the thing laughed as heartily as they did. Oh -dear, oh dear! how every one enjoyed it.</p> - -<p>A few nights later during this same scene Mr. Tree was observed to grow -gradually thinner. He seemed to be going into a “rapid decline,” for -his belt began to slip about, and his portly form grew less and less. -Ellen Terry noticed the change: it was too much for her feelings. With -the light-hearted gaiety of a child she was convulsed with mirth. She -pointed out the phenomenon to Mrs. Kendal, who at once saw the humour -of it, as did the audience, but the chief actor could not fathom the -cause of the immoderate<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> hilarity until his belt began to descend. Then -he realised that “Little Mary”—which in his case was an air pillow—had -lost her screw, and was rapidly fading away.</p> - -<p>But to return to that memorable first night; as the curtain fell on the -last act the audience clapped and clapped, and not content with having -the curtain up four or five times, called and called until the entire -company danced hand in hand across the stage in front of the curtain. -Even that was not enough, although poor Mrs. Kendal lost her enormous -horned head-dress during the dance. The curtain had to be rung up again -and again, till Mr. Tree stepped forward and said he had no speech to -make beyond thanking the two charming ladies for their assistance and -support, whereupon these two executed <em>pas seuls</em> on either side of the -portly Falstaff.</p> - -<p>It was a wonderful performance, and although the two women mentioned -stood out pre-eminently, one must not forget Mrs. Tree, who appeared -as “Sweet Anne Page.” She received quite an ovation when her husband -brought her forward to bow her acknowledgments. Bows on such an -occasion or in such a comedy are quite permissible; but was ever -anything more disconcerting than to see an actor who has just died -before us in writhing agony, spring forward to bow at the end of some -tragedy—to rise from the dead to smile—to see a man who has just moved -us to tears and evoked our sympathy, stand gaily before us, to laugh -at our sentiment and cheerily mock at our enthusiasm? Could anything -be more inartistic?<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> A “call” often spoils a tragedy, not only in -the theatre but at the opera. Over zeal on the part of the audience, -and over vanity on the side of the actor, drags away the veil of -mystery which is our make-believe of reality, and shows glaringly the -make-believe of the whole thing.</p> - -<p>Mr. Beerbohm Tree never hesitates to tell a story against himself, and -he once related an amusing experience in connection with his original -production of <cite>The Merry Wives of Windsor</cite>.</p> - -<p>In the final scene at Herne’s oak, where Falstaff is pursued by fairy -elves and sprites, the burly knight endeavours to escape from his -tormentors by climbing the trunk of a huge tree. In order to render -this possible the manager had ordered some pegs to be inserted in the -bark, but on the night of the final dress rehearsal these necessary -aids were absent. A carpenter was summoned, and Mr. Tree, pointing to -his namesake, said in tones of the deepest reproach:</p> - -<p>“No pegs! No pegs!”</p> - -<p>When the eventful first night came Falstaff found to his annoyance -and amazement that he was still unable to compass the climb by which -he hoped to create much amusement. On the fall of the curtain the -delinquent was again called into the managerial presence and addressed -in strong terms. He, however, quickly cut short the reproof by -exclaiming:</p> - -<p>“’Ere, I say, guvnor, ’old ’ard: what was your words last night at the -re-’earsal? ’No pegs,’ you said—’no pegs’—well, there ain’t none,” and -he gave<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> a knowing smack of the lips as if to insinuate another kind of -peg would be acceptable.</p> - -<p>Experience has shown Mr. Tree that he can give the necessary appearance -of bloated inflation to the cheeks of the fat knight by the aid of a -paint-brush alone; but then Mr. Tree mixes his paints with brains. When -he first essayed the character of Falstaff he relied for his effect -on cotton wool and wig-paste. Even now his nose is deftly manipulated -with paste to increase its size and shape, and I once saw him give -it a tweak after a performance with droll effect. A little lump of -nose-paste remained in his hand, while his own white organ shone forth -in the midst of a rubicund countenance.</p> - -<p>On an early occasion at the Crystal Palace Mr. Tree was delighted -at a burst of uproarious merriment on the part of the audience, -and flattered himself that the scene was going exceptionally well. -Happening to glance downwards, however, he saw that the padding had -slipped from his right leg, leaving him with one lean shank while the -other leg still assumed gigantic proportions. He looked down in horror. -The audience were not laughing <em>with</em> him, but <em>at</em> him. He endeavoured -to beat a hasty retreat, but found he could not stir, for one of his -cheeks had fallen off when leaning forward, and in more senses than -one he had “put his foot in it” and required extra cheek, not less, to -compass an exit from the stage.</p> - -<p>Such are the drolleries incumbent on a character like Falstaff.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mr. Tree has his serious moments, however, and none are more serious -than his present contemplation of his Dramatic School, which he -believes “will appeal not only to the profession of actors, but to -all interested in the English theatre, the English language, and -English oratory, men whose talents are occupied in public life, in -politics, in the pulpit, or at the Bar. Unless a dramatic school -can be self-supporting it is not likely to survive. Acting cannot -be taught—but many things can—such as voice-production, gesture and -deportment, fencing and dancing.”</p> - -<p>Every one will wish his bold venture success; and if he teaches a few -of our “well-known” actors and actresses to speak so that we can follow -every word of what they say, which at present we often cannot do, he -will confer a vast boon on English playgoers, and doubtless add largely -to the receipts of the theatres. It is a brave effort on his part, and -he deserves every encouragement.</p> - -<p>As this chapter began with a first-night performance, it shall end with -first-night thoughts.</p> - -<p>Are we not one and all hypercritical on such occasions?</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_184fp"> -<img src="images/i_184fp.jpg" width="426" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MISS ELLEN TERRY AS QUEEN KATHERINE.</p></div> - -<p>We little realise the awful strain behind the scenes in the working -of that vast machinery, the play. Not only is the author anxious, but -the actors and actresses are worn out with rehearsals and nervousness: -property men, wig-makers, scene-painters, and fly-men are all in a -state of extreme tension. The front of the house little realises what -a truly awful ordeal <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span>a first night is for all concerned, and while it -is kind to encourage by clapping, it is cruel to condemn by hissing or -booing.</p> - -<p>All behind the footlights do their best, or try so far as nervousness -will let them, and surely we in the audience should not expect a -perfect or a smooth representation, and should give encouragement -whenever possible.</p> - -<p>After all, however much the actors may suffer from nervousness and -anxiety on a first night, their position is not really so trying as -that of the author. If the actor is not a success, it may be “the part -does not suit him,” or “it is a bad play,” there may be the excuse of -“want of adequate support,” for he is only one of a number; but the -poor author has to bear the brunt of everything. If his play fail the -whole thing is a <em>fiasco</em>. He is blamed by every one. It costs more to -put on another play than to change a single actor. The author stands -alone to receive abuse or praise; he knows that, not only may failure -prove ruin to him, but it may mean loss to actors, actresses, managers, -and even the call boy. Therefore the more conscientious he is, the more -torture he suffers in his anxiety to learn the public estimation of his -work. The criticism may not be judicious, but if favourable it brings -grist to the mill of all concerned.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X<br /> -<br /> -<i>OPERA COMIC</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">How W. S. Gilbert loves a Joke—A Brilliant Companion—Operas -Reproduced without an Altered Line—Many Professions—A Lovely -Home—Sir Arthur Sullivan’s Gift—A Rehearsal of <cite>Pinafore</cite>—Breaking -up Crowds—Punctuality—Soldier or no Soldier—<cite>Iolanthe</cite>—Gilbert as -an Actor—Gilbert as Audience—The Japanese Anthem—Amusement.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">FEW authors are so interesting as their work—they generally reserve -their wit or trenchant sarcasm for their books. W. S. Gilbert is an -exception to this rule, however; he is as amusing himself as his -<cite>Bab Ballads</cite>, and as sarcastic as <cite>H.M.S. Pinafore</cite>. A sparkling -librettist, he is likewise a brilliant talker. How he loves a joke, -even against himself. How well he tells a funny story, even if he -invent it on the spot as “perfectly true.”</p> - -<p>His mind is so quick, he grasps the stage-setting of a dinner-party at -once, and forthwith adapts his drama of the hour to exactly suit his -audience.</p> - -<p>Like all amusing people, he has his quiet moments, of course; but when -Mr. Gilbert is in good form he is inimitable. He talks like his plays, -turns everything upside-down with wondrous rapidity, and propounds -nonsensical theories in delightful language.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> He is assuredly the -greatest wit of his day, and to him we owe the origin of musical-comedy -in its best form.</p> - -<p>With a congenial companion Mr. Gilbert is in his element. He is a -fine-looking man with white hair and ponderous moustache, and owing to -his youthful complexion appears younger than his years. He loves to -have young people about him, and is never happier than when surrounded -by friends.</p> - -<p>In 1901, after an interval of nearly twenty years, his clever comic -opera <cite>Iolanthe</cite> was revived at the Savoy with great success. Not one -line, not one word of its original text had been altered, yet it took -London by storm, just as did <cite>Pinafore</cite> when produced for the second -time. How few authors’ work will stand so severe a test.</p> - -<p>The genesis of <cite>Iolanthe</cite> is referable, like many of Mr. Gilbert’s -libretti, to one of the <cite>Bab Ballads</cite>. The “primordial atomic globule” -from which it traces its descent is a poem called <cite>The Fairy Curate</cite>, -in which a clergyman, the son of a fairy, gets into difficulties -with his bishop, who catches him in the act of embracing an airily -dressed young lady, whom the bishop supposes to be a member of the -<em>corps de ballet</em>. The bishop, reasonably enough, declines to accept -the clergyman’s explanation that the young lady is his mother, and -difficulties ensue. In the opera, Strephon, who is the son of the fairy -Iolanthe, is detected by his <em>fiancée</em> Phyllis in the act of embracing -<em>his</em> mother; Phyllis takes the bishop’s view of the situation, and -complications arise.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p> - -<p>Mr. Gilbert has penned such well-known blank verse dramas as <cite>The -Palace of Truth</cite>, <cite>Pygmalion and Galatea</cite>, <cite>The Wicked Worlds</cite>, <cite>Broken -Hearts</cite>, besides many serious and humorous plays and comedies—namely, -<cite>Dan’l Druce</cite>, <cite>Engaged</cite>, <cite>Sweethearts</cite>, <cite>Comedy and Tragedy</cite>, and some -dozen light operas.</p> - -<p>It is a well-known fact that almost every comedian wishes to be a -tragedian, and <em>vice versâ</em>, and Mr. Gilbert is said to have had -a great and mighty sorrow all his life. He always wanted to write -serious dramas—long, five-act plays full of situations and thought. -But no; fate ordained otherwise, when, having for a change started -his little barque as a librettist, he had to persevere in penning -what he calls “nonsense.” The public were right; they knew there was -no other W. S. Gilbert; they wanted to be amused, so they continually -clamoured for more; and if any one did not realise his genius at the -first production, he can hardly fail to do so now, when the author’s -plays are again presented after a lapse of years, without an altered -line, and still make long runs. Some say the art of comedy-writing is -dying out, and certainly no second Gilbert seems to be rising among -the younger men of the present day, no humourist who can call tears or -laughter at will, and send his audience away happy every night. The -world owes a debt of gratitude to this gifted scribe, for he has never -put an unclean line upon the stage, and yet provokes peals of laughter -while shyly giving his little digs at existing evils. His style has -justly created a name of its own.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span></p> - -<p>W. S. Gilbert has always had a deep-rooted objection to newspaper -interviews, just as he refuses ever to see one of his own plays -performed. He attends the last rehearsal, gives the minutest directions -up to the final moment, and then usually spends the evening in the -green-room or in the wings of the theatre. Very few authors accept fame -or success more philosophically than he does. When <cite>Princess Ida</cite> was -produced he was sitting in the green-room, where there was an excitable -Frenchman, who had supplied the armour used in the piece. The play was -going capitally, and the Frenchman exclaimed, in wild excitement, “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Mais -savez-vous que nous avons là un succès solide?</span>” To which Mr. Gilbert -quietly replied, “Yes, your armour seems to be shining brightly.”</p> - -<p>“<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Ah</span>!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with a gesture of amazement, “<span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mais vous -êtes si calme!</span>”</p> - -<p>And this would probably describe the outward appearance of the author -on a first night; nevertheless nothing will induce him to go in front -even with reproductions.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gilbert, who was born in 1836, proudly remarks that he has cheated -the doctors and signed a new lease of life on the twenty-one years’ -principle. During those sixty-eight years he has turned his hand to -many trades. After a career at the London University, where he took -his B.A. degree, he read for the Royal Artillery, but the Crimean -war was coming to an end, and consequently, more officers not being -required, he became a clerk in the Privy Council Office, and was -subsequently called to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> Bar at the Inner Temple. He was also an -enthusiastic militiaman, and at one time an occasional contributor to -<cite>Punch</cite>, becoming thus an artist as well as a writer. His pictures -are well known, for the two or three hundred illustrations in the -<cite>Bab Ballads</cite> are all from his clever pencil. Neatly framed they now -adorn the billiard-room of his charming country home, and, strange to -relate, the originals are not much larger than the reproductions, the -work being extremely fine. I have seen him make an excellent sketch -in a few minutes at his home on Harrow Weald; but photography has -latterly cast its fascinations about him, and he often disappears into -some dark chamber for hours at a time, alone with his thoughts and his -photographic pigments, for he develops and prints everything himself. -The results are charming, more especially his scenic studies.</p> - -<p>What a lovely home his is, standing in a hundred and ten acres right on -the top of Harrow Weald, with a glorious view over London, Middlesex, -Berks, and Bucks. He farms the land himself, and talks of crops and -live stock with a glib tongue, although the real enthusiast is his -wife, who loves her prize chickens and her roses. Grim’s Dyke has an -ideal garden, with white pigeons drinking out of shallow Italian bowls -upon the lawn, with its wonderful Egyptian tent, its rose-walks and -its monkey-house, its lake and its fish. The newly-made lake is so -well arranged that it looks quite old with its bulrushes, water-lilies -of pink, white, and yellow hue, and its blue forget-me-nots. The -Californian trout have proved a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> great success, and are a source of -much sport. Everything is well planned and beautifully kept; no better -lawns or neater walks, no more prolific glass houses or vegetable -gardens could be found than those at Harrow Weald.</p> - -<p>The Gilberts give delightful week-end parties, and the brightest star -is generally the host himself.</p> - -<p>At one of these recent gatherings, for which Grim’s Dyke is famous, -some beautiful silver cups and a claret jug were upon the table. They -were left by will to Mr. Gilbert by his colleague of so many years, Sir -Arthur Sullivan, and are a great pleasure to both the host and hostess -of that well-organised country house. I have met many interesting and -clever people at Harrow Weald, for the brilliancy of the host and the -charm of his wife naturally attract much that is best in this great -city. It is a good house for entertaining, the music-room—formerly -the studio of F. Goodall, R.A.—being a spacious oak-panelled chamber -with a minstrels’ gallery, and cathedral windows. Excellent singing is -often heard within those walls. Mr. Gilbert declares he is not musical -himself; but such is hardly the case, for he on one or two occasions -suggested to Sir Arthur Sullivan the style best suited to his words. -His ear for time and rhythm is impeccable, but he fully admits he has -an imperfect sense of tune.</p> - -<p>The Squire of Harrow Weald is seen at his best at rehearsal.</p> - -<p><cite>H.M.S. Pinafore</cite> was first performed, I believe, in 1878, and about -ten years afterwards it was revived<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> in London. Ten years later, that -is to say 1899, it was again revived, and one Monday morning when I was -leaving Grim’s Dyke, Mr. Gilbert, who was coming up to town to attend a -rehearsal, asked me if I would care to see it.</p> - -<p>“Nothing I should like better,” I replied, “for I have always -understood that you and Mr. Pinero are the two most perfect stage -managers in England.”</p> - -<p>We drove to the stage door of the Savoy, whence down strange and dark -stone stairs we made our way to the front of the auditorium itself. We -crossed behind the footlights, passing through a small, unpretending -iron door into the house, Mr. Gilbert leading the way, to a side -box, which at the moment was shrouded in darkness; he soon, however, -pushed aside the white calico dust-sheets that hung before it, and -after placing chairs for his wife and myself, and hoping we should be -comfortable, departed. What a spectre that theatre was! Hanging from -gallery to pit were dust-sheets, the stalls all covered up with brown -holland wrappers, and gloom and darkness on all things. Verily a peep -behind the scenes which, more properly speaking, was before the scenes -in this case, is like looking at a private house preparing for a spring -cleaning.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_192fp"> -<img src="images/i_192fp.jpg" width="435" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MR. W. S. GILBERT.</p></div> - -<p>Built out over what is ordinarily the orchestra, was a wooden platform -large enough to contain a piano brilliantly played by a woman, beside -whom sat the conductor of the orchestra, who was naturally the teacher -of the chorus, and next to him the ordinary stage manager, with a chair -for Mr. Gilbert placed <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span>close by. The librettist, however, never sat -on that chair. From 11.30 to 1.30—exactly two hours, he walked up and -down in front of the stage, directing here, arranging there; one moment -he was showing a man how to stand as a sailor, then how to clap his -thighs in nautical style, and the next explaining to a woman how to -curtsey, or telling a lover how to woo. Never have I seen anything more -remarkable. In no sense a musician, Mr. Gilbert could hum any of the -airs and show the company the minutest gesticulations at the same time. -Be it understood they were already <em>word</em> and <em>music</em> perfect, and this -was the second “stage rehearsal.” He never bullied or worried any one, -he quietly went up to a person, and in the most insinuating manner said:</p> - -<p>“If I were you, I think I should do it like this.”</p> - -<p>And “this” was always so much better than their own performance that -each actor quickly grasped the idea and copied the master. He even -danced when necessary, to show them how to get the right number of -steps in so as to land them at a certain spot at a certain time, -explaining carefully:</p> - -<p>“There are eight bars, and you must employ so many steps.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Gilbert knows every bar, every intonation, every gesture, the hang -of every garment, and the tilt of every hat. He has his plans and his -ideas, and never alters the situations or even the gestures he has once -thought out.</p> - -<p>He marched up and down the stage advising an alteration here, an -intonation there, all in the kindest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> way possible, but with so much -strength of conviction that all his suggestions were adopted without a -moment’s hesitation. He never loses his temper, always sees the weak -points, and is an absolute master of stage craft. His tact on such -occasions is wonderful.</p> - -<p>The love and confidence of that company in Mr. Gilbert was really -delightful, and I have no hesitation in saying he was the best actor -in the whole company whichever part he might happen to undertake. If -anything he did not like occurred in the grouping of the chorus he -clapped his hands and everybody stopped, when he would call out:</p> - -<p>“Gentlemen in threes, ladies in twos,” according to a style of his own.</p> - -<p>Twenty-five years previously he had been so horrified at chorus and -crowd standing round the stage in a ring, that he invented the idea of -breaking them up, and thereafter, according to arrangement, when “twos” -or “threes” were called out the performers were to group themselves and -talk in little clusters, and certainly the effect was more natural.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gilbert had no notes of any kind. He brought them with him, but -never opened the volume, and yet he knew exactly how everything ought -to be done. This was his first rehearsal with the company, who up -till then had been in the stage manager’s hands and worked according -to printed instructions. The scene was a very different affair after -the mastermind had set the pawns in their right squares, and made the -bishops and knights move according to his will. In two hours they had -gone through the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> first act of <cite>Pinafore</cite>, and he clapped his hands and -called for luncheon.</p> - -<p>“It is just half-past one,” he said; “I am hungry, and I daresay you -are hungry, so we will halt for half an hour. I shall be back by five -minutes past two—that is five minutes’ grace, when”—bowing kindly—“I -shall hope to see you again, ladies and gentlemen.”</p> - -<p>We three lunched at the Savoy next door, and a few minutes before two -he rose from the table, ere he had finished his coffee, and said he -must go.</p> - -<p>“You are in a hurry,” I laughingly said.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he replied, “I have made it a rule never to be late. The company -know I shall be there, so the company will be in their places.”</p> - -<p>A friend once congratulated him on his punctuality.</p> - -<p>“Don’t,” he said; “I have lost more time by being punctual than by -anything else.”</p> - -<p>One thing in particular struck me as wonderful during the rehearsal. -Half a dozen soldiers are supposed to come upon the stage, and at a -certain point half a dozen untidily dressed men with guns in their -hands marched in. Mr. Gilbert looked at them for a moment, and then he -went up to one gallant warrior and said:</p> - -<p>“Is that the way you hold your gun?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Really! Well, I never saw a soldier with his thumbs down before—in -fact, I don’t think you are a soldier at all.”</p> - -<p>“No, sir, I am a volunteer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Gilbert turned to the stage manager hastily, and said:</p> - -<p>“I told you I wanted soldiers.”</p> - -<p>“But there is a sergeant,” he replied.</p> - -<p>“Sergeant,” called Mr. Gilbert, “step forward.” Which the sergeant did.</p> - -<p>“You know your business,” the author remarked, watching the man’s -movements, “but these fellows know nothing. Either bring me real -soldiers, or else take these five men and drill them until at least -they know how to stand properly before they come near me again.”</p> - -<p>Later in the proceedings a dozen sailors marched on: he went up to -them, asked some questions about how they would man the yard-arm, and -on hearing their reply said:</p> - -<p>“I see you know your business, you’ll do.”</p> - -<p>As it turned out, they were all Naval Reserve men, so no wonder they -knew their business. Still, Mr. Gilbert’s universal knowledge of all -sorts and conditions of men struck me as wonderful on this and many -other occasions. No more perfect stage manager exists, and no one gets -more out of his actors and actresses.</p> - -<p>At one time <cite>Patience</cite> was being played in the United States by dozens -of companies, but that was before the days of copyright, and poor Mr. -Gilbert never received a penny from America excepting once when a -kindly person sent him a cheque for £100. Had he received copyright -fees from the United States his wealth would have been colossal.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span></p> - -<p>When <cite>Iolanthe</cite> was revived in London in 1902 I again attended a -“call.” An entirely new company began rehearsing exactly ten days -before the first night—any one who knows anything of the stage will -realise what this means, and that a master-mind was necessary to drill -actors and chorus in so short a time—yet the production was a triumph. -This was the first occasion on which Sir Arthur Sullivan did not -conduct the dress rehearsal or the first night of one of their joint -operas. He had died shortly before.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gilbert was delighted with the cast, and declared it was quite as -good, and in some respects perhaps better, than the original had been. -A few of the people had played <em>principals</em> in the provinces before; -but he would not allow any of their own “business” and remarked quietly:</p> - -<p>“In London my plays are produced as I wish them; in the provinces you -can do as you like.”</p> - -<p>And certainly they obeyed him so implicitly that if he had asked them -all to stand on their heads in rows, I believe they would have done it -smilingly.</p> - -<p>When Mr. Gilbert was about thirty-five years old, a <em>matinée</em> of -<cite>Broken Hearts</cite> was arranged for a charity. The author arrived at the -theatre about one o’clock, to find Kyrle Bellew, who was to play the -chief part, had fallen through a trap and was badly hurt. There was no -understudy—and only an hour intervened before the advertised time of -representation.</p> - -<p>Good Heavens! what was to be done? The audience had paid their money, -which the charity wanted badly, and without the hero the play was -impossible.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span></p> - -<p>He good-naturedly and kind-heartedly decided to play the part himself -rather than let the entertainment fall through, wired for wig and -clothes, and an hour and a half later walked on to the stage as an -actor. He knew every line of the play of course, not only the hero’s, -but all the others’, and he had just coached every situation. The -papers duly thanked him and considered him a great success. That was -his only appearance upon the stage in public.</p> - -<p>For twenty-five years he never saw one of his own plays, not caring to -sit in front; but once, at a watering-place in the Fatherland where -<cite>The Mikado</cite> was being given, some friends persuaded him to see it in -German.</p> - -<p>“I know what rubbish these comic operas are, and I should feel ashamed -to sit and hear them and know they were mine,” he modestly remarked.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless he went, and was rather amused, feeling no responsibility -on his shoulders, and afterwards saw <cite>The Mikado</cite> in England at a -revival towards the end of the nineties. He once told me a rather -amusing little story about <cite>The Mikado</cite>. A gentleman who had been -many years in the English Legation at Yokohama, attended some of the -rehearsals, and was most useful in giving hints as to positions and -manners in Japan. Mr. Gilbert wanted some effective music for the -entrance of the Mikado—nothing Mr. Arthur Sullivan suggested suited—so -turning to the gentleman he said:</p> - -<p>“Can’t you hum the national Japanese anthem?”</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” he said cheerily. And he did.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Capital—it’ll just do.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Sullivan—for he was not then Sir Arthur—made notes, wrote it up, -and the thing proved a great success. Some time afterwards a furious -letter came from a Japanese, saying an insult had been offered the -Mikado of Japan, the air to which that illustrious prince entered the -scene instead of being royal was a music hall tune! Whether this is so -or not remains a mystery, anyway it is a delightful melody, and most -successful to this day.</p> - -<p>Mr. Gilbert has been a great traveller—for many years he wintered -abroad in India, Japan, Burmah, Egypt, or Greece, and at one time he -was the enthusiastic owner of a yacht; but this amusement he has given -up because so few of his friends were good sailors, and so he has taken -to motoring instead.</p> - -<p>Croquet-playing and motoring are the chief amusements of this “retired -humourist,” as a local cab-driver once described the Squire of Grim’s -Dyke.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI<br /> -<br /> -<i>THE FIRST PANTOMIME REHEARSAL</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Origin of Pantomime—Drury Lane in Darkness—One Thousand -Persons—Rehearsing the Chorus—The Ballet—Dressing-rooms—Children -on the Stage—Size of “The Lane”—A Trap-door—The Property-room—Made -on the Premises—Wardrobe-woman—Dan Leno at Rehearsal—Herbert -Campbell—A Fortnight Later—A Chat with the Principal Girl—Miss -Madge Lessing.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">EXACTLY nine days before Christmas, 1902, the first rehearsal for -the pantomime of <cite>Mother Goose</cite> took place at Drury Lane. It seemed -almost incredible that afternoon that such a thing as a “first night,” -with a crowded house packed full of critics, could witness a proper -performance nine days later, one of which, being a Sunday, did not -count.</p> - -<p>The pantomime is one of England’s institutions. It originally came from -Italy, but as known to-day is essentially a British production, and -little understood anywhere else in the world. For the last three years, -however, the Drury Lane pantomime has been moved bodily to New York -with considerable success.</p> - -<p>What would Christmas in London be without its Drury Lane? What would -the holidays be without the clown and harlequin? Young and old enjoy -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> exquisite absurdity of the nursery rhyme dished up as a Christmas -pantomime.</p> - -<p>The interior of that vast theatre, Drury Lane, was shrouded in -dust-sheets and darkness, the front doors were locked, excepting at the -booking office, where tickets were being sold for two and three months -ahead, and a long <em>queue</em> of people were waiting to engage seats for -family parties when the pantomime should be ready.</p> - -<p>At the stage door all was bustle; children of all ages and sizes were -pushing in and out; carpenters, shifters, supers, ballet girls, chorus, -all were there, too busy to speak to any one as they rushed in from -their cup of tea at the A.B.C., or stronger drink procured at the “pub” -opposite. It was a cold, dreary day outside; but it was colder and -drearier within. Those long flights of stone steps, those endless stone -passages, struck chill and cheerless as a cellar, for verily the back -of a theatre resembles a cellar or prison more than anything I know.</p> - -<p>Drury Lane contains a little world. It is reckoned that about one -thousand people are paid “back and front” every Friday night. One -thousand persons! That is the staff of the pantomime controlled by Mr. -Arthur Collins. Fancy that vast organisation, those hundreds of people, -endless scenery, and over two thousand dresses superintended by one -man, and that a young one.</p> - -<p>For many weeks scraps of <cite>Mother Goose</cite> had been rehearsed in -drill-halls, schoolrooms, and elsewhere, but never till the day of -which I write had the stage<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> been ready for rehearsal. They had worked -hard, all those people; for thirteen-and-a-half hours on some days they -had already been “at it.” Think what thirteen-and-a-half-hours mean. -True, no one is wanted continuously, still all must be on the spot. -Often there is nowhere to sit down, therefore during those weary hours -the performers have to stand—only between-whiles singing or dancing -their parts as the case may be.</p> - -<p>“I’m that dead tired,” exclaimed a girl, “I feel just fit to drop,” and -she probably expressed the feelings of many of her companions.</p> - -<p>The rehearsal of <cite>The Rose of the Riviera</cite>, was going on in the saloon, -which a hundred years ago was the fashionable resort of all the fops -of the town. Accordingly to the saloon I proceeded where Miss Madge -Lessing, neatly dressed in black and looking tired, was singing her -solos, and dancing her steps with the chorus.</p> - -<p>“It is very hard work,” she said. “I have been through this song until -I am almost voiceless; and yet I only hum it really, for if we sang out -at rehearsal, we should soon be dead.”