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diff --git a/old/62822-0.txt b/old/62822-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 499d92e..0000000 --- a/old/62822-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8350 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Exits and Entrances, by Eva Moore - -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 -www.gutenberg.org. 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: Exits and Entrances - -Author: Eva Moore - -Release Date: August 2, 2020 [EBook #62822] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EXITS AND ENTRANCES *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing, ellinora, and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries) - - - - - - - - - - EXITS AND ENTRANCES - - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Claude Harris, London, W._ Frontispiece -] - - - - - EXITS AND ENTRANCES - - - BY - EVA MOORE - - _WITH TWENTY ILLUSTRATIONS_ - - “All the world’s a stage, - And all the men and women merely players: - They have their exits and their entrances; - And one man in his time plays many parts.” - - —_As You Like It._ - - - LONDON - CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD - 1923 - - - - - PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY - THE DUNEDIN PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH - - - - - TO HARRY - - _Whose words head each chapter of what is really his book and mine_ - - EVA - - - 21 Whiteheads Grove, Chelsea. - “Apple Porch”, Maidenhead. - - July, 1923. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - I. HOME 1 - - II. THE START 16 - - III. WEDDING BELLS 29 - - IV. PLAYS AND PLAYERS 43 - - V. MORE PLAYS AND PLAYERS 60 - - VI. FOR THE DURATION OF THE WAR 74 - - VII. THE SUFFRAGE 89 - - VIII. PEOPLE I HAVE MET 101 - - IX. PERSONALITIES 116 - - X. STORIES I REMEMBER 131 - - XI. ROUND AND ABOUT 143 - - XII. A BUNDLE OF OLD LETTERS 172 - - XIII. HARRY, THE MAN 187 - - XIV. HARRY, THE PLAYWRIGHT 200 - - XV. HARRY, THE ACTOR 215 - - XVI. AND LAST 228 - - APPENDICES 241 - - - - - ILLUSTRATIONS - - - EVA MOORE Frontispiece - - FACING PAGE - Dora in “The Don” 21 - - Harry, November 19th, 1891 24 - - Wedding Bells, November 19th, 1891 28 - - Harry as Howard Bompas in “The Times”, 1891 30 - - Pepita in “Little Christopher Columbus” 37 - - Madame de Cocheforet in “Under the Red Robe” 48 - - Kathie in “Old Heidelberg” 61 - - Lady Mary Carlyle in “Monsieur Beaucaire” 66 - - “Mumsie” 71 - - Miss Van Gorder in “The Bat” 72 - - Eliza in “Eliza Comes to Stay” 102 - - Harry as Lord Leadenhall in “The Rocket” 124 - - Harry as Major-General Sir R. Chichele in “The Princess - and the Butterfly” 142 - - Harry as Little Billee in “Trilby” 187 - - Jill and her Mother 194 - - Harry as Widgery Blake in “Palace of Puck” 199 - - Harry as Major Blencoe in “The Tree of Knowledge” 218 - - Harry as Touchstone in “As You Like It” 222 - - Apple Porch 237 - - - - - CHAPTER I - HOME - - “And I’ll go away and fight for myself.” - —_Eliza Comes to Stay._ - - -As Mr. Wickfield said to Miss Trotwood—the old question, you know—“What -is your motive in this?” - -I am sure it is excellent to have a motive, and if possible a good -motive, for doing everything; and so before I begin I want to give my -motive for attempting to write my memoirs of things and people, past and -present—and here it is. - -Jack, my son, was on tour with his own company of _Eliza Comes to Stay_; -and Jill, my little daughter, was playing at the St. James’s Theatre, -her first engagement—and, incidentally, earning more each week than I -did when I first played “lead” (and I found my own dresses). I thought -that some day they might like to know how different things were in the -“old days”; like to read how one worked, and studied, and tried to save; -might like to know something of the road over which their father and -mother had travelled; and perhaps gain some idea of the men and women -who were our contemporaries. Perhaps, if they, my own boy and girl, -would like to read this, other people’s boys and girls might like to -read it also: it might at least interest and amuse them. - -To me, to try and write it all would be a joy, to “call spirits from the -vasty deep,” to ring up again the curtain on the small dramas in which I -had played—and the small comedies too—and to pay some tribute to the -great men and women I have known. It may all seem to be “my story,” but -very often I shall only be the string on which are hung the bravery, -kindness, and goodness of the really great people; not always the most -successful, but the really great, who have helped to make life what it -should be, and luckily sometimes really is! - -So I determined to begin, and begin at the beginning. - -Brighton! when it was Brighton; still retaining some of the glories of -the long past Regency; with its gay seasons, its mounted police, and—no -Metropole Hotel; when the only two hotels of any importance were the -“Bedford” and the still-existing “Old Ship.” The old chain pier, -standing when we went to bed one evening, and swept away when we got up -the next morning by a terrific gale. The Aquarium, then a place which -people really visited and regarded as something of a “sight worth -seeing”—does anyone go there now, except on a very wet day? The Dome in -the Pavilion, with its grand orchestral concerts, conducted by the -famous Mr. Kuhe, whose son is now a musical critic in London. All these -things belonged to Brighton of the—well, the exact date does not -matter—but of the time when women did not ride bicycles or drive motor -cars, because certainly the one, and certainly the other so far as women -were concerned, did not exist. In those days men rode a high “single -wheel” bicycle: the higher the wheel, the greater the Knut—only the word -“Knut” was unknown then! - -Those are some of the memories I have of Brighton at the time when we -were a happy, noisy, large family living in Regency Square; a really -large family, even as Victorian families went—nine girls and one boy. We -had no money, but unlimited health and spirits. - -My mother!—well, everyone says “Mine was the sweetest mother in the -world,” but my mother really _was_. She had a most amazing amount of -character hidden under a most gentle exterior. As pretty as a picture, -adorable—just “Mother.” - -And father—an austere, very good-looking man of uncertain temper; one of -those tempers which periodically sweep through the house like a tornado. -Absolutely upright, and deeply respected, but with a stern sense of his -duties as a parent which we, his children, hardly appreciated. - -My first recollection is of trying to climb into my mother’s bed, and -finding the place that should have been mine occupied by a “new baby.” I -heard years afterwards that when my mother was told that her tenth child -and ninth daughter had arrived in the world, she exclaimed: “Thank God -it’s a girl!” Such a nice feminine thing to say, bless her! - -Six of the girls lived to grow up, and we each, as we grew sufficiently -advanced in years, took turns at the “housekeeping”. I know I did double -duty, as my sister Jessie distinguished herself by fainting one morning -when preparing the breakfast, and so was not allowed to do it any more. -I remember creeping down the stairs in the dark early mornings (when I -think of “getting breakfast”, it seems to me that we must have lived in -perpetual winter, the mornings seem to have always been cold and dark, -never bright and sunny: I suppose the memory of the unpleasant things -remains longer), going very softly past my father’s room, and putting -the loathsome porridge—partially cooked the night before—on the gas -ring, and, having stirred it, creeping upstairs again to dress. - -I remember, too, at breakfast how I would watch my father’s face, to see -by his expression if it was “all right”; the awful moment when, eyeing -it with disfavour, he would give his verdict: “Lumpy!” The cook for the -day, after such a verdict, generally left the table in tears. - -It must have been before I was old enough to make porridge that I had my -first sweetheart. His name was Johnnie; he was a small Jew, and we met -in Regency Square; together we turned somersaults all round the Square, -and it must have been all very idealistic and pleasant. I remember -nothing more about him, so apparently our love was short-lived. - -Up to the time that my sister Decima was six, my father kept a stick in -the dining-room; the moral effect of that stick was enormous; should any -member of the family become unruly (or what my father considered -unruly), the stick was produced and a sharp rap on the head -administered. - -One day Decima was the culprit, and as my father leant back to reach the -stick, she exclaimed cheerfully: “You won’t find the old stick, cos I’ve -hided it.” - -She had, too; it was not found for years, when it was discovered in a -large chest, right at the bottom. It is still a mystery how Decima, who -was really only a baby at the time, put it there. Looking back, I -applaud her wisdom, and see the promise of the aptitude for “looking -ahead” which has made her so successful in the ventures on which she has -embarked; for the “stick” certainly affected her most. She was a naughty -child, but very, very pretty. We called her “The Champion”, because she -would take up the cudgels on behalf of anyone who was “underdog”. I -loved her devotedly; and, when she was being punished for any special -piece of naughtiness by being interned in her bedroom, I used to sit -outside, whispering at intervals, “I’m here, darling”, “It’s all right, -dear”, and so on. - -Yet it was to Decima that I caused a tragedy, and, incidentally, to -myself as well. She was the proud possessor of a very beautiful wax -doll; a really beautiful and aristocratic person she was. We always said -“Grace” before meals (I think everyone did in those days), and one -morning I was nursing the doll. In an excess of religious fervour, I -insisted that the wax beauty should say “grace” too. Her body, not being -adapted to religious exercises, refused to bend with the reverence I -felt necessary; I pushed her, and cracked off her head on the edge of -the table. Now, mark how this tragedy recoiled on me! I had a gold -piece—half a sovereign, I suppose—given to me by some god-parent. It -lived in a box, wrapped in cotton wool, and I occasionally gazed at it; -I never dreamt of spending it; it was merely regarded as an emblem of -untold wealth. Justice, in the person of my father, demanded that, as I -had broken the doll, my gold piece must be sacrificed to buy her a new -head. If the incident taught me nothing else, it taught me to extend -religious tolerance even to wax dolls! - -Not only did we hate preparing breakfast, we hated doing the shopping, -and called it “Sticking up to Reeves, and poking down to Daws”—Reeves -and Daws being the grocer and laundryman respectively. It was in the -process of “Sticking up to Reeves”, whose shop was in Kemptown, one -morning, that Decima stopped to speak to a goat, who immediately ate the -shopping list out of her hand. - -Decima was the only member of the family who succeeded in wearing a -fringe—openly—before my father. We all _did_ wear fringes, but they were -pushed back in his presence; Decima never pushed hers back! In those -days so to adorn one’s forehead was to declare oneself “fast”—an elastic -term, which was applied to many things which were frowned on by one’s -elders. That was the “final word”—“_fast!_” - -Our great excitement was bathing in the sea, and singing in the church -choir. We bathed three times a week; it cost 4d. each. Clad in heavy -serge, with ample skirts, very rough and “scratchy”, we used to emerge -from the bathing machines. All except Ada, who swam beautifully, and -made herself a bathing suit of blue bunting with knickers and tunic. My -father used to row round to the “ladies’ bathing place” in his dinghy, -and teach us how to swim. As there was no “mixed bathing” then, this -caused much comment, and was, indeed, considered “hardly nice”. My -brother Henry was the champion swimmer of the South Coast, and he and -Ada used to swim together all round the West Pier—this, again, was -thought to be “going rather far” in more senses than one! - -Though I loved Decima so devotedly, we apparently had “scraps”, for I -can remember once in the bathing machine she flicked me several times -with a wet towel—I remember, too, how it hurt. - -We all sang in the church choir; not all at once; as the elder ones -left, the younger ones took their places. Boys from the boarding school -in Montpelier Square used to be brought to church: we exchanged glances, -and felt desperately wicked. Once (before she sang in the choir) Decima -took 3d. out of the plate instead of putting 1d. into it. - -At that time our pocket-money was 1d. a week, so I presume we were given -“collection money” for Sunday; this was later increased to 2s. a month, -when we had to buy our own gloves. Thus my mother’s birthday -present—always the same: a pot of primulas (on the receipt of which she -always expressed the greatest surprise)—represented the savings of three -weeks on the part of Decima and me. It was due to parental interference -in a love affair that I once, in a burst of reckless extravagance, -induced Decima to add her savings to mine and spend 5d. in sweets, all -at one fell swoop. - -I was 14, and in love! In love with a boy who came to church, and whose -name I cannot remember. We met in the street, and stopped to speak. -Fate, in the person of my father (who always seems to have been casting -himself for the parts of “Fate”, “Justice”, “Law”, or “Order”) saw us; I -was ordered into the house, and, seizing my umbrella, my father -threatened to administer the chastisement which he felt I richly -deserved for the awful crime of “speaking to a boy”. I escaped the -chastisement by flying to my room; and it was there, realising that -“love’s young dream was o’er”, I incited Decima to the aforementioned -act of criminal extravagance. I know one of the packets she brought back -contained “hundreds and thousands”; we liked them, you seemed to get -such a lot for your money! - -My life was generally rather blighted at that time, for, in addition to -this unfortunate love affair, I had to wear black spectacles, owing to -weak eyes, the result of measles. “A girl” told me, at school, that “a -boy” had told her I “should be quite pretty if I hadn’t to wear those -awful glasses.” The tragedy of that “_if_”! - -I was then at Miss Pringle’s school, where I don’t think any of us -learnt very much; not that girls were encouraged to learn much at any -school in those days. I certainly didn’t. My eyes made reading -difficult. Then the opportunity for me to earn my own living offered; it -was seized; and I went to Liverpool. I was to teach gymnastics and -dancing under Madame Michau. - -The original Madame Michau, mother of the lady for whom I was to work, -had been a celebrity in her day. Years before—many, many years -before—she had taught dancing in Brighton, where she had been considered -_the_ person to coach debutantes in the deportment necessary for a -drawing-room. Her daughter was very energetic, and worked from morning -to night. She had a very handsome husband, who ostensibly “kept the -books”, which really meant that he lounged at home while his wife went -out to work. Not only did she work herself, but she made me work -too—from eight in the morning until eleven at night; in fact, so far as -my memory serves me, there was a greater abundance of work than of food. -I don’t regret any of it in the least; the dancing and gymnastics taught -me how to “move” in a way that nothing else could have done. It taught -me, also, how to keep my temper! - -Only one thing I really resented; that was, among other duties, I had to -mend Madame’s husband’s underwear. Even then I am overstating the case; -I did not mind the mending collectively; what I minded was the mending -individually—that is, I hated mending his (what are technically known, I -think, as) _pants_. At the end of a year I “crocked up”—personally I -wonder that I lasted so long—and came home for a holiday. I was then -about 15, and I fell in love. Not, this time, with a small boy in the -Square; not with a big boy; this was a real affair. “He” was at least -twelve years older than I, very good to look at, and apparently he had -excellent prospects on the Stock Exchange. My family, so far as I can -remember, approved, and I was very happy. I forget how long the -engagement lasted—about a year, I think—and for part of that time I was -back in Liverpool. I know the engagement ring was pearl and coral. One -day a stone fell out—so did the engagement. The picture “he” had drawn -of us living in domestic and suburban bliss at West Norwood—me clad in -brown velvet and a sealskin coat (apparently irrespective of times or -seasons) vanished. He “went broke” on the Stock Exchange, and broke off -the engagement—perhaps so that his love affairs might be in keeping with -the general wreckage; I don’t know. I remember that I sat in the bedroom -writing a farewell letter, damp with tears, when the sight of a black -beetle effectively dried my tears and ended the letter. - -I don’t know that this love affair influenced me at all, but I decided I -was utterly weary of Liverpool. I came back to Brighton, and taught -dancing there, partly on my own and partly in conjunction with an -already established dancing class. It was there that I taught a small, -red-headed boy to do “One, two, three—right; one, two, three—left.” He -was the naughtiest small boy in the class; I used to think sometimes he -must be the naughtiest small boy in the world. His name was Winston -Churchill. - -It was not a thrilling life—this teaching children to dance—on the -contrary, it was remarkably dull, and once your work becomes dull to you -it is time you found something else to do. I decided that I would. I -would make a bid for the Stage. - -We, or at least my elder sisters, gave theatrical performances at -home—comedies and operettas—and it was during the production of one of -these that I met Miss Harriet Young, the well-known amateur pianist, in -Brighton. - -The production was called _Little Golden Hope_, the one and only amateur -production in which I ever took part. It was written by my -brother-in-law, Ernest Pertwee, and the music by Madame Guerini, who had -been a Miss Wilberforce, daughter of Canon Wilberforce. Miss Young used -to come and play the piano at these productions, and I heard that she -knew Mrs. Kendal! Mrs. Kendal was staying at Brighton at the time. A -letter of introduction was given to me by Miss Young, and, accompanied -by my sister Bertha, I went to see Mrs. Kendal. - -No very clear memory of it remains. She was charming; I was paralysed -with fright. If she gave me any advice about the advisability of taking -up the stage as a profession, it was “don’t”—so I went back to my -dancing class. - -But hope was not dead! Florrie Toole, who was a pupil of my sister -Emily, promised me an introduction to her father, and not only to him -but to Tom Thorne of the Vaudeville Theatre as well. I made up my mind -to go up to London and see them both. All this was arranged with the -greatest secrecy, for I knew that my father would set his face sternly -against “the Stage”. Though we might be allowed to have amateur -theatricals at home, though we might teach dancing, singing, elocution, -or indeed anything else, the Stage was something unthought of in the -minds of parents. However, Fate was on my side. I was out teaching all -day, and, once the front door had closed behind me in the morning, I was -not actually expected back until the evening, so I slipped up to London. -There, at the Vaudeville Theatre, I saw both Tom and Fred Thorne. - -In those days there were no play-producing societies—no Play Actors, -Interlude Players, or Repertory Players—and so new plays were “tried -out” at matinées. One was then looming on the horizon of the -Vaudeville—_Partners_—and it was in connection with a possible part in -this play that my name and address were taken; I was told that I might -hear from Mr. Thorne “in about a week”, and so, full of hope, I returned -to Brighton. About a week later I received a letter which told me that I -had been given a small part in _Partners_, and stating the days on which -I should have to rehearse in London. - -It was then that the question arose, “Should I tell father?” I thought -it over, long and earnestly, and decided not to. I did not have to -rehearse every day, and, as I had slipped up to London before, “all -unbeknownst”, why not again? So, entering on my career of crime, and -unheeding the words of—I think—the good Doctor Watts, who says “Oh, what -a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive”, I used to -come up to rehearsal, leaving my family happy in the belief that I was -teaching dancing in Brighton! - -During rehearsals I heard from Florrie Toole that she had arranged an -interview for me with her father, who would see me on a certain day, at -his house at Lowdnes Square. That was a real “red letter day”. For some -reason, which I forget, I had taken Decima with me, and after the -rehearsal I was asked if I would like to see the matinée performance of -_Hearts is Hearts_, which was then playing at the Vaudeville. Would I -like! I was given a box—a stage box at that—and there Decima and I sat, -thrilled to the depths of our small souls. - -Before this auspicious occasion I had seen three theatrical -performances, and three only. One had been at the Adelphi, when I saw -_Harbour Lights_, and the other two at the Brighton Theatre-Royal; from -the upper circle, or the gallery, I had seen _Faust_, when a really very -stout lady played “Marguerite”; and the other a pantomime, _Cinderella_, -when Florence St. John played “Cinders” (and played it most -delightfully, too) and Charles Rock played “Baron Hardup”. Even these -two delightful events had been somewhat marred by the fact that father -insisted that we should “come out before the end, to avoid the crush”—as -though anyone minded a crush after a theatre, when you went only twice a -year, and were only 14! - -But to return to our stage box at the Vaudeville Theatre. The interview -with Mr. Toole was fixed for 5.30, but rather than miss a moment of the -play, we stayed until the very end, and were thus forced to be -recklessly extravagant and take a hansom to Lowdnes Square. It cost -eighteen-pence, but we both felt that it was worth it, felt that this -was indeed _Life_—with a very large capital letter. - -I do not think that the interview with the great comedian was -impressive. Florrie took me in to her father, and said “This is Eva.” He -said “How are you?” and murmured vague things about “seeing what we can -do” and—that was all. - -The matinée came, I played a little chambermaid. As “Herbert” says in -_Eliza Comes to Stay_: “The characters bear no relation to life, sir. -The play opens with the butler and the housemaid dusting the -drawing-room chairs”—I was the “housemaid”. - -I remember the fateful afternoon we first played _Partners_. I was in -the Green Room—there were such things then—Maud Millet was learning her -part between all her exits and entrances. During one of my waits, Mr. -Scot Buest offered me a glass of champagne; I thought that I had plumbed -the depths of depravity! It was Mr. Buest who later asked me to have -dinner with him. I did, but felt sure that all London would ring with my -immorality. What a little prude I must have been! - -That afternoon Mr. Toole was in front, and so saw me play. A few days -later I heard from him; he offered me a part in _The Cricket on the -Hearth_, which he was going to produce at his own theatre. I was to -receive “£1 a week, and find your own dresses”. Naturally, I accepted, -and was then faced with the necessity of telling my father. I took my -courage in both hands, and broke the news. - -The expected tornado swept the house, the storm broke and the thunder of -my father’s wrath rolled over our heads. My mother was held responsible -for my wickedness; she was asked to consider what “_her_ child” had -done; for, be it said, when any of us did anything which met with my -father’s disapproval, we were always “my mother’s children”; when we met -with his approval, we were _his_, and apparently his only. - -So my mother wept, and my father washed his hands with much invisible -soap, ordering me never to darken his doors again—“To think that any -daughter of _his_”, and much more—oh! very much more—to the same effect. - -I remained firm; here was my chance waiting for me in the greatest city -in the world, and I was determined to take it. I left Brighton for -London—“the world was mine oyster”. - - - - - CHAPTER II - THE START - - “We ... never stopped in the old days to turn things over in our - minds, and grow grey over counting the chances of what would or what - wouldn’t happen. We went slap for everything like the healthy young - devils we were.” - - —_When We Were Twenty-One._ - - -And so at Christmas I began to play “The Spirit of Home” in _The Cricket -on the Hearth_ at Toole’s Theatre, which was a small place, mostly -underground, beside the Charing Cross Hospital. I was very happy; it was -all new and exciting, and everyone was very kind to me. Kate Phillips, -who played “Dot”, had been ill, and her dressing-room—the dressing-room -provided for the leading lady—was underground; she couldn’t stand it, -and, as mine was on the roof—or as nearly on the roof as possible—she -came up to dress with me. It was in Kate Phillips’s (and my) -dressing-room that I first saw Winifred Emery, who came on to Toole’s -for tea from the Vaudeville. She was perfectly beautiful, with most -lovely hands, and oh, so attractive! - -In those days, after a matinée, there were only two things to do—either -stay in the theatre or go out and walk about in the streets. Your rooms -were generally a long way from the theatre, which meant ’bus riding (and -every penny had to be considered), and there were no girls’ clubs then. -No Three Arts Club, Theatrical Girls’ Club, no A.B.C.’s, no Lyons, -nothing of that kind, so you stayed in the theatre. - -Another person who was in the cast was George Shelton, the same George -Shelton who was in _Peter Pan_ this year—1922—when Jill made her first -appearance. I can see no difference in him; after all these years he -looks, and is, just the same. The children who went to see _Peter -Pan_—so Mr. Lyn Harding assured us—“found Smee lovable”, as I found him -so many years ago. Only then he wasn’t playing Smee! - -The run ended, and I was engaged to play in a first piece by Justin -Huntly Macarthy, called _The Red Rag_. I have no very clear recollection -of the part, except that I played the girl who made love to a man “over -the garden wall,” standing on a flowerpot. It was in this play, _The Red -Rag_, that Decima asked, after noting that only the “top half” of the -gentleman appeared over the wall, “As his legs don’t show, does he have -to wear trousers? Because, if he doesn’t, it must be such a very cheap -costume.” I had a new dress for the part, which is not really so -impressive as it sounds, for in those days “Nun’s veiling” (thanks be to -Heaven!) was 6½d. a yard, and, as in _The Cricket on the Hearth_ I had -been clad in white