</p> - -<p>The saloon was the ordinary <em>foyer</em>, but on that occasion, instead of -being crowded with idlers smoking and drinking during the <em>entr’actes</em>, -it was filled with hard-worked ballet girls and small boys who were -later to be transformed into dandies. They wore their own clothes. The -women’s long skirts were held up with safety-pins, to keep them out of -the way when dancing, their shirts and blouses were of every hue;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> on -their heads they wore men’s hats that did not fit them, as they lacked -the wigs they would wear later, and each carried her own umbrella, -many of which, when opened, seemed the worse for wear. At the end of -the bar was a cottage piano, where the composer played his song for -two-and-a-half hours, while it was rehearsed again and again—a small -man with a shocking cold conducting the chorus. He is, I am told, quite -a celebrity as a stage “producer,” and was engaged in that capacity by -Mr. George Edwards at the New Gaiety Theatre. How I admired that small -man. His energy and enthusiasm were catching, and before he finished -he had made those girls do just what he wanted. But oh! how hard he -worked, in spite of frequent resort to his pocket-handkerchief and -constant fits of sneezing.</p> - -<p>“This way, ladies, please”—he repeated over and over, and then -proceeded to show them how to step forward on “<em>Would</em>—you like -a—flower?” and to take off their hats at the last word of the sentence. -Again and again they went through their task; but each time they seemed -out of line, or out of time, not quick enough or too quick, and back -they had to go and begin the whole verse once more. Even then he was -not satisfied.</p> - -<p>“Again, ladies, please,” he called, and again they all did the passage. -This sort of thing had been going on since 11 o’clock, the hour of the -“call,” and it was then 4 p.m.—but the rehearsal was likely to last -well into the night and begin again next morning at 11 a.m. This was -to continue all day, and pretty well all night<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> for nine days, when, -instead of a holiday, the pantomime was really to commence with its -two daily performances, and its twelve hours <em>per diem</em> attendance at -the theatre for nearly four months. Yet there are people who think the -stage is all fun and frolic! Little they know about the matter.</p> - -<p>Actors are not paid for rehearsals, as we have seen before, and many -weeks of weary attendance for the pantomime have to be given gratis, -just as they are for legitimate drama. Those beautiful golden fairies, -all glitter and gorgeousness, envied by spectators in front, only -receive £1 a week on an average for twelve hours’ occupation daily, and -that merely for a few weeks, after which time many of them earn nothing -more till the next pantomime season. It is practically impossible to -give an exact idea of salaries: they vary so much. “Ballet girls,” -when proficient, earn more than any ordinary “chorus” or “super,” with -the exception of “show girls.” Those in the rank of “principals,” or -“small-part ladies,” of course earn more.</p> - -<p>Ballet girls begin their profession at eight years of age, and even in -their prime can only earn on an average £2 a week.</p> - -<p>In the ballet-room an iron bar runs all round the sides of the -wall, about four feet from the floor, as in a swimming bath. It is -for practice. The girls hold on to the bar, and learn to kick and -raise their legs by the hour; with its aid suppleness of movement, -flexibility of hip and knee are acquired. Girls spend years of their -life learning how to earn that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> forty shillings a week, and how to keep -it when they have earned it; for the ballet girl has to be continually -practising, or her limbs would quickly stiffen and her professional -career come to an end.</p> - -<p>No girl gets her real training at the Lane. All that is done in one -of the dancing schools kept by Madame Katti Lanner, Madame Cavalazzi, -John D’Auban, or John Tiller. When they are considered sufficiently -proficient they get engagements, and are taught certain movements -invented by their teachers to suit the particular production of the -theatre itself.</p> - -<p>The ballet is very grand in the estimation of the pantomime, for -supers, male and female, earn considerably less salary than the ballet -for about seventy-two hours’ attendance at the theatre. Out of their -weekly money they have to provide travelling expenses to and from -the theatre, which sometimes come heavy, as many of them live a long -distance off; they have to pay rent also, and feed as well as clothe -themselves, settle for washing, doctor, amusements—everything, in fact. -Why, a domestic servant is a millionaire when compared with a chorus -or ballet girl, and she is never harassed with constant anxiety as to -how she can pay her board, rent, and washing bills. Yet how little the -domestic servant realises the comforts—aye luxury—of her position.</p> - -<p>The dressing-rooms are small and cheerless. Round the sides run double -tables, the top one being used for make-up boxes, the lower for -garments. In the middle of the floor is a wooden stand with a double -row of pegs upon it, utilised for hanging up dresses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> Eight girls -share a “dresser” (maid) between them. The atmosphere of the room may -be imagined, with flaring gas jets, nine women, and barely room to turn -round amid the dresses. The air becomes stifling at times, and there is -literally no room to sit down even if the costumes would permit of such -luxury, which generally they will not. In this tiny room performers -have to wait for their “call,” when they rush downstairs, through icy -cold passages, to the stage, whence they must return again in time to -don the next costume required.</p> - -<p>Prior to the production, as we have seen, there are a number of -rehearsals, followed for many weeks by two performances a day, -consequently the children who are employed cannot go on with their -education, and to avoid missing their examinations a school-board -mistress has been appointed, who teaches them their lessons during -the intervals. These children must be bright scholars, for they are -the recipients at the end of the season of several special prizes for -diligence, punctuality, and good conduct.</p> - -<p>An attempt was recently made to limit the age of children employed on -the stage to fourteen, but the outcry raised was so great that it could -not be done. For children under eleven a special licence is required.</p> - -<p>Miss Ellen Terry said, on the subject of children on the stage: “I am -an actress, but first I am a woman, and I love children,” and then -proceeded to advocate the employment of juveniles upon the stage. She -spoke from experience, for she acted as a child herself. “I can put my -finger at once on the actors<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> and actresses who were not on the stage -as children,” she continued. “With all their hard work they can never -acquire afterwards that perfect unconsciousness which they learn then -so easily. There is no school like the stage for giving equal chances -to boys and girls alike.”</p> - -<p>There seems little doubt about it, the ordinary stage child is the -offspring of the very poor, his playground the gutter, his surroundings -untidy and unclean, his food and clothing scanty, and such being -the case he is better off in every way in a well-organised theatre, -where he learns obedience, cleanliness, and punctuality. The sprites -and fairies love their plays, and the greatest punishment they can -have—indeed, the only one inflicted at Drury Lane—is to be kept off the -stage a whole day for naughtiness.</p> - -<p>They appear to be much better off in the theatre than they would be at -home, although morning school and two performances a day necessitate -rather long hours for the small folk. They have a nice classroom, and -are given buns and milk after school; but their dressing accommodation -is limited. Many of the supers and children have to change as best they -can under the stage, for there is not sufficient accommodation for -every one in the rooms.</p> - -<p>The once famous “Green-room” of Drury Lane has been done away with. It -is now a property-room, where geese’s heads line the shelves, or golden -seats and monster champagne bottles litter the floor.</p> - -<p>There have been many changes at Drury Lane. It<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> was rebuilt after the -fire in 1809, and reopened in 1812, but vast alterations have been -carried out since then. Woburn Place is now part of the stage. Steps -formerly led from Russell Street to Vinegar Yard, but they have been -swept away and the stage enlarged until it is the biggest in the -world. Most ordinary theatres have an opening on the auditorium of -about twenty-five feet; Drury Lane measures fifty-two feet from fly to -fly, and is even deeper in proportion. The entire stage is a series -of lifts, which may be utilised to move the floor up or down. Four -tiers, or “flats,” can be arranged, and the floor moved laterally so -as to form a hill or mound. All this is best seen from the mezzanine -stage, namely, that under the real one, where the intricacies of lifts -and ropes and rooms for electricians become most bewildering. Here, -too, are the trap-doors. For many years they went out of fashion, as -did also the ugly masks, but a Fury made his entrance by a trap on -Boxing Day, 1902, and this may revive the custom again. The actor -steps on a small wooden table in the mezzanine stage, and at a given -sign the spring moves and he is shot to the floor above. How I loved -and pondered as a child over these wonderful entrances of fairies and -devils. And after all there was nothing supernatural about them, only -a wooden table and a spring. How much of the glamour vanishes when we -look below the surface, which remark applies not only to the stage, but -to so many things in life.</p> - -<p>Every good story seems to have been born a chestnut. Some one always -looks as if he had heard<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> it before. At the risk of arousing that -sarcastic smile I will relate the following anecdote, however.</p> - -<p>A certain somewhat stout Mephistopheles had to disappear through a -trap-door amid red fire, but the trap was small and he was big and -stuck halfway. The position was embarrassing, when a voice from the -gallery called out:</p> - -<p>“Cheer up, guv’nor. Hell’s full.”</p> - -<p>Electricity plays a great part in the production of a pantomime, not -only as regards the lighting of the scenes, but also as a motive power -for the lifts which are used for the stage. Many new inventions born -during the course of a year are utilised when the Christmas festival is -put on.</p> - -<p>The property-room presents a busy scene before a pantomime, and -really it is wonderful what can be produced within its walls. Almost -everything is made in <em>papier mâché</em>. Elaborate golden chairs and -couches, chariots and candelabras, although framed in wood, are first -moulded in clay, then covered with <em>papier mâché</em>. Two large fires -burned in the room, which when I entered was crowded with workmen, and -the heat was overpowering. Amid all that miscellaneous property, every -one seemed interested in what he was doing, whether making wire frames -for poke bonnets, or larger wire frames for geese, or the groundwork -of champagne bottles to contain little boys. Each man had a charcoal -drawing on brown paper to guide him, and very cleverly many of the -drawings were executed. Some of the men were quite sculptors, so -admirably did they model masks and figures in <em>papier mâché</em>.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> The more -elaborate pieces are prepared outside the theatre, but a great deal of -the work for the production is done within old Drury Lane.</p> - -<p>What becomes of these extra property-men after the “festive season”? -Practically the same staff appear each Christmas only to disappear -from “The Lane” for almost another year. Of course there is a -large permanent staff of property-men employed, but it is only at -Christmas-time that so large an army is required for the gigantic -pantomime changes with the transformation scenes.</p> - -<p>That nearly everything is made on the premises is in itself a marvel. -Of course the grander dresses are obtained from outside; some come -from Paris, while others are provided by tradesmen in London. The -expense is very great; indeed, it may be roughly reckoned it costs -about £20,000 to produce a Drury Lane Pantomime; but then, on the other -hand, that sum is generally taken at the doors or by the libraries in -advance-booking before the curtain rises on the first night.</p> - -<p>An important person at Drury Lane is the wardrobe-woman. She has entire -control of thousands of dresses, and keeps a staff continually employed -mending and altering, for after each performance something requires -attention. She has a little room of her own, mostly table, so far as -I could see, on which were piled dresses, poke bonnets, and artists’ -designs, while round the walls hung more dresses brought in for her -inspection. In other odd rooms and corners women sat busily sewing, -some trimming headgear, other spangling<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span> ribbon. Some were joining -seams by machinery, others quilling lace; nothing seemed finished, and -yet everything had to be ready in nine days, and that vast pile of -chaos reduced to order. It seemed impossible; but the impossible was -accomplished.</p> - -<p>“Why this hurry?” some one may ask.</p> - -<p>“Because the autumn drama was late in finishing, the entire theatre -had to be cleared, and although everything was fairly ready outside, -nothing could be brought into Drury Lane till a fortnight before Boxing -Day. Hence the confusion and hurry.”</p> - -<p>Large wooden cases of armour, swords and spears, from abroad, were -waiting to be unpacked, fitted to each girl, and numbered so that the -wearer might know her own.</p> - -<p>Among the properties were some articles that looked like round red -life-belts, or window sand-bags sewn into rings. These were the belts -from which fairies would be suspended. They had leather straps and -iron hooks attached, with the aid of which these lovely beings—as seen -from the front—disport themselves. What a disillusion! Children think -they are real fairies flying through air, and after all they are only -ordinary women hanging to red sand-bags, made up like life-belts, and -suspended by wire rope. Even those wonderful wings are only worn for -a moment. They are slipped into a hole in the bodice of every fairy’s -back just as she goes upon the stage, and taken out again for safety -when the good lady leaves the wings in the double sense. The wands and -other larger properties are treated in the same way.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span></p> - -<p>Now for the stage and the rehearsal. We could hear voices singing, -accompanied by a piano with many whizzing notes.</p> - -<p>The place was dimly lighted. Scene-shifters were busy rehearsing -their “sets” at the sides, the electrician was experimenting with -illuminations from above; but the actors, heeding none of these -matters, went on with their own parts. The orchestra was empty and not -boarded over; so that the cottage piano had to stand at one side of the -stage, and near it I was given a seat. A T-piece of gas had been fixed -above the footlights, so as to enable the prompter to follow his book, -and—gently be it spoken—allow some of the actors to read their parts. -The star was not there—I looked about for the mirth-provoking Dan Leno, -but failed to see him. Naturally he was the one person I particularly -wanted to watch rehearse, for I anticipated much amusement from this -wonderful comedian, with his inspiring gift of humour. Where was he?</p> - -<p>A sad, unhappy-looking little man, with his MS. in a brown paper cover, -was to be seen wandering about the back of the stage. He appeared -miserable. One wondered at such a person being there at all, he looked -so out of place. He did not seem to know a word of his “book,” or, in -fact, to belong in any way to the pantomime.</p> - -<p>It seemed incredible that this could be one of the performers. He wore -a thick top coat with the collar turned up to keep off the draughts, -a thick muffler and a billycock hat; really one felt sorry<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> for him, -he looked so cold and wretched. I pondered for some time why this sad -little gentleman should be on the stage at all.</p> - -<p>“Dan, Dan, where are you?” some one called.</p> - -<p>“Me? Oh, I’m here,” replied the disconsolate-looking person, to my -amazement.</p> - -<p>“It’s your cue.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, is it? Which cue?” asked the mufflered individual who was about to -impersonate mirth.</p> - -<p>“Why, so and so——”</p> - -<p>“What page is that?”</p> - -<p>“Twenty-three.”</p> - -<p>Whereupon the great Dan—for it was really Dan himself—proceeded to find -number twenty-three, and immediately began reading a lecture to the -goose in mock solemn vein, when some one cried:</p> - -<p>“No, no, man, that’s not it, you are reading page thirteen; we’ve done -that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, have we? Thank you. Ah yes, here it is.”</p> - -<p>“That’s my part,” exclaimed Herbert Campbell. “Your cue is——”</p> - -<p>“Oh, is it?” and poor bewildered, unhappy-looking Dan made another and -happier attempt.</p> - -<p>It had often previously occurred to me that Dan Leno gagged his own -part to suit himself every night—and really after this rehearsal the -supposition seemed founded on fact, for apparently he did not know one -word of anything nine days before the production of <cite>Mother Goose</cite>, in -which he afterwards made such a brilliant hit.</p> - -<p>“Do I say that?” he would inquire, or, “Are you talking to me<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span>?”</p> - -<p>After such a funny exhibition it seemed really wonderful to consider -how excellent and full of humour he always is on the stage; but what -a strain it must be, what mental agony, to feel you are utterly -unprepared to meet your audience, that you do not know your words, and -that only by making a herculean effort can the feat be accomplished.</p> - -<p>Herbert Campbell differs from Dan Leno not only in appearance but -method. He was almost letter-perfect at that rehearsal, he had studied -his “book,” and was splendidly funny even while only murmuring his -part. He evidently knew exactly what he was going to do, and although -he did not trouble to do it, showed by a wave of his hand or a step -where he meant business when the time came.</p> - -<p>Herbert Campbell’s face, like the milkmaid’s, is his fortune. That -wonderful under lip is full of fun. He has only to protrude it, and -open his eyes, and there is the comedian personified. Comedians are -born, not made, and the funny part of it is most of them are so truly -tragic at heart and sad in themselves.</p> - -<p>There is a story I often heard my grandfather, James Muspratt, tell of -Liston, the comic actor.</p> - -<p>Liston was in Dublin early in the nineteenth century, and nightly his -performance provoked roars of laughter. One day a man walked into the -consulting-room of a then famous doctor.</p> - -<p>“I am very ill,” said the patient. “I am suffering from depression.”</p> - -<p>“Tut, tut,” returned the physician, “you must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> pull yourself together, -you must do something to divert your thoughts. You must be cheerful and -laugh.”</p> - -<p>“Good Heavens! I would give a hundred pounds to enjoy a real, honest -laugh again, doctor.”</p> - -<p>“Well, you can easily do that for a few shillings, and I’ll tell you -how. Go and see Liston to-night, he will make you laugh, I am sure.”</p> - -<p>“Not he.”</p> - -<p>“Why not?”</p> - -<p>“Because I am Liston.”</p> - -<p>Collapse of the doctor.</p> - -<p>This shows the tragedy of the life of a comic actor. How often we see -the amusing, delightful man or woman in society, and little dream how -different they are at home. Most of us have two sides to our natures, -and most of us are better actors than we realise ourselves, or than our -friends give us credit for.</p> - -<p>But to return to Drury Lane. Peering backwards across the empty -orchestra I saw by the dim light that in the stalls sat, or leaned, -women and children. Mr. Collins, who was in the front of the stage, -personally attending to every detail, slipped forward.</p> - -<p>“Huntsmen and gamekeepers,” he cried. Immediately there was a flutter, -and in a few minutes these good women—for women were to play the -<em>rôles</em>—were upon the back of the stage.</p> - -<p>“Dogs,” he called again. With more noise than the female huntsmen had -made, boys got up and began to run about the stage on all fours as -“dogs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span>.”</p> - -<p>They surrounded Dan Leno.</p> - -<p>“I shall hit you if you come near me,” he cried, pretending to do so -with his doubled-up gloves.</p> - -<p>The lads laughed.</p> - -<p>“Growl,” said Mr. Collins—so they turned their laugh into a growl, -followed round the stage by Dan, and the performance went on.</p> - -<p>It was all very funny—funny, not because of any humour, for that was -entirely lacking, but because of the simplicity and hopelessness of -every one. Talk about a rehearsal at private theatricals—why, it is no -more disturbing than an early stage rehearsal; but the seasoned actor -knows how to pull himself out of the tangle, whereas the amateur does -not.</p> - -<p>About a fortnight after the pantomime began I chanced one afternoon to -be at Drury Lane again, and while stopping for a moment in the wings, -the great Dan Leno came and stood beside me, waiting for his cue. He -was dressed as Mother Goose, and leant against the endless ropes that -seemed to frame every stage entrance; some one spoke to him, but he -barely answered, he appeared preoccupied. All at once his turn came. -On he went, hugging a goose beneath which walked a small boy. Roars of -applause greeted his entrance, he said his lines, and a few moments -later came out amid laughter and clapping. “This will have cheered him -up,” thought I—but no. There I left him waiting for his next cue, but I -had not gone far before renewed roars of applause from the house told -me Dan Leno was again on the stage. What a power to be able to amuse -thousands of people<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span> every week, to be able to bring mirth and joy into -many a heart, to take people out of themselves and make the saddest -merry—and Dan can do all this.</p> - -<p>The object of my second visit was to have a little chat with Miss -Madge Lessing, the “principal girl,” who exclaimed as I entered her -dressing-room:</p> - -<p>“I spend eleven hours in the theatre every day during the run of the -pantomime.”</p> - -<p>After that who can say a pantomime part is a sinecure? Eleven hours -every day dressing, singing, dancing, acting, or—more wearisome of -all—waiting. No one unaccustomed to the stage can realise the strain -of such work, for it is only those who live at such high pressure, who -always have to be on the alert for the “call-boy,” who know what it is -to be kept at constant tension for so many consecutive hours.</p> - -<p><em>Matinée</em> days are bad enough in ordinary theatres, but the pantomime -is a long series of <em>matinée</em> days extending over three months or -more. Of course it is not compulsory to stay in the theatre between -the performances; but it is more tiring, for the leading-lady, to -dress and go out for a meal than to stay in and have it brought to the -dressing-room.</p> - -<p>Miss Lessing was particularly fortunate in her room; the best I have -ever seen in any theatre. Formerly it was Sir Augustus Harris’s office. -It was large and lofty, and so near the stage—on a level with which it -actually stood—that one could hear what was going on in front. This -was convenient in many ways, although it had its drawbacks. Many of -our leading<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span> theatrical lights have to traverse long flights of stairs -between every act; while Miss Lessing was so close to the stage she -need not leave her room until it was actually time to step upon the -boards.</p> - -<p>It was a <em>matinée</em> when the pantomime was in full swing that I bearded -the lion in her den, and a pretty, dainty little lion I found her. -It was a perilous journey to reach her room, but I bravely followed -the “dresser” from the stage door. We passed a lilliputian pony about -the size of a St. Bernard dog, we bobbed under the heads and tails -of horses so closely packed together there was barely room for us to -get between. The huntsmen were already mounted, for they were just -going on, and I marvelled at the good behaviour of those steeds; they -must have known they could not move without doing harm to some one, -and so considerately remained still. We squeezed past fairies, our -faces tickled by their wings, our dresses caught by their spangles, -so closely packed was humanity “behind.” There were about two hundred -scene-shifters incessantly at work moving “cloths,” and “flies,” and -“drops,” and properties of all kinds. Miss Lessing was just coming off -the stage, dressed becomingly in white muslin, with a blue Red Riding -Hood cape and poppy-trimmed straw hat.</p> - -<p>“Come along,” she said, “this is my room, and it is fairly quiet here.” -The first things that strike a stranger are Miss Lessing’s wonderful -grey Irish eyes and her American accent.</p> - -<p>“Both are correct,” she laughed. “I’m Irish by extraction, although -born in London, and I’ve lived<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span> in America since I was fourteen; so you -see there is ground for both your surmises.”</p> - -<p>Miss Lessing is a Roman Catholic, and was educated at the Convent of -the Sacred Heart at Battersea.</p> - -<p>“I always wanted to go on the stage as long as ever I can remember,” -she told me, “and I positively ran away from home and went over to -America, where I had a fairly hard time of it. By good luck I managed -to get an engagement in a chorus, and it chanced that two weeks later -one of the better parts fell vacant owing to a girl’s illness, and -I got it—and was fortunate enough to keep it, as she was unable to -return, and the management were satisfied with me. I had to work very -hard, had to take anything and everything offered to me for years. Had -to do my work at night and improve my singing and dancing by day; but -nothing is accomplished without hard work, is it? And I am glad I went -through the grind because it has brought me a certain amount of reward.”</p> - -<p>One had only to look at Miss Lessing to know she is not easily daunted; -those merry eyes and dimpled cheeks do not detract from the firmness of -the mouth and the expression of determination round the laughing lips. -There was something particularly dainty about the “principal girl” at -Drury Lane, and a sense of refinement and grace one does not always -associate with pantomime.</p> - -<p>“Why, yes,” she afterwards added, “I played all over the States, -and after nine years was engaged by Mr. Arthur Collins to return to -London and appear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> in the pantomime of <cite>The Sleeping Beauty</cite>. Of -course, I felt quite at home in London, although I must own I nearly -died of fright the first time I played before an English audience. It -seemed like beginning the whole thing over again. Londoners are more -exacting than their American cousins; but I must confess, when they -like a piece, or an artist, they are most lavish in their applause and -approbation.”</p> - -<p>It was cold, and Miss Lessing pulled a warm shawl over her shoulders -and poked the fire. It can be cold even in such a comfortable -dressing-room, with the luxury of a fire, for the draughts outside, -either on the stage or round it, in such a large theatre are incredible -to an ordinary mind. Frequenters of the stalls know the chilly blast -that blows upon them when the curtain rises, so they may form some -slight idea of what it is like behind the scenes on a cold night.</p> - -<p>“After the performance I take off my make-up and have my dinner,” -laughed Miss Lessing. “I don’t think I should enjoy my food if all this -mess were left on; at all events I find it a relief to cold-cream it -off. One gets a little tired of dinners on a tray for weeks at a time -when one is not an invalid; but by the time I’ve eaten mine, and had a -little rest, it is the hour to begin again, for the evening performance -is at hand.”</p> - -<p>“At all events, though, you can read and write between whiles,” I -remarked.</p> - -<p>“That is exactly what one cannot do. I no sooner settle down to a book -or letters than some one wants me. It is the constant disturbance, the -everlasting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> interruption, that make two performances a day so trying; -but I love the life, even if it be hard, and thoroughly enjoy my -pantomime season.”</p> - -<p>“Have you had many strange adventures in your theatrical life, Miss -Lessing?”</p> - -<p>“None: mine has been a placid existence on the whole, for,” she added, -laughing, “I have not even lost diamonds or husbands!”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII<br /> -<br /> -<i>SIR HENRY IRVING AND STAGE LIGHTING</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Sir Henry Irving’s Position—Miss Geneviève Ward’s -Dress—Reformations in Lighting—The most Costly Play ever -Produced—Strong Individuality—Character Parts—Irving earned -his Living at Thirteen—Actors and Applause—A Pathetic Story—No -Shakespeare Traditions—Imitation is not Acting—Irving’s -Appearance—His Generosity—The First Night of <cite>Dante</cite>—First night of -<cite>Faust</cite>—Two Terriss Stories—Sir Charles Wyndham.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">HENRY IRVING is a name which ought to be revered for ever in stageland. -He has done more for the drama than any other actor in any other -country. He has tactfully and gracefully made speeches that have -commanded respect. He has ennobled his profession in many ways.</p> - -<p>As Sir Squire Bancroft was the pioneer of “small decorations,” so Sir -Henry Irving has been the pioneer of “large details.” Artistic effect -and magnificent stage pictures have been his cult; but nothing is too -insignificant for his notice.</p> - -<p>Miss Geneviève Ward told me that in the play of <cite>Becket</cite> a superb -costume was ordered for her. It cost fifty or sixty guineas, but when -she tried it on she felt the result was disappointing. A little unhappy -about the matter she descended to the stage.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Great Heavens, Miss Ward! what have you got on?” exclaimed the actor -manager.</p> - -<p>“My new dress, sire, may it please you well,” was the meek reply, -accompanied by a mock curtsey.</p> - -<p>“You look a cross between a Newhaven fish-wife and a balloon,” he -laughed; “that will never do. It is most unbecoming. As we cannot make -you thinner to suit the dress, we must try and make the dress thinner -to suit you.”</p> - -<p>They chaffed and laughed; but finally it was decided alterations -would spoil the costume—which in its way was faultless—so without -any hesitation Henry Irving relegated it to a “small-part lady,” and -ordered a new dress for Miss Ward.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the greatest reform this actor ever effected was in the matter -of stage lighting. No one previously paid any particular attention to -this subject, a red glass or a blue one achieved all that was thought -necessary, until he realised the wonderful effects that might be -produced by properly thrown lights, and made a study of the subject.</p> - -<p>It was Henry Irving who first started the idea of changing the -scenes in darkness, a custom now so general, not only in Britain but -abroad. He first employed varied coloured lights, and laid stress on -illumination generally. It was he who first plunged the auditorium into -darkness to heighten the stage effects.</p> - -<p>“Stage lighting and grouping,” said Irving on one occasion, “are of -more consequence than the scenery.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> Without descending to minute -realism, the nearer one approaches to the truth the better. The most -elaborate scenery I ever had was for <cite>Romeo and Juliet</cite>, but as I was -not the man to play <em>Romeo</em> the scenery could not make it a success. -It never does—it only helps the actor. The whole secret of successful -stage management is thoroughness and attention to detail.”</p> - -<p>To Sir Henry Irving is also due the honour of first employing -high-class artists to design dresses, eminent musicians to compose -music which he lavishly introduced. It is said that his production of -<cite>Henry VIII.</cite>, a sumptuous play, cost £16,000 to mount, but all his -great costume plays have cost from £3,000 to £10,000 each.</p> - -<p>Sir Henry Irving is famous for his speeches. Few persons know he reads -every word of them. Carefully thought out—for he wisely never speaks at -random—and type-written, his MS. lies open before him, and being quite -accustomed to address an audience, he quietly, calmly, deliberately -reads it off with dramatic declamation. His voice has been a subject of -comment by many. That characteristic intonation so well known upon the -stage is never heard in private life, and even in reading a speech is -little noticeable.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_224fp"> -<img src="images/i_224fp.jpg" width="412" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">SIR HENRY IRVING.</p></div> - -<p>If there ever was a case of striking individuality on the stage it is -surely to be found in Henry Irving. People often ask if it is a good -thing for the exponents of the dramatic profession to possess a strong -personality. It is often voiced that it is bad for a part to have the -prominent characteristics of the actor noticeable, <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span>and yet at the same -time there is no doubt about it, it is the men and women of marked -character who are successful upon the stage. They may possess great -capability for “make-up,” they may entirely alter their appearance, -they may throw themselves into the part they are playing; but tricks of -manner, intonations of voice, and peculiarities of gesture appear again -and again, and very often it is this particular personality that the -public likes best.</p> - -<p>In olden days it was the fashion—if we may judge from last century -books—to speak clearly and to “rant” when excited; in modern days it is -the fashion to speak indistinctly, and play with “reserved force.” The -drama has its fancies and its fashions like our dresses or our hats.