Nun’s veiling, so now for _The Red Rag_ I wore a blue -dress of the same useful material. Of course, I made both of them -myself. - -However, this play marked a “point in my career”—I began to have -“notices” in the Press. The _Punch_ critic of that date said: “If names -signify anything, there is a young lady who is likely to remain on the -stage a very long time—‘Quoth the Raven, _Eva Moore_’.” She has, too—a -very long time. _The People_ said he should keep his “critical eye on -me, in fact _both_ his critical eyes.” - -At the end of the spring season, Mr. Toole asked me to go on tour for -the summer and autumn, to play “leading lady”—this was a real leap up -the ladder—appearing in fifteen plays. I was to receive £3 a week. I -accepted (of course I accepted!), and took with me twenty-three dresses. -I remember the number, because in order to buy the necessary materials I -had to borrow £10 from my brother. - -By this time the attitude of my father had changed; he no longer -regarded me as “lost”, and no longer looked upon the Stage as the last -step in an immoral life; he was, I think, rather proud of what I had -done. So far had he relented that, when my sister Jessie decided that -she too would go on the Stage, there was no opposition. She left home -without any dramatic scenes, and went into the chorus of _Dorothy_, -where she understudied Marie Tempest and Ben Davis’s sister-in-law, -Florence Terry, afterwards playing the latter’s part. - -I was staying then off the Strand, near the Old Globe Theatre, sharing -rooms with the sister of a man—his name does not matter, he has since -left the Stage for the Church—to whom I later was engaged. When Jessie -came to London we arranged to have rooms together. One day we mounted a -’bus at Piccadilly, and found we could go all the way to Hammersmith for -a penny. We were so struck by the cheapness of the journey that we rode -the whole length of the pennyworth. - -Eventually we found rooms in Abingdon Villas, two furnished rooms for -18s. a week; we took them and “moved in”. - -I must go back here to record what might really have been a very tragic -business for me. After I had been playing in _The Red Rag_ for about -five weeks, Mr. Toole was taken ill, and the theatre was closed for over -a month—“no play, no pay”. Providence had ordained that I should have -been given the money for a new winter coat; I had the money, and was -waiting to buy the garment. The coat had to wait; I had to keep a roof -over my head. I paid it over—in a lump—to the landlady, and knew I was -safe to have at least a bed in which to sleep until the theatre -re-opened. - -The tour began; we went to Plymouth, Bath, Scarborough, Dublin, -Edinburgh (where, for the first time, I slept in a “concealed bed”), and -many other places I have forgotten; but, wherever we went, the audience -was the same: Toole had only to walk on the stage and they howled with -laughter. I very seldom spoke to him; in those days I was far too -frightened to address the “Olympians”; I could only congratulate myself -on being in the company at all. - -Funnily enough, the position I held was originally offered by Toole to -Violet Vanbrugh; I fancy—in fact, I am pretty sure—that I eventually was -given it because she wanted “too much money”. She probably asked for £5, -or even perhaps rose to the dizzy height of demanding £8, while I “went -for £3” (it sounds like little David Copperfield selling his -waistcoat!). - -I think I enjoyed the tour; it was all new and strange to me. The sea -journey to Ireland was distinctly an experience. I remember that a -critic in Cork, a true son of Ireland, said of me in his paper, “Critics -have been known to become dizzy before such beauty.” How I laughed at -and enjoyed that notice! It was at Cork that poor dear Florrie Toole was -taken ill. She had joined us some weeks before, to my great delight, for -she had always been so very kind to me. It was from Florrie that I -received a velvet dress, which was one of the most useful articles in my -wardrobe; it was altered and re-altered, and finally retired from active -service after having been my “stand-by” in many parts. - -During the week we were at Cork, Florrie was ill—not very ill, or so it -seemed; at any rate, she was able to travel with us to Edinburgh on the -Sunday. There she became rapidly worse, and it was found that she had -typhoid fever. We left her in Edinburgh, and heard the following week -that she was dead. Such a beautiful life cut short! She was so -brilliant, and so very, very lovable. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by C. Hawkins, Brighton._ To face p. 21 - - DORA - - “The Don” -] - -I shared rooms with Eliza Johnson, a capable but somewhat unrelenting -elderly lady. She “dragooned” me effectively; young men who showed any -tendency to gather round stage doors, or gaze at one in the street, were -sternly discouraged. At Cambridge, I remember, I had a passionate love -letter from some “undergrad.”, who said he refrained from signing his -name, as his “trust had been broken before”, but, if I returned his -affection, would I reply in the “agony” column of the _Times_ to “Fido”! -I did nothing of the kind, naturally; but so definite were the feelings -of Eliza Johnson on “things of that kind” that she told me she could -“not help feeling that I was, in some measure, to blame.” - -At Birmingham, on the Friday night, after “treasury,” I left my money in -my dressing-room, went on the stage, and returned to find the money -gone! I went to the manager and told him, but he protested that he could -do nothing. I managed to borrow money to pay for my rooms, and went on -to the next town very downcast indeed. Three pounds was a lot of money. -The following week I had a letter from Birmingham, telling how the -writer, who was employed at the theatre, had stolen the money, but that -the sight of my distress had so melted his heart that he had decided to -return it to me intact. The £3 was enclosed. I concluded that it was one -of the stage hands; it wasn’t, it was Mr. Toole. He had heard of my -loss, and, in giving me the money, could not resist playing one of those -practical jokes which he loved! - -The tour ended and we came back to London, where Toole was going to put -on a first piece called _The Broken Sixpence_ before _The Don_. The cast -included Mary Brough, Charles Lowne, the authoress (Mrs. Thompson)—who -was a very beautiful woman, but not a strikingly good actress—and, among -the “wines and spirits,” me. - -My dress was the same that I had worn in _The Butler_ (a play we had -done on tour), or, rather, it was _part_ of the dress, for, as I was -playing a young girl, with short skirts, I only used the _skirt_ of the -dress, merely adding a yoke; in addition, I wore a fair wig. - -I have it on good authority that I looked “perfectly adorable”, for it -was in this play, though I did not know it for a long time, that Harry -Esmond first saw me, and, apparently, approved of me! - -Then I began to be ill; too much work, and, looking back, I fancy not -too much food, and that probably of the wrong kind for a girl who, after -all, was only about 17, and who had been playing in a different play -every night for weeks. - -I didn’t stop working, though I did feel very ill for some weeks, but -finally an incident occurred which took the matter out of my hands and -forced me to take a rest. - -I was walking home from the theatre, with my salary and my savings -(seven pounds, which I had gathered together to pay back to my brother -for the loan I mentioned before) in my bag. In those days the streets -were in the state of semi-darkness to which London grew accustomed in -the war—at any rate, in all but the largest streets; some one, who must -have known who I was, or at any rate known that I was an actress and -that Friday night was “pay night”, sprang out of the darkness, struck me -a heavy blow on the head, snatched my bag, and left me lying senseless. - -After that, I gave in—I went home, and was very ill for a long time with -low fever; not only was I ill, I was hideously depressed. However, I -went back to Mr. Toole as soon as I was better, and he told me he was -going to Australia, and asked me to go too. The salary was to be £4 a -week, and “provide your own clothes”. I declined, though how I had the -pluck to decline an engagement in those days passes my comprehension. -However, I did, and Irene Vanbrugh went to Australia in my place—though -not at my salary; she was more fortunate. - -I began to haunt agents’ offices, looking for work, and a dreary -business it was! At last I was engaged to go to the Shaftesbury to play -in _The Middleman_ with E. S. Willard, and it was here that I first -actually met my husband. He was very young, very slim, and looked as -young as he was; he was, as is the manner of “the powers that be”, cast -for a villain, and, in order to “look the part”, he had his shoulders -padded to such an extent that he looked perfectly square. His first -words in the play were “More brandy!” I don’t think he was a great -success in the part, though, looking through some old press cuttings, I -find the following extract from _The Musical World_: “But a Mr. Esmond -shows, I think, very high promise, together with faults that need to be -corrected. His attitudes are abominable; his voice and the heart in it -could hardly be bettered”—and that in spite of the padding! - -I think we were at once great friends—at any rate, I know he had to use -a ring in the play, and I lent him mine. In particular I remember one -evening, when I was walking down Shaftesbury Avenue with the man to whom -I was engaged, and we met Harry wearing my ring; I was most disturbed, -lest my own “young man” should notice. However, we broke the engagement -soon after—at least I did—and after that it didn’t matter who wore or -who did not wear my ring. Then Harry, who lived at Empress Gate, used to -take me home after the theatre; and if he didn’t take me home, he took -somebody else home, for at that time I think he loved most pretty girls. -It was a little later that he wrote in his diary: “Had tea with Agnes -(Agnes Verity); took Eva home; she gave me two tomatoes; nice girl. How -happy could I be with either!”—which, I think, gives a very fair idea of -his general attitude at the time. - -_The Middleman_ ran well; it was a good play, with a good cast—E. S. -Willard, Annie Hughes, Maude Millet, and William Mackintosh—the latter a -really great actor. I understudied Annie Hughes—and played for her. In -_The Middleman_, Willard wore his hair powdered, to give him the -necessary look of age, and in one scene I had to comb it. I was most -anxious to do well in Annie Hughes’s part, and was so zealous that I -combed all the powder out of his hair at the back, to my own confusion -and his great dismay. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Elliott & Fry, London, W._ To face p. 24 - - - HARRY - - November 19th. 1891 -] - -At the end of the run of _The Middleman_, I wrote to Mr. (now Sir) A. W. -Pinero, and asked for an interview. His play, _The Cabinet Minister_, -was shortly to be produced at the Court Theatre, and I hoped he might -give me a part. He granted me the interview, and I remember how -frightened I was. I met him some time ago, and he reminded me of it. He -told me I struck him as being “such a little thing”. Anyway, he gave me -a part. This was the first production in which I had played where the -dresses were provided by the management, and very wonderful dresses they -were. - -It was a great cast—Mrs. John Wood (whose daughter and granddaughter -were both with us in Canada in 1920), Allen Aynesworth (a very typical -young “man about town”), Rosina Philippi, Weedon Grossmith, and Arthur -Cecil. - -Mrs. John Wood was a wonderful actress; she got the last ounce out of -every part she played. Fred Grove says: “When she had finished with a -part, it was like a well-sucked orange; not a bit of good left in it for -anyone else.” The first act of _The Cabinet Minister_ was a reception -after a drawing-room. We all wore trains of “regulation” length; at -rehearsals Mrs. Wood insisted that we should all have long curtains -pinned round us, to accustom us to the trains. - -Arthur Cecil, who had been in partnership with Mrs. Wood, was a kindly -old gentleman who always carried a small black bag; it contained a -supply of sandwiches, in case he should suddenly feel the pangs of -hunger. “Spy,” of _Vanity Fair_, did a wonderful drawing of him, -complete with bag. - -I remember Rosina Philippi, then as thin as a lamp-post, having a -terrific row one day with Weedon Grossmith—what about, I cannot -remember. He was playing “Mr. Lebanon”, a Jew, and “built up” his nose -to meet the requirements of the part. In the heat of the argument, -Rosina knocked off his nose; he _was_ so angry. The more angry he got, -the more she laughed! - -I think it was before the run of _The Cabinet Minister_ that I became -engaged to Harry. I know that during the run Harry was playing at the -Royalty in _Sweet Nancy_, and was apparently rather vague and casual -about the duties of an engaged young man. I remember he used often to -send his best friend to call for me and bring me home from the theatre. -If he had not been such a very attractive young man himself, one might -have thought this habit showed a lack of wisdom. He was very attractive, -but very thin; I found out, to my horror, that he wore nothing under his -stiff white shirts! Imagine how cold, riding on the top of -’buses—anyway, it struck me as dreadful, and my first gift to him was a -complete set of underwear. He protested that it would “tickle”, but I -know he wore them, with apparently no grave