</p> - -<p>No man upon the stage has gone through a more severe mill than Sir -Henry Irving. Forty-six years ago he was working in the provinces at -a trifling salary on which he had to live. Board, lodging, washing, -clothes, even some of his stage costumes, had to come out of that -guinea a week. The success he has attained has been arrived at—in -addition to his genius and ability—by sheer hard work and conscientious -attempts to do his best, consequently at the age of sixty-five he was -able to fill a vast theatre like Drury Lane when playing in such a -trying part as <cite>Dante</cite>.</p> - -<p>The first years of the actor’s life were spent at an office desk. He -began to earn his own living as a clerk at thirteen; but during that -time he memorised and studied various plays. He learnt fencing, and -at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> the age of nineteen, when he first took to the stage, he was well -equipped for his new profession.</p> - -<p>For ten years he made little headway, however, and first came into -notice as a comedian. In his early days every one thought Irving ought -to play “character parts.”</p> - -<p>“What that phrase means,” he remarked later, “I never could understand, -for I have a prejudice in the belief that every part should be a -character. I always wanted to play the higher drama. Even in my boyhood -my desire had been in that direction. When at the Vaudeville Theatre, -I recited <cite>Eugene Aram</cite>, simply to get an idea as to whether I could -impress an audience with a tragic theme. In my youth I was associated -in the public mind with all sorts of bad characters, housebreakers, -blacklegs, thieves, and assassins.”</p> - -<p>And this was the man who was to popularise Shakespeare on the modern -English stage—the man to show the world that Shakespeare spelt Fame and -Success.</p> - -<p>That acting is a fatiguing art Irving denies. He once played Hamlet -over two hundred nights in succession, and yet the Dane takes more out -of him than any of his characters. Hamlet is the one he loves best, -however, just as Ellen Terry’s favourite part is Portia.</p> - -<p>In Percy Fitzgerald’s delightful <cite>Life of Henry Irving</cite> we find the -following interesting and characteristic little story:</p> - -<p>“Perhaps the most remarkable Christmas dinner at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span> which I have ever -been present, was one at which we dined upon underclothing. Do you -remember Joe Robins—a nice, genial fellow who played small parts in -the provinces? Ah, no! that was before your time. Joe Robins was once -in the gentleman’s furnishing business in London city. I think he had -a wholesale trade, and was doing well. However, he belonged to one -of the semi-Bohemian clubs; associated a great deal with actors and -journalists, and when an amateur performance was organised for some -charitable object, he was cast for the clown in a burlesque called <cite>Guy -Fawkes</cite>.</p> - -<p>“Perhaps he played the part capitally; perhaps his friends were making -game of him when they loaded him with praise; perhaps the papers -for which his Bohemian associates wrote went rather too far when -they asserted that he was the artistic descendant and successor of -Grimaldi. At any rate Joe believed all that was said to and written -about him, and when some wit discovered that Grimaldi’s name was also -Joe, the fate of Joe Robins was sealed. He determined to go upon the -stage professionally and become a great actor. Fortunately Joe was -able to dispose of his stock and goodwill for a few hundreds, which -he invested, so as to give him an income sufficient to prevent the -wolf from getting inside his door, in case he did not eclipse Garrick, -Kean, and Kemble. He also packed up for himself a liberal supply of -his wares, and started in his profession with enough shirts, collars, -handkerchiefs, and underclothing to equip him for several years.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span></p> - -<p>“The amateur success of poor Joe was never repeated on the regular -stage. He did not make an absolute failure; no manager would trust -him with big enough parts for him to fail in; but he drifted down to -“general utility,” and then out of London, and when I met him he was -engaged in a very small way, on a very small salary, at a Manchester -theatre.</p> - -<p>“His income eked out his salary; Joe, however, was a generous, -great-hearted fellow, who liked everybody, and whom everybody liked, -and when he had money, he was always glad to spend it upon a friend or -give it away to somebody more needy than himself. So piece by piece, as -necessity demanded, his princely supply of haberdashery diminished, and -at last only a few shirts and underclothes remained to him.</p> - -<p>“Christmas came in very bitter weather. Joe had a part in the Christmas -pantomime. He dressed with other poor actors, and he saw how thinly -some of them were clad when they stripped before him to put on their -stage costumes. For one poor fellow in especial his heart ached. In the -depth of a very cold winter he was shivering in a suit of very light -summer underclothing, and whenever Joe looked at him, the warm flannel -under-garments snugly packed away in an extra trunk weighed heavily -on his mind. Joe thought the matter over, and determined to give the -actors who dressed with him a Christmas dinner. It was literally a -dinner upon underclothing, for most of the shirts and drawers which -Joe had cherished<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> so long went to the pawnbrokers, or the slop-shop -to provide the money for the meal. The guests assembled promptly, for -nobody else is ever so hungry as a hungry actor. The dinner was to be -served at Joe’s lodgings, and before it was placed on the table, Joe -beckoned his friend with the gauze underclothing into a bedroom, and -pointing to a chair, silently withdrew. On that chair hung a suit of -underwear, which had been Joe’s pride. It was of a comfortable scarlet -colour; it was thick, warm, and heavy; it fitted the poor actor as if -it had been manufactured especially to his measure. He put it on, and -as the flaming flannels encased his limbs, he felt his heart glowing -within him with gratitude to dear Joe Robins.</p> - -<p>“That actor never knew—or, if he knew, could never remember—what he -had for dinner on that Christmas afternoon. He revelled in the luxury -of warm garments. The roast beef was nothing to him in comparison with -the comfort of his under-vest: he appreciated the drawers more than -the plum-pudding. Proud, happy, warm, and comfortable, he felt little -inclination to eat; but sat quietly, and thanked Providence and Joe -Robins with all his heart.</p> - -<p>“‘You seem to enter into that poor actor’s feelings very -sympathetically.’</p> - -<p>“‘I have good reason to do so,’ replied Mr. Irving, with his sunshiny -smile, ‘<em>for I was that poor actor!</em>’”</p> - -<p>Irving, like most theatrical folk, has a weakness for applause. It is -not surprising that hand-clapping<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span> should have an exhilarating effect, -or that the volley of air vibrations should set the actor’s blood -a-tingling. Applause is the breath in the nostrils of every “mummer.” -On one occasion the great Kean finding his audience apathetic, stopped -in the middle of his lines and said:</p> - -<p>“Gentlemen, I can’t act if you can’t applaud.”</p> - -<p>There is no doubt about it, a sympathetic audience gets far more out of -the actor than a half-hearted apathetic one.</p> - -<p>“The true value of art,” once said Henry Irving, “as applied to the -drama can only be determined by public appreciation. It is in this -spirit that I have invariably made it my study to present every piece -in such a way that the public can rely on getting as full a return -for their outlay as it is possible to give. I have great faith in the -justice of public discrimination, just as I regard the pit audience of -a London theatre as the most critical part of the house.</p> - -<p>“Art must advance with the time, and with the advance of other arts -there must necessarily be advance in art as applied to the stage. I -believe everything that heightens and assists the imagination in a play -is good. One should always give the best one can. I have lived long -enough to find how short is life and how long is art,” he once pithily -remarked.</p> - -<p>“Have you been guided by tradition in mounting Shakespearian plays?”</p> - -<p>“There is no tradition, nor is there anything written down as to the -proper way of acting Shakespeare,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span>” the great actor replied, and -further added: “Imitation is not acting—there is no true acting where -individuality does not exist. Actors should act for themselves. I -dislike playing a part I have seen acted by any one else, for fear -of losing something of my own reading of the character. We all have -our own mannerisms; I never yet saw any human being worth considering -without them.”</p> - -<p>There is no doubt that Irving’s personality is strong and his -appearance striking. He is a tall man—for I suppose he is about six -feet high—thin and well knit, with curiously dark and penetrating eyes -which are kindly, and have a merry twinkle when amused. The eyebrows -are shaggy and protruding, and, oddly enough, remained black after his -hair turned grey. He almost always wears eyeglasses, which somehow suit -him as they rest comfortably on his aquiline nose. His features are -clear-cut and clean-shaven, and the heavy jaw and slightly underhanging -chin give strength to his face, which is always pale; the lips are thin -and strangely pallid in colouring. Irving, though nearing seventy, has -a wonderfully erect carriage, his shoulders are well thrust back and -his chest forward, and somehow his movements always denote a man of -strength and character. The very dark hair gradually turned grey and is -now almost white; it was fine hair, and has always been worn long and -thrown well back behind the ears.</p> - -<p>There is something about the man which immediately arrests attention; -not only his face and his carriage, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> his manner and conversation -are different from the ordinary. He is the kind of man that any one -meeting for the first time would wish to know more about, the kind of -man of whom every one would inquire, “Who is he?” if his face were not -so well known in the illustrated papers. He could not pass unnoticed -anywhere. But after all it is not this personality entirely that has -made his fame, for there are people who dislike it as much as others -admire it; but as he himself says, any success he has attained is due -to the capacity for taking pains.</p> - -<p>That Irving’s success has been great no one can deny. His reign at the -Lyceum was remarkable in every way. He acted Shakespeare’s plays until -he made them the fashion. He employed great artists, musicians, and a -host of smaller fry to give him of their best. He produced wondrous -stage pictures—he engaged a good company, and one and all must own he -was the greatest actor-manager of the last quarter of the last century. -Not only England but the world at large owes him a debt of gratitude. -With him mere money-making has been a secondary consideration, and -this, coupled with his unfailing generosity, has always kept him -comparatively a poor man. No one in distress has ever appealed to him -in vain. He has not only given money, but time and sympathy, to those -less fortunate than himself, and Henry Irving’s list of charitable -deeds is endless. But for this he would never have had to leave the -Lyceum, a theatre with which his name was associated for so many years.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span></p> - -<p>When Irving opened Drury Lane at Easter, 1903, with <cite>Dante</cite> he had an -ovation such as probably no man has ever received from an audience -before. It was a pouring wet night; the rain descended in torrents, but -the faithful pittites were there to welcome the popular favourite on -his return from America. It so chanced that the audience were entering -the Opera House next door at the same moment, and this, combined with -the rain, which did not allow people to descend from their carriages -before they reached the theatre doors, made the traffic chaotic. I only -managed to reach my stall a second before the house was plunged in -darkness and the curtain rose.</p> - -<p>And here let me say how much more agreeable it is to watch the play -from a darkened auditorium such as Irving originally instituted than -to sit in the glaring illumination still prevalent abroad. When the -lights went down, the doors were closed, and half the carriage folk -were shut out for the entire first act, thus missing that wondrous -ovation. The great actor looked the very impersonation of Dante, and -as he bowed, and bowed, and bowed again he grew more and more nervous, -to judge by the tremble of his lips and the twitching of his hands. It -was indeed a stirring moment and a proud one for the recipient. As the -play proceeded the audience found all his old art was there and the -magnificent <em>mise-en-scène</em> combined to keep up the traditions of the -old Lyceum. That vast audience at Drury Lane rose <em>en masse</em> to greet -him, and literally thundered their applause at the end of the play. The -programme is on the following page.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span></p> - -<div class="center chapter"> -<table class="my100" border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1" summary="dante programme"> -<tr> -<td class="tdc large padt1 padb1" colspan="5"><i>APRIL 30th, 1903.</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc" colspan="5"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_234_1.jpg" width="500" height="66" alt="theatre royal drury lane limited" /> -</div></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">Managing Director</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="2">ARTHUR COLLINS.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">Business Manager</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc" colspan="2">SIDNEY SMITH.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td colspan="5"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_234_5.jpg" width="500" height="11" alt="" /> -</div></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc large padt1" colspan="5">HENRY IRVING’S SEASON.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5">Every Evening, at 8.15.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5">Matinée Every Saturday, at 2.30.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_234_2.jpg" width="450" height="55" alt="dante" /> -</div></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc smaller padt1" colspan="5">BY</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc large padt1" colspan="5">MM. SARDOU & MOREAU.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 padb1" colspan="5">Rendered into English by LAURENCE IRVING.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc" colspan="5"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_234_6.jpg" width="100" height="10" alt="" /> -</div></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5"><span class="old large">Persons in the Play:</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Dante</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl"> <span class="smcap">Henry Irving</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" rowspan="2">Cardinal Colonna</td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">{</span></td> -<td class="tdc"><i>Papal Legate, Resident</i></td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">}</span></td> -<td class="tdl" rowspan="2">Mr. <span class="smcap">William Mollison</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc"><i>at Avignon.</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Nello della Pietra</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc">(<i>Husband to Pia</i>)</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Norman McKinnel</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" rowspan="2">Bernardino</td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">{</span></td> -<td class="tdc"><i>Brother to Francesca da Rimini,</i></td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">}</span></td> -<td class="tdl" rowspan="2">Mr. <span class="smcap">Gerald Lawrence</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc"><i>betrothed to Gemma</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Giotto</td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="4"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_234_3.jpg" width="12" height="80" alt="" /> -</div></td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="4"><i>Friends to Dante</i></td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="4"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_234_4.jpg" width="12" height="80" alt="" /> -</div></td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">H. B. Stanford</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Casella</td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">James Hearn</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Forese</td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Vincent Sternroyd</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Bellacqua</td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">G. Englethorpe</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Malatesta</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc">(<i>Husband to Francesca</i>)</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Jerold Robertshaw</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Corso</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc">(<i>Nephew to Cardinal Colonna</i>)</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Charles Dodsworth</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Ostasio</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc">(<i>A Familiar of the Inquisition</i>)</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Frank Tyars</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Ruggieri</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc">(<i>Archbishop of Pisa</i>)</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">William Lugg</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">The Grand Inquisitor</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">William Farren</span>, Junr.</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Paolo</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc">(<i>Brother to Malatesta</i>)</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">L. Race Dunrobin</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Ugolino</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Mark Paton</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Lippo</td> - -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">}</span></td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><i>Swashbucklers</i></td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">{</span></td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">John Archer</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Conrad</td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">W. L. Ablett</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Enzio</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">(<i>Brother to Helen of Swabia</i>)</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">F. D. Daviss</span> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Fadrico</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">H. Porter</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Merchant</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">R. P. Tabb</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Merchant</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">H. Gaston</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Townsman</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">T. Reynold</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Townsman</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">A. Fisher</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">A Servant</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">M. <span class="smcap">J. Ireland</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Pia dei Tolomei</td> -<td rowspan="2"> </td> -<td class="tdl">(<i>Wife to Nello della Pietra</i>)</td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">}</span></td> -<td class="tdl" rowspan="2">Miss <span class="smcap">Lena Ashwell</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Gemma</td> -<td class="tdl">(<i>Her Daughter</i>)</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="3">The Abbess of the Convent of Saint Claire</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Wallis</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Francesca da Rimini</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Lilian Eldée</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" rowspan="2">Helen of Swabia</td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">{</span></td> -<td class="tdc"><i>Daughter-in-law</i></td> -<td class="tdc" rowspan="2"><span class="double">}</span></td> -<td class="tdl" rowspan="2">Miss <span class="smcap">Laura Burt</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc"><i>to Ugolino</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Sandra</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdc">(<i>Servant to Pia</i>)</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Ada Mellon</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Picarda</td> -<td rowspan="6"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_235_1.jpg" width="18" height="100" alt="" /> -</div></td> -<td> </td> -<td rowspan="6"><div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/i_235_2.jpg" width="18" height="100" alt="" /> -</div></td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">E. Burnand</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Tessa</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Hilda Austin</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Marozia</td> -<td class="tdc"><i>Florentine</i></td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Mab Paul</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Cilia</td> -<td class="tdc"><i>Ladies</i></td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Ada Potter</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Lucrezia</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">E. Lockett</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Julia</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Mary Foster</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Fidelia</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Dorothy Rowe</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Maria</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">May Holland</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Nun</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Emmeline Carder</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Nun</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">E. F. Davis</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl" colspan="3">Custodian of the Convent of Saint Claire</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Grace Hampton</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">A Townswoman</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Mabel Rees</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1 smaller" colspan="5"><i>Nobles, Guests of the Legate, Pages, Jesters, Nuns, Townsfolk, Artisans,<br /> -Street Urchins, Catalans, Barbantines, Servants, etc.</i></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5"><span class="old large">Spirits:</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">The Spirit of Beatrice</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Miss <span class="smcap">Nora Lancaster</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Virgil</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Walter Reynolds</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Cain</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">F. Murray</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Charon</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">Leslie Palmer</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Cardinal Boccasini</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">F. Faydene</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Cardinal Orsini</td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">W. J. Yeldham</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">Jacques Molay</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">(<i>Commander of the Templars</i>)</td> -<td> </td> -<td class="tdl">Mr. <span class="smcap">J. Middleton</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdc padt1" colspan="5"><span class="small"><i>Spirits in the Inferno.</i></span></td> -</tr></table></div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>Sir Henry Irving certainly has great magnetic gifts which attract and -compel the sympathy of his audience. He always looks picturesque, he -avoids stage conventionalities, and acts his part according to his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span> own -scholarly instincts. Passion with him is subservient to intellect.</p> - -<p>One American critic in summing him up said:</p> - -<p>“I do not consider Irving a great actor; but he is the greatest -dramatic artist I ever saw.”</p> - -<p>The version of <cite>Faust</cite> by the late W. G. Wills which modern playgoers -know so well was one of the most elaborate and successful productions -of the Lyceum days, and amongst the beautiful scenic effects some -exquisite visions which appeared in the Prologue at the summons of -Mephistopheles will always be remembered. On the first night of the -production I am told—for I don’t remember the occasion myself—owing to -a temporary break down in the lime-lights, these visions declined to -put in an appearance at the bidding of the Fiend. The great actor waved -his arm and stamped his foot with no result. Again and again he tried -to rouse them from their lethargy, but all to no avail. The visions -came not. As soon as the curtain fell Irving strode angrily to the -wing, even his stride foreboded ill to all concerned, and the officials -trembled at the outburst of righteous wrath which they expected would -break forth. The first exclamations of the irate manager had hardly -left his lips before they were interrupted by a diminutive “call boy,” -who rushed forward with uplifted hand, and exclaimed in a high treble -key to the great actor-manager fresh from his newest triumph:</p> - -<p>“Bear it, bear it bravely! <em>I</em> will explain all to-morrow!”</p> - -<p>The situation was so ridiculous that there was a general<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> peal of -laughter, in which Irving was irresistibly compelled to join.</p> - -<p>The last part played at the Lyceum by the veteran actor Tom Mead was -that of the old witch who vainly strove to gain the summit of the -Brocken, and was always pushed downwards when just reaching the goal. -In despair the wretched hag exclaims, “I’ve been a toiler for ten -thousand years, but never, never reached the top.” On the first night -of <cite>Faust</cite>, the worthy old man was chaffed unmercifully at supper by -some of his histrionic friends who insisted that the words he used -were, “I’ve been <em>an actor</em> for ten thousand years, but never, never -reached the top.”</p> - -<p>Those who saw the wonderful production of <cite>The Corsican Brothers</cite> at -the Lyceum will remember the exciting duel in the snow by moonlight, -between Irving and Terriss. At the last dress rehearsal, which at the -Lyceum was almost as important a function as a first night, Terriss -noticed that as the combatants moved hither and thither during the -fight he seemed to be usually in shadow, while the face of the great -actor-manager was brilliantly illuminated. Looking up into the flies, -he thus addressed the lime-light man:</p> - -<p>“On me also shine forth, thou beauteous moon—there should be no -partiality in thy glorious beams.”</p> - -<p>A friend relates another curious little incident which occurred during -the run of <cite>Ravenswood</cite> at the Lyceum. In the last act there was -another duel between William Terriss and Henry Irving. For the play -Terriss wore a heavy moustache which was cleverly contrived in two<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> -pieces. Somehow, in the midst of the scuffle, one side of the moustache -got caught and came off. This was an awkward predicament at a tragic -moment, but Terriss had the presence of mind to swerve round before the -audience had time to realise the absurdity, and finished the scene with -his hair-covered lips on show. When they arrived in the wings Irving -was greatly perturbed.</p> - -<p>“What on earth do you mean spoiling the act by jumping round like -that?” he demanded. “You put me out horribly: it altered the whole -scene.”</p> - -<p>Terriss was convulsed with laughter and could hardly answer; and it -was only when Irving had spent his indignation that he discovered -his friend was minus half his moustache. This shows how intensely -interested actors become in their parts, when one can go through a long -scene and never notice his colleague had lost so important an adjunct.</p> - -<p>Sir Charles Wyndham is one of the most popular actor-managers upon the -stage. He is a flourishing evergreen. Though born in 1841 he never -seems to grow any older, and is just as full of dry humour, just as -able to deliver a dramatic sermon, just as quick and smart as ever he -was.</p> - -<p>He began at the very beginning, did Sir Charles, and he is ending at -the very end. Though originally intended for the medical profession, he -commenced his career as a stock actor in a provincial company, is now a -knight, and manager and promoter of several theatres. What more could -theatrical heart desire? And he has the distinction of having acted in -Berlin in the German tongue.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p> - -<p>Wyndham gives an amusing description, it is said, of one of his first -appearances on the American stage, when he had determined to transfer -his affections from Galen to Thespis. He was naturally extremely -nervous, and on his first entrance should have exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“I am drunk with ecstasy and success.”</p> - -<p>With emphasis he said the first three words of the sentence, and then, -owing to uncontrollable stage fright, his memory forsook him. After a -painful pause he again exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“I am drunk.” Even then, however, he could not recall the context. He -looked hurriedly around, panic seemed to overpower him as he once more -repeated:</p> - -<p>“I am drunk—”; and, amid a burst of merriment from the audience, he -rushed from the stage.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII<br /> -<br /> -<i>WHY A NOVELIST BECOMES A DRAMATIST</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Novels and Plays—<cite>Little Lord Fauntleroy</cite> and his Origin—Mr. -Hall Caine—Preference for Books to Plays—John Oliver Hobbes—J. -M. Barrie’s Diffidence—Anthony Hope—A London Bachelor—A Pretty -Wedding—A Tidy Author—A First Night—Dramatic Critics—How Notices -are Written—The Critics Criticised—Distribution of Paper—“Stalls -Full”—Black Monday—Do Royalty pay for their Seats?—Wild Pursuit of -the Owner of the Royal Box—The Queen at the Opera.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">IT is a surprise to the public that so many novelists are becoming -dramatists.</p> - -<p>The reason is simple enough: it is the natural evolution of romance. -In the good old days of three-volume novels, works of fiction brought -considerable grist to the mill of both author and publisher; after all -it only cost a fraction more to print and bind a three-volume work -which sold at thirty-one shillings and sixpence than it does to-day to -produce a book of almost as many words at six shillings.</p> - -<p>Then again, half, even a quarter of, a century ago there were not -anything like so many novelists, and those who wrote had naturally less -competition; but all this is changed.</p> - -<p>Novels pour forth on every side to-day, and money does not always pour -in, in proportion. One of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> first novelists to make a large sum by -a play was Mrs. Hodgson Burnett. She wrote <cite>Little Lord Fauntleroy</cite> -about 1885, it proved successful, and the book contained the element -of an actable play. She dramatised the story, and she has probably -made as many thousands of pounds by the play as hundreds by the book, -in spite of its enormous circulation. I believe I am right in saying -that <cite>Little Lord Fauntleroy</cite> has brought more money to its originator -than any other combined novel and play, and the next most lucrative has -probably been J. M. Barrie’s <cite>Little Minister</cite>.</p> - -<p>Herein lies a moral lesson. Both are simple as books and plays, and -both owe their success to that very simplicity and charm. They contain -no problem, no sex question, nothing but a little story of human life -and interest, and they have succeeded in English-speaking lands, and -had almost a wider influence than the more elaborate physiological work -and ideas of Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Sudermann, or Pinero.</p> - -<p>For twenty years <cite>Little Lord Fauntleroy</cite> has stirred all hearts, both -on the stage and off, in England and America, adored by children and -loved by grown-ups.</p> - -<p>Being anxious to know how the idea of the play came about, I wrote -to Mrs. Burnett, and below is her reply in a most characteristically -modest letter:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="right">“<span class="smcap">New York</span>, <br /> -“<i>November 26th, 1902</i>.</p> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Mrs. Alec-Tweedie</span>,</p> - -<p class="p2">“I hope it is as agreeable as it sounds to be ’a-roaming in -Spain.’ It gives one dreams of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> finding one’s lost castles there. -Concerning the play of <cite>Fauntleroy</cite>; after the publication of the -book it struck me one day that if a real child could be found -who could play <em>naturally</em> and ingenuously the leading part, -a very unique little drama might be made of the story. I have -since found that almost any child can play Fauntleroy, the reason -being, I suppose, that only child emotions are concerned in the -representation of the character. At that time, however, I did -not realise what small persons could do, and by way of proving -to myself that it could—or could not—be done with sufficient -simplicity and convincingness, I asked my own little boy to pretend -for me that he was Fauntleroy making his speech of thanks to the -tenants on his birthday. The little boy in question was the one -whose ingenuous characteristics had suggested to me the writing -of the story, so I thought if it could be done he could do it. He -had, of course, not been allowed to suspect that he himself had any -personal connection with the character of Cedric. He was greatly -interested in saying the speech for me, and he did it with such -delightful warm-hearted naturalness that he removed my doubts as -to whether a child-actor could say the lines without any air of -sophistication—which was of course the point.