discomfort. - -I went to Terry’s to play in _Culprits_—a tragic play so far as I was -concerned. I really, for the first time, “let myself go” over my -dresses. I spent £40. (Imagine the months of savings represented by that -sum!) We rehearsed for five weeks, and the play ran three. - -By this time my sister Jessie had gone on tour, first with _Dr. Dee_, by -Cotsford Dick, later with D’Oyley Carte’s Company. Decima and I were -sharing rooms which Jessie had taken with me. Decima had been at -Blackheath at the College of Music, where she had gained a scholarship. -On her own initiative she came up to the Savoy Theatre, for a voice -trial, and was promptly engaged for the part of “Casilda” in the -forthcoming production of _The Gondoliers_. I remember the first night -of the opera occurred when I was still playing in _The Middleman_. Not -being in the last act, I was able to go down to the Savoy. I was -fearfully excited, and filled with pride and joy; it was a great night. -After the performance, Decima cried bitterly all the way home, so -convinced was she that her performance could not have been successful. -It was not until the following morning, when she was able to read the -notices in the morning papers, that she was reassured and finally -comforted. Far from ruining her performance, she had made a big success. - -During the time we shared rooms we were both taken ill with Russian -influenza—and very ill we both were. Geraldine Ulmar came to see us, and -brought, later, Dr. Mayer Collier, who proved “a very present help in -trouble”. He rose high in his profession, and never ceased to be our -very good friend, nor failed in his goodness to us all. - -On October 31st, 1891, I find the following Press cutting appeared: “Mr. -Esmond will shortly marry Miss Eva Moore, the younger sister (this, I -may say, was, and still is, incorrect) of pretty Miss Decima Moore of -the Savoy”. I was then playing in _The Late Lamented_, a play in which -Mr. Ackerman May, the well-known agent, played a part. Herbert Standing -was in the cast, though I remember very little about what he—or, for the -matter of that, anyone else—played, except that he was supposed to be -recovering from fever, and appeared with a copper blancmange mould on -his head, wrapped in a blanket. It would seem that the humour was not of -a subtle order. - -We were married on November 19th, 1891, on the winnings of Harry and -myself on a race. _We_ backed a horse called “Common,” which ran, I -imagine, in either the Liverpool Cup or the Manchester November -Handicap. Where we got the tip from, I don’t know; anyway, it won at 40 -to 1, and we were rich! Adding £50, borrowed from my sister Ada, to our -winnings, we felt we could face the world, and we did. - -The wedding was to be very quiet, but somehow ever so many people -drifted into the Savoy Chapel on the morning of November 19th, among -them Edward Terry, who signed the register. - -As Harry was “on his way to the altar”, as the Victorian novelists would -say, his best man, Patrick Rose, discovered that the buttons of his -morning coat had—to say the least of it—seen better days. The material -had worn away, leaving the metal foundation showing. He rushed into -Terry’s Theatre, and covered each button with _black grease paint_! - -We both played at our respective theatres in the evening, and certainly -the best laugh—for that night, at least—was when Harry, in _The Times_, -said: “I’m sick of ’umbug and deception. I’m a married gentleman! Let -the world know it; I’m a young married English gentleman”. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Gabell & Co., London, W._ To face p. 28 - - WEDDING BELLS - - November 19th. 1891 -] - - - - - CHAPTER III - WEDDING BELLS - - “A wedding doesn’t change things much, except that the bride’s - nearest relations can shut their eyes in peace.” - - —_Birds of a Feather._ - - -And so we were married.... We had a funny wedding day. Harry, being an -Irishman, and, like all Irishmen, subject to queer, sudden ways of -sentiment, insisted that in the afternoon we should call on his eldest -sister! I cannot remember that he had, up to then, shown any -overwhelming affection for her, but that afternoon the “Irishman” came -to the top, and we called on “herself”. We then dined at Simpson’s, and -went off to our respective theatres to work. - -I was rehearsing at the time for a musical play—_The Mountebanks_, by W. -S. Gilbert. I went to him, rather nervous, and asked if I “might be -excused the afternoon rehearsal”. He naturally asked “why?”; and -blushingly, I don’t doubt, I told him “to get married”. He was most -intrigued at the idea, and said I might be “excused rehearsals” for a -week. - -Three weeks after we were married, Edward Terry sent for Harry to come -to his dressing-room—and I may say here that Terry’s Theatre only -possessed three dressing-rooms: one, under the stage, for Edward Terry, -one for the men of the company, and another for the women—the reason for -this scarcity being that, when the theatre was built, the dressing-rooms -were forgotten! I believe the same thing happened when the theatre was -built at Brixton; if anyone has played at the theatre in question, and -will remember the extraordinary shapes of the rooms, they will readily -believe it! But to go back to Terry’s—Harry was sent for, and Edward -Terry presented him with two books, which he said would be of the -greatest use to him and me. They were _Dr. Chavasse’s Advice to a -Mother_ and _Dr. Chavasse’s Advice to a Wife_. I do not know if anyone -reads _Dr. Chavasse_ in these days, but then he was _the_ authority on -how to bring up children. Fred Grove assured me that he brought up a -family on _Dr. Chavasse_. - -Anyone who has seen my husband’s “evergreen play,” _Eliza Comes to -Stay_, may remember the extract from the book—the very book that Edward -Terry gave to us—which he uses in the play. I give it here; I think it -is worth quoting: - -“Question: Is there any objection, when it is cutting its teeth, to the -child sucking its thumb? - -“Answer: None at all. The thumb is the best gum-stick in the world. It -is ‘handy’; it is neither too hard nor too soft; there is no danger of -it being swallowed and thus choking the child.” - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Alfred Ellis, London, W._ To face p. 30 - - HARRY AS HOWARD BOMPAS - - “The Times” 1891 -] - -It was during the run of _The Late Lamented_ that I first met Fanny -Brough, President and one of the founders of the Theatrical Ladies’ -Guild, which has done so much splendid work. She worked with Mrs. Carson -(wife of the then Editor of _The Stage_), who was the originator of the -Guild. When the Music Hall Ladies’ Guild began, some years later, they -ran their organisation on the same lines. Two of the founders, I think I -am right in saying, of the Musical Hall Ladies’ Guild, were the -unfortunate Belle Elmore (the Wife of Crippen, who killed her) and Edie -Karno, the wife of Mr. Fred Karno, of _Mumming Birds_ fame. - -Speaking of Fanny Brough reminds me of others of that famous family. Lal -Brough, who held a kind of informal gathering at his house, with its -pleasant garden, each Sunday morning. It was a recognised thing to “go -along to Lal Brough’s” about 10.30 to 11 on Sunday. About 1 everyone -left for their respective homes, in time for the lunch which was waiting -there. Looking back, thinking of those Sunday morning gatherings, it -seems to me that we have become less simple, less easily contented; who -now wants a party, even of the least formal kind, to begin in the -morning? We have all turned our days “upside down”—we begin our -enjoyment when the night is half over, we dance until the (not very) -small hours, and certainly very very few of us want to meet our friends -at 11 a.m. They were happy Sundays at Lal Brough’s, but they belong to a -side of stage social life which is now, unhappily, over and done. They -belong, as did the host, to “the old order”. - -Sydney Brough, Lal Brough’s son, was a person of marvellous coolness and -resource. I was once playing with him in a special matinée of _A Scrap -of Paper_, in which he had a big duel scene. While the curtain was down, -some thoughtful person had cleared the stage of all “unnecessary -impedimenta”, including the daggers needed for the fight. When Brough -should have seized them, they were nowhere in sight. Most people would -have “dried up”—not Sydney Brough. He composed a long speech while he -looked all over the stage for the missing daggers; he looked -everywhere—talking all the time—and finally found them—on the top of a -large cupboard, on the stage! - -In 1892 I played in _Our Boys_ with William Farren, who was “a darling”, -and Davy James—he was very ill at the time, I remember, and very -“nervy”. May Whitty (now Dame May Webster) and I used to dress above his -room. We used to laugh immoderately at everything; poor David James used -to hate the noise we made, and used to send up word to us, “Will you -young women not laugh so much!” Speaking of May Whitty reminds me that -one paper said of our respective performances in the play: “If these two -young ladies _must_ be in the play, they should change parts.” - -Cicely Richards was in the cast too; she later played Nerissa in _The -Merchant of Venice_, with Irving, at Drury Lane, and I took Decima—who, -be it said, had never read or seen the play—to see it. Her comment, -looking at Shakespeare’s masterpiece strictly from a “Musical Comedy” -point of view, was “I don’t think much of the Rosina Brandram part”—the -said part being “Nerissa,” and Rosina Brandram at that time the heavy -contralto in the Gilbert and Sullivan operas. - -It was in _A Pantomime Rehearsal_ that I first met Ellaline Terriss; we -were the “two gifted amateurs” who sing a duet. She was as pretty as a -picture, and as nice as she was pretty. I also sang a song, called “Poor -Little Fay”, and at the revival “Ma Cherie”, by Paul Rubens, which, I -think, Edna May sang later on in the music halls. I know she came one -evening to hear the song, and sat in a box, which made me very nervous. -She was very quiet and rather shy—at least so I found her when we met. - -Charlie Brookfield was in the _Pantomime Rehearsal_, playing the part -created by Brandon Thomas. He was a most perfectly groomed man, and -always wore magnificent and huge button-holes, as really smart young men -did at that time. The bills for these button-holes used to come in, and -also bills for many other things as well, for he was always in debt; it -used to cause great excitement as to whether “Charlie” would get safely -in and out of the theatre without having a writ served on him. - -There are hundreds of good stories about Charles Brookfield, some of -them—well, not to be told here—but I can venture on two, at least. When -Frank Curzon was engaged to Isabel Jay, someone—one of the pests who -think the fact that a woman is on the stage gives them a right to insult -her—sent her a series of insulting letters, or postcards—I forget which. -Curzon was, naturally, very angry, and stated in the Press that he would -give £100 reward to find the writer. Brookfield walked into the club one -day and said, “Frank Curzon in a new rôle, I see.” Someone asked, “What -rôle?” “Jay’s disinfectant,” replied Brookfield. He was walking down -Maiden Lane one morning with a friend, and then Maiden Lane was by no -means the most reputable street in London. “I wonder why they call it -Maiden Lane?” said his friend. “Oh,” responded Brookfield, “just a piece -of damned sarcasm on the part of the L.C.C.” At the time when Wyndham -was playing _David Garrick_, he was sitting one day in the Garrick Club -under the portrait of the “great little man”. Brookfield came up. “’Pon -my word,” he began, “it’s perfectly wonderful; you get more like Garrick -every day.” Wyndham smiled. “Yes,” went on Brookfield, “and less like -him every night.” When Tree built His Majesty’s, he was very proud of -the building, and used to love to escort people past the place and hear -their flattering comments on the beauty of the building. One day he took -Brookfield. They stopped to gaze on “my beautiful theatre”, and Tree -waited for the usual praise. After a long pause, Brookfield said: -“Damned lot of windows to clean.” He could, and did, say very witty, but -bitter and cutting, things, which sometimes wounded people badly; yet he -said pathetically to a friend once: “Can’t think why some people dislike -me so!” - -About this time, or perhaps rather earlier (as a matter of fact, I think -it was in _Culprits_), I met Walter Everard, who, though quite an -elderly man, did such good work with the Army of Occupation in Cologne; -he is still, I think, doing work in Germany for the British Army. - -In _Man and Woman_ I met the ill-fated couple, Arthur Dacre and Amy -Roselle. She was the first well-known actress to appear on the music -halls. She went to the Empire to do recitations. She was much -interviewed, and much nonsense was talked and written about the moral -“uplift” such an act would give to the “wicked Empire”—which was just -what the directors of the Empire, which was not in very good odour at -the time, wanted. She was a queer, rather aloof woman, who took little -notice of anyone. He, too, was moody, and always struck me as rather -unbalanced. They went to Australia later, taking with them a bag of -English earth. There they found that their popularity had gone, poor -things! He shot her and then killed himself, leaving the request that -the English earth might be scattered over them. - -Lena Ashwell was in the cast. She was not very happy; for some reason, -Amy Roselle did not like her, and did nothing to make things smooth