</p> - -<p>Shortly afterwards we went to Italy, and in Florence I began the -dramatisation. I had, I think, about completed the first act -when I received news from England that a Mr. Seebohm had made a -dramatisation and was producing it. I travelled to London at once -and consulted my lawyer, Mr. Guadella, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> began a suit for me. I -felt very strongly on the subject, not only because I was unfairly -treated, but because it had been the custom to treat all writers -in like manner, and it seemed a good idea to endeavour to find a -defence. I was frightened because I could not have afforded to lose -and pay costs—but I felt rather fierce, and made up my mind to -face the risk. Fortunately Mr. Guadella won the case for me. Mr. -Seebohm’s version was withdrawn and mine produced with success both -in England and America—and, in fact, in various other countries. I -never know dates, but I <em>think</em> it was produced in London in ’88. -It has been played ever since, and is played for short engagements -on both sides of the Atlantic every year. I have not the least idea -how many times it has been given. It is a queer little dear, that -story—‘plays may come and books may go, but little Fauntleroy stays -on for ever.’ I am glad I wrote it—I always loved it. I should have -loved it if it had not brought me a penny. I am afraid I am not -very satisfactory as a recorder of detail of a business nature. -I never remember dates or figures. If we were talking together I -should doubtless begin to recall incidents. It is the stimulating -meanderings of conversation which stir the pools of memory.”</p></div> - -<p>Mrs. Hodgson Burnett may indeed be proud of her success, although she -writes of it in such a simple, unaffected manner. ’Twas well for her -she faced the lawsuit, for ruin scowled on one side while fortune -smiled on the other.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> - -<p>No novelist’s works have sold more freely than those of Hall Caine and -Miss Marie Corelli. Both are highly dramatic in style, but Miss Corelli -has not taken to play-writing, preferring the novel as a means of -expression.</p> - -<p>Hall Caine, on the other hand, has been tempted by the allurements of -the stage. When I asked him why he took up literature as a profession, -he replied:</p> - -<p>“I write a novel because I love the motive, or the story, or the -characters, or the scene, or all four, and I dramatise it because I -like to see my subject on the stage. If more material considerations -sometimes influence me, more spiritual ones are, I trust, not always -absent. I don’t think the time occupied in writing a book or a play has -ever entered into my calculations, nor do I quite know which gives me -most trouble.”</p> - -<p>Continuing the subject, I ventured to ask him whether he thought drama -or fiction the higher art.</p> - -<p>“I like both the narrative and the dramatic forms of art, but perhaps I -think the art of fiction is a higher and better art than the art of a -drama, inasmuch as it is more natural, more free, and more various, and -yet capable of equal unity. On the other hand, I think the art of the -drama is in some respects more difficult, because it is more artificial -and more limited, and always hampered by material conditions which -concern the stage, the scenery, the actors, and even the audience. I -think,” he continued, “the novel and the drama have their separate joys -for the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> novelist and dramatist, and also their separate pains and -penalties.</p> - -<p>“On the whole, I find it difficult to compare things so different, and -all I can say for myself is that, notwithstanding my great love of the -theatre, I find it so trying in various ways—owing, perhaps, to my -limitations—that I do not grudge any one the success he achieves as -a dramatist, and I deeply sympathise with the man who fails in that -character.”</p> - -<p>How true that is! By far the most lenient critics are the workers. It -is the man who never wrote a book who criticises most severely, the man -who never painted a picture who is the hardest to please.</p> - -<p>Speaking about the dramatic element of the modern novel, Mr. Caine -continued:</p> - -<p>“But then the novel, since the days of Scott, has so encroached upon -the domain of the drama, and become so dramatic in form that the author -who has ‘the sense of the theatre’ may express himself fairly well -without tempting his fate in that most fascinating but often most fatal -little world.”</p> - -<p>Such was Mr. Caine’s opinion on the novelist as dramatist.</p> - -<p>Hall Caine’s personality is too well known to need describing; but his -handwriting is a marvel. He gets more into a page than any one I know, -unless it be Whistler, Sydney Lee, or Zangwill. Mr. Caine’s calligraphy -at a little distance looks like Chinese, it is beautifully neat and -tidy—but most difficult to read. Like Frankfort Moore, Richard Le -Gallienne, and a host of others, he scribbles with a small pad in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> -hand, or on his knee. Some people prefer writing in queer positions, -cramped for room—others, on the contrary, require huge tables and vast -space.</p> - -<p>“John Oliver Hobbes” is the uneuphonious pseudonym chosen by Pearl -Teresa Craigie, another of our novel-dramatists. She has hardly been as -successful with her plays as with her brilliant books, and therefore -it seems unlikely that she will discard the latter for the former. The -world has smiled on Mrs. Craigie, for she was born of rich parents. -Although an American she lives in London (Lancaster Gate), and has a -charming house in the Isle of Wight. She has only one son, so is more -or less independent, can travel about and do as she likes, therefore -her thoughtful work and industry are all the more praiseworthy. Ability -will out.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Craigie is an extremely good-looking woman. She is <em>petite</em>, with -chestnut hair and eyes; is always dressed in the latest gowns from -Paris; has a charming voice; is musical and devoted to chess.</p> - -<p>J. M. Barrie, one of the most successful of our novel dramatists, is -most reticent about his work. He is a shy, retiring little man with a -big brain and a charitable heart; but he dislikes publicity in every -form. He seems almost ashamed to own that he writes, and he cannot bear -his plays to be discussed—so when he says, “Please excuse me. I have -such a distaste for saying or writing anything about my books or plays -for publication; if it were not so I should do as you suggest with -pleasure,” one’s hand is tied, and Mr. Barrie’s valuable opinion on the -novel and the drama is lost.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p> - -<p>It was a difficult problem to decide. Naturally the public expect much -mention of J. M. Barrie among the playwrights of the day, for had he -not four pieces running at London theatres at the same moment? But to -make mention means to offend Mr. Barrie and lose a friend.</p> - -<p>This famous author creates and writes, but no one must write about -him. Whether his simple childhood, passed in a quaint little Scotch -village, is the source of this reticence, or whether it is caused by -the oppression of the fortune he has accumulated by his plays, no one -discourses upon Mr. Barrie except at the risk of earning his grave -displeasure. He is probably the most fantastic writer of the day, and -most of the accounts of him have been as fantastic as his work. Thus -the curtain cannot be lifted, while he smokes and dreams delicately -pitiless sentiment behind the scenes so far as this volume is concerned.</p> - -<p>“Anthony Hope” is another dramatic novelist. He began his career as a -barrister, tried for Parliamentary honours, and failed; took to writing -novels and succeeded, and now seems likely to end his days in the -forefront of British dramatists.</p> - -<p>He was educated at Marlborough, became a scholar of Balliol College, -Oxford, where he gained first-class Mods. and first-class Lit. Hum., -so he has gone through the educational mill with distinction, and -is now inclined to turn aside from novels of pure romance to more -psychological studies. This is particularly noticeable in <cite>Quisanté</cite> -and <cite>Tristram of Blent</cite>.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p> - -<p>The author of <cite>The Prisoner of Zenda</cite> is one of the best-known men in -London society. He loves our great city. Mr. Hope is most sociable by -nature; not only does he dine out incessantly, but as a bachelor was -one of those delightful men who took the trouble to entertain his lady -friends. Charming little dinners and luncheons were given by this man -of letters, and as he had chambers near one of our largest hotels, he -generally took the guests over to his flat after the meal for coffee -and cigars. Many can vouch what pleasant evenings those were; the -geniality of the host, the frequent beauty of his guests, and the -generally brilliant conversation made those bachelor entertainments -things to be remembered. His charming sister-in-law often played -the <em>rôle</em> of hostess for him; she is a Norwegian by birth, and an -intimate friend of the Scandinavian writer Björnstjerne-Björnson, whose -personality impressed me more than that of any other author I ever met.</p> - -<p>The bachelor life has come to an end.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_248fp"> -<img src="images/i_248fp.jpg" width="486" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MR. ANTHONY HOPE.</p></div> - -<p>Nearly twenty years ago Anthony Hope began to write novels with -red-haired heroines—<cite>The Prisoner of Zenda</cite> is perhaps the best-known -of the series. No one could doubt that he admired warm-coloured hair, -for auburns and reds appeared in all his books. One fine day an -auburn-haired goddess crossed his path. She was young and beautiful, -and just the living girl he had described so often in fiction. Anthony -Hope, the well-known bachelor of London, was conquered by the American -maid. A very short engagement was followed by a beautiful wedding in -the <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span>summer of 1903, at that quaint old city church, St. Bride’s, where -his father has been Rector so long. It was a lovely hot day as we drove -along the Embankment, through a labyrinth of printing offices and early -newspaper carts, to the door of the church. All the bustle and heat -of the city outside was forgotten in the cool shade of the handsome -old building, decorated for the occasion with stately palms. Never -was there a prettier wedding or a more lovely bride, and all the most -beautiful women in London seemed to be present.</p> - -<p>The bridegroom, who was wearing a red rosebud which blossomed somewhat -alarmingly during the ceremony, looked very proud and happy as he led -the realisation of twenty years’ romance down the aisle.</p> - -<p>“Anthony Hope” is not his real name, and yet it is, which may appear -paradoxical. He was born a Hawkins, being the second son of the Rev. -E. C. Hawkins, and nephew of Mr. Justice Hawkins, now known as Baron -Brampton. The child was christened Anthony Hope, and when he took to -literature to fill in the gaps in his legal income, he apparently -thought it better for the struggling barrister not to be identified -with the budding journalist, and consequently dropped the latter part -of his name. Thus it was he won his spurs as Anthony Hope, and many -people know him by no other title, although he always signs himself -Hawkins, and calls himself by that nomenclature in private life. Rather -amusing incidents have been the result. People when first<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> introduced -seldom realise the connection, and discuss “Lady Ursula,” or other -books, very frankly with their new acquaintance. Their consequent -embarrassment or amusement may be better imagined than described! -<em>Aliases</em> often lead to awkward moments.</p> - -<p>Literary men are not, as a rule, famed for “speechifying,” but Mr. -Hawkins is an exception. He went to America a few years ago an -indifferent orator, and returned a good one. This was the result of -a lecturing tour—one of those expeditions of many thousand miles of -travel and daily discourse in different towns. Literary men are not -generally more orderly at their writing-tables than they are good at -delivering a speech, but here again Anthony Hope is an exception. -His desk is so neat and precise it reminds one irresistibly of a -punctilious old maid (I trust he will forgive the simile?), so -methodical are his arrangements. He writes everything with his own -hand, and replies to letters almost by return of post, although he is -a busy man, for he not only writes for four or five hours a day, but -attends endless charity meetings, and takes an energetic part among -other things in the working of the Society of Authors, of which he is -chairman. He does nothing by halves; everything he undertakes he is -sure to see through, being most conscientious in all his work. In many -ways Anthony Hope often reminds one of the late Sir Walter Besant, both -alike ever ready to help a colleague in distress, ever willing to aid -by council or advice those in need, and untiring so far as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> literary -work for themselves, or helping others, is concerned.</p> - -<p>Mr. Hawkins is generally calm and collected, but I remember an occasion -when he was quite the reverse. It was the first performance of one of -his plays, and he stood behind me in a box, well screened from public -gaze by the curtain. First he rested on one foot, then on the other, -always to the accompaniment of rattling coins. Oh, how he turned those -pennies over and over in his pockets, until at last I entreated to be -allowed to “hold the bank” until the fall of the curtain.</p> - -<p>First nights affect playwrights differently, but although they -generally disown it, they seem to suffer tortures, poor creatures.</p> - -<p>For an important production there are as many as two or three thousand -applications for seats on a “first night,” but to a great extent each -theatre has its own audience. The critics are of course the most -important element. As matters stand they know nothing of what they are -going to see, they have not studied or even read the play beforehand, -and yet are expected to sum up the whole drama and criticise the acting -an hour or two later. The idea is preposterous. If serious dramas are -to be considered seriously, time must be given for the purpose, and the -premiers must begin a couple of hours earlier, or a dress rehearsal -for the critics arranged the night before, just as a “press view” is -organised at a picture gallery. As it is, all the critics go in the -first night.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span></p> - -<p>That is why the bulk of those in the stalls are men. Some take notes -throughout the acts, others jot down pungent lines during the dialogue; -but all are working at high pressure, and however clear the slate of -their mind may be on entering the theatre, it is well covered with -impressions when they leave. From that jumble of ideas they have to -unravel the play, criticise the dramatist’s work, and make a study -of the suitability of the actors to their parts. This unreflecting -impression must be quickly put together, for a critic has no time for -leisurely philosophic judgments.</p> - -<p>The critics, or, rather, “the representatives of the papers,” are given -their seats; but the rest of the house pays. Only people of eminence, -or personal friends of the management, are permitted the honour of a -seat. Their names are on the “first-night list,” and if they apply they -receive, the outside public rarely getting a chance.</p> - -<p>The entrance to a theatre on a first night is an interesting scene. -Many of the best-known men and women of London are chatting to friends -in the hall; but they never forget their manners, and are always in -their places in good time. Between the acts those who are near the end -of a row get up and move about; in any case the critics leave their -seats, and many of them begin their “copy” during the <em>entr’acte</em>. -Other men not professionally engaged wander round the boxes and talk -to their friends, and a general air of happy expectation pervades the -auditorium.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Stuffed with obesity or anæmia,” exclaimed a well-known dramatist -when describing the dramatic critics. However that may be the dramatic -critic is an important person, and his post no sinecure. It is all very -well when first night representations are given on Saturday, because -then only the handful of Sunday paper writers have to scramble through -their work—but when Wednesday or Thursday is chosen, as sometimes -happens, dozens of poor unfortunate men and women have to work far into -the night over their column—they have no time to consider the comedy -or tragedy from any standpoint beyond the first impression. No doubt -a play should make an impression at once, and that is why the drama -cannot be criticised in the same way as books. The playwright must make -an immediate effect, or he will not make one at all; while the poet or -novelist can be contemplated with serenity and commented on at leisure.</p> - -<p>There are so many problem plays nowadays, however, that it is often -difficult for the critic to make his decision between the close of the -theatre at midnight and his arrival at the nearest telegraph office -(if he be on a provincial paper), or at the London newspaper office, -a quarter of an hour later, when that impression has to be reduced to -paper and ink. Only those who have written at this nervous pressure -know its terrors. To have a “devil” (the printer’s boy) standing at -one’s elbow waiting for “copy” is horrible—the ink is not dry on the -paper as sheet after sheet goes off to the compositor waiting its -arrival. By the time the writer reaches his last sentences the first -pages are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> all in type waiting his corrections. At 2 a.m. the notice -must be out of his hands for good or ill, because the final “make-up” -of the paper necessitates his “copy” filling the exact space allotted -to him by the editor, and two hours later that selfsame newspaper, -printed and machined, is on its way to the provinces by the “newspaper -trains,” and on sale in Liverpool, Birmingham, or Sheffield, a few -hours only after the latest theatrical criticism has been added to its -columns.</p> - -<p>The stage is necessarily intimately connected with the press, and a -free hand is imperative if the well-reasoned essay, and not merely a -reporter’s account, is to be of value.</p> - -<p>Wise critics refuse to know personally the objects of their criticism, -and so avoid many troubles, for many actors are hyper-sensitive by -nature. The press is naturally a great factor, but it cannot make or -mar a play any more than it can make or mar a book; it can fan the -flame, but it cannot make the blaze.</p> - -<p>At the O.P. Club Alfred Robbins recently delivered an address on -“Dramatic Critics: <em>Are they any use?</em>” He pertinently remarked:</p> - -<p>“A play is like a cigar—if it is bad no amount of puffing will make -it draw; but if good then every one wants a box.” He held that the -great danger was that the critic should lack pluck to protest against -a revolting play on a well-advertised stage, and follow the lead of -the applause of programme-sellers in a fashionable house; while making -up for it by hunting for faults with a microscope in the case of a -young author or manager. The critic should<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> tell not so much how the -play affected him as how it affected the audience. Critics were always -useful when they were interesting, but not when they tried to instruct.</p> - -<p>E. F. Spence, as a critic himself, pointed out that some critics had -no words that were not red and yellow, while others wrote entirely -in grey. When one man said a play was “not half bad,” and another -described it as an “unparalleled masterpiece,” they meant often the -same thing. And the readers of each, accustomed to their tone and -style, knew what to expect from their words.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Kendal thought “criticism would be better after three weeks, when -the actor had learnt to know his points.” All agreed that the critics -of to-day are scrupulously conscientious.</p> - -<p>G. Bernard Shaw wrote: “A dramatic criticism is a work of literary art, -useful only to the people who enjoy reading dramatic criticisms, and -generally more or less hurtful to everybody else concerned.”</p> - -<p>Clement Shorter’s opinion was: “I do not in the least believe in the -utility of dramatic critics. The whole sincerity of the game has been -spoilt. The hand of the dramatic critic is stayed because the dramatist -and the important actor have a wide influence with the proprietors of -newspapers.”</p> - -<p>An anonymous manager wrote: “The few independent critics are of great -use, but the critic who turns his attention to play-writing should not -be allowed to criticise, for he is never fair to any author’s work -except his own. It has paid managers<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> to accept plays from critics even -if they don’t produce them.”</p> - -<p>Apart from criticism the theatre is in daily touch with the papers, for -one of the greatest expenses in connection with a theatre is the “Press -Bill.” From four to six thousand pounds a year is paid regularly for -newspaper advertising, just for those advertisements that appear “under -the clock,” and in those columns announcing plays, players, and hours.</p> - -<p>The distribution of “paper” is a curious custom, some managers prefer -to fill their houses by such means, others disdain the practice, -especially the Kendals, who are as adverse to “free passes” as they -are to dress rehearsals, and who always insist on paying for their -own tickets to see their friends act. An empty house is nevertheless -dispiriting—dispiriting to the audience and dispiriting to the -performers—so a little paper judiciously used may often bolster up a -play in momentary danger of collapse.</p> - -<p>“Stalls full.” “Dress Circle full.” “House full.” Such notices are -often put outside the playhouse during a performance, and in London -they generally mean what they say. In the provinces, however, a -gentleman arrived at an hotel, and after dinner went off to the theatre -as he had no club. He saw the placards, but boldly marched up to the -box office in the hope that perchance he might obtain an odd seat -somewhere.</p> - -<p>“A stall, please.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, which row?” When he got inside he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> found the place half -empty, in spite of the legend before the doors.</p> - -<p>A well-known singer wired for a box in London one night—it being an -understood thing that professional people may have seats free if they -are not already sold. She prepaid the answer to the telegram as usual. -It ran:</p> - -<p>“So sorry, no boxes left to-night.”</p> - -<p>The next day she met a friend at luncheon who had been to that -particular theatre the night before. He remarked:</p> - -<p>“It was a most depressing performance: the house was half empty, and -the actors dull in consequence.”</p> - -<p>Then the singer told her story, and both had a good laugh over the -telegram.</p> - -<p>There are certain bad weeks which appear with strict regularity in the -theatrical world. Bank-holiday time means empty houses in the West End. -Just before Easter or Christmas are always “off” nights. Royal mourning -reduces the takings, and one night’s London fog half empties the house. -Lent does not make anything like so great a difference as formerly; -indeed, in some theatres its advent is hardly noticed at all. Saturday -always yields the biggest house. Whether this is because Sunday being a -day of rest people need not get up so early, or because Saturday is pay -day, or because it is either a half or whole holiday, no one knows; but -it always produces the largest takings of the week, just as Monday is -invariably the fattest booking-day. This may possibly be due to Sunday -callers discussing the best performances, and recommending<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> their -friends to go to this or that piece. The good booking of Monday is more -often than not followed by a bad house on Monday night, which is the -“off” day of the week. A play will run successfully for weeks, suddenly -Black Monday arrives, and at once down, down, down goes the sale, until -the play is taken off; no one can tell why it declines any more than -they can predict the success or failure of a play until after its first -two or three performances.</p> - -<p>It seems to be generally imagined that Royalty do not pay for their -seats; but this is a mistake. One fine day a message comes from one -of the ticket agents to the theatres to say that the King and Queen, -or Prince and Princess of Wales, will go to that theatre on a certain -night. Generally a couple of days’ notice is given. Consternation often -ensues, for it sometimes happens the Royal box has been sold. The -purchaser has to be called upon to explain that by Royal command his -box is required for the night in question, and will he graciously take -it some other evening instead? or he is offered other seats. People are -generally charming about the matter and ready to meet the manager at -once—but sometimes there are difficulties. Wild pursuit of the owner -of the box occasionally occurs; indeed, he sometimes has not been -traceable at all, and has even arrived at the theatre, only to be told -the situation.</p> - -<p>The box is duly paid for by the library; Royalty never accept their -seats, and are most punctilious about paying for them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span></p> - -<p>At the back of the Royal box there is generally a retiring-room, where -the gentlemen smoke, and sometimes coffee is served. The King, who is -so noted for his cordiality, usually sends for the leading actor and -actress during an <em>entr’acte</em>, and chats with them for a few minutes in -the ante-room; but the Queen rarely leaves her seat. After the death -of Queen Victoria it was a long time, a year in fact, before the King -went to the theatre at all. After that he visited most of the chief -houses in quick succession, but he did not send for the players for at -least six months, not, in fact, till the Royal mourning was at an end. -His Majesty is probably the warmest and most frequent supporter of the -drama in Britain, as the Queen is of the opera.</p> - -<p>In olden days Royal visits were treated with much ceremony. Cyril Maude -in his excellent book on the Haymarket Theatre tells how old Buckstone -was a great favourite with Queen Victoria. The Royal entrance in those -days was through the door of “Bucky’s” house which adjoined the back of -the theatre in Suffolk Street. At the street door the manager waited -whenever the Royal box had been commanded. In either hand he carried a -massive silver candlestick, and, walking backwards, escorted the Royal -party with monstrous pomp to their seats. As soon as he had shown them -to their box, however, the amiable comedian had to hurry off to take -his place upon the stage.</p> - -<p>Nothing of that kind is done nowadays, although the manager generally -goes to meet them; but if the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> manager be the chief actor too, he sends -his stage manager just to see that everything is in order—Royal folk -like to come and go as unostentatiously as possible.</p> - -<p>Many theatres have a private door for Royalty to enter by. As a rule -they are punctual, and if not the curtain gives them a few minutes’ -grace before rising. If they are not in their seats within ten minutes, -the play begins, and they just slip quietly into their places.</p> - -<p>At the Opera on gala nights it is different—the play waits. When they -enter, the band strikes up “God Save the King,” and every one stands -up. It is a very interesting sight to see the huge mass of humanity at -Covent Garden rise together, and see them all stand during the first -verse in respect to Royalty. The Queen on ordinary occasions occupies -the Royal box on the right facing the stage on the grand tier, and -three back from the stage itself, so there are tiers of boxes above and -one below; the Queen sits in the corner the farthest from the stage; -the King often joins her during the performance, otherwise he sits in -the omnibus box below with his men friends. So devoted is Her Majesty -to music she sometimes spends three evenings a week at the Opera. She -often has a book of the score before her, and follows the music with -the greatest interest.</p> - -<p>On ordinary operatic nights the Queen dresses very quietly; generally -her bodice is cut square back and front with elbow-sleeves, and not -off the shoulders as it is at Court. More often than not she wears<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> -black with a bunch of pink malmaisons—of course the usual heavy collar -composed of many rows of pearls is worn, and generally some hanging -chains of pearls. No tiara, but diamond wings or hair combs of that -description. In fact, at the Opera our Queen is one of the least -conspicuously dressed among the many duchesses and millionairesses who -don tiaras and gorgeous gowns. No Opera-house in the world contains so -many beautiful women and jewels as may nightly be seen in London.</p> - -<p>In front is a number above each box, and at the back of the box is the -duplicate number with the name of the person to whom it belongs. They -are hired for a season, and cost seven and a half to eight guineas a -night on the grand tier. These boxes hold four people, and are usually -let for ten or twelve weeks: generally for two nights a weeks to each -set of people. Thus the total cost of one of the best boxes for the -season is, roughly speaking, from one hundred and fifty, to one hundred -and eighty guineas for two nights a week.</p> - -<p>At the theatre Queen Alexandra dresses even more simply than at the -opera. In winter her gown is often filled in with lace to the neck. -She is always a quiet, but a perfect dresser. Never in the fashion, -yet always of the fashion, she avoids all exaggerations, moderates -her skirts and her sleeves, and yet has just enough of the <em>dernier -cri</em> about them to make them up to date. She probably never wore a big -picture hat in her life, and prefers a small bonnet with strings, to a -toque.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span></p> - -<p>Royalty thoroughly enjoy themselves at the play. They laugh and chat -between the acts, and no one applauds more enthusiastically than King -Edward VII. and his beautiful Queen. They use their opera-glasses -freely, nod to their friends, and thoroughly enter into the spirit of -the evening’s entertainment.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV<br /> -<br /> -<i>SCENE-PAINTING AND CHOOSING A PLAY</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Novelist—Dramatist—Scene-painter—An Amateur Scenic Artist—Weedon -Grossmith to the Rescue—Mrs. Tree’s Children—Mr. Grossmith’s Start -on the Stage—A Romantic Marriage—How a Scene is built up—English -and American Theatres Compared—Choosing a Play—Theatrical -Syndicate—Three Hundred and Fifteen Plays at the Haymarket.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">A NOVELIST describes the surroundings of his story. He paints in words, -houses, gardens, dresses, anything and everything to heighten the -picture and show up his characters in a suitable frame.</p> - -<p>The dramatist cannot do this verbally; but he does it in fact. He -definitely decides the style of scene necessary for each act, and -draws out elaborate plans to achieve that end. It is the author -who interviews the scene-painter, talks matters over with the -costume-artist, the dressmaker, and the upholsterer. It is the author -who generally chooses the cretonnes and the wall-papers—that is to -say, the more important authors invariably do. Mr. Pinero, Mr. W. S. -Gilbert, and Captain Robert Marshall design their own scenes to the -minutest detail, but then all three of them are capable artists and -draughtsmen themselves.</p> - -<p>Scene-painting seems easy until one knows something<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> about its -difficulties. To speak of a small personal experience—when we got up -those theatricals in Harley Street, mentioned in a previous chapter, -my father told me I must paint the scenery, to which I gaily agreed. -Having an oil painting on exhibition at the Women Artists’, I felt I -could paint scenery without any difficulty.</p> - -<p>First of all I bought yards and yards of thick canvas, a sort of -sacking. It refused to be joined together by machine, and broke endless -needles when the seams were sewn by hand. It appeared to me at the time -as if oakum-picking could not blister fingers more severely. After all -my trouble, when finished and stretched along a wall in the store-room -in the basement, with the sky part doubled over the ceiling (as the -little room was not high enough to manage it otherwise), the surface -was so rough that paint refused to lie upon it.</p> - -<p>I had purchased endless packets of blue and chrome, vermilion and -sienna, umber and sap-green; but somehow the result was awful, and the -only promising thing was the design in black chalk made from a sketch -taken on Hampstead Heath. Sticks of charcoal broke and refused to draw; -but common black chalk at last succeeded. I struggled bravely, but the -paint resolutely refused to adhere to the canvas, and stuck instead to -every part of my person.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_264fp"> -<img src="images/i_264fp.jpg" width="391" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Hall, New York.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MR. WEEDON GROSSMITH.</p></div> - -<p>At last some wiseacre suggested whitewashing the canvas, and, after -sundry boilings of smelly size, the coachman and I made pails of -whitewash and proceeded to get a groundwork. Alas! the brushes -when full <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span>of the mixture proved too heavy for me to lift, and the -unfortunate coachman had to do most of that monotonous field of white.