for -her. Lena Ashwell, in those days, was a vague person, which was rather -extraordinary, as she was a very fine athlete, and the two qualities did -not seem to go together. She also played in a first piece with Charles -Fulton. One day her voice gave out, and I offered to “read the part for -her” (otherwise there could have been no curtain-raiser)—a nasty, -nerve-racking business; but, funnily enough, I was not nearly so nervous -as poor Charles Fulton, who literally got “dithery”. - -Henry Neville was also in _Man and Woman_. A delightful actor, he is one -of the Stage’s most courtly gentlemen, one of those rare people whose -manners are as perfect at ten in the morning as they are at ten at -night. Writing of Henry Neville reminds me that later he was going to -appear at a very big matinée for Ellen Terry at Drury Lane, in which -“all stars” were to appear in the dance in _Much Ado_. Everybody who was -anybody was to appear—Fred Terry, Neville, my husband, Ben Webster, and -many more whose names I cannot remember at the moment. At ten each -morning down they went to rehearse. Edith Craig was producing the dance, -and put them through their paces. Apparently they were not very -“bright”, and Edie was very cross. Finally she burst out: “No, _no_, -_no_—and if you can’t do it any better than that, you shan’t be allowed -to do it at all!” Evidently after that they really “tried hard”, for -they certainly were allowed to “do it”, as the programme bears witness. - -In a special matinée at the old Gaiety I met Robert Sevier. He had -written a play called _The Younger Son_, which I heard was his own life -when he was in Australia. I don’t think it was a great success—at -anyrate, it was not played again—but Sevier enjoyed the rehearsals -enormously. After the matinée he asked all the company to dinner at his -house in Lowdnes Square. His wife, Lady Violet Sevier, was present. -Sevier enjoyed the dinner, as he had done the rehearsals, but she—well, -she “bore with us”; there was a frigid kindness about her which made one -feel that—to put it mildly—she “suffered” our presence, and regarded the -whole thing as an eccentricity of “Robert’s” (I cannot imagine that she -ever called him “Bob”, as did the rest of the world). - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Alfred Ellis, London, W._ To face p. 37 - - PEPITA - - “Little Christopher Columbus” -] - -The same year, 1893, I played in _Little Christopher Columbus_. Teddie -Lonnen was the comedian. May Yohe played “Christopher”, and played it -very well too; I impersonated her, in the action of the play. We had to -change clothes, for reasons which were part of the plot. She was not an -easy person to work with, and she certainly—at that time, at all -events—did not like me. This play was the only one in which I ever -rehearsed “foxy”—that is, did not put in the business I was going to -play eventually. The reason was this: as I gradually “built up” the -part, putting in bits of “business” during the rehearsals, I used to -find the next morning that they were “cut”: “That line is ‘out’, Miss -Moore,” or “Perhaps you’d better not do that, Miss Moore.” So “Miss -Moore” simply walked through the rehearsals, to the horror of the -producer. I used to go home and rehearse there. But on the first night I -“let myself go”, and put into the part all I had rehearsed at home. The -producer was less unhappy about me after that first night! However, it -still went on after we had produced. Almost every night the stage -manager would come to my room: “Miss Moore, a message for you—would you -run across the stage less noisily, you shake the theatre”; would I stand -further “up stage”; or would I do this, or that, or the other. Oh! May -Yohe, you really _were_ rather trying in those days; still, things did -improve, and eventually she really was very nice to me. It was in -_Little Christopher Columbus_ that I wore “boy’s clothes”. I thought -they suited me—in fact, I still think they did—a ballet shirt, coat (and -not a particularly short coat either) and—breeches. But, behold the -_Deus ex machina_, in the person of my husband! He came to the dress -rehearsal, and later we rode home to our little flat in Chelsea on the -top of a bus, discussing the play. Suddenly, as if struck by a bright -thought, he turned to me and said: “Don’t you think you’d look awfully -well in a cloak?” I felt dubious, and said so, but that did not shake -him. “I do,” he said, and added: “Your legs are much too pretty to show! -I’ll see about it in the morning.” He did! Early next morning he went up -and saw Monsieur Alias, the cloak was made and delivered to me at the -theatre that very evening, and I wore it too. It covered me from head to -foot; with great difficulty, I managed to show one ankle. But Harry -approved of it, very warmly indeed. - -There is a sequel to that story. Twenty years after, I appeared at a big -charity matinée at the Chelsea Palace as “Eve”—not Eve of the Garden of -Eden, but “Eve” of _The Tatler_. I wore a very abbreviated skirt, which -allowed the display of a good deal of long black boots and silk -stocking. Ellen Terry had been appearing as the “Spirit of Chelsea”. -After the performance she stood chatting to Harry and me. “Your legs are -perfectly charming; why haven’t we seen them before?” I pointed to Harry -as explanation. She turned to him. “Disgraceful,” she said, adding: “You -ought to be shot.” - -I was engaged to follow Miss Ada Reeve in _The Shop Girl_ at the Gaiety -Theatre. It was a ghastly experience, as I had, for the few rehearsals -that were given me, only a piano to supply the music, and my first -appearance on the stage was my introduction to the band. I had to sing a -duet with Mr. Seymour Hicks—I think it was “Oh listen to the band”—at -anyrate, I know a perambulator was used in the song. Mr. Hicks’s one -idea was to “get pace”, and as I sang he kept up a running commentary of -remarks to spur me on to fresh efforts. Under his breath—and not always -under his breath either—he urged me to “keep it up”, to “get on with -it”, until I felt more like a mental collapse than being bright or -amusing. This was continued at most of the performances which followed; -I sang, or tried to sing, accompanied by the band—_and_ Mr. Hicks. Then, -suddenly—quite suddenly—he changed. The theatre barometer swung from -“Stormy” to “Set fair”. Even then, I think, I had learnt that such a -sudden change—either in the barometer or human beings—means that a storm -is brewing. It was! - -I remember saying to Harry, when I got home one evening after this -change, “I shall be out of the theatre in a fortnight; Seymour Hicks has -been so extraordinarily pleasant to me—no faults, nothing but praise.” -What a prophet I was! - -As I was going to the dressing-room the next evening, I met Mr. George -Edwardes on the stairs. He called to me, very loudly, so that everyone -else could hear, “Oh! I shan’t want you after next Friday!” I protested -that I had signed for the “run”. I was told that, though I might have -done so, he had not, and so ... well! - -It was before the days when Sydney Valentine fought and died for the -standard contract, before the days when he had laboured to make the -Actors’ Association a thing of real use to artists—a _real_ Trades -Union; so I did not claim my salary “for the run”, but the fact that I -received a cheque from the management “in settlement of all claims” is -significant. - -Another rather “trying time” was many years later when I appeared “on -the halls”. Let me say here that I have played the halls since, and -found everyone—staff, manager, and other artists—very kind; but at that -time “sketches had been doing badly”, and when the date approached on -which I was to play at the—no, on second thoughts I won’t give the name -of the hall—the management asked me either to cancel or postpone the -date. I refused. I had engaged my company, which included Ernest -Thesiger, Bassett Roe, and several other excellent artists, for a month, -and the production had been costly, so I protested that they must either -“play me or pay me”. They did the latter, in two ways—one in cash, the -other in rudeness. How I hated that engagement! But even that had its -bright spot, and I look back and remember the kindness of the “Prime -Minister of Mirth”, Mr. George Robey, who was appearing at that -particular hall at the time. He did everything that could be done to -smooth the way for me. - -I seem to have been unlucky with “sketches” at that time. I had a -one-act comedy—and a very amusing comedy too; my son later used it as a -curtain-raiser, and I played it at several of the big halls: as the -Americans say, “It went big.” - -I thought I would strike out on my own and see an agent myself, without -saying anything to anybody. This is what happened. (I should say that -this is only a few years ago, when I had thought for some time that as -an actress I was fairly well known.) - -I called on the agent in question; he was established in large and most -comfortable offices in the West End. I was ushered into the Presence! He -was a very elegant gentleman, rather too stout perhaps. He sat at a -perfectly enormous desk, swinging about in a swivel chair, and, without -rising or asking me to sit down (which I promptly did), he opened the -interview: - -“Who are you?” I supplied the information. - -“Don’t know you,” he replied. “What d’you want?” I told him, as briefly -as possible. At the word “sketch” he stopped me, and with a plump hand -he pounded some letters that lay on his desk. “Sketches,” he repeated -solemnly, “I can get sketches three-a-penny, and _good_ people to play -’em. Nothing doing.” - -I stood up and walked to the door, then perhaps he remembered that he -had seen me in a play or something—I don’t know; anyway, he called after -me, “Here, who did you say you were?” “Still Eva Moore,” I said calmly, -and made my exit. - -All agents may not be like that; I hope they are not; but I fancy he is -one of the really successful ones. Perhaps their manners are in inverse -ratio to their bank balances. - -Talking of agents, I heard of one who was listening to a patriotic -ballad being sung at the Empire during the war. A man who was with him -did not like it, and said, “You know, that kind of stuff doesn’t do any -good to the Empire”—meaning the British Empire. “No,” was the reply; -“they don’t go well at the Alhambra, for that matter, either.” - - - - - CHAPTER IV - PLAYS AND PLAYERS - - “A good deal more work for all of us, my lord.” - - —_Love and the Man._ - - -The year 1894 found me playing in _The Gay Widow_, the first play in -which I ever worked with Charles (now, of course, Sir Charles) Hawtrey. -I do not remember very much about the play except that I wore most -lovely clothes, and that Lottie Venne played “my mother”. - -This year does, however, mark a very important milestone in our -lives—Harry’s and mine; it was the first time we attempted management on -our own, and also his first play was produced. We, Harry and I, with G. -W. Elliott, greatly daring, formed a small syndicate. We took the St. -James’s Theatre for eight weeks while George Alexander was on tour, and -presented Harry’s play _Bogey_. (In those days all big London managers -went on tour for a few months, taking their London company and -production.) - -First, let me say that, whatever the merits or demerits of the play, we -were unlucky. We struck the greatest heat wave that London had known for -years; and that, as everyone knows, is not the best recipe in the world -for sending up the takings at the box office. As for the play, George -Alexander said—and, I think, perhaps rightly—the “play was killed by its -title.” It was a play dealing with “spiritualism,” in a limited sense. I -mean that it was not in any sense a propaganda play; it had, naturally, -not the finish, or perhaps the charm, of his later work—he would have -been a poor craftsman if it had been, and a less great artist if the -years which came after had taught him nothing—but _Bogey_ certainly did -not deserve the hard things which one critic, Mr. Clement Scott, said of -it. He wrote one of the most cruel notices which I have ever read, a -notice beginning “Vaulting Ambition”—which, in itself, is one of the -bundle of “clichés” which may be used with almost equal justice about -anything. To say, as Mr. Scott did, that I saved the play again and -again “by supreme tact” was frankly nonsense. No actress can save a play -“again and again by supreme tact”; she may, and probably will, do her -best when she is on the stage, but if she “saves the play” it is due to -her acting capacity, and not to “tact”—which seems to me to be the -dealing gracefully with an unexpected situation in a way that is -essentially “not in the script”. - -However, the fact remains that Mr. Clement Scott unmasked the whole of -his battery of heavy guns against the play and the author, for daring to -produce it while he was still under fifty years of age; and, after all, -it was rather “setting out to kill a butterfly with a double-barrelled -gun”. Still.... - -The following night another play was produced, at another theatre, and -on this play (not at all a brilliant achievement) Mr. Clement Scott -lavished unstinted praise. On the first night of a third play, as he -went to his stall, the gallery—which was, as usual, filled largely by -the members of the Gallery First Night Club—greeted him with shouts of -“_Bogey_”, and continued to do so until, in disgust, he left the stalls. -After that night, Clement Scott always occupied a box! But the sequel! -Some days after the production of _Bogey_, the President of the Gallery -First Night Club called at our little house in Chelsea. I