</p> - -<p>So far so good. Now came “the part,” as the gallant jehu was pleased to -call it.</p> - -<p>It took a long time to get into the way of painting it at all. The -window had to be shut, the solitary gas-jet lighted, endless lamps -unearthed to give more illumination while I struggled with smelling -pots.</p> - -<p>Oh, the mess! The floor was bespattered, and the paint being mixed with -size, those spots remain as indelible as Rizzio’s blood at Holyrood. -Then the paint-smeared sky—my sky—left marks on the ceiling—my -father’s ceiling—and my own dress was spoilt. Then up rose Mother in -indignation, and promptly produced an old white garment—which shall -be nameless, although it was decorated with little frills—and this I -donned as a sort of overall. With arms aching from heavy brushes, and -feet tired from standing on a ladder, with a nose well daubed with -yellow paint, on, on I worked.</p> - -<p>In the midst of my labours “Mr. Grossmith” was suddenly announced, -and there below me stood Weedon Grossmith convulsed with laughter. At -that time he was an artist and had pictures “on the line” at the Royal -Academy. His studio was a few doors from us in Harley Street.</p> - -<p>“Don’t laugh, you horrid man,” I exclaimed; “just come and help.”</p> - -<p>He took a little gentle persuading, but finally gave in, and being -provided with another white garment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> he began to assist, and he and I -finally finished that wondrous scene-painting together.</p> - -<p>After a long vista of years Mrs. Beerbohm Tree—who, it will -be remembered, also acted with us in Harley Street—and Weedon -Grossmith—who helped me paint the scenery for our little -performance—were playing the two leading parts together at Drury Lane -in Cecil Raleigh’s <cite>Flood Tide</cite>.</p> - -<p>The two little daughters of the Trees, aged six and eight respectively, -were taken by their father one afternoon to see their mother play at -the Lane. They sat with him in a box, and enjoyed the performance -immensely.</p> - -<p>“Well, do you like it better than <cite>Richard II.</cite>?” asked Tree.</p> - -<p>There was a pause. Each small maiden looked at the other, ere replying:</p> - -<p>“It isn’t quite the same, but we like it just as much.”</p> - -<p>When they reached home they were asked by a friend which of the two -plays they really liked best.</p> - -<p>“Oh, mother’s,” for naturally the melodrama had appealed to their -juvenile minds, “but we did not like to tell father so, because we -thought it might hurt his feelings.”</p> - -<p>The part that delighted them most at Drury Lane was the descent of the -rain, that wonderful rain which had caused so much excitement, and -which was composed of four tons of rice and spangles thrown from above, -and verily gave the effect of a shower of water.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span></p> - -<p>But to return to Weedon Grossmith. Whether he found art didn’t pay at -the studio in Harley Street, or whether he was asked to paint more -ugly old ladies than pretty young ones, I do not know; but he gave up -the house, and went off to America for a trip. So he said at the time, -but the trip meant that he had accepted an engagement on the stage. He -made an instantaneous hit. When he returned to England, sure of his -position, as he thought, he found instead that he had a very rough time -of it, and it was not until he played with Sir Henry Irving in <cite>Robert -Macaire</cite> that he made a London success. Later he “struck oil” in Arthur -Law’s play, <cite>The New Boy</cite> under his own management.</p> - -<p>Round the <cite>The New Boy</cite> circled a romance. Miss May Palfrey, who had -been at school with me, was the daughter of an eminent physician who -formerly lived in Brook Street. She had gone upon the stage after -her father’s death, and was engaged to play the girl’s part. The -“engagement” begun in the theatre ended, as in the case of Forbes -Robertson, in matrimony, and the day after <cite>The New Boy</cite> went out, the -new girl entered Weedon Grossmith’s home as his wife.</p> - -<p>Success has followed success, and they now live in a delightful -house in Bedford Square, surrounded by quaint old furniture, Adams’ -mantelpieces, overmantels, and all the artistic things the actor -appreciates. A dear little girl adds brightness to the home life of Mr. -and Mrs. Weedon Grossmith.</p> - -<p>Artist, author, actor, manager, are all terms that may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> be applied -to Weedon Grossmith, but might not scene-painter be added after his -invaluable aid in the Harley Street store-room with paints and size?</p> - -<p>So much for the amateur side of the business: now for the real.</p> - -<p>The first thing a scenic artist does is to make a complete sketch of -a scene. This, when approved, he has “built up” as a little model, a -miniature theatre, in fact, such as children love to play with. It is -usually about three feet square, exactly like a box, and every part is -designed to scale with a perfection of detail rarely observed outside -an architect’s office.</p> - -<p>One of the most historic painting-rooms was that of Sir Henry Irving -at the Lyceum, for there some of the most elaborate stage settings -ever produced were constructed, inspired by the able hand of Mr. Hawes -Craven.</p> - -<p>A scene-painter’s workshop is a large affair. It is very high, and -below the floor is another chamber equally lofty, for the “flats,” or -large canvases, have to be screwed up or down for the artist to be able -to get at his work. They cannot be rolled wet, so the entire “flat” has -to ascend or descend at will.</p> - -<p>To make the matter clear, a scene on the stage, such as a house or a -bridge, is known as a “carpenter’s scene.” The large canvases at the -back are called “flats,” or “painters’ cloths.” “Wings” are unknown -to most people, but really mean the side-pieces of the scene which -protrude on the stage. The “borders” are the bits of sky or ceiling -which hang<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> suspended from above, and a “valarium” is a whole roof as -used in classical productions.</p> - -<p>A scene-painter’s palette is a strange affair; it is like a large -wooden tray fixed to a table, and that table is on wheels; along one -side of the tray are divisions like stalls in a stable, each division -containing the different coloured paints, while in front is a flat -piece on which the powders can be mixed. The thing that strikes -one most is the amount of exercise the scenic artist takes. He is -constantly stepping back to look at what he has done, for he copies on -a large scale the minute sketch he has previously worked out in detail. -Assistants generally begin the work and lay the paint on; but all the -finishing touches are done by the master, who superintends the whole -thing being properly worked out from his model.</p> - -<p>The most elaborate scenery in the world is to be found in London, and -Sir Henry Irving, as mentioned before, was the first to study detail -and effect so closely. Even in America, where many things are so -extravagant, the stage settings are quite poor compared with those of -London.</p> - -<p>Theatres in England and America differ in many ways. The only thing I -found cheaper in the United States than at home was a theatre stall, -which in New York cost eight shillings instead of ten and sixpence. -They are also ahead of us inasmuch as they book their cheaper seats, -which must be an enormous advantage to those unfortunate people who can -always be seen—especially on first nights—wet or fine, hot or cold, -standing in rows outside a London pit door.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span></p> - -<p>There is no comparison between the gaiety of the scene of a London -theatre and that of New York. Long may our present style last. In -London every man wears evening dress in the boxes, stalls, and -generally in the dress circle, and practically every woman is in -evening costume, at all events without her hat. Those who do not care -to dress, wisely go to the cheaper seats. This is not so across the -Atlantic. It is quite the exception for the male sex to wear dress -clothes; they even accompany ladies to the stalls in tweeds, probably -the same tweeds they have worn all day at their office “down town,” and -it is not the fashion for women to wear evening dress either. What we -should call a garden-party gown is <em>de rigueur</em>, although a lace neck -and sleeves are gradually creeping into fashion. Little toques are much -worn, but if the hat be big, it is at once taken off and disposed of in -the owner’s lap. Being an American she is accustomed to nursing her hat -by the hour, and does not seem to mind the extra discomfort, in spite -of fan, opera-glass, and other etceteras.</p> - -<p>The result of all this is that the auditorium is in no way so smart as -that of a London theatre. The origin of the simplicity of costume in -the States of course lies in the fact that fewer people in proportion -have private carriages, cabs are a prohibitive price, and every one -travels in a five cents (2½<i>d.</i>) car. The car system is wonderful, -if a little agitating at first to a stranger, as the numbers of the -streets—for they rarely have names in New York—are not always so -distinctly marked as they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> might be. It is far more comfortable, -however, to get into one’s carriage, a hansom, or even a dear old -ramshackle shilling “growler” at one’s own door, than to have to walk -to the nearest car “stop” and find a succession of electric trams full -when you arrive there, especially if the night happens to be wet. The -journey is cheap enough when one does get inside, but payment of five -cents does not necessarily ensure a seat, so the greater part of one’s -life in New York is spent hanging on to the strap of a street car.</p> - -<p>“Look lively,” shouts the conductor, almost before one has time to look -at all, and either life has to be risked, or the traveller gets left -behind altogether.</p> - -<p>Not only travelling in cars, but many things in the States cost -twopence halfpenny. It seems a sort of tariff, that five cents, or -nickle, as it is called. One has to pay five cents for a morning or -evening paper, five cents to get one’s boots blacked, and even in the -hotels they only allow a darkie to perform that operation as a sort of -favour.</p> - -<p>It is a universal custom in the States to eat candies during a -performance at the theatre, but when do Americans refrain from eating -candies—one dare not say “chewing-gum,” for we are told that no -self-respecting American ever chews gum nowadays!</p> - -<p>The theatres I visited in New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, New Orleans, -and even in far-away San Antonio, Texas, were all comfortable, well -warmed, well ventilated, and excellently managed, but the audience -were certainly not so smart as our own,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> not even at the Opera House -at New York, where the performers are the same as in London, and the -whole thing excellently done, and where it is the fashion to wear -evening dress in the boxes. Even there one misses the beauty of our -aristocracy, and the glitter of their tiaras.</p> - -<p>Choosing a play is no easy matter. Hundreds of things have to be -considered. Will it please the public? Will it suit the company? If -Miss So-and-So be on a yearly engagement and there is no part for her, -can the theatre afford out of the weekly profits of the house to pay -her a large salary merely as an understudy? What will the piece cost to -mount? What will the dramatist expect to be paid? This latter amount -varies as greatly as the royalties paid to authors on books.</p> - -<p>As nearly every manager has a literary adviser behind his back, -so almost every actor-manager has a syndicate in the background. -Theatrical syndicates are strange institutions. They have only come -into vogue since 1880, and are taken up by commercial gentlemen as a -speculation. When gambling ceases to attract on the Stock Exchange, the -theatre is an exciting outlet.</p> - -<p>The actor-manager consequently is not the “sole lessee” in the sense -of being the only responsible person. He generally has two or three -backers, men possessed of large incomes who are glad to risk a few -thousand pounds for the pleasure of a stall on a first night, or an -occasional theatrical supper. Sometimes the syndicate does extremely -well: at others<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span> ill; but that does not matter—the rich man has had his -fun, the actor his work, the critic his sneer, and so the matter ends.</p> - -<p>The actor-manager draws his salary like any other member of the -company; but should the play prove a success his profits vary according -to arrangement.</p> - -<p>If, on the other hand, the venture turn out a failure, in the case of -the few legitimate actor-managers—if one may use the term—he loses all -the outgoing expenses. Few men can stand that. Ten thousand pounds have -been lost through a bad first night, for although some condemned plays -have worked their way to success, or, at least, paid their expenses, -that is the exception and by no means the rule.</p> - -<p>Many affirm there should be no actor-managers: the responsibility is -too great; but then no man is sure of getting the part he likes unless -he manages to secure it for himself.</p> - -<p>Every well-known manager receives two or three hundred plays per annum. -Cyril Maude told me that three hundred and fifteen dramas were left at -the Haymarket Theatre in 1903, and that he and Frederick Harrison had -actually read, or anyway looked through, every one of them. They enter -each in a book, and put comments against them.</p> - -<p>“The good writing is Harrison’s,” he remarked, “and the bad scribble -mine”; but that was so like Mr. Maude’s modesty.</p> - -<p>After that it can hardly be said there is any lack of ambition in -England to write for the stage. The extraordinary thing is that only -about three per cent.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> of these comedies, tragedies, burlesques, or -farces are worth even a second thought. Many are written without the -smallest conception of the requirements of the theatre, while some -are indescribably bad, not worth the paper and ink wasted on their -production.</p> - -<p>It may readily be understood that every manager cannot himself read all -the MSS. sent him for consideration, neither is the actor-manager able -to see himself neatly fitted by the parts written “especially for him.” -Under these circumstances it has become necessary of late years at some -theatres to employ a literary adviser, as mentioned on the former page. -All publishing-houses have their literary advisers, and woe betide the -man who condemns a book which afterwards achieves a great success, or -accepts one that proves a dismal failure! So likewise the play reader.</p> - -<p>Baskets full of dramatic efforts are emptied by degrees, and the few -promising productions they contain are duly handed over to the manager -for his final opinion.</p> - -<p>In spite of the enormous number of plays submitted yearly, every -manager complains of the dearth of suitable ones.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV<br /> -<br /> -<i>THEATRICAL DRESSING-ROOMS</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">A Star’s Dressing-room—Long Flights of Stairs—Miss Ward at -the Haymarket—A Wimple—An Awkward Predicament—How an Actress -Dresses—Herbert Waring—An Actress’s Dressing-table—A Girl’s -Photographs of Herself—A Grease-paint Box—Eyelashes—White -Hands—Mrs. Langtry’s Dressing-room—Clara Morris on Make-up—Mrs. -Tree as Author—“Resting”—Mary Anderson on the Stage—An Author’s -Opinion—Actors in Society.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">AFTER ascending long flights of stone stairs, traversing dreary -passages with whitewashed walls, and doors on either side marked one, -two, or three, we tap for admission to a dressing-room.</p> - -<p>Where is the fairy pathway? where the beauty?—ah! where? That long -white corridor resembles some passage in a prison, and the little -chambers leading off it are not very different in appearance from -well-kept convict cells, yet this is the home of our actors or -actresses for many hours each day.</p> - -<p>In some country theatres the dressing-rooms are still disgraceful, and -the sanitary arrangements worse.</p> - -<p>Even in London it is only the “stars” who have an apartment to -themselves. At such an excellently conducted theatre as the Haymarket, -Miss Winifred Emery has to mount long flights between every act. -Suppose she has to change her costume four times<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> in the play, she must -ascend those stone stairs five times in the course of each evening, -or, in other words, walk up two hundred and fifty steps in addition -to the fatigue of acting and the worry of quick changing, while on -<em>matinée</em> days this exertion is doubled. She is a leading lady; she -has a charming little room when she reaches it, and the excitement, -the applause, and the pay of a striking part to cheer her—but think of -the sufferers who have the stairs without the redeeming features. An -actress once told me she walked, or ran, up eight hundred steps every -night during her performance.</p> - -<p>While speaking of dressing-rooms I recall a visit I paid to Miss -Geneviève Ward at the Haymarket during the run of <cite>Caste</cite> (1902). It -was a <em>matinée</em>, and, wanting to ask that delightful woman and great -actress a question, I ventured to the stage door and sent up my card.</p> - -<p>“Miss Ward is on the stage; but I will give it to her when she comes -off in four minutes,” said the stage-door-keeper.</p> - -<p>Accordingly I waited near his room.</p> - -<p>The allotted time went by—it is known in a theatre exactly how long -each scene will take—and at the expiration of the four minutes Miss -Ward’s dresser came to bid me follow her up to the lady’s room. The -dresser was a nice, complacent-looking woman, <em>l’âge ordinaire</em>, as the -French would say, arrayed in a black dress and big white apron.</p> - -<p>Miss Ward had ascended before us, and was already seated on her little -sofa.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Delighted to see you, my dear,” she exclaimed. “I have three-quarters -of an hour’s wait, so I hope you will stay to cheer me up.”</p> - -<p>How lovely she looked. Her own white hair was covered by a still -whiter front wig, while added colour had given youth to her face, and -the darkened eyelids made those wondrous grey orbs of hers even more -striking.</p> - -<p>“Why, you look about thirty-five,” I exclaimed, “and a veritable -<i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">grande dame</span></i>!”</p> - -<p>“It is all the wimple,” she said.</p> - -<p>“And what may that be?”</p> - -<p>“Why, this little velvet string arrangement from my bonnet, with the -bow under my chin; when you get old, my dear, you must wear a wimple -too; it holds back those double, treble, a nd quadruple chins that are -so annoying, and restores youth—<em><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">me voilà</span></em>.”</p> - -<p>Miss Ward was first initiated into the mysteries and joys of a wimple -when about to play in <cite>Becket</cite> at the Lyceum.</p> - -<p>While we chatted she took up her knitting—being as untiring in -that line as Mrs. Kendal. Miss Ward was busy making bonnets for -hospital children, and during all those long hours she waited in her -dressing-room, this indefatigable woman knitted for the poor. After -about half an hour her dresser returned and said:</p> - -<p>“It is time for you to dress, madame.”</p> - -<p>“Shall I leave?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“Certainly not—there is plenty of room for us all;” and in a moment the -knitting was put aside,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> and her elaborate blue silk garment taken off -and hung on a peg between white sheets. Rapidly Miss Ward transformed -herself into a sorrowing mother—a black skirt, a long black coat and -bonnet were placed in readiness, when lo, the dresser, having turned -everything over, exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“I cannot see your black bodice.”</p> - -<p>Miss Ward looked perturbed.</p> - -<p>“I do believe I have left it at home—I went back in it last night, if -you remember, because I was lazy; and forgot all about it. Never mind, -no one will see the bodice is missing when I put on my cloak, if I -fasten it tight up, and I must just melt inside its folds.”</p> - -<p>But when the cloak was fastened there still appeared a decidedly -<em>décolleté</em> neck. Time was pressing, the “call boy” might arrive at any -moment. Miss Ward seized a black silk stocking, which she twirled round -her neck, secured it with a jet brooch, powdered her face to make it -look more doleful, and was ready in her garb of woe ere the boy knocked.</p> - -<p>Then we went down together.</p> - -<p>These theatrical dressers become wonderfully expert. I have seen an -actress come off the stage after a big scene quite exhausted, and yet -only have a few minutes before the next act. She stood in the middle -of her dressing-room while we talked, and at once her attendant set -to work. The great lady remained like a block. Quickly the dresser -undid her neck-band, and unhooked the bodice after removing the lace, -took away the folded waistband, slipped off the skirt, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> in a -twinkling the long ball dress was over the actress’s head and being -fastened behind. Her arms were slipped into the low bodice, and while -she arranged the jewels or her corsage the dresser was doing her up at -the back. Down sat the actress in a chair placed for her, and while -she rouged more strongly to suit the gaiety of the scene, the dresser -was putting feathers and ornaments into her hair, pinning a couple of -little curls to her wig to hang down her neck, and just as they both -finished this rapid transformation the call boy rapped.</p> - -<p>Off went my friend.</p> - -<p>“I shall be back in seven minutes,” she exclaimed, “so do wait, as I -have fourteen minutes’ pause then.”</p> - -<p>The dresser caught up her train and her cloak, and followed the great -lady to the wings, where I saw her arranging the actress’s dress before -she went on, and waiting to slip on the cloak and gloves which she was -supposed in the play to come off and fetch.</p> - -<p>A good dresser is a treasure, and that is why most people prefer their -own to those provided at the theatres.</p> - -<p><em>Apropos</em> of knowing exactly how long an actor is on the stage, I may -mention that Herbert Waring once invited me to tea in his dressing-room.</p> - -<p>“At what time?” I naturally asked.</p> - -<p>“I’ll inquire from my dresser,” was his reply. “I really don’t know -when I have my longest ‘wait.’”</p> - -<p>Accordingly a telegram arrived next day, which said “tea 4.25,” so at -4.25 I presented myself at the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span> stage door, where Mr. Waring’s man was -waiting to receive me.</p> - -<p>Others joined us. A tin tray was spread with a clean towel; as usual, -the theatrical china did not match, and the spoons and the seats -were insufficient, but the tea and cakes were delicious, and the -rough-and-tumble means of serving them in a star’s dressing-room only -in keeping with the usual arrangements of austere simplicity behind the -scenes.</p> - -<p>“What was the most amusing thing that ever happened to you on the -stage?”</p> - -<p>Mr. Waring looked perplexed.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t the slightest idea. Nothing amusing ever happens; it is -the same routine day, alas, after day, the same dressing, undressing, -acting, finishing, going gleefully home, and returning next day to -begin exactly the same thing over again. I must be a very dull dog, but -I cannot ferret out anything ‘amusing’ from the back annals of a long -theatrical career,” and up he jumped to slip on his powdered wig—which -he had removed to cool his head—and away he ran to entertain his -audience.</p> - -<p>Mr. Waring’s amusing experiences, or lack of them, seem very usual in -theatrical life. What a delightful man he is, and what a gentleman in -all his dealings. He is always loved by the companies with whom he -acts, and never makes a failure with his parts.</p> - -<p>The most important thing in an actress’s dressing-room is her -table—verily a curious sight. It is generally very large, more often -than not it is composed of plain deal, daintily dressed up in muslin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> -flouncings over pink or blue calico. There seems to be a particular -fashion in this line, probably because the muslin frills can go to the -wash—a necessary proviso for anything connected with the theatre. In -the middle usually reposes a large looking-glass, and as one particular -table is in my mind’s eye, I will describe it, as it is typical of -many, and belonged to a beautiful comic-opera actress.</p> - -<p>The looking-glass was ornamented with little muslin frills and tucks, -tied with dainty satin bows, on to which were pinned a series of the -actress’s own photographs. These cabinet portraits formed a perfect -garniture, they represented the lady in every conceivable part she had -ever played, and were tied together with tiny scarlet ribbons, the -foot of one being fixed to the head of the next. The large mirror over -the fireplace—for she was a star and had a fireplace—was similarly -ornamented, so was the cheval glass, and above the chimneypiece was a -complete screen composed of another set of her own photographs from -another piece. These had to stand up, so the little red bows which -fixed them went from side to side, by which means they stood along -the board zig-zag fashion, like a miniature screen, without tumbling -down. She was not in the least egotistical, it was simply the craze for -photographs, which all theatrical folk seem to have, carried a little -further than usual, and in her own dressing-room she essayed to have -her own photographs galore. As she was very pretty and many of the -costumes charming, she showed her good taste.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span></p> - -<p>In front of the looking-glass was a large pincushion stuffed with a -multiplication of pins of every shape and size, endless hat-pins, -safety-pins, and little brooches, in fact, a supply sufficient to pin -everything on to her person that exigency might require. There were -large pots of powder, flat tablets of rouge, hares’ feet, for putting -on the rouge, fine black pencils for darkening eyes, blue chalk pencils -for lining the lids, wonderful cherry-red arrangements for painting -Cupid’s lips, for even people with large mouths can by deft artistic -treatment be made to appear to have small ones. There were bottles -of white liquid for hands and neck, because it is more important, of -course, to paint the hands than the face, otherwise they are apt to -look appallingly red or dirty behind the footlights.</p> - -<p>There were two barber’s blocks on which stood the wigs for the -respective acts, since it is much quicker and less trouble to put on a -wig than adjust one’s hair, and probably no one, except Mrs. Kendal, -has ever gone through an entire theatrical career and only twice donned -a wig.</p> - -<p>Of course there were endless powders as well as perfumes of every sort -and kind. There were hand-mirrors and three-fold mirrors, and electric -light that could be moved about, for it is important to look well from -all sides when trotting about the stage.</p> - -<p>Theatrical dressing-rooms are so small that the dressing-table is their -chief feature, and if there be room for a sofa or arm-chair, they are -accounted luxurious.</p> - -<p>All the costumes, as a rule, are hung against the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span> wall, which is -first covered with a calico sheet, then each dress is hung on its own -peg, over which other calico sheets fall. This does not crush them, -keeps all clean, and avoids creases; nevertheless, the most brilliant -theatrical costumes look like a series of melancholy ghosts when not in -use.</p> - -<p>One of the actress’s most important possessions is the grease -paint-box, which in tin, separated into compartments for paints, -costs about ten and sixpence. Into these little compartments she puts -vaseline, coco butter, Nuceline, and Massine for cleaning the skin. For -the face has to be washed, so to speak, with grease, preparatory to -being made up.</p> - -<p>A fair woman first lays on a layer of grease paint of a cream ground. -On to that she puts light carmine on her cheeks, and follows the lines -of her own colour as much as she can. Some people have colour high up -on the cheek-bones, others low down, and it is as well to follow this -natural tint if possible.</p> - -<p>She blue-pencils round her eyes to enhance their size, gets the blue -well into the corners and down a little at the outside edges to enlarge -those orbs. Then she powders her face all over to get rid of that look -of grease which is so distressing, and soften down the general make-up, -and then proceeds to darken her eyelashes and eyebrows.</p> - -<p>One little actress told me she always wound a piece of cotton round a -hairpin, on to which she put a blob of cosmetic, heated it in the gas -or candle, and when it was melted, blinked her eyelashes up and down -upon it so that they might take on the black without getting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> it in -hard lumps, but as a level surface. She put a little red blob in the -corner of her eyes to give brightness, and a red line in the nostrils -to do away with the black cavern-like appearance caused by the strong -lights of the stage.</p> - -<p>“I never make up the lips full size,” she said, “or else they look -enormous from the front. I put on very bright little ‘Cupid’s bow’ -middles, which gives all the effect that is necessary. After I have -powdered my face and practically finished it, I just dust on a little -dry rouge with a hare’s foot to get the exact amount of colour I wish -for each act. Grease paints are absolutely necessary to get the make-up -to stay on one’s face, but they have to be well powdered down or they -will wear greasy.”</p> - -<p>“I always think the hands are so important,” I remarked.</p> - -<p>“Oh yes,” she replied. “Of course, for common parts, such as servants, -one leaves one’s hands to look red, for the footlights always make them -look a dirty red, but for aristocratic ladies we have to whiten our -hands, arms, and neck, and I make a mixture of my own of glycerine and -chalk, because it is so much cheaper than buying it ready-made.</p> - -<p>“Sometimes it takes me an hour to make up my face. You see, a large -nose can be modified; and a small nose can be made bigger by rouging -it up the sides and leaving a strong white line down the middle. It is -wonderful how one can alter one’s face with paint, though I think it is -better to make up too little than too much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span>.”</p> - -<p>Thus it will be seen an hour is quite a usual length of time for an -actress to sit in front of her dressing-table preparatory to the -performance.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Langtry’s dressing-room at the Imperial Theatre may be mentioned. -An enormous mirror is fastened against one wall, and round it, in -the shape of a Norman arch, are three rows of electric lights giving -different colour effects. The plain glass is to dress by in the -ordinary way; pink tones give sunset and evening effect; while the -third is a curious smoked arrangement to simulate moonlight or dawn. -Dresses can be chosen and the face painted accordingly to suit the -stage colouring of the scene. The lights turn on above, below, or at -the sides, so the effect can be studied from every point of view.</p> - -<p>While on the subject of making up, a piece of advice from the great -actor Jefferson to the wonderful American actress, Clara Morris, is of -interest:</p> - -<p>“Be guided as far as possible by Nature. When you make up your face, -you get powder on your eyelashes. Nature made them dark, so you are -free to touch the lashes themselves with ink or pomade, but you should -not paint a great band about your eye, with a long line added at the -corner to rob it of expression. And now as to the beauty this lining is -supposed to bring, some night when you have time I want you to try a -little experiment. Make up your face carefully, darken your brows and -the lashes of <em>one eye</em>; as to the other eye, you must load the lashes -with black pomade, then draw a black line<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> beneath the eye, and a -broad line on its upper lid, and a final line out from the corner. The -result will be an added lustre to the make-up eye and a seeming gain in -brilliancy; but now, watching your reflection all the time, move slowly -backwards from the glass, and an odd thing will happen; that made-up -eye will gradually grow smaller and will gradually look like a black -hole, absolutely without expression.”</p> - -<p>Clara Morris followed Jefferson’s counsel and never blued or blacked -her eyes again.</p> - -<p>I once paid an interesting visit to a dressing-room: it came about in -this wise.</p> - -<p>In 1898 the jubilee of Queen’s College, in Harley Street, was -celebrated. It was founded fifty years previously as <em>the first college -open to women</em>. A booklet in commemoration of the event was got up, and -many old girls were persuaded to relate their experiences. Among them -were Miss Sophia Jex Blake, M.D., Miss Dorothea Beale (of Cheltenham), -Miss Adeline Sargent, the novelist, Miss Louisa Twining, whose work on -pauperism and workhouses is well known, Miss Mary Wardell, the founder -of the Convalescent Home, etc. Mrs. Tree agreed to write an article -on the stage as a profession for women. At the last moment, when all -the other contributions had gone to press, hers was not amongst them. -It was a <em>matinée</em> day, and as editor I went down to Her Majesty’s, -and bearded the delinquent in her dressing-room. She was nearly ready -for the performance, in the midst of her profession, so to speak; but -realising the necessity of doing the work at once<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> or not at all, she -seized some half-sheets of paper, and between her appearances on the -stage jotted down an excellent article. It was clever, to the point, -and full of learning. It appeared a few days later, and some critic was -unkind enough to say “her husband or some other man had written it for -her.” I refute the charge; for I myself saw it hastily sketched in with -a pencil at odd moments on odd scraps of paper.