remember his -call distinctly: our maid was “out”, and I opened the door to him. He -came to ask Harry to be the guest at the first dinner of the club. It -was, I think, when that club held its twenty-fifth birthday, that we -were both asked to be the guests of the club—a compliment we much -appreciated. - -The play _Bogey_ was not a success, but I should like to quote the -remarks of the dramatic critic of the _Sporting Times_, which seemed, -and still seem, to me kind and—what is of infinitely greater -importance—just: “Ambition is not necessarily vaulting, and it is a -thing to be encouraged and not mercilessly crushed in either a young -author or a young actor. Nor when the youngster figures in the double -capacity of author and actor is the crime unpardonable.... This is all -_apropos_ of an ungenerous attack in a quarter from which generosity -would have been as graceful as the reverse is graceless.... It was -remarked to me by a London manager: ‘I don’t know any actor on our stage -who could play the part better than Esmond does’, and, upon my word! I -am inclined to agree with him.... _Bogey_ is not a good play ... but it -has a freshness about it, an originality of idea which is not unlikely -to prove unattractive to a great many.” - -However, Harry Esmond tried again; and the row of plays on a shelf in my -study is proof that he was only “baffled to fight better”. - -In _Bogey_ we had a stage manager, I remember, who should, had the gods -taken sufficient interest in the destinies of men, have been a maker of -“props” and a property master. He played a small part, of a “typical -city man”, and his one ambitious effort towards characterisation was to -ask if he “might be allowed to carry a fish basket”. He evidently -thought _all_ city men call at Sweetings before catching their train -home! - -In _The Strange Adventures of Miss Brown_, which was my next engagement, -I played with Fred Kerr, who wore a toupée. I remember at one place in -the play, where I had to “embrace him impulsively”, he always said in a -loud whisper, “_Mind_ my toupée.” - -Both Harry and I were in _The Blind Marriage_, at the Criterion. He and -Arnold Lucy played “twins”, and Harry had to add a large false nose to -the one with which nature had already very generously provided him. They -wore dreadful clothes—knickerbockers which were neither breeches nor -“plus fours” but more like what used to be known as “bloomers”. Herbert -Waring and Herbert Standing were both in the cast, and on the first -night the latter was very excited. Waring went on and had a huge -ovation, while Herbert Standing, in the wings, whispered excitedly, -“They think it’s me! they think it’s me!” - -Herbert Standing was a fine actor, with more than a fair share of good -looks. He was very popular at Brighton, where he used to appear at -concerts. I remember he was talking one day to Harry, and told him how -he had “filled the Dome at Brighton” (which was a vast concert hall). -Harry murmured, “Wonderful; how did you do it?” “Oh,” said Standing, -“recited, you know. There were a few other people there—Ben Davis, -Albani, Sims Reeves,” and so on. - -Mr. Standing came to see Harry one day, and was shown into his study, -which was a small room almost entirely filled with a huge desk. Standing -began to rail against the fate which ordained that at that moment he had -no work. “I can do anything, play anything,” he explained, which was -perfectly true—he was a fine actor! “Listen to this,” and he began to -recite a most dramatic piece of work, full of emotion and gesture. As he -spoke, he advanced upon “H. V.”, who kept moving further and further -away from him. I came into the study, to find Harry cowering against the -wall, which effectually stopped him “getting away” any further, and -Standing, now “well away”, brandishing his arms perilously near Harry’s -nose. - -Standing was devoted to his wife, and immensely proud of his family. -When she died, he was heartbroken. He met some friends one day, who -expressed their sympathy with him in his loss. “Yes,” said Standing, -“and what do you think we found under her pillow? _This_”—and he -produced a photograph of himself, adding mournfully, “but it doesn’t do -me justice!” - -It was in _Under the Red Robe_ that I first actually played with -Winifred Emery (who used to give most lovely tea parties in her -dressing-room). Cyril Maude, Holman Clark, Granville Barker, and Annie -Saker (who were later to make such a number of big successes at the -Lyceum, under the Brothers Melville’s management) were also in the cast. -I only met the author, Stanley Weyman, once, but he was very generous to -all the company and gave us beautiful souvenirs; I still use a silver -cigarette box, engraved with a cardinal’s hat, which he gave to me. He -was not one’s preconceived idea of a writer of romantic plays and books; -as a matter of fact, he was rather like Mr. Bonar Law. - -After this run, I went on tour for a short time with J. L. Shine, with -_An Irish Gentleman_, and at one town—Swansea, I think—he gave a Press -lunch. All kinds of local pressmen were invited, and, in comparison to -the one who fell to my lot, the “silent tomb” is “talkative”. Soup, -fish, joint, all passed, and he never spoke a single word. He was a -distinctly noticeable person, wearing a cricket cap, morning coat, and -white flannel trousers. I tried every subject under the sun, with no -result, until—at last—he spoke. “I ’ave a sort of claim on you -perfessionals,” he said. I expressed my delight and surprise, and asked -for details. “Well,” he said, “in the winter I’m an animal impersonator, -but in the summer I take up literature.” I have always wondered if he -played the front or hind legs of the “elephant”! - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Gabell & Co., London, S.W._ To face p. 48. - - MADAME DE COCHEFORET - - “Under the Red Robe” -] - -Soon after I returned to London, my husband’s second play was produced -by Charles Hawtrey, _One Summer’s Day_—and thereby hangs a tale! Harry -had sent the play to Hawtrey and, calling a month later, saw it still -lying—unopened—on his desk. He determined that Hawtrey should hear the -play, even if he wouldn’t read it himself; Harry would read it to him. - -“I’ll call to-morrow and read my play to you,” he said. Hawtrey -protested he was very busy, “hadn’t a minute”, had scores of plays to -read, etc. But Harry only added, “To-morrow, at ten, then,” and went. -The next morning he arrived, and after some difficulty obtained entrance -to Hawtrey’s room. Again Hawtrey protested—he really had not time to -hear, he would read the play himself, and so on; but by that time Harry -had sat down, opened the book, and began to read. At the end of the -first act, Hawtrey made another valiant effort to escape; he liked it -very much, and would read the rest that same evening. “You’ll like the -second act even better,” H. V. said calmly, and went on reading. When -the third act was finished, Hawtrey really _did_ like it, and promised -to “put it on” as soon as possible. - -“In a fortnight,” suggested the author. Oh! Hawtrey wasn’t sure that he -could do it as soon as that, and the “summer was coming”, and Harry had -had one lesson of what a heat wave could do to a play. So he said -firmly, “The autumn then.” Hawtrey gave up the struggle, and the play -was put into rehearsal and produced in the autumn. _One Summer’s Day_ -was a great success; it was in this play that Constance Collier played -her first real part. She had been at the Gaiety in musical comedy, -where, I remember, she entered carrying a very, very small parcel, about -the size of a small handkerchief box, and announced “This contains my -costume for the fancy dress ball!” - -Mrs. Calvert played in this production, which reminds me that in the -picnic scene we used to have “real pie”, which she rather enjoyed. After -we had been running for some time, the management thought, in the -interests of economy, they would have a “property pie”—that is, stuffed -not with meat, but with cotton wool. Mrs. Calvert, all unknowing, took a -large mouthful, and was nearly choked! - -In _One Summer’s Day_ we had a huge tank filled with real water, sunk at -the back of the stage, and Ernest Hendrie, Henry Kemble, and Mrs. -Calvert used to make an entrance in a punt—a real punt. One day they all -sat at one end, with most disastrous consequences; after that, they -“spread themselves” better. - -Henry Kemble was a delightful, dignified person, who spoke in a -“rolling” and very “rich” voice. He used, occasionally, to dine -well—perhaps more well than wisely. One night, in the picnic scene, he -was distinctly “distrait”, and forgot his line. As I knew the play -backwards, I gave his line. He was very angry. We were all sitting on -the ground at a picnic. He leant over the cloth and said in a loud -voice, “You are not everybody, although you are the author’s wife.” - -In this play a small boy was needed, and we sought high and low for a -child to play the “urchin”. A friend told us one day he knew of the -“very boy”, and promised to send him up for inspection. The following -morning the “ideal urchin” arrived at the Comedy Theatre. He was a very -undersized Jew, whose age was, I suppose, anything from 30 to 40, and -who had not grown since he was about twelve. This rather pathetic little -man walked on to the stage, and looked round the theatre, his hands in -his pockets; then he spoke. “Tidy little ’all,” was his verdict—he was -not engaged! - -My next engagement was in _The Sea Flower_. I remember very little about -it except that I wore a bunch of curls, beautiful curls which Willie -Clarkson made for me. On the first night, Cosmo Stuart embraced me with -such fervour that they fell off, and lay on the stage in full view of -the audience. - -Then followed _The Three Musketeers_, a splendid version of that -wonderful book, by Harry Hamilton, with a magnificent cast. Lewis Waller -was to have played “D’Artagnan”, which he was already playing on tour; -Harry was to go to the touring company and play Waller’s part. Then -there came some hitch. I am not very clear on the point, but I think -Tree had arranged for a production of the same play, in which Waller was -engaged to play “Buckingham”, and that Tree or the managers in the -country would not release him. Anyway, Harry rehearsed the part in -London. Then Waller managed to get released for a week to come to London -and play for the first week of the production, while Harry went to the -provinces. Waller came up to rehearse on the Friday with the London -company, ready for the opening on Monday. I had lost my voice, and was -not allowed to speak or leave my room until the Monday, and therefore -the first time I met D’Artagnan was on the stage at the first night. If -you will try and imagine how differently Lewis Waller and Harry Esmond -played the part, you will realise what a nerve-racking business it was. -For example, in the great “ride speech,” where Harry used to come in -absolutely weary, speaking as an exhausted man, flinging himself into a -chair, worn out with his ride and the anxiety attached to it, Waller -rushed on to the stage, full of vitality, uplifted with the glory of a -great adventure, and full of victory, leading _me_ to the chair before -he began to speak. You may imagine that on the first night I felt almost -lost. I am not trying to imply that one reading was “better” than the -other; both were quite justified; only, to me, the experience was -staggering. - -Waller was always vigorous, and particularly as D’Artagnan. One night -when he entered and “bumped” into Porthos, he “bumped” so hard that he -fell into the orchestra and on to the top of the big drum! Nothing -daunted, Waller climbed out of the orchestra, by way of the stage box, -back on to the stage! - -The first time I played with Tree was in a special performance of _The -Dancing Girl_. I played the lame girl, and I remember my chief worry was -how, being lame, to get down a long flight of stairs in time to stop -Tree, who played the Duke, from drinking the “fatal draught” of poison. - -I was then engaged by Tree to play in _Carnac Sahib_, a play by Henry -Arthur Jones. It dealt with military life in India. The rehearsals were -endless, and not without some strain between the author and Tree. Henry -Arthur Jones used to come to rehearsals straight from his morning ride, -dressed in riding kit, complete with top boots and whip; Tree didn’t -like it at all! - -The day before the production there was a “call” for “words” at 11 in -the morning. The only person who did not know their “words” was Tree; he -never arrived! The dress rehearsal was fixed for 3; we began it at 5, -and at 6 in the morning were “still at it”. - -After the end of one of the acts—the second, I think—there was a long -wait. This was at 2.30 a.m.! The band played, and for an hour we sang -and danced on the stage. Then someone suggested that it might be as well -to find out what had happened to Tree. They went to his dressing-room -and found him; he had been asleep for an hour! At last we began the -final act. Tree reclined on a bed of straw, and I fanned him with a palm -leaf. There was a wait, perhaps three or four seconds, before the -curtain rose. “Oh God!” said Tree, in the tone of one who has waited for -years and is weary of everything: “Oh sweet God! I am ready to begin!” - -It was soon after, in _Marsac of Gascony_, at Drury Lane Theatre, I made -my entrance on a horse—a real stage horse; the same one, I think, that -Irving had used. I may say this is the only time that I had—as you might -say—known a horse at all intimately. It was a dreadful play: the -audience rocked with laughter at all the dramatic situations. It was -short-lived, and I went soon after to Harry’s play, _The Wilderness_, -which George Alexander produced at the St. James’s Theatre. Aubrey Smith -appeared in this play, looking very much as he does now, except that his -moustache was rather longer. Phyllis Dare played one of the children—and -a very dear child she was; so, too, was her sister Zena, who used to -call at the theatre to take her home. - -There were two children in this play, who had a “fairy ring” in a wood. -(If anyone does not know what a fairy ring is, they should go into the -nearest field and find one, for their education has been seriously -neglected.) To this “ring” the two children used to bring food for the -fairies, which they used to steal from the family “dustbin”. One of the -“dainties” was a haddock, and this—a real fish—was carefully prepared by -the famous Rowland Ward, so that it would be preserved and at the same -time retain its “real” appearance. A party of people sitting in the -third row of the stalls wrote a letter of protest to Alexander, saying -that the “smell from the haddock was unbearable”, and it was high time -he got a new one! - -I remember that during rehearsals George Alexander was very anxious that -Harry should “cut” one of the lines which he had to speak. In the scene -in the wood, Sir Harry Milanor (which was the character he played), in -talking to his elderly uncle, has to exclaim, “Uncle Jo! Look, a -lizard!” George Alexander protested that the line was unreal, that no -man would suddenly break off to make such a remark, and therefore he -wished Harry would either “cut” or alter it. One day, shortly before the -production, Alexander was walking in Chorley Woods with his wife, who -was “hearing his lines”. When they reached a bridge, he leant over the -parapet, still repeating his words. Suddenly he broke off in the middle -of a sentence to exclaim, “_Look!