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Tree is a woman who would have succeeded in many walks of life, -for she is enthusiastic and thorough, a combination which triumphantly -surmounts difficulties. She has a strong personality. In the old -Queen’s College days she used to wear long æsthetic gowns and hair cut -short. Bunches of flowers generally adorned her waist, offerings from -admiring young students, whom she guided through the intricacies of -Latin or mathematics.</p> - -<p>The Beerbohm Trees have a charming old-fashioned house at Chiswick, -and three daughters of various and diverse ages, for the eldest is -grown up while the youngest is quite small. Both parents are devoted -to reading and fond of society, but their life is one long rush. Books -from authors line their shelves, etchings and sketches from artists -cover their walls; both have great taste with a keen appreciation of -genius. Few people realise what an unusually clever couple the Beerbohm -Trees are, or how versatile are their talents. They fly backwards and -forwards to the theatre in motor-cars, and pretend they like it in -spite of midnight wind and rain.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p> - -<p>Theatrical work means too much work or none. It is a great strain to -play eight times a week, to dress eight times at each performance, as -in a Drury Lane drama, and to rehearse a new play or give a <em>matinée</em> -performance as well, and yet this has to be done when the work is -there, for what one refuses, dozens, aye dozens, are waiting eagerly to -take. Far more actors and actresses are “resting” every evening than -are employed in theatres, poor souls.</p> - -<p>“<em>Resting!</em>” That word is a nightmare to men and women on the stage. -It means dismissal, it means weary waiting—often actual want—yet it is -called “resting.” It spells days of unrest—days of dreary anxiety and -longing, days when the unfortunate actor is too proud to beg for work, -too proud even to own temporary defeat—which nevertheless is there.</p> - -<p>A long run of luck, the enjoyment of many months, perhaps years, when -all looked bright and sunny, when money was plentiful and success -seemed assured, suddenly stops. There is no suitable part available, -new blood is wanted in the theatre, and the older hands must go. Then -comes that cruelly enforced “rest,” and, alas! more often than not, -nothing has been laid by for the rainy day, when £10 a week ceases even -to reach 10<i>s.</i> Expenses cannot easily be curtailed. Home and family -are there, the actor hopes every week for new work, he refuses to -retrench, but lives on that miserable farce “keeping up appearances,” -which, although sometimes good policy, frequently spells ruin in the -end.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_288fp"> -<img src="images/i_288fp.jpg" width="417" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>Photo by Bassano, 25, Old Bond Street, W.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MRS. BEERBOHM TREE.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span></p> - -<p>Some of the best actors and actresses of the day are forced into -this unfortunate position; indeed, they suffer more than the smaller -fry—for each theatre requires only one or two stars in its firmament. -Theatrical folk are sometimes inclined to be foolish and refuse to -play a small part for small pay, because they think it beneath their -dignity, so they prefer to starve on their mistaken grandeur, which is, -alas! nothing more nor less than unhappy pride.</p> - -<p>Clara Morris, one of America’s best-known actresses, shows the possible -horrors, almost starvation, of an actress’s early years in her -delightful volume, <cite>Life on the Stage</cite>.</p> - -<p>She nearly died from want of food, and after years and years of work -all over the States made her first appearance as “leading lady” at -Daly’s Theatre in New York at a salary of thirty-five dollars a week, -starting with only two dollars (eight shillings) in her pocket.</p> - -<p>Her first triumph she discussed with her mother and her dog over a -supper of bread and cheese. She had attained success—but even then it -was months and months, almost years, before she earned enough money -either to live in comfort or be warmly clothed.</p> - -<p>The beautiful Mary Anderson, in her introduction to the volume, says:</p> - -<p>“I trust this work will help to stem the tide of girls who so blindly -rush into a profession of which they are ignorant, for which they are -unfitted, and in which dangers unnumbered lurk on all sides. If with -Clara Morris’s power and charm so much had to be suffered, what is—what -must be—the lot of so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> many mediocrities who pass through the same -fires to receive no reward in the end?”</p> - -<p>Every one who knows the stage, knows what weary suffering is endured -daily by would-be actors who are “resting”; and as they grow older -that “resting” process comes more often, for, as one of the greatest -dramatists of the day said to me lately:</p> - -<p>“The stage is only for the young and beautiful, they can claim -positions and salaries which experience and talent are unable to -keep. By the time youth has thoroughly learnt its art it is no longer -physically attractive, and is relegated to the shelf.”</p> - -<p>“That seems very hard.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, but it is true. At the best the theatrical is a poor profession, -and ends soon. Believe me, it is only good for handsome young men and -lovely girls. When the bloom of youth has gone, good acting does not -command the salary given to beautiful inexperience.”</p> - -<p>“How cruelly sad!”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps—but truth is often sad. When a girl comes to me and says she -has had an offer of marriage, but she doesn’t want to give up her Art, -I reply:</p> - -<p>“‘Marry the man before your Art gives you up.’”</p> - -<p>This was severe, but I have often thought over the subject since, and -seen how true were the words of that man “who knew.”</p> - -<p>Half a century ago only a few favoured professionals were admitted into -the sacred circle called Society, and then only on rare occasions, but -all that is now changed: actors and actresses are the fashion, and may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> -be found everywhere and anywhere. Their position is remarkable, and -they appear to enjoy society as much as society enjoys them. They are -<em>fêted</em> and feasted, the world worships at their feet. In London the -position of an actor or actress of talent is a brilliant one socially.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI<br /> -<br /> -<i>HOW DOES A MAN GET ON THE STAGE?</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">A Voice Trial—How it is Done—Anxious Faces—Singing into Cimmerian -Darkness—A Call to Rehearsal—The Ecstasy of an Engagement—Proof -Copy; Private—Arrival of the Principals—Chorus on the -Stage—Rehearsing Twelve Hours a Day for Nine Weeks without Pay.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">“HOW does a man get on the stage?” is a question so continually asked -that the mode of procedure, at any rate for comic opera, may prove of -interest.</p> - -<p>After application the would-be actor-singer, if lucky, receives a card, -saying there will be a “voice trial” for some forthcoming musical -comedy at the theatre on such a date at two o’clock. Managements that -have a number of touring companies arrange voice trials regularly once -a week, but others organise them only when necessary.</p> - -<p>Let us take a case of Special Trial for some new production. There are -usually so many persons anxious to procure employment, that three days -are devoted to these trials from two till seven o’clock.</p> - -<p>Upon receiving a card the would-be artist proceeds to his destination -in a state of wild excitement and overpowering nervousness at a quarter -to two, having<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> in the greenness of inexperience arranged to meet a -friend at three o’clock, expecting by then to be able to tell him he -has been engaged.</p> - -<p>On arriving at the corner of the street the youth is surprised to see -a seething mass of struggling humanity striving to get near the stage -door; something like a gallery entrance on a first night. At this -spectacle his nervousness increases, for he has a vague fear that some -of these voices and dramatic powers may be better than his own. During -the wait outside, people recognise and hail friends whom they have -played with in other companies on tour, or met on the concert platform, -or perhaps known in a London theatre. Every one tries to look jaunty -and gay, none would care to acknowledge the cruel anxiety they are -enduring, or own how much depends on an engagement.</p> - -<p>After half an hour, or probably an hour’s wait, the keen young man -reaches the stage door, and finally gets into the passage. In his -eagerness he fancies he sees space in that passage to slip past -a number of people who are waiting round the door-keeper’s room, -and congratulates himself on his smartness in circumventing them. -Somehow he contrives to get through, and finally runs gaily down a -flight of stairs, to find himself—not on the stage, as he had hoped, -but underneath it. A piano and voice are heard overhead. Quickly -retracing his steps he mounts higher and higher in his anxiety to -be an early performer, tries passage after passage, to find nothing -but dressing-rooms, until he arrives breathless at the top of the -building opposite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> two large apartments relegated later to the chorus. -Utterly bewildered by the intricacies of the theatre, and a sound of -music which he cannot locate, the poor novice is almost in despair of -reaching the stage at all. One more effort, and a man who looks like a -carpenter remarks:</p> - -<p>“These ’ere is the flies, sir: there’s the stage,” and he points down -below over some strange scaffolding.</p> - -<p>The singer looks. Lo, there are fifty or sixty people on the stage.</p> - -<p>“And those people?”</p> - -<p>“All trying for a job, sir; but, bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty -will get anything.”</p> - -<p>This sounds cheerless to the stage beginner, whose only recommendation -is a good, well-trained voice.</p> - -<p>With directions from the carpenter he wends his way down again, not -with the same elastic step with which he bounded up the stairs. “Bless -yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get anything” was not a pleasant -piece of news.</p> - -<p>Ah, here is a glass door, through which—oh joy! he sees the stage -at last. He is about to enter gaily when he is stopped by a theatre -official who demands his “form.”</p> - -<p>“Form? What form? I have none.”</p> - -<p>“Go back to the stage door, sign your name and address there, and -fill in the printed form you will get there,” says this gentleman in -stentorian tones that cause the poor youth to tremble while he inquires:</p> - -<p>“Where <em>is</em> the stage door<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span>?”</p> - -<p>“Up those stairs, first to the right, and second to the left.”</p> - -<p>Back he goes, and after another wait, during which he notes many others -filling in forms one by one and asking endless questions, he gets the -book, signs his name, and receives a form in which he enters <em>name</em>, -<em>voice</em>, <em>previous experience</em>, <em>height</em>, and <em>age</em>. There is also a -column headed “<em>Remarks</em>,” which the would-be actor feels inclined -to fill with superlative adjectives, but is informed that “the stage -manager fills in this column himself.”</p> - -<p>At last he is on the stage, and after all the ladies have sung and -some of the men, his name is called and he steps breezily down to the -footlights. Ere he reaches them, however, some one to his left says:</p> - -<p>“Where is your music?” and some one else to his right:</p> - -<p>“Where is your form?”</p> - -<p>He hands the form to a person seated at a table, and turning round -sees a very ancient upright piano, where he gives his music to the -accompanist. Then comes a trying moment. The youth has specially chosen -a song with a long introduction so as to allow time to compose himself. -But that introduction is omitted, for the accompanist in a most -inconsiderate manner starts two bars from the end of it and says:</p> - -<p>“Now then, please, if you’re ready.”</p> - -<p>The singer gets through half a verse, when he is suddenly stopped by:</p> - -<p>“Sing a scale, please<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span>.”</p> - -<p>He sings an octave, and is about to exhibit his beautiful tenor notes, -when he is again interrupted by the question:</p> - -<p>“How low can you go?”</p> - -<p>He climbs down, and with some difficulty manages an A.</p> - -<p>“Is that as deep as you can get?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, but I’m a tenor. Shall I sing my high notes?”</p> - -<p>A voice from the front calls out, “Your name.”</p> - -<p>All this is abruptly disconcerting, and the lad peers into Cimmerian -darkness. In the stalls he sees two ghost-like figures, as “in a glass -dimly.” These are the manager and the composer of the new piece, while -a few rows behind, two or three more spirits may be noted flitting -restlessly about in the light thrown from the stage.</p> - -<p>“Mr. A——” again says that voice from the front.</p> - -<p>“Yes, sir.”</p> - -<p>“Did you say you were a tenor?”</p> - -<p>“Yes.”</p> - -<p>“Ah, I’m afraid we’ve just chosen the last one wanted. We had a voice -trial yesterday, you know.” And the tone sounded a dismissal.</p> - -<p>“May I not sing the last verse of my song?” the young fellow almost -gasps.</p> - -<p>“If you like.” He does like, and the two figures in front lean over in -conversation; but he thinks he detects a friendly nod.</p> - -<p>“Have we your address?” asks one of them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Yes, sir, I left it at the stage door.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you; we’ll communicate with you should we require your -services.” The tenor is about to murmur his thanks, when another voice -from the side of the stage calls, “Mr. Jones, please,” and he hurries -off, hearing the same questions from the two attendant spirits, “Where -is your form?” “Where is your music?” addressed to the new-comer.</p> - -<p>Just as he reaches the door he hears Mr. Jones stopped after three bars -with “Thank you, that will do. Mr. Smith, please.”</p> - -<p>This is balm to his soul; after all, he was not hurried off so quickly, -and he passes out into the light of day with the “Where is your form?” -“Where is your music?” “Bless yer ’eart, not one in twenty will get -anything,” still ringing in his ears. And so to tea with what appetite -he may bring at a quarter to seven instead of three o’clock as arranged.</p> - -<p>Ten weary days pass—he receives no letter, hears nothing. He has almost -given up all hope of that small but certain income, when a type-written -missive arrives:</p> - -<p>“Kindly attend rehearsal at the —— Theatre on Tuesday next at twelve -o’clock.”</p> - -<p>The words swim before his eyes. Can it be true? Can he be among the -successful ones after all? He is so excited he is scarcely able to -eat or sleep, waiting for Tuesday to come. It does come at last, and -he sets out for the theatre, thinking he will not betray further -ignorance, and arrives fashionably late<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> at a quarter to one. This time -he sees no signs of life at the stage door.</p> - -<p>“Of course, now that I belong to the theatre, I must go in through the -front of the house, not at the side entrance,” he says to himself. -Round, therefore, he goes to the front, where some one sitting in the -box office asks:</p> - -<p>“What can I do for you?”</p> - -<p>“Nothing, thanks; I am going to rehearsal.”</p> - -<p>“You’re late. The chorus have started nearly an hour.”</p> - -<p>Good chance here to make an impression.</p> - -<p>“Chorus? I’m a principal.” This is not quite true at the moment, but -may be in a year or two.</p> - -<p>“Principal? Then you’re too early, sir! Principals won’t be called for -another three weeks.”</p> - -<p>The tenor slinks out and goes round to the stage door again, where -“You’re very late, sir,” is the door-keeper’s greeting. “I should -advise you to hurry up, they started some time ago. You’ll find them up -in the saloon. On to the stage, straight through to the front of the -house, and up to the back of the circle.”</p> - -<p>He goes down on the stage, where he finds the same old piano going, -and some one sitting in the stalls, watching a girl in a blouse and -flaming red petticoat, who is dancing, whilst three or four other girls -in various coloured petticoats, none wearing skirts, are waiting their -turn. In the distance he hears sounds of singing, which make the most -unpleasant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> discord with the dance tune on the stage. The accompanist -points to an iron door at the side, passing through which the youth -finds himself outside another door leading to the stalls, and, guided -by his ear, finally reaches the saloon. He enters unobserved to find it -filled with some forty girls and men, standing or sitting about, and -singing from printed copies of something. Sitting down he looks over -his neighbour’s shoulder, and notices that each copy has printed on it -“<span class="smcap">Proof copy. Private.</span>” After half an hour the stage manager, -who has been standing near the piano, says:</p> - -<p>“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that will do: back in an hour, -please. Is Mr. A—— here? And Mr. A—— replies “Yes,” and is told to -wait, and asked why he did not answer to his name before.</p> - -<p>“I was a little late, I fear.”</p> - -<p>“Don’t be late again, or I shall have to fine you.”</p> - -<p>Off he goes to luncheon, and returns with the rest, who after a further -three hours’ work are dismissed for the day.</p> - -<p>This goes on for six hours a day, during a fortnight, when the chorus -is joined by eight more ladies and gentlemen styled “Small-part -people,” who, however, consider themselves very great people all the -same.</p> - -<p>Next the young man is told that in two days every one must be able to -sing without music, as rehearsals will commence on the stage. In due -course comes the first rehearsal on the stage, and after a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> couple of -days <em>Position</em>, <em>Gestures</em>, and <em>Business</em> are all taken up in turn.</p> - -<p>The saloon is then used by the principals, who have now turned up, and -in the intervals of rest the chorus can hear sounds of music floating -toward them.</p> - -<p>In another week the principals join the company on the stage, and -are told their places, while all principals read from their parts at -first, such being the etiquette even if they know their lines. Books -are soon discarded, however, and rehearsals grow rapidly longer, -while everything shows signs of active progress towards production. -Scenery and properties begin to be on view, and every one is sent to be -measured for costumes, wigs, and boots. Then comes the first orchestral -rehearsal, and finally, a week before the production, night rehearsals -start in addition to day, so that people positively live in the theatre -from 11.30 in the morning till 11.30 at night or later. Apart from -all the general rehearsals there are extra rehearsals before or after -these, for the dances.</p> - -<p>There are generally two or three semi-dress rehearsals, followed by the -full-dress rehearsal on Friday afternoon at two o’clock, or sometimes -seven in the evening, when all the reserved seats are filled with -friends of the management or company, various professionals connected -in any way with the stage, and a number of artists and journalists, -making sketches for the papers. At the end of each act the curtain is -rung up and flash-light photographs taken of the effective situation -and the <em>finale</em>, and so at last the curtain rises on the first night. -Nine weeks’ rehearsal were given for a comic<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> opera lately, and no one -was paid for his or her services during all that time. It only ran for -six weeks, when the salaries ceased.</p> - -<p>In comic opera there are such constant changes, of dialogue, songs, and -alterations, that the company have a general rehearsal at least once a -fortnight on the average, right through the run of a piece, and there -is always an entire understudying company ready to go on at any moment.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII<br /> -<br /> -<i>A GIRL IN THE PROVINCES</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Why Women go on the Stage—How to prevent it—Miss Florence St. -John—Provincial Company—Theatrical Basket—A Fit-up Tour—A Theatre -Tour—Répertoire Tour—Strange Landladies—Bills—The Longed-for -Joint—Second-hand Clothes—Buying a Part—Why Men Deteriorate—Oceans -of Tea—E. S. Willard—Why he Prefers America—A Hunt for Rooms—A -Kindly Clergyman—A Drunken Landlady—How the Dog Saved an Awkward -Predicament.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">IT is continually being asked: Why do women crowd the stage?</p> - -<p>The answer is a simple one—because men fail to provide for them. -If every man, willing and able to maintain a wife, married, there -would still be over a million women left. Many women besides these -“superfluous” ones will never marry—many husbands will die, and leave -their widows penniless, and therefore several millions of women in -Great Britain must work to live. Their parents bring them into the -world, but they do not always give them the means of livelihood.</p> - -<p>Marriage with love is entering a heaven with one’s eyes shut, but -marriage without love is entering hell with them open.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span></p> - -<p>What then?</p> - -<p>Women must work until men learn to protect and provide for, not only -their wives, but their mothers, daughters, and sisters. All men should -respect the woman toiler who prefers work to starvation, as all must -deplore the necessity that forces her into such a position. Women of -gentle blood are the greatest sufferers; brought up in luxury, they -are often thrust on the world to starve through no fault of their own -what ever. The middle-class father should also be obliged to make some -provision by insurance for every baby girl, which will enable her to -live, and give her at least the necessities of life, so that she may -not be driven to sell herself to a husband, or die of starvation. -The sons can work for themselves, and might have a less expensive -up-bringing, so that the daughters may be provided for by insurance, if -the tragedies of womanhood now enacted on every side are to cease.</p> - -<p>It is no good for young men to shriek at the invasion of the labour -market by women: the young men must deny themselves a little and -provide for their women folk if it is to be otherwise. It is no good -grinding down the wages of women workers, for that does harm to men -and women alike, and only benefits the employer. Women must work as -things are, and women do work in spite of physical drawbacks, in spite -of political handicap, in spite—too often—of lack of sound education. -The unfortunate part is that women work for less pay than men, under -far harder conditions, and the very men who abuse them for competing -on their own ground, are the men who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> do not raise a hand to make -provision for their own women folk, or try in any way to help the -present disastrous condition of affairs.</p> - -<p>Men can stop this overcrowding of every profession by women if they -really try, and until they do so they should cease to resent a state of -affairs which they themselves have brought about.</p> - -<p>Luckily there is hardly any trade or profession closed to women to-day. -They cannot be soldiers, sailors, firemen, policemen, barristers, -judges, or clergymen in England, but they can be nearly everything -else. Even now, in these so-called enlightened days, men often leave -what money they have to their sons and let chance look after their -daughters. They leave their daughters four alternatives—to starve, to -live on the bitter bread of charity, to marry, or to work. Independent -means is a heritage that seldom falls to the lot of women. There are -too many women on the stage as there are too many women everywhere -else; but on the stage as in authorship, women are at least fairly -treated as regards salary, and can earn, and do earn, just as much as -men.</p> - -<p>The provinces are the school of actors and actresses, so let us now -turn to a provincial company, for after all the really hard work of -theatrical life is most severely felt in the provinces. A pathetic -little account of early struggles appeared lately from the pen of Miss -Florence St. John. At fourteen years of age she sang with a Diorama -along the South coast, and a few months after she married. Her parents -were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> so angry they would have nothing more to do with her, and not -long afterwards her husband’s health failed and he died. Sheer want -pursued her during those years.</p> - -<p>“My efforts to secure work seemed almost hopeless.”</p> - -<p>That is the <em>crux</em> of so many theatrical lives. Those eight words so -often appear—and yet there are sanguine people who imagine employment -can always be obtained on the stage for the mere asking, which is not -so; but let us now follow the fortunes of a lucky one.</p> - -<p>After a play has been sufficiently coached in London, at the last -rehearsal a “call” is put up on the board, which says:</p> - -<p>“<em>Train call.</em> All artistes are to be at —— Station at —— o’clock on such -and such a date. Train arrives at A—— at —— o’clock.”</p> - -<p>When the actors reach the station they find compartments engaged for -them, it being seldom necessary nowadays to charter a private train. -Those compartments are labelled in large lettering with the name of the -play for which they have been secured. The party travel third class, -the manager as a rule reserving first-class compartments for himself -and the stars. Generally the others go in twos and twos according to -their rank in the theatre, that is to say, the first and second lady -travel together, the third and fourth, and so on. Often the men play -cards during the whole journey; generally the women knit, read, or -enliven the hours of weary travel by making tea and talk!</p> - -<p>At each of the stations where the train pauses<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> people look into the -carriages in a most unblushing manner, taking a good stare at the -theatrical folk, as if they were wild beasts at the Zoo instead of -human beings. Sometimes also they make personal and uncomplimentary -remarks, such as:</p> - -<p>“Well, she ain’t pretty a bit,” or, “My! don’t she look different hoff -and hon!”</p> - -<p>Each actress has two supplies of luggage, one of which, namely, a -“<em>theatrical basket</em>,” contains her stage dresses, and the other the -personal belongings which she will require at her lodgings. As a rule, -ere leaving London she is given two sets of labels to place on her -effects, so that the baggage-man may know where to take her trunks and -save her all further trouble.</p> - -<p>Naturally theatrical folk must travel on Sunday. On a “Fit-Up” tour, -when they arrive at the station of the town in which they are to play, -each woman collects her own private property, and those who can afford -the expense drive off in a cab, while the others—by far the more -numerous—deposit it in the “Left Luggage Office.” After securing a -room, the tired traveller returns to the station and employs a porter -to deliver her belongings.</p> - -<p>Sometimes a girl experiences great difficulty in finding a suitable -temporary abode, for, although in large towns a list of lodgings can -be procured, in smaller places no such help is available, and she may -have to trudge from street to street to obtain a decent room at a cheap -rate. By the time what is wanted is found, she generally feels so weary -she is only too thankful to share whatever the landlady may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> chance to -have in the way of food, instead of going out and procuring the same -for herself.</p> - -<p>On a “Theatre Tour” the members of a company nearly always engage -their rooms beforehand and order dinner in advance, because they can -go to recognised theatrical lodgings, a list of which may be procured -by applying to the Actors’ Association, an excellent institution -which helps and protects theatrical folk in many ways. When rooms can -be arranged beforehand, life becomes easier; but this is not always -possible, and then poor wandering mummers meet with disagreeable -experiences, such as finding themselves in undesirable lodgings, or -at the tender mercy of a landlady who is too fond of intoxicants. A -liberal use of insect powder is necessary in smaller towns.</p> - -<p>A girl friend who decided to go on the stage has given me some -valuable information gathered during six or seven years’ experience of -provincial theatrical life. Hers are the experiences of the novice, and -bear out Mrs. Kendal’s advice in an earlier chapter. She was not quite -dependent on her profession, having small means, but for which she says -she must have starved many a time during her noviciate.</p> - -<p>“One comes across various types of landladies,” she explained, “but -they are nearly always good-natured, otherwise they would never put up -with the erratic hours for meals, and the late return of their lodgers. -Some of them have been actresses themselves in the olden days, but, -having married, they desire to ‘lead a respectable life,’ by which -remark they wish one to understand that the would-be lodger is not -considered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> ‘respectable’ so long as she remains in the theatrical -profession.</p> - -<p>“They are sometimes very amusing, at others the reminiscences of their -own experiences prove a little trying; but after all, even such folk -are better than the type of lodging-house-keeper who has come down -in the world, and is always referring to her ‘better days.’ A great -many of these people do not appear ever to have had better days. -Now and then, however, one finds a genuine case and receives every -possible attention, being made happy with flowers—a real luxury when -on tour—nice table linen, fresh towels, all things done in a civilised -manner, and oh dear! what a joy it is to come across such a home.”</p> - -<p>“Are the rooms, then, generally very bare?” I asked.</p> - -<p>“One never finds any luxuries. As a rule one has to be content with -horsehair-covered chairs and sofas, woollen antimacassars, wax or bead -flowers under glass cases, often with the addition of a stuffed parrot -brought home by some favourite sailor son. But simplicity does not -matter at all so long as the lodgings do not smell stuffy. The bedroom -furniture generally consists of the barest necessaries, and if one’s -couch have springs or a soft mattress it proves indeed a delightful -surprise.</p> - -<p>“There is a terrible type of landlady who rushes one for a large bill -just at the last moment. As a rule the account should be brought up on -Saturday night and settled, but this sort of woman generally manages to -put off producing hers until the last<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> moment on Sunday morning, when -one’s luggage is probably on its way to the station. Then she brings -forth a document which takes all the joy out of life, and sends the -unhappy lodger off without a penny in her pocket. Arguing is not of the -slightest use, and if one happens to be a woman, as in my case, she has -to pay what is demanded rather than risk a scene.”</p> - -<p>My friend’s experiences were so practical I asked her many questions, -in reply to some of which she continued:</p> - -<p>“I have always managed to share expenses with some one I knew, which -arrangement, besides being less lonely, reduced the cost considerably; -but even then there is a terrible sameness about one’s food. An egg -for breakfast is very general, as some ‘ladies’ even object to cooking -a rasher of bacon. Jam and other delicacies are beyond our means. -Everlasting chop or steak with potatoes for dinner. One never sees -a joint; it is not possible unless a slice can be begged from the -landlady, in which case one often has to pay dearly for the luxury.</p> - -<p>“We generally have supper after we return from the theatre, from -which we often have to walk home a mile or more after changing. Many -landladies refuse to cook anything hot at night, in which case tinned -tongue or potted meat suffice; but a hot meal, though consisting only -of a little piece of fish or poached eggs, is such a joy when one comes -home tired and worn out, that it is worth a struggle to try to obtain.</p> - -<p>“The least a bill ever comes to in a week is fifteen<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> shillings, and -that after studying economy in every way possible. Even though two of -us lived together I never succeeded in reducing my share below that.”</p> - -<p>“What is the usual day?”</p> - -<p>“One has breakfast as a rule between ten and eleven—earlier, of course, -if a rehearsal has been called for eleven, in which case ten minutes’ -grace is given for the difference in local clocks; any one late after -that time gets sharply reprimanded by the management. After rehearsal -on tour a walk till two or three, a little shopping, dinner 4.30, a -rest, a cup of tea at 6.30, after which meal one again proceeds to the -theatre, home about 11.30, supper and bed. Week in, week out it is -pretty much the same.</p> - -<p>“For the first four years I only earned a guinea a week, and as it was -necessary for me to find all my own costumes for the different parts -in the companies in which I played, I had to visit second-hand shops -and buy ladies’ cast-off ball dresses and things of that sort, although -cheap materials and my sewing machine managed to supply me with day -garments. It is extraordinary what wonderful effects one can get over -the footlights with a dress which by daylight looks absolutely filthy -and tawdry, provided it be well cut; that is why it is advisable to buy -good second-hand clothes when possible.