_ A trout!” “Lizard, Alex.,” his wife -corrected quietly; and henceforth he never made any objection to the -line which had previously caused such discussion. - -It was when he took _The Wilderness_ on tour that I had what I always -say was “the best week of my life”. We were not only playing _The -Wilderness_, but several other plays in which I did not appear, which -meant that I sometimes had nights on which I was free. There was at that -time a bad smallpox scare, and when we were in Manchester the whole -company was vaccinated. - -Harry was then going to America to produce a play, and I was taking my -baby, Jack (from whom I had never been parted before), to stay with his -grandmother in Brighton, while I went to Ireland. I left Manchester, -took Jack to Brighton, feeling when I left him (as, I suppose, most -young mothers feel when they leave their babies for the first time in -someone else’s care) that I might never see him again, and on the -Saturday morning I saw Harry off to the States. - -I spent the evening with Julia Neilson and Fred Terry, who were playing -_Sweet Nell of Old Drury_ in Liverpool. They did all they could to cheer -me—and I needed it! I left them to join the company on the -landing-stage, to cross to Ireland. And what a crossing it was, too! The -cargo boat which carried our luggage gave up the attempt to cross, and -put into the Isle of Man, and the captain of our passenger boat -seriously thought of doing the same thing. Finally we arrived at -Belfast, to find the main drain of the town had burst, the town was -flooded, and the stalls and orchestra at the theatre were several feet -deep in most unsavoury water! There was no performance that evening—I -remember we all went to the music hall, by way of a holiday—but the next -evening we opened at the Dockers’ Theatre, the company which was playing -there having been “bought out”. So the successes of the St. James’s -Theatre—light, witty comedies—were played at the _Dockers’ Theatre_, -where the usual fare was very typical melodrama. - -The next day we all began to feel very ill—the vaccination was beginning -to make itself felt—also I had developed a rash, and, in addition, I -thought I must have hurt my side, it was so painful. I remember, at the -hotel, George Alexander came to my door, knocked, and, when I opened it, -said: - -“Are you covered in spots?” - -“Yes,” I told him. - -“Don’t worry,” he begged; and, tearing open the front of his shirt, -added: “Look at me!” - -He, too, had come out “all of a rash”—due, I suppose, to the -vaccination. My side got worse, and I had to see a doctor, who said I -had shingles—a most painful business, which prevented me from sleeping -and made me feel desperately ill. The climax came on the Saturday night. -Alexander was not playing, his rash had been too much for him, and his -doctor advised him not to appear. The understudy played in his stead, -and, however good an understudy may be—and they are often very good—it -is always trying to play with someone who is playing the part for the -first time. At the end of the play, _The Wilderness_, I had a scene with -my first lover, in which I referred to “my husband”. Some wit in the -gallery yelled “And where’s the baby, Miss?”. I was ill, I hadn’t slept -for nights, my husband was on his way to America, I was parted from my -baby, my sister was in the midst of divorcing her husband—which had -added to my worries—and this was the last straw! When the play ended, I -walked off the stage, after the final curtain, blind with tears—so -blind, indeed, that I fell over a piece of scenery, and hurt myself -badly. This made me cry more than ever, up to my dressing-room, in my -dressing-room, and all the way back to the hotel, and, as far as I -remember, most of the night. - -When we reached Dublin, fate smiled upon me. I met Mr. W. H. Bailey -(afterwards the “Right Hon.”, who did such good work on the Land -Commission), and he took me to his own doctor—Dr. Little, of Merrion -Square (may his name be for ever blessed!), who gave me lotions and, -above all, a sleeping draught, and gradually life became bearable again. - -One dreadful day (only twenty-four hours this time, not weeks) was while -I was playing at the St. James’s in _The Wilderness_. I was driving in a -dog-cart (this is before the days of motor cars) in Covent Garden, when -the horse slipped and fell, throwing me out. I picked myself up, saw -that the horse’s knees were not broken, and walked into the bank at the -corner of Henrietta Street to ask for a glass of water. I found that, -not only had I a large bump on my head, but that my skirt was covered -with blood. Round I went to the Websters’ flat in Bedford Street and -climbed up five flights of stairs. May Webster found that I had a huge -gash on my hip, and said the only thing to do was to go to the hospital. -Down five flights I went, and drove to Charing Cross Hospital. There a -young doctor decided he would put in “a stitch or two”, and also put a -bandage on my head. He was a particularly unpleasant young man, I -remember, and finally I said to him: “Do you know your manners are -_most_ unpleasant? You don’t suppose people come in here for fun, do -you?” He was astonished; I don’t think it had ever dawned on him that he -was “unpleasant”, and I suppose no one had dared to tell him. I only -hope it did him good, and that he is now a most successful surgeon with -a beautiful “bedside manner”. - -I drove to the theatre, where there was a matinée, with my hat, or -rather toque, perched on the top of a large bandage, plus a leg that was -rapidly beginning to stiffen. I got through the performance, and decided -to stay in the theatre and rest “between the performances”. I was to -have dinner sent to my dressing-room. Harry thought I had said “someone” -would see about it; I thought that _he_ said he would see about it; the -“someone else” thought that we were both seeing about it, and so, -between them all, I had no dinner at all. - -By the end of the evening performance I was really feeling distinctly -sorry for myself, with my head “opening and shutting” and my leg hurting -badly. When, at the end of the play, I fell into Alexander’s arms in a -fond embrace, I just stayed there. He was just helping me to a chair, -and I had begun to cry weakly, when H. H. Vincent came up, patted me -firmly—very firmly—on the back, and said: “Come, come, now; don’t give -way, don’t give way!” This made me angry, so angry that I forgot to go -on crying. - - - - - CHAPTER V - MORE PLAYS AND PLAYERS - - “Going to wander—into the past.” - —_Fools of Nature._ - - -When Anthony Hope’s play, _Pilkerton’s Peerage_, was produced, the scene -was—or so we were told—an exact representation of the Prime Minister’s -room at 10 Downing Street. One Saturday matinée the King and Queen, then -Prince and Princess of Wales, came to see the play, and on that -particular afternoon we, the company, had arranged to celebrate the -birth of Arthur Bourchier’s daughter—in our own way. - -He was playing the Prime Minister, and we had been at considerable pains -to prepare the stage, so that at every turn he should be confronted with -articles connected with very young children. For instance, he opened a -drawer—to find a pair of socks; a dispatch box—to find a baby’s bottle; -and so on. The King and Queen could see a great deal of the joke from -the Royal box, and were most interested. In the second act, a tea-time -scene, Bourchier, on having his cup handed to him, discovered seated in -his cup a diminutive china doll, and the thing began to get on his -nerves. He hardly dare touch anything on the stage, for fear of what -might fall out. In the last act, a most important paper was handed to -him in the action of the play. He eyed it distrustfully, and you could -see him decide _not_ to take it, if he could avoid doing so, for fear of -what might happen. He did everything in his power not to take that -paper; he avoided it with an ingenuity worthy of a better cause, but -“the play” was too strong for him, and he finally had to “grasp the -nettle”. He took it as if he feared it might explode—a pair of small -pink woollen socks fell out! It was a disgraceful business, but oh! so -amusing, and we all enjoyed it. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by The Biograph Studio, London, W._ To face p. 61 - - KATHIE - - “Old Heidelberg” -] - -In 1903 Alexander put on that great success, _Old Heidelberg_, at the -St. James’s. We were rehearsed by a German, who had one idea which he -always kept well in the foreground of his mind—to make us all shout; and -the louder we shouted, the better he was satisfied. He was blessed with -an enormous voice himself—as all Germans, male and female, are—and saw -no difficulty in “roaring” lines. The whole of the rehearsals were -punctuated with shouts of “_Louder-r-r-r!_” - -In this play Henry Ainley played one of the students—quite a small part. -I have a picture of him, wearing a student’s cap, and looking so -delightful! I remember nothing particular which happened during the run, -except that one evening, when I was hoisted on to the shoulders of the -“boys”, one of them nearly dropped me into the footlights; and another -evening, when someone had recommended me to use some special new “make -up” for my eyes, and I did so, the result being that the stuff ran into -my eyes and hurt so badly that I had to play practically all the last -act with my eyes shut! “Kattie”, in this play, has always been one of my -favourite parts. - -Then my husband’s play, _Billy’s Little Love Affair_, was produced, and -proved very satisfactory from every point of view. Allen Aynesworth, -Charles Groves, and Florence St. John were in the cast. She was a most -delightful comedienne, of the “broad comedy school”. A most popular -woman, always known to all her friends as “Jack”; she died a few years -ago, very greatly regretted by everyone. - -One evening during the run of this play, Allen Aynesworth made an -entrance, and Charles Groves, who was on the stage, noticed that his -face was decorated with a large black smudge. Funnily enough, Aynesworth -noticed that the same “accident” had happened to Groves. Each kept -saying to the other, “Rub that smudge off your face”, and each thought -the other was repeating what he said. Thus, when Aynesworth whispered -“Rub the smudge off your face”, Groves apparently repeated “Rub the -smudge off your face”! Both became gradually annoyed with the other, and -when they came off they faced each other, to ask indignantly, in one -breath, “Why didn’t you do as I told you?”