</p> - -<p>“In my own theatre basket I have fourteen complete costumes, and with -these I can go on any ordinary tour. I travelled for some time with a -girl who, though well-born, had out of her miserable guinea<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> a week to -help members of her family at home. She was an excellent needlewoman, -and used to send her sewing-machine with her basket to the theatre, -where she sat nearly all day making clothes or cutting them out for -other members of the company. By these means she earned a few extra -shillings a week, which helped towards the expenses of her kinsfolk. -She was a nice girl, but delicate, and I always felt she ought to have -had all the fresh air possible instead of bending over a sewing-machine -in a stuffy little dressing-room.</p> - -<p>“Of course it is necessary for us to take great care of our private -clothes, and in order to save them I generally keep an old skirt for -trudging backwards and forwards through the dust and dirt, and for -rehearsals, since at some of the ill-kept provincial theatres a good -gown would be ruined in a few days; added to which, one often gets -soaked on the way to and from the theatre, for we can rarely afford -cabs, and even if we could, on a wet night the audience take all -available vehicles, so that by the time the performers are ready to -leave, not one is to be procured.”</p> - -<p>Perhaps it may be well to say a little more concerning the theatre -basket. It looks like a large washing basket, but being made of -wicker-work is light. It is lined inside with mackintosh, and bears the -name of the company to which it belongs on the outside. It is taken to -the theatre on Sunday when the party arrives in the town, and as a rule -each actress goes first thing on Monday morning for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span> rehearsal and to -unpack. The ordinary provincial company usually comprises about five -men and five women, but in important dramas there are many more, and -sometimes a dozen women and girls will have to dress in one room.</p> - -<p>Of course the principal actresses select the best dressing-rooms, and -each chooses according to her rank. Round the wall of the room a table -is fastened, such a table as one might find in a dairy, under which -the dress baskets stand. Those who can afford it, provide their own -looking-glass and toilet-cover to put over their scrap of table, also -sheets to cover the dirty walls, ere hanging up their skirts; but as -every one cannot afford to pay for the washing of such luxuries, many -have to dispense with them.</p> - -<p>There is seldom a green-room in the provinces, so as a rule the -actresses sit upon their own baskets during the waits; and as in many -theatres there are no fireplaces in these little dressing-rooms, and -not always artificial heat, there they remain huddled in shawls waiting -their “call.”</p> - -<p>“The most interesting form of company,” said my friend, “is the -‘Répertoire,’ for that will probably give three different pieces a -week, which is much more lively than performing in the same play every -night for months.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_312fp"> -<img src="images/i_312fp.jpg" width="290" height="600" alt="" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>From a painting by Hugh de T. Glazebrook.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL.</p></div> - -<p>“If any one falls out of the cast through illness or any other reason, -and a new man or woman join the company, a fortnight is required for -rehearsals, and during that fortnight we unfortunate players <span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span>have to -give our gratuitous services every day for some hours.”</p> - -<p>On asking her whether she thought it wise for a girl to choose the -stage as a profession, she shook her head sadly.</p> - -<p>“I do not think a woman should ever choose the stage as a profession -if she have any person depending upon her, for it is practically -impossible to live on one’s precarious earnings. It is only the lucky -few who can ever hope to make a regular income, and certainly in the -provinces very few of us do even that. Many managers like to engage -husbands and wives for their company, as this means a joint salary and -a saving in consequence. These married couples do not generally get on -well, and certainly fail to impress one with the bliss of professional -wedded life.”</p> - -<p>“What are the chances of success?” I inquired.</p> - -<p>“The chances of getting on at all on the stage are small in these days, -when advancement means one must either have influence at headquarters, -or be able to bring grist to the manager’s mill. It is heart-breaking -for those who feel they could succeed if they were but given a -chance, to see less talented but more influential sisters pushed into -positions. One gradually loses all hope of true merit finding its own -reward, while it is no uncommon thing for a girl to pay down £20 to -be allowed to play a certain part. She may be utterly unfitted for -the <em>rôle</em>, but £20 is not to be scoffed at, and she is therefore -pitchforked into it to succeed or fail. In most cases she fails, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> -cannot get another engagement unless she produces a second £20.</p> - -<p>“No, I do not consider the stage a good profession for a girl, simply -because there is no authority over her, and few people take enough -interest in the young creature to even warn her of the peril. In the -theatrical profession, and especially on tour, the sexes meet on an -equal footing. No chivalry need be expected, and is certainly rarely -received, because when one is vouchsafed any little attention or -politeness, such as one would naturally claim in society or take for -granted in daily intercourse, it is merely because the man has some -natural instinct which causes him to be polite in spite of adverse -circumstances.</p> - -<p>“The majority of men upon the stage to-day are so-called gentlemen, -but there is something in the life which does not conduce to keep -them up to the standard from which they start. They become careless -in their manners, dress, and conversation, and keep their best side -for the audience. As a rule they are kind-hearted and willing to help -women, but men upon the stage get ‘petty.’ I do not know whether it is -the effect of the paint, the powder, and the clothes, or the fact of -their doing nothing all day, but they certainly deteriorate; one sees -the decadence month by month. They begin by being keen on sport, for -instance, but gradually they find even moving their bicycles about an -expense and leave them behind. They have nowhere to go, are not even -temporary members of clubs, so gradually get into the habit of staying -in bed till twelve or even two o’clock for lack<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> of something to -interest them, and finish the rest of the day in a ‘gin crawl,’ which -simply means sitting in public-houses drinking and smoking.</p> - -<p>“Unfortunately this love of drink sometimes increases, and as alcohol -can be readily procured by the dresser, men and women too, feeling -exhausted, often take things which had better be avoided. You see their -meals are not sufficiently substantial—how can they be on the salary -paid? Girls live on small rations of bread, butter, and oceans of tea, -and the men on endless sausage rolls and mugs of beer.”</p> - -<p>This reminds me of a little chat I had with E. S. Willard. On the -fiftieth night of that excellent play <cite>The Cardinal</cite>, by Louis N. -Parker, at the St. James’s Theatre, a mutual friend came to ask me to -pay a visit behind the stage to the great Mr. Willard.</p> - -<p>We arrived in Mr. Alexander’s sitting-room described elsewhere, at -the end of the third act, and a moment later the rustling silk of the -Cardinal’s robe was heard in the passage.</p> - -<p>“I’m afraid this is unkind of me,” I said: “after that great scene you -deserve a ‘whisky and soda’ instead of a woman and talk.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all,” said this splendid-looking ecclesiastic, seating himself -gaily. “I never take anything of that sort till my work is done.”</p> - -<p>“But you must be fearfully exhausted after such a big scene?”</p> - -<p>“No. It is the eighth performance this week, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> the second to-day; -but I’m not really tired, and love my work, although I do enjoy my -Sunday’s rest.”</p> - -<p>Mr. Willard looks handsomer off the stage than on. His strong face -seems to have a kindlier smile, his manner to be even more courtly, -and I was particularly struck with the fact that he wore little or no -make-up.</p> - -<p>“You are an Englishman,” I said, “and yet you have deserted your native -land for America?”</p> - -<p>“Not so. I’m English, of course, though I love America,” was the reply. -“Seven years ago I went across the Atlantic and was successful, then -I had a terrible illness which lasted three years. When I was better -I did not dare start afresh in England and risk failure, so I began -again in the States, where I was sure of the dollars. They have been -so kind to me over there that I do not now like to leave them. You see -America is so enormous, the constant influx of emigrants so great, one -can go on playing the same piece for years and years, as Jefferson is -still doing in <cite>Rip van Winkle</cite>. Here new plays are constantly wanted, -and even if an actor is an old favourite he cannot drag a poor play to -success. Management in London has become a risky matter. Expenses are -enormous, and a few failures mean ruin.”</p> - -<p>Alas! at that moment the wretched little bell which heralds a new act -rang forth, and I barely had time to reach the box before Mr. Willard -was once more upon the stage, continuing his masterly performance. He -is an actor of strong personality, and can ill be spared from England’s -shores.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span></p> - -<p>But to return to the provinces, and the experiences of the pretty -little actress.</p> - -<p>“The familiarity which necessarily exists between the sexes,” continued -she, “both in acting together at night, and rehearsing together by day, -is in itself a danger to some girls who are unfortunate enough to be -thrown into close companionship with unprincipled men, and have not -sufficient worldly wisdom or instinct to guard against their advances.</p> - -<p>“The idea of the stage door being besieged by admirers is far from true -in the provinces. With musical comedies of rather a low order there may -be a certain amount of hanging about after the performance, but in the -case of an ordinary company this rarely happens. The real danger in the -provinces does not come from outside.</p> - -<p>“Life on tour for a single man is anything but agreeable. He has no one -to look after his clothes, for, needless to say, no landlady will do -that, and therefore both his theatre outfit and his private garments -are always getting torn and worn. As a rule, however, there are capable -women in the company who are willing to sew on buttons, mend, or -darn, and if it were not for their good nature, many men would find -themselves in sorry plight.”</p> - -<p>She was an intelligent, clever girl, and I asked her how she got on the -stage.</p> - -<p>“After having been trained under a well-known manager for six months -and paying him thirty guineas for his services, I was offered an -engagement in one of his companies then starting for a ‘Fit-Up’ -tour<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> through Scotland at a £1 week, payable in two instalments, -namely, 10<i>s.</i> on Wednesday and 10<i>s.</i> on Saturday. Fortunately, -being a costume play, dresses were provided, but I had to buy tights, -grease-paint, sandals, and various ornaments, give two weeks’ -rehearsals in London free, play for three nights and live for three -days in Scotland before I received even the first ten shillings.</p> - -<p>“Happily I was the proud possessor of small means, and shared my rooms -and everything with a girl friend who had trained at the same time as -myself, consequently we managed with great care to make both ends meet; -but it was hard work for us even with my little extra money, and what -girls do who have to live entirely on their pay, and put by something -for the time when they are out of an engagement, a time which often -comes, I do not pretend to know.</p> - -<p>“A ‘Fit-Up’ tour is admittedly the most expensive kind of work for -actors, because it means that three nights is the longest period one -ever remains in any town, most of the time being booked for ‘one-night -places’ only. On this particular tour of sixteen weeks there were no -less than sixty ‘one-night places,’ and my total salary amounted to £16.</p> - -<p>“It may sound ridiculous to travel with a dog, but mine proved of the -greatest use to me on more than one occasion. Our first hunt was always -for rooms; the term sounds grand, for the ‘rooms’ generally consisted -of one chamber with a bed sunk into the wall, as they are to-day at a -great public school like<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> Harrow. To get to this abode we sometimes had -to pass through the family apartments, a most embarrassing proceeding, -as the members had generally retired to rest before our return from the -theatre; but still, ‘beggars cannot be choosers,’ and in some ways we -often felt ourselves in that position.</p> - -<p>“Supposing we arrived at a one-night place, we would sally forth and buy</p> - -<div class="center"> -<table class="my100" border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="1" summary="shopping list"> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">¼</td> -<td class="tdl"> lb. tea,</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">¼</td> -<td class="tdl"> lb. butter,</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">1</td> -<td class="tdl"> small loaf,</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">½</td> -<td class="tdl"> lb. steak or chop for dinner,</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdl">2</td> -<td class="tdl"> eggs for breakfast.</td> -</tr></table></div> - -<p>“The landlady’s charge as a rule for two lodgers sharing expenses -varied from 2<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i> to 3<i>s.</i> for a single night, or 5<i>s.</i> for three -nights, so that the one-night business was terribly extravagant.</p> - -<p>“Being our first tour we were greatly interested by the novelty of -everything; it was this novelty and excitement which carried us -through. We really needed to be sharp and quick, for in that particular -play we had to change our apparel no less than six times. We were Roman -ladies, slaves, and Christians intermittently during the evening, -being among those massacred in the second act, and resuscitated to be -eaten by lions at the end of the play; therefore, while the audience -were moved to tears picturing us being devoured by roaring beasts, we -were ourselves roaring in the wings in imitation of those bloodthirsty -animals.</p> - -<p>“A ‘Fit-Up’ carries all its own scenery, and nearly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> always goes to -small towns which have no theatre, only a Town Hall or Corn Exchange, -while the dressing-rooms, especially in the latter, are often extremely -funny, being like little stalls in a stable, where we sometimes found -corn on the floor, and could look over at each other like horses in -their stalls.</p> - -<p>“The ‘Fit-Up’ takes its own carpenter, who generally plays two or three -parts during the evening. He has to make the stage fit the scenery or -<em>vice versâ</em>, and get everything into working order for the evening -performance.</p> - -<p>“On one occasion we arrived at a little town in Scotland and started -off on our usual hunt for rooms. We were growing tired and depressed; -time was creeping on, and if we did not obtain a meal and rooms soon, -we knew we should have to go to the theatre hungry, and spend that -night in the wings. Matters were really getting desperate when we met -two other members of the company in similar plight. One of them was -boldly courageous, however, and when we saw a clergyman coming towards -us, suggested she should ask him if he knew of any likely place. She -did so, and he very kindly told her to mention his name at an inn where -he was sure they would, if possible, put her and her friend up, but -he added, ‘There is only one room.’ This, of course, did not help my -friend and myself, so after the two had started off we stood wondering -what was to become of us.</p> - -<p>“‘Can you not tell us of any other place?’ we asked. No, he could not, -but at this moment a lady<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> appeared on the scene who asked what we -wanted. We explained the difficulty of our situation, and she pondered -and thought, but intimated there was no lodging she could recommend, -whereupon we proceeded disconsolately on our way, not in the least -knowing what we were to do.</p> - -<p>“A moment or two afterwards we heard some one running behind. It was -the clergyman. Taking off his hat and almost breathless, he exclaimed, -‘My wife wishes to speak to you,’ and lo and behold that dear wife -hurried after him to say she felt so sorry for the position in which we -were placed that she would be very glad if my friend and I would give -her the pleasure of our company and stay at her house for the night.</p> - -<p>“We went. She sent from the vicarage to the station for our belongings, -and we could not have been more kindly treated if we had been her -dearest friends. She had a fire lighted in our bedroom, and there were -lovely flowers on the table when we returned from the theatre. They -took us for a charming expedition to some old ruins on the following -morning, invited friends to meet us at luncheon, and although they did -not go to the theatre themselves at night, they sat up for us and had a -delightful little supper prepared against our return.</p> - -<p>“I shall never forget the great kindness they showed us. I am sure -there are very few people who would be tempted to proffer such courtesy -and hospitality to two wandering actresses; and yet if they only knew -how warmly their goodness was appreciated and how<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> beneficent its -influence proved, they would feel well repaid.</p> - -<p>“In the afternoon when it was time to leave, rain was pouring down, -but that fact did not deter the clergyman from accompanying us to the -station, carrying an umbrella in one hand and a bag in the other, while -his little son followed with a great bunch of flowers.</p> - -<p>“As if to take us down after such luxurious quarters, we fell upon evil -days at the very next town, where we were told it was difficult to get -accommodation at all, and therefore made up our minds to take the first -we met. It did not look inviting, but the woman said that by the time -we had done our shopping she would have everything clean and straight. -We bought our little necessaries, and as the door was opened by a small -boy handed them in to him, saying we were going for a walk but would -be back in less than an hour for tea. On our return we were admitted, -but saw no signs of tea, so rang the bell. No one came. We waited ten -minutes and rang again. A pause. Suddenly the door was burst open and -in reeled the landlady, who banged down a jug of boiling water on the -table and departed. We gazed at each other in utter consternation, -feeling very much frightened, for we both realised she was drunk.</p> - -<p>“We rang again after a time, but as no one attempted to answer our -summons, and it being impossible to make a meal off hot water, I crept -forth to reconnoitre. There was not a soul to be seen,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> not even the -little boy, but I ventured into the kitchen to try if I could not find -the bread, butter, and tea, so that we might prepare something to eat -for ourselves. While so engaged a sonorous sound made me turn round, -and there upon the floor with her head resting upon a chair in the -corner of the room lay our landlady, dead drunk. It was an appalling -sight. We gathered our things together as quickly as we could and -determined to leave, put a shilling on the table to appease the good -woman’s wrath when she awoke, and were glad to shake the dust of her -home from our feet.</p> - -<p>“Not far off was a Temperance Hotel, the sight of which after our -recent experience we hailed with delight, and where we engaged a -bedroom, to which we repaired, when our evening’s work was finished.</p> - -<p>“My dog, who always lay at the foot of my bed, woke us in the middle of -the night by his low growls. He seemed much perturbed, so we lay and -listened. The cause of his anxiety soon became clear; <em>some one was -trying to turn the handle of the door</em>, while the voices of two men -could be heard distinctly, one of which said:</p> - -<p>“‘Only two actresses, go on,’ and then the door handle turned again -and his friend was pushed in. It was all dark, but at that moment my -dog’s growls and barks became so furious and angry as he sprang from -the bed that the man precipitately departed, and we were left in peace, -although too nervous to sleep.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Of course we complained next morning, but equally of course the -landlady knew nothing about the matter. These were our best and worst -experiences during my first tour.”</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII<br /> -<br /> -<i>PERILS OF THE STAGE</i><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Easy to Make a Reputation—Difficult to Keep One—The Theatrical -Agent—The Butler’s Letter—Mrs. Siddons’ Warning—Theatrical -Aspirants—The Bogus Manager—The Actress of the Police -Court—Ten Years of Success—Temptations—Late Hours—An Actress’s -Advertisement—A Wicked Agreement—Rules Behind the Scenes—Edward -Terry—Success a Bubble.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">MANKIND curses bad luck, but seldom blesses good fate. It is -comparatively easy to make a reputation once given a start by kindly -fate; but extremely difficult to maintain one in any walk of life, and -this applies particularly to the stage.</p> - -<p>Happening to meet a very pretty girl who had made quite a hit in the -provinces and was longing for a London engagement, I asked her what her -experience of theatrical agents had been.</p> - -<p>“Perfectly horrible,” she replied, “and heart-breaking into the -bargain. For three whole months I have been daily to a certain office, -and in all this weary time I have only had five interviews with the -manager.”</p> - -<p>“Is it so difficult to get work?”</p> - -<p>“It is almost impossible. When I arrive, the little stuffy office is -more or less crowded; there are women<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> seeking engagements for the -music halls, fat, common, vulgar women who laugh loud and make coarse -jokes; there are sickly young men who want to play lovers’ parts on the -legitimate stage, and who, according to the actors’ habit, never take -their hats off. It is a strange fact that actors invariably rehearse in -hats or caps, and sit in them on all occasions like Jews in synagogues.</p> - -<p>“There are children who come alone and wait about daily for an -engagement, children who have been employed in the pantomime, and whose -parents are more or less dependent on their gains, and there is one -girl, she is between thirteen and fourteen, whom I have met there every -day for weeks and weeks. Seventy-four days after the pantomime closed -she was still without work, and I watched that child get thinner and -paler time by time as she told me with tears in her eyes she was the -sole support of a sick mother.</p> - -<p>“When I go there, the gentleman who has the office makes me shrivel up.</p> - -<p>“‘Do you specialise?’ he asks, peeping over the edge of his gold-rimmed -spectacles. He jots down my replies on a sheet of paper. ‘Character or -juvenile parts?’ he inquires. ‘What salary? Whom have you played with?’ -And having made these and other inquiries he looks through a series -of books, turns over the pages, says, ‘I am sorry I have nothing for -you to-day, you might look in again to-morrow.’ And this same farce or -tragedy is repeated every time.”</p> - -<p>“But is it worth while going?” I asked.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Hardly; one wears out one’s shoe-leather and one’s temper; and yet -after all the theatrical agent is practically my only chance of an -engagement. This man is all right, he is not a bogus agent, but he -simply has a hundred applicants for every single post he has to fill.”</p> - -<p>She went back day after day, and week after week, and each time -the same scene was enacted, but no engagement came of it. Finally, -brought to the verge of starvation, she had to accept work again in -the provinces, and so desert an invalid father. She happened to be a -lady, but of course many applicants for histrionic fame ought to be -kitchen-maids or laundry-maids: they have no qualifications whatever to -any higher walk of life.</p> - -<p>Below is an original letter showing the kind of person who wants to go -on the stage. It was sent to one of our best-known actresses when she -was starring with her own company.</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p class="right">“... <span class="smcap">Castle</span> <br /> -“<i>Oct 19th 1897</i></p> -<p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Madam</span></p> - -<p class="p2">“i writ you this few lins to see if you would have a opening for me -as i would be an Actor on the Stage for my hole thought and life -is on the stage and when i have any time you will always feind me -readin at some play i make a nice female as i have a very soft -voice Dear Madam i hop you will not refuse me i have got no frends -alive to keep me back and every one tells me that you would make -the best teacher that i could get Dear lady i again ask you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> not to -refuse me i will go on what ever termes you think best i have been -up at the theatre 4 times seeing you i enclose my Card to let you -see it plese to send it back again and i enclose 12 stamps to you -to telegraf by return if you would like to see me or if you would -like to come down to the Castle to see me No more at present</p> - -<p class="right">“but remans your <br /> -“Obedient servant <br /> -“Peter W——.”</p></div> - -<p>This was a letter from a man with aspirations, and below is a letter -from Mrs. Siddons. If this actress, whose position was probably the -grandest and greatest of any woman on the stage, can express such -sentiments, what must be the experiences of less successful players?</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“Mrs. Siddons presents her compliments to Miss Goldsmith, & takes -the liberty to inform her, that altho’ herself she has enjoyed all -the advantages arising from holding the first situation in the -drama, yet that those advantages have been so counterbalanced by -anxiety & mortification, that she long ago resolved never to be -accessory to bringing any one into so precarious & so arduous a -profession.”</p></div> - -<p>The deterrent words of Mrs. Siddons had little effect in her day, -just as the deterrent words of those at the top of the profession -have little effect now. Consequently, not only does the honest agent -flourish,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> but the bogus agent and bogus manager grow rich on the -credulity of young men and women.</p> - -<p>Speaking of the bogus manager, Sir Henry Irving observed:</p> - -<p>“The actor’s art is thought to be so easy—in fact, many people deny it -is an art at all—and so many writers persistently assert no preparation -is needed for a career upon the stage, that it is little wonder deluded -people only find out too late that acting, as Voltaire said, is one of -the most rare and difficult of arts. The allurements, too, held forth -by unscrupulous persons, who draw money from foolish folk under the -pretence of obtaining lucrative engagements for them, help to swell -very greatly the list of unfortunate dupes. I hope that these matters -may in time claim the attention of serious-minded persons, for the -increasing number of theatrical applicants for charity, young persons, -too, is little less than alarming.”</p> - -<p>This remark of Sir Henry’s is hardly surprising when below is a -specimen application received by the manager of a London suburban -theatre from a female farm servant in Essex:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Deer sur</span>,—I works hon a farm but wants to turn actin. -Would lik ingagement for the pantomin in hany ways which you think -I be fit for. I sings in the church coir and plais the melodion. I -wants to change my work for the stage, has am sik of farm wark, eas -last tater liftin nigh finished me.”</p></div> - -<p>Another was written in an almost illegible hand which ran:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span></p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Honoured Sir</span>,—i wants to go on the staige i am a servent -and my marster sais i am a good smart made so i wod like to play -act mades parts untill i can do laidies i doant mind wages for a -bit as i like your acting i’d like to act in your theter so i am -going to call soon.”</p></div> - -<p>Truly the assurance of people is amazing; to imagine they can enter the -theatrical profession without even common education is absurd. Only -lately another stage-struck servant appeared in the courts. Although an -honest girl, she was tempted to steal from her mistress to pay £3 7<i>s.</i> -to an agent for a problematical theatrical engagement. She is only one -of many.</p> - -<p>One day a woman stood before a manager. She had been so persistent for -days in her desire to see him, and appeared so remarkable, that the -stage door-keeper at last inquired if he might admit her.</p> - -<p>“Please, sir, I wants to be an actress,” she began, on entering the -manager’s room.</p> - -<p>“Do you? And what qualifications have you?”</p> - -<p>“I’m a cook.”</p> - -<p>“That, my good woman, will hardly help you on the stage.”</p> - -<p>“And I’ve been to the the-a-ters with my young man—I’m keeping company -with ’im ye know, and——”</p> - -<p>“Well, well.”</p> - -<p>“And ’e and I thinks you ain’t got the right tone of hactress for them -parts. Now I’m a real cook I am, and I don’t wear them immoral ’igh -’eels, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> tiny waists, I dresses respectable I do, and I’d just give -the right style to the piece. My pal—she’s a parlourmaid she is—could -do duchesses and them like—she’s the air she ’as—but I ain’t ambitious, -I’d just like to be what I am, and show people ’ow a real cook should -be played—Lor’ bless ye, sir, I don’t cook in diamond rings.”</p> - -<p>That manager did not engage the lady; but he learnt a lesson in realism -which resulted in Miss FitzClair being asked to dispense with her rings -on the stage that night.</p> - -<p>With a parting nod the “lady” said as she left the door:</p> - -<p>“Your young man don’t make love proper neither, you should just see -’ow ’Arry makes love you should, he’d make you all sit up, I know, he -does it that beautiful he do—your man’s a arf-’arted bloke ’e is, seems -afraid of the gal, perhaps it’s ’er ’igh ’eels and diamonds ’e’s afraid -of, eh?”</p> - -<p>The lady took herself off.</p> - -<p>These are only a few instances to show how all sorts and conditions of -people are stage-struck. That delightful man Sir Walter Besant lay down -an excellent rule for young authors, “Never pay to produce a book”—it -spells ruin to the aspirant. The same may be said of the stage. <em>Never -part with money to get on the stage.</em> It may be advisable to accept a -little if one cannot get much; but never, never to pay for a footing. -Services will be accepted while given free or paid for, and dispensed -with when the time comes for payment to be received.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span></p> - -<p>Among the many temptations of stage life is drink. The actor feels a -little below par, he has a great scene before him, and while waiting -in his dressing-room for the “call boy” he flies to a glass of whiskey -or champagne. He gets through the trying ordeal, comes off the boards -excited and streaming at every pore, flings himself into a chair, and -during the time his dresser is dragging him out of his clothes, or -rubbing him down, yields to the temptation of another glass. Many of -our actors are most abstemious, though more than one prominent star has -been known to mumble incoherently on the stage.</p> - -<p><em>Matinée</em> days are always a strain for every one in the theatre, and -there are people foolish enough to think a little stimulant will enable -them to get through, not knowing a continuance of forced strength -spells damnation.</p> - -<p>Yes. The stage is surrounded by temptations. Morally, extravagantly, -and alcoholically the webs of excess are ready to engulf the unwary, -and therefore, when people keep straight, run fair, and save their -pennies, they are to be congratulated, and deserve the approbation of -mankind. He who has never been tempted, is not a hero in comparison -with the man who has turned aside from the enticing wiles of sin.</p> - -<p>There is a certain class of woman who continually appears in the police -courts, described as an “actress.” She is always “smartly dressed,” -and is generally up before the magistrate or judge for being “drunk -and disorderly”—suing her husband or some one else for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span> maintenance—or -claiming to have some grievance for a breach of promise or lost -jewellery.</p> - -<p>These “ladies” often describe themselves as actresses: and perhaps -they sometimes are; but if so they are no honour to their profession. -There is another stamp of woman who becomes an actress by persuading -some weak man to run a theatre for her. Sympathy between men and women -is often dangerous. She generally ends by ruining him, and he in -running away from her. These bogus actresses, with their motor cars and -diamonds, are more dangerous and certainly more attractive than the -bogus manager. They are the vultures who suck young men’s blood. They -are the flashy, showy women who attract silly servant-girls with the -idea the stage spells wealth and success; but they are the scourge of -the profession.</p> - -<p>Good and charming women are to be found upon the stage. Virtue usually -triumphs; they are happy in their home life, devoted to their children, -sympathetic to their friends, and generous almost to a fault. The -leading actresses are, generally speaking, not only the best exponents -of their art, but the best women too. The flash and dash come to the -police courts, and end their days in the workhouse.</p> - -<p>The stage at best means very, very hard work, and theatrical success -is only fleeting in most cases. It must be seized upon when caught -and treated as a fickle jade, because money and popularity both take -wings and fly away sooner than expected. In all professions men and -women quickly reach their zenith, and if they are clever may hold that -position for ten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> years. After that decline is inevitable and more -rapid than the ascent has been.</p> - -<p>If a reputation is to be made, it is generally achieved by either -man or woman before the age of forty. By fifty the summit of fame is -reached, and the downward grade begun. One can observe this again and -again in every profession.</p> - -<p>A great actor, doctor, lawyer, writer, or painter has ten years of -success, and if he does not provide for his future during those ten -years, ’tis sad for him. As the tide turns on the shore, so the tide -turns on the careers of men and women alike.</p> - -<p>Public life is not necessarily bad. In the first place, it is only -the man with strong individuality who can ever attain publicity. He -must be above the ordinary ruck and gamut, or he will never receive -public recognition. If, therefore, he is stronger than his brother, -he should be stronger also to resist temptation, to disdain self-love -or vainglory. The moment his life becomes public he is under the -microscope, and should remember his influence is great for good or -ill. Popular praise is pleasant, but after all it means little; one’s -own conscience is the thing, that alone tells whether we have given -of our best or reached our ideal. The true artist is never satisfied, -therefore the true artist never suffers from a swelled head; it is the -minor fry who enjoy that ailment.</p> - -<p>The temptations behind the footlights are enormous. It is useless -denying the fact. One may love the stage, and count many actors and -actresses among one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span>’s friends; but one cannot help seeing that -theatrical life is beset by dangers and pitfalls.</p> - -<p>Young men and women alike are run after and fawned upon by foolish -people of both sexes. Morally this is bad. Actors are flattered and -worshipped as though they were little gods. This in itself tends to -evoke egotism. The gorgeous apparel of the theatre makes men and -women extravagant in their dress; the constant going backwards and -forwards in all weathers inclines them to think they must save time or -themselves by driving; the fear of catching cold makes them indulge -in cabs and carriages they cannot afford, and extravagance becomes -their besetting sin. Every one wants to look more prosperous than his -neighbour, every recipient of forty shillings a week wishes the world -to think his salary is forty pounds.</p> - -<p>Apart from pay, the life is exacting. The leaders of the profession -seldom sup out: they are tired after the evening’s work, and know that -burning the candle at both ends means early extinction, but the Tottie -Veres and Gladys Fitz-Glynes are always ready to be entertained.</p> - -<p>The following advertisement appeared one day in a leading London paper:</p> - -<div class="blockquote"> - -<p>“<span class="smcap">Stage.</span>—I am nearly eighteen, tall, fair, good-looking, -have a little money, and wish to adopt the stage as a profession. -Engagement wanted.”</p></div> - -<p>What was the result? Piles of letters, containing all sorts of -offers to help Miss A—— to her doom. A certain gentleman wrote from -a well-known fashionable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> club, the letter being marked <em>Private</em>, -saying: “I should like if possible to assist you in your desire to -go on the stage, but I am not professional myself in any way. This -is purely a matter in which I might be happy to take an interest and -assist, if you think proper to communicate with me by letter, stating -exactly the circumstances, and when I can have an interview with you -on the subject.” This letter might be capable of many interpretations. -The gentleman might, of course, have been purely philanthropic in his -motives; we will give him the benefit of the doubt.</p> - -<p>Others were yet more strange and suggestive of peril for the girl of -eighteen.</p> - -<p>What might have been the end of all this? Supposing Miss A—— had -granted an interview to No. 1. Supposing further he had advanced the -money for the novice to buy an engagement, what might have proved -her fate? She would have been in his clutches—young, inexperienced, -powerless, in the hands of a man who, if really philanthropic, could -easily have found persons needing interest and assistance among his own -immediate surroundings, instead of going wide afield to dispense his -charity and selecting for the purpose an unknown girl of eighteen who -innocently stated she was good-looking.</p> - -<p>Miss Geneviève Ward, a woman who has climbed to the top of her -profession, allows me to tell the following little story about herself -as a warning to others, for it was only her own genius—a very rare -gift—which dragged her to the front.</p> - -<div class="figcenter" id="i_336fp"> -<img src="images/i_336fp.jpg" width="345" height="600" alt="here i am my dear old friend gee gee" /> -<p class="noindent"><i>By permission of W. Boughton & Sons, Photographers, Lowestoft.</i></p> - -<p class="caption">MR. GEORGE GROSSMITH.</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span></p> - -<p>When she first came to England, with a name already well established -in America, expecting an immediate engagement, she could not get work -at all. She applied to the best-known theatrical agents in London. Day -after day she went there, she a woman in her prime and at the top of -her profession, and yet she was unable to obtain work.</p> - -<p>“Tragedy is dead, Miss Ward,” exclaimed Mr. B——. “Young women with fine -physical developments are what we want.”</p> - -<p>It was not talent, not experience, that were required according to this -well-known agent, but legs and arms—a poor standard, truly, for the -drama of the country.</p> - -<p>However, at last there came a day, after many weary months of waiting, -when some one was wanted to play tragedy at Manchester. It was only -a twelve weeks’ engagement, and the pay but £8 a week. It was a -ridiculous sum for one in Miss Ward’s position to accept, but she was -worn out with anxiety, and determined not to go back to America and own -herself vanquished; therefore she accepted the offer, paid the agent -heavily, and went to Manchester, where she played for twelve weeks as -arranged. Before many nights had passed, however, she had signed a -further engagement at double the pay. Her chance in England had come -and she had won.</p> - -<p>If such delay, such misery, such anxiety can befall those whose -position is already established, and whose talents are known, what must -await the novice?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span></p> - -<p>“I suppose I have kept more girls off the stage than any living woman,” -said Miss Ward. “Short, ugly, fat, common, hopeless girls come to me to -ask my advice. There is not one in twenty who has the slightest chance, -not the very slightest chance, of success. Servants come, dressmakers, -wives of military men, daughters of bishops and titled folk. The mania -seems to spread from high to low, and yet hardly one of them has a -voice, figure, carriage, or anything suitable for the stage, even -setting dramatic talent aside.”</p> - -<p>“What do you say to them?”</p> - -<p>“Tell them right out. I think it is kinder to them, and more generous -to the drama. ‘Mind you,’ I say, ‘I am telling you this for your own -good; if I consulted personal profit I should take you as a pupil and -fill my pocket with your guineas; but you are hopeless, nothing could -possibly make you succeed with such a temperament, or voice, or size, -or whatever it may be, so you had better turn your attention at once to -some other occupation.’”</p> - -<p>I have known several cases in which Miss Ward has been most kind by -helping real talent gratuitously; many of the women on the stage to-day -owe their position to her timely aid.</p> - -<p>“Warn girls,” she continued, “when asked for a bonus, <em>never</em>, -<span class="smcap">NEVER</span> to give one.”</p> - -<p>It is no uncommon thing for a bogus agent to ask for a £10 bonus, and -promise to secure an engagement at £1 a week. That engagement is never -procured, or, if it be, lasts only during rehearsals—which are not paid -for—or for a couple of weeks, after which the girl<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span> is told she does -not suit the part, and dismissed. Thus the matter ends so far as a -triumphal stage entry is concerned.</p> - -<p>It may be well here to give an actual case of bonus as an example.</p> - -<p>A wretched girl signed an agreement to the following effect. She was -to pay £20 down to the agent as a fee, to provide her own dresses and -travelling expenses, and to play the first four months without any -salary at all. At the expiration of that time she was to receive 10<i>s.</i> -a week for six months, with an increase of £1 a week for the following -year.</p> - -<p>On this munificent <em>want</em> of salary the girl was expected to pay -rent, dress well for the stage, have good food so as to be able to -fulfil her engagements properly, attend endless rehearsals, and withal -consider herself fortunate in obtaining a hearing at all. She broke -the engagement on excellent advice, and the agent wisely did not take -action against her, as he at first threatened to do.</p> - -<p>In the sixties Edward Terry essayed the stage. Seeing an advertisement, -the future comedian offered his services at a salary of 15<i>s.</i> a week.</p> - -<p>Above the door was announced in grand style:</p> - -<p>“Madame Castaglione’s Dramatic Company, taking advantage of the closing -of the Theatres Royal Covent Garden, Drury Lane, Lyceum, etc., will -appear at Christchurch for six nights only.”</p> - -<p>It was an extraordinary company, in which several parts were acted by -one person during the same evening.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span> There was only one play-book, from -which every actor copied out his own part, no one was ever paid, and -general chaos reigned. Edward Terry had fallen into the hands of one of -the most notorious bogus managers of his time. His next engagement was -more lucrative. He was always sure of playing eighteen parts a week, -and sometimes received 20<i>s.</i> in return. Matters are better now; but -strange stories of early struggle crop up occasionally, and the bogus -manager-agent, in spite of the Actors’ Association and the Benevolent -Fund, still exists.</p> - -<p>Edward Terry had to fight hard in order to attain a position, and -thoroughly deserves all the success that has fallen to his lot; but all -stage aspirants are not Edward Terrys, and then their plight in the -hands of the bogus agent is sad indeed, especially in the provinces -where he flourishes.</p> - -<p>Those who know the stage only from the front of the house little -realise the strict regulations enforced behind the scenes in our -first-class London theatres, the discipline of which is almost as -severe as that of a Government office. Each theatre has its code of -rules and regulations, which generally number about twenty, but are -sometimes so lengthy they are embodied in a handbook. These rules and -regulations have to be signed by every one, from principal to super, -and run somewhat in this wise:</p> - -<p>“The hair of the face must be shaven if required by the exigencies of -the play represented.”</p> - -<p>“All engagements to be regarded as exclusive, and no artiste shall -appear at any other theatre or hall<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> without the consent in writing of -the manager or his representative.”</p> - -<p>“All artistes engaged are to play any part or parts for which they may -be cast, and to understudy if required.”</p> - -<p>“In the event of the theatre being closed through riot, fire, public -calamity, royal demise, epidemic, or illness of principal, no salary -shall be claimed during such closing.”</p> - -<p>A clause in a comic opera agreement ran:</p> - -<p>“No salary will be payable for any nights or days on which the artiste -may not perform, whether absenting himself by permission, or through -illness, or any other unavoidable cause, and should the artiste -be absent for more than twelve consecutive performances under any -circumstances whatever, this engagement may be cancelled by the manager -without any notice whatsoever.”</p> - -<p>Thus it will be seen an engagement even when obtained hangs on a -slender thread, and twelve days’ illness, although an understudy may -step in to take the part, threatens dismissal for the unfortunate -sufferer.</p> - -<p>Of course culpable negligence of the rules may be punished by instant -dismissal, but for ordinary offences fines are levied, in proportion -to the salary of the offender. Sometimes a fine is sixpence, sometimes -a guinea, but an ordinary one is half a crown “for talking behind the -scenes during a performance.” Some people are always being fined.</p> - -<p>In the case of legitimate drama the actor is not permitted to “build -up” his part at his own sweet will;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span> in comic opera, however, “gagging” -and “business” have often gone far to make success.</p> - -<p>The upholder of law and order behind the scenes is the stage manager. -If power gives happiness he should be happy, but his position is such -a delicate one, and tact so essential, that it is often difficult -for him to be friendly with every one and yet a strict and impartial -disciplinarian.</p> - -<p>Life is a strange affair. We all try to be alike in our youth, -and individual in our middle age. As we grow up we endeavour to -shake ourselves out of that jelly-mould shape into which school -education forces us, although we sometimes mistake eccentricity for -individuality. Just as much real joy comes to the woman who has -darned a stocking neatly or served a good dinner, as is vouchsafed -by public praise; just as much pleasure is felt by the man who has -helped a friend, or steered a successful bargain. In the well-doing is -the satisfaction, not in indiscriminate and ofttimes over-eulogistic -applause.</p> - -<p>Stage aspirants soon learn those glorious press notices count for -naught, and they cease to bring a flutter to the heart.</p> - -<p>Success is but a bubble. It glistens and attracts the world as the -soap globe glistens and attracts the child. It is something to strive -for, something to catch, something to run after and grasp securely; -yet, after all, what is it? It is but a shimmer—the bubble bursts in -the child’s hand, the glistening particles are nothing, the ball once -gained is gone. Is not success the same? We long for, we strive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span> to -attain our goal, and then find nothing but emptiness.</p> - -<p>If we are not satisfied with ourselves, if we know our best work has -not yet been attained, that we have not reached our own high standard, -worldly success has merely pricked the bubble of ambition, that bubble -we had thought meant so much and which really is so little. People -are a queer riddle. One might liken them to flowers. There are the -beautiful roses, the stately lilies, the prickly thorns and clinging -creepers; there are the weeds and poisonous garbage. Society is the -same. People represent flowers. Some live long and do evil, some live -a short while and do good, sweetening all around them by the beauty of -their minds. Our friends are like the blooms in a bouquet, our enemies -like the weeds in our path.</p> - -<p>What diversified people we like. This woman excites our admiration -because she is beautiful, that one because she is clever, yon lady is -sympathetic, and the trend of the mind of the fourth stimulates our -own. They are absolutely dissimilar, that quartette, we like them all, -and yet they have no points in common. It does us good to be with some -people, they have an ennobling, refining, or softening effect upon -us—it does us harm to be with others.</p> - -<p>And so we are all many people in one. We adapt ourselves to our friends -as we adapt our clothes to the weather. We expand in their sunshine and -frizzle up in their sarcasm. We are all actors. All our life is merely -human drama, and imperceptibly to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span> ourselves we play many parts, and -yet imagine during that long vista of years and circumstances we are -always the same.</p> - -<p>We act—you and I—but we act ourselves, and the professional player acts -some one else; but that is the only difference, and it is less than -most folk imagine.</p> - -<p>Love of the stage is the fascination of the mysterious, which is the -most insidious of all fascinations.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span></p> - -<h2 id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX<br /> -<br /> -“<i>CHORUS GIRL NUMBER II. ON THE LEFT</i>”<br /> -<br /> -<span class="old">A Fantasy Founded on Fact</span><br /> -<br /> -<span class="inblk">Plain but Fascinating—The Swell in the -Stalls—Overtures—Persistence—Introduction at Last—Her Story—His -Kindness—Happiness crept in—Love—An Ecstasy of Joy—His Story—A Rude -Awakening—The Result of Deception—The Injustice of Silence—Back to -Town—Illness—Sleep.</span></h2></div> - -<p class="drop-cap1">THE curtain had just risen; the orchestra was playing the music of -the famous operetta <cite>Penso</cite>, when a man in the prime of life in a -handsome fur coat entered the stalls. He was alone. Having paid for his -programme and taken off his furs, he quietly sat down to survey the -scene.</p> - -<p>The chorus was upon the stage; sweeping his glasses from end to end -of the line of girls upon the boards, his eyes suddenly lighted upon -the second girl on the left. She was not beautiful. She had a pretty -figure, and a most expressive face; but her features were irregular -and her mouth was large. Far more lovely girls stood in that row, many -taller, with finely chiselled features and elegant figures, but only -that girl—<em>Number II. on the Left</em>—caught and riveted his attention. -He looked and looked again. What charm<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> did she possess, he wondered, -which seemed to draw him towards her? She was singing, and making -little curtsies like the others in time to the music: she was waving -her arms with those automatic gesticulations the chorus learn; she was -smiling, and yet behind it all he seemed to see an unutterable sadness -in the depths of her dark grey eyes. The girl fascinated him; he -listened not to the music of <cite>Penso</cite>, he hardly looked at any one else; -so long as <em>Number II. on the Left</em> remained upon the stage his entire -thoughts were with her. She enchained, she almost seemed to hypnotise -him, and yet she seldom looked his way. During the <em>entr’acte</em> Allan -Murray went outside to try and discover the name of <em>Number II. on the -Left</em>. No one, however, was able to tell him, or if they were, they -would not.</p> - -<p>Disappointed he returned to his seat in time for the second act. She -had changed her dress, and the new one was perhaps less becoming than -the first.</p> - -<p>“She is not pretty,” he kept repeating to himself, “but she is young. -She is neither a great singer nor a dancer, but she is a gentlewoman.”</p> - -<p>So great was the fascination she had exerted over the man of the world, -that he returned the next night to a seat in the stalls, and as he -gazed upon the operetta he felt more than ever convinced that there was -some great tragedy lying hidden behind the smiling face of <em>Number II. -on the Left</em>. He desired to unravel it.</p> - -<p>A short time before Christmas, being absolutely determined to find out -who she was, he succeeded in worming the information from some one -behind the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> scenes. Her real name was Sarah Hopper—could anything be -more hideous?—her professional one Alwyn FitzClare—could anything be -more euphonious? He went off to his club after one of the performances -was over, and wrote her a note. Days went by and he received no answer. -Then he purchased some beautiful flowers and sent them to the stage -door for Miss Alwyn FitzClare with his compliments. Still no answer; -but in the meantime he had been back to the theatre, and had been even -more struck than before with the appearance of the girl, and felt sorry -for the look of distress he thought he saw lurking behind her smiles.</p> - -<p>It was now two days before Christmas, and writing her a note begging -her not to take it amiss from a stranger, who wished her a very -pleasant Christmas, he enclosed two five-pound notes, hoping she would -drink his health and remember she had given great pleasure to one of -her audience.</p> - -<p>Christmas morning brought him back the two notes with a formal stiff -little letter, saying that Miss FitzClare begged to return her thanks -and was quite unable to accept gifts from a stranger.</p> - -<p>For weeks and weeks he occupied a stall at the theatre, whenever he -had an off-night. He continued to write little notes to Miss Alwyn -FitzClare, but never received any reply. However, at last he ventured -to beg that she would grant him an interview. If she would only tell -him where she came from, or give him an inkling of her position, he -would find some means to obtain a formal introduction. She answered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span> -this letter not quite so stiffly as the former one containing the -bank-notes, and stated that she came from Ipswich. Time passed; he -succeeded in gaining an introduction, and sent it formally to <em>Number -II. on the Left</em>. At the same time he invited her to lunch with him -at a famous restaurant. She accepted; she came out of curiosity, she -ultimately vowed, although in spite of the introduction, and in spite -of the months of persuasion on his part, she felt doubtful as to the -wisdom of doing so.</p> - -<p>The girl who had looked plain but interesting upon the stage, appeared -before him in a neat blue serge costume, well fitting and undecorated, -and struck Mr. Murray as very much better looking, and smarter -altogether in the capacity of a private person than she did in the -chorus. “A gentlewoman” was writ big all over her. No one could look at -her a second time and not feel that she was well born.</p> - -<p>“Do you know,” she said, “I often have funny letters from people on the -other side of the footlights; but yours is the only one I ever answered -in my life. Tell me why you have been so persistent?”</p> - -<p>“Because of the trouble in your face,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“In mine? But I am always laughing on the stage—that is part of the -duty of the chorus.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” he replied, “you laugh outwardly; but you cry inwardly. It was -your sad expression which first attracted my attention.”</p> - -<p>He was very sympathetic and very kind, and gradually she told him her -story. Her father had been a solicitor of good birth. He had a large -practice,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span> but dying suddenly left a family of nine children, all under -the age of twenty, practically unprovided for, for the small amount for -which his life was insured soon dwindled away in meeting the funeral -expenses and settling outstanding bills.</p> - -<p>“I was not clever enough to become a governess,” she said, “I had not -been educated for a secretary—in fact, I had no talent of any sort or -kind except the ability to sing a little. Luck and hard work brought me -the chance of being able to earn a guinea a week on the stage, out of -which I manage to live and send home a shilling or so to help mother -and the children.”</p> - -<p>It was a tragic little story—one of many which a great metropolis -can unfold, where men bring children into the world without giving a -thought to their future, and leave them to be dragged up on the bitter -bread of charity, or to work in that starvation-mill which so many -well-born gentlewomen grind year after year.</p> - -<p>The rich gentleman and <em>Number II. on the Left</em> became warm friends. -Months went by and they often met. She lunched with him sometimes; -they spent an occasional Sunday on the river, and she wrote to him, -and he to her, on the days when they did not meet. She was very proud; -she would accept none of his presents, she would not take money, and -was always most circumspect in her behaviour. Gradually that sad look -melted away from her eyes, and a certain beauty took its place. He was -kind to her, and by degrees, little by little, the interest aroused by -her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span> mournful expression deepened—as it disappeared—into love. She, -on her side, looked upon him as a true friend, practically the only -disinterested friend she had in London; and so time wore on, bringing -happiness to both: neither paused to think. Her life was a happy one. -She grew not to mind her work at the theatre, or the sewing she did for -the children at home, sitting hour by hour alone in her little attic -lodging, looking forward to those pleasant Sunday trips which brought a -new joy into her existence. His companionship and friendship were very -precious to this lonely girl in London.</p> - -<p>One glorious hot July Sunday which they spent near Marlow-on-Thames -seemed to Sarah Hopper the happiest day of her life. She loved him, -and she knew it. He loved her; and had often told her so; but more -than that had never passed between them. It was nearly two years since -they first met, during which time the only bright hours in the life -of <em>Number II. on the Left</em> had been those spent in Allan Murray’s -company. His kindness never changed. His consideration for her seemed -to Alwyn delightful.</p> - -<p>On that sunny afternoon they pulled up under the willows for tea, which -she made from a little basket they always took with them. They were -sitting chatting pleasantly, watching the water-flies buzzing on the -stream, throwing an occasional bit of cake to a swan, and thoroughly -enjoying that delightful sense of laziness which comes upon most of us -at the close of a hot day, when seated beneath the shady trees that -overhang the river.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span></p> - -<p>He took her hand, and played with it absently for a while.</p> - -<p>“Little girl,” he said at last, “this cannot go on. I love you, and -you know it; you love me, and I know that too; but do you love me -sufficiently to give yourself to me?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t think I could love you any more,” she replied, “however hard -I tried, for you have been my good angel for two happy years, you have -been the one bright star of hope, the one pleasant thing in my life. -I love you, <em>I love you</em>, <span class="smcap">I love you</span>,” she murmured, as she -leaned forward and laid her cheek upon his hand. He felt her warm -breath thrill through him.</p> - -<p>“I know it, dear,” he said, and a sad pained look crossed his face; -“but what I want to know is, do you care for me sufficiently?”</p> - -<p>“I hardly understand,” she answered, frightened she knew not why.</p> - -<p>“Will you give me the right to keep you in luxury and protect you from -harm?”</p> - -<p>She looked up anxiously, there was something in his words and something -in his tone she did not comprehend. His face was averted, but she saw -how pale and haggard he looked.</p> - -<p>“What do you mean?” she questioned, turning sick with an inexplicable -dread.</p> - -<p>“Could you give up the stage, the world for me? Instead of being your -friend I would be your slave.”</p> - -<p>She seemed to be in a dream; his words sounded strange, his halting -speech, his ashen hue denoted evil.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span></p> - -<p>“Tell me what you mean,” she cried.</p> - -<p>“Dearest,” he murmured, and then words seemed to fail him.</p> - -<p>“But?” and she looked him through and through, a terrible suspicion -entering her soul, “but——”</p> - -<p>“But,” he replied, turning away from her, “you can never be my wife.”</p> - -<p>“Great God!” exclaimed the girl. “This from the one friend I thought I -had on earth, from the one man I had learned to love and respect. Not -your wife?” she repeated. “Am I losing my senses or are you?”</p> - -<p>“You cannot be my wife,” he reiterated desperately.</p> - -<p>“So you think 1 am not good enough?” she gasped almost hysterically. -“It is true I am only <em>Number II. on the Left</em>, and yet I was born a -lady. I am your equal in social standing, and no breath of scandal has -ever soiled my name. You have made love to me for two years, you have -vowed you love me, and now, when you know my whole heart is given to -you, you turn round and coolly say, ‘You are not good enough to be my -wife.’”</p> - -<p>“My darling,” he said, taking her hand and squeezing her fingers until -the blood seemed to stand still within them, “this is torture to me.”</p> - -<p>“And what do you suppose it is to me?” she retorted. “It is not only -torture but insult. You have brought me to this. I loved you so -intensely and trusted you so implicitly, I never paused to think. -I have lived like a blind fool in the present, happy<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span> when with -you, dreaming of you when away, drifting on, on, in wild Elysium, -hoping—yes, hoping, I suppose—that some day I might be your wife, or -if not that, at any rate that I could still continue to respect myself -and respect you. To think that you, you, whom I trusted so much, should -insult me like this,” and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed.</p> - -<p>“My darling, I cannot marry,” he replied. “It is not your position, -it is not the stage, it is nothing to do with you that makes me say -so. Had it been possible I should have asked you to be my wife a year -ago or more, but, little girl, dearest love, how can I tell you?” and -almost choking with emotion he added, “<em>I am a married man</em>.”</p> - -<p>She left his side and staggered to the other end of the boat, where, -throwing herself upon the cushions, she wept as if her heart would -break.</p> - -<p>“Have I deserved this,” she cried, “that you in smiling guise should -come to me as an emblem of happiness? You have stolen my love from me, -and oh, your poor, poor, wretched wife!”</p> - -<p>She was a good, honest, womanly girl, and even in her own anguish of -heart did not forget she was not the only sufferer from such treachery.</p> - -<p>In a torrent of words he told her how he had married when a student -at the ’Varsity—married beneath him—how his life had ever since -been misery. How the pretty girl-bride had developed into a vulgar -woman, how for years she and her still commoner family had dogged his -footsteps, how he had paid and paid to be rid of her, how his whole -existence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span> had been ruined by the indiscretion of his youth, and the -wiles of the designing landlady’s daughter, how he had never felt -respect and love for woman until he had met her, <em>Number II. on the -Left</em>.</p> - -<p>It was a tragic moment in both their lives. He felt the awful sin he -had committed in not telling her from the first that he could never -marry. He felt the injustice of it all, the punishment for his own -folly that had fallen upon him, and she, poor soul, not only realised -the shock to her ideal, but the horrible barrier that had risen between -them.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>They travelled up to town together, both silent—each feeling that all -the world was changed. They parted at Victoria—she would not let him -see her home.</p> - -<p>The idol of two years was rudely shattered, the happy dreams of life -had suddenly turned to miserable reality.</p> - -<p>He returned to his chambers, where he cursed himself, and cursed his -luck, as he walked up and down his rooms all night, and realised -the root of the misery lay in the deception he had practised. -He, whose life had been ruined by the deception of a designing, -low-class minx, had himself in his turn committed the selfsame sin of -misrepresentation. The thought was maddening; his remorse intense. But -alack! the past cannot be recalled, and the curse that had followed him -for many years he had, alas! cast over a sinless girl.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span></p> - -<p>Sarah Hopper returned to her cheap little lodging at Islington, for -after two years’ hard work her salary was still only 30<i>s.</i> a week, -and throwing herself into an arm-chair, she sat and thought. Her head -throbbed as if it would burst, her eyes seemed on fire as she reviewed -the whole story from every possible side. She had been a blind fool; -she had trusted in a man she believed a good man, the web of fate had -entangled her, and this—this was the end. She could never see him again.</p> - -<p>By morning she was in a high state of fever, and when the landlady came -to her later in the day she was so alarmed at her appearance she sent -at once for the doctor. The doctor came.</p> - -<p>“Mental shock,” he said.</p> - -<p>Days went by and in wild delirium the little chorus girl lay upon her -bed in the lodging, till one night when the landlady had fallen asleep -the broken-hearted girl managed to scramble up, and getting a piece of -paper and an envelope wrote:</p> - -<p>“You have killed me, but for the sake of the honest love of those two -years, I forgive you all.”</p> - -<p>She addressed it in a firm hand to Alan Murray, and crawling back into -bed fell asleep.</p> - -<p>A few hours later the landlady awoke; all was silent in the room—so -silent, in fact, that she began to wonder. The wild raving had ceased, -the restless head was no longer tossing about on the pillow. Drawing -back the muslin curtains to let the light of early morning—that soft -gentle light of a summer<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span>’s day—pour into the room, she went across to -the bed.</p> - -<p>The kindly old woman bent over the broken-hearted girl to find her -sleeping peacefully—the sleep of death.</p> - -<p class="center"><i>Printed and bound by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.</i></p> - -<p> </p> -<hr class="chap" /> -<p> </p> -<p> </p> - -<div class="transnote"> -<p>Transcriber’s Note:</p> -<p>The spelling, punctuation, hyphenation and accentuation are as the -original with the exception of apparent typographical errors, which have -been corrected.</p> -<p>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p> -</div> - -<p> </p> -<hr class="full" /> -<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEHIND THE FOOTLIGHTS***</p> -<p>******* This file should be named 55492-h.htm or 55492-h.zip *******</p> -<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> -<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/5/5/4/9/55492">http://www.gutenberg.org/5/5/4/9/55492</a></p> -<p> -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed.</p> - -<p>Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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