—then discovering the truth -that they both had smudges. - -When this play was to be produced in America, an amusing thing happened. -The man who was playing the leading part (his Christian name was -William, but he was usually known as “Billy” by most people), his wife -was just at that time bringing a divorce suit against him. A wire -arrived one day for Harry, saying “Title of _Billy’s Little Love Affair_ -must be altered; impossible to use under circumstances”. It was altered -and called _Imprudence_ instead, thanks to the courtesy of Sir Arthur -Pinero, who had already used that title. - -Then came _Duke of Killiecrankie_, with Grahame Browne, Weedon -Grossmith, and Marie Illington. She was a dignified lady; a very -excellent actress, as she is still. Grossmith, who loved to have “little -jokes” on the stage (and, let me say, _not_ the kind of jokes which -reduce all the artistes on the stage to a state of helpless imbecility, -and leave the audience wondering what “Mr. So-and-so has said _now_”), -one evening at the supper scene held a plate in front of Marie -Illington, whispering in ecstatic tones, “Pretty pattern, isn’t it? -Lovely colouring”, and so on—not, perhaps, a very good joke, but quite -funny at the time. She was furious, and on leaving the stage, said to -him in freezing tones, “Kindly don’t cover up my face. You’re not the -_only_ ornament on the stage, you know!” - -Then followed a Barrie play—or, rather, two Barrie plays—one, -_Josephine_, a political satire; the other, _Mrs. Punch_. I recollect -working like a Trojan to learn an Irish jig, and that is about the -extent of my memories of the play. - -It seems rather remarkable how easily one does forget plays. For the -time being, they are a very actual part of one’s life; but, once over, -they are very quickly forgotten, with all the hopes and fears, the -worries and uncertainties, attached to them. For example, I once played -the leading part in _The Importance of Being Earnest_, learnt the part -in twelve hours, and played without a rehearsal. I only “dried up” once -during the play; I worked at top pressure to learn the part, and now -(though I will admit it is some years ago) not a single line of the play -remains in my mind. - -In _Lights Out_, one incident certainly does remain very vividly in my -memory. Charles Fulton had to shoot me at the end of the play. I wasn’t -too happy about the pistol, and Harry was frankly nervous. He besought -Fulton to “shoot wide”, so that there might be no danger of the “wad” -(which was, or should have been, made of tissue paper) hitting me. At -the dress rehearsal, the wad (which was made of wash-leather), flew out -and hit me on the arm. I had a bad bruise, but that was all; and I -remember saying happily to Charles Fulton, “That’s all right; now it -will never happen again!” However, on the second night, the property -man, who loaded the pistol, put in, for some reason best known to -himself, another wad made of wash-leather. The fatal shot was fired: I -felt a stinging pain in my lip as I fell. When I got up, I found my -mouth was pouring with blood; the wad had hit me on the mouth and split -my lip. Fulton turned to me on the stage, preparing to “take his call”, -saying brightly and happily, “All right to-night, eh, Eva?” - -Then he saw what had happened. The curtain went up for the “call” with -poor Fulton standing with his back to the audience, staring at me. My -old dresser, Kate, had a cloth wrung out in warm water ready, and I sat -on the stage mopping my lip. Everyone seemed to forget all about me, the -entire company gathered round the pistol, and I sat watching H. B. -Irving and Charles Fulton alternately squinting down the barrel, as if -some dark secret was contained in it. They went so far as to stick a bit -of white paper on the fireproof curtain and shoot at it, to see how far -either way the pistol “threw”. It all struck me as so intensely funny -that I roared with laughing, which recalled my existence to their -memory. A doctor was sent for, and I was taken to my dressing-room. -Meanwhile the car was sent to the Green Room Club to call for Harry, who -finished early in the play. The chauffeur (who was a very fat youth) met -Charles Hallard coming out of the club; very nervously he stopped him -and said, “Oh, sir, will you tell the master the mistress has been -shot!” Hallard, trying to be very tactful, went into the cardroom, where -Harry was playing, leant over him, and said in a dignified whisper, -“It’s all right, don’t worry, Eva’s not _badly_ hurt.” Harry rushed -round to the theatre, to find poor Fulton walking up and down in great -distress. He tried to stop Harry to explain “how it happened”; all he -got was a furious “_Curse_ you, _curse_ you!” from Harry, who was nearly -beside himself; no doubt picturing me dead. - -I asked the doctor to give me “the same thing as he gave the -prize-fighters”, to stop my lip swelling; and he did; but when I played -the following night, which I had to do, as my understudy did not know -the part, I felt that I had enough superfluous face easily to “make -another”. - -I used to do a “fall” in _Lights Out_—which, by the way, I never -rehearsed—which used to take the make-up off the end of my nose every -night. - -I have played in many costume parts—Powder-and-Patch—which I loved. -There was “Lady Mary” (the “Lady of the Rose”, as she was called) in the -famous play, _Monsieur Beaucaire_, when Lewis Waller revived that play. -“Lady Mary” was not a very sympathetic part, but picturesque; and to -play with Will (as he was lovingly called by all who knew him) was a -joy. I had a lovely doll, dressed as “Lady Mary”, presented to me, and I -have her still. - -_Sweet Kitty Bellaires_, by Egerton Castle, was another Powder-and-Patch -part; she was a delight to play, but, alas! that play was not one of -those that ran as long as it deserved. In one scene, a large four-poster -bed was required, in which Kitty in her huge crinoline and flowing train -had to hide herself when she heard the arrival of unwelcome visitors; -but it was not considered “nice” for a bed to be used, at anyrate in -that theatre, so after the dress rehearsal the bed was removed, and -Kitty had to hide behind window curtains. - -Shortly after this play, Miss Jill Esmond made her first bow to the -world; a wee but most amiable baby, all laughter and happiness; in fact, -during one holiday at Puise, near Dieppe, where we spent a lovely family -holiday, Jack used to make her laugh so much I quite feared for her. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Alfred Ellis, London, W._ To face p. 66 - - LADY MARY CARLYLE - - “Monsieur Beaucaire” -] - -When I played in Alfred Sutro’s play, _John Glayde’s Honour_, with -George Alexander, Matheson Lang was playing, what I think I am right in -saying was his first “lover” part in London, in the same play. My mother -came to the first night, and watched me play the part of a wife who -leaves her husband, going away with her lover. Her comment was: “I’m -sure you were very clever, darling,” as she kissed me; “but I never want -to see you play that part again.” “Muriel Glayde”, though not really a -sympathetic character, was intensely interesting, and I loved playing -her. - -Which reminds me of another story of my mother, that I can tell here. -After my father died, she came to live in London. She was then 73 years -old. She had been up to town to see the flat which we had taken for her, -and to make certain arrangements. She was going back to Brighton, and I -was driving with her to the station, when she said, seriously: “Of -course, darling, when I come to live in London, I shall not expect to go -to a theatre every night.” To go to the theatre every night had been her -custom during her brief visits to me when my father had been alive. - -When I played in Mr. Somerset Maugham’s play, _The Explorer_, in 1908, I -had a narrow escape from what might have been a nasty accident. Mr. A. -E. George was playing my lover, and in the love scene he used to take -from me the parasol which I carried and practise “golf strokes” with it -to cover his (“stage”, not real, be it said) nervousness. One evening -the parasol and its handle parted company; the handle remained in his -hand, and the other half flew past my cheek, so near that I could hardly -believe it had left me untouched, and buried itself in the scenery -behind me. There was a gasp from the audience, then I laughed, and they -laughed, and all was well. - -That winter I played “Dearest” in Mrs. Hodgson Burnett’s _Little Lord -Fauntleroy_. “Dearest” is a young widow, and I remember after Harry had -seen the play his comment was: “Well, it is not given to every man to -see his wife a widow!” - -Earlier in that year I went to Drury Lane to play in _The Marriages of -Mayfair_, one of those spectacular dramas for which the Lane was so -famous. Lyn Harding and that delightful actor, Mr. Chevalier, who, alas! -has lately died, were both in the play. There was one very dangerous—or, -anyhow, very dangerous-looking—scene. Mr. Chevalier and I had to appear -in a sledge which was supposed to be coming down the mountain-side. The -platform—or, rather, the two platforms—on which Mr. Chevalier, myself, -driver, horse, and sledge had to wait before appearing, was built up as -high as the upper circle of the theatre. The horse, after a few -performances, learned to know his cue for appearing, got very excited, -and took to dancing, much to our alarm. The two platforms used slowly to -divide, and we could see down to the depths of the theatre, right below -the stage. Mr. Chevalier and I used to sit with one leg outside the -sledge, in case it became necessary for us to make a hasty leap. Later, -a horse that was a less vivid actor was given the rôle, much to our -comfort. I remember it was suggested that Miss Marie Lloyd should appear -and play herself, but Miss Lloyd did not fall in with the idea. - -I have heard that she did not care for either pantomime, revue, or the -drama, and did not consider herself suited to it. Which reminds me of a -story which was told to me about an occasion when Marie Lloyd appeared -in pantomime. Her great friend, Mrs. Edie Karno, came round after the -performance, and was asked by the comedienne: “Well, dear, what do you -think of me in pantomime?” - -Edie Karno, who was nothing if not truthful, and who had herself been -one of the greatest “mime” actresses of the last generation, replied: “I -don’t think it suits you like your own work.” - -“You don’t think I’m very good?” pursued Marie Lloyd. - -“Not very, dear,” admitted the other. - -“Not very good?” repeated Marie Lloyd. “You’re wrong; as a matter of -fact, I’m damned rotten in it!” - -Speaking of criticism reminds me of a story of the French authoress who -went to see Sir John Hare rehearse “Napoleon” in her play, _La Belle -Marseilles_. He did not look as she had expected, and she said, in -broken English, “Oh! he is too old, he is too little, he is too sick, -and besides he cannot act.” She had not seen him play in _A Pair of -Spectacles_. - -And again, when I was playing in _The Dangerous Age_, at the beginning -of the war, a woman sent round a note to me, saying: “I have enjoyed the -play so much. I can’t see at all, I’ve cried so much.” - -When _Looking for Trouble_ was produced in 1910, at the Aldwych, there -was some litigation over it, and the case came up for arbitration. The -judge’s decision is (I think I am right in saying) in these cases placed -in a sealed box. The contesting parties have to pay a fee of (again I -can only say “I think”) of £100 for the box to be opened. In this case -neither of them was willing to do this, so the box remained unopened; -and, as far as I know, the decision remains unknown to this day. - -It was while I was rehearsing in _Looking for Trouble_ that the news of -the loss of the “Titanic” came through. I shall always remember that -afternoon. I came out, with no idea what had happened, to find the whole -Strand hushed. There is no other word for it; people quite unknown to -each other stood talking quietly, and everyone seemed stunned by the -news of the frightful disaster, which seemed an impossibility. - -Then came our first short American tour, and the War. I did a short -tour, and then “War Work” kept me busy until 1918, when, under the -management of Mr. J. E. Vedrenne, I went to the Royalty to play in -Arnold Bennett’s delightful play, _The Title_, with Aubrey Smith. The -whole ten months I was at the Royalty in this play were sheer happiness. -I had a management who were considerate in every way; I liked the whole -company enormously; I had a wonderfully charming part—what could anyone -want more? _Cæsar’s Wife_ followed at the Royalty, and I stayed there to -play in it. I remember I had to knit on the stage, and the work I -managed to get through, in the way of silk sports stockings, etc., was -very considerable. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Foulsham & Banfield, Ltd., London, W._ To face p. 71 - - “MUMSIE” -] - -Again under Mr. Vedrenne’s management, I played “Mumsie” in Mr. -Knoblauch’s play of the same name. _Mumsie_ was a great play. Some day -it will be revived; some day, when the scars left by the war are -somewhat healed, we shall be able to watch it without pain; but then the -war was too near, we still felt it too acutely, the whole play was too -real, too vivid for the audience to be able to watch it with any degree -of comfort. _Mumsie_ was short-lived, but I look back on the play with -great affection. My part was wonderful, and I say, without any undue -conceit or pride in my own powers, it was my _tour de force_. I worked -at the part very hard, for I had to acquire a French accent, and, as I -do not speak French, it was difficult. I had my reward for all my work -in the satisfaction of knowing that the author liked my work. Perhaps -the greatest compliment that was paid to my accent was one evening when -the Baron Emile d’Erlanger came to see me. He poured out what was, I am -told, a stream of praise in French; and when I explained, as best I -could, that I had not understood one word, he refused to believe me. - -Then came _The Ruined Lady_; again Aubrey Smith and I were together. It -was during the run of this play that I first met Sir Ernest Shackleton. -I found him, as I think I have said elsewhere, delightfully unaffected -and modest. He had a plan that Harry should turn his book, _South_, into -a film, but the scheme never materialised. Our Canadian tour followed, -and when I came back I found Mr. Norman McKinnel waiting for me to play -in Sir Ernest Cochran’s play, _A Matter of Fact_, at the Comedy Theatre, -a strong part of emotion which I thoroughly enjoyed. This was followed -by my first white-haired part at the St. James’s, in _The Bat_, the play -that made everybody who saw it thrill with excitement. This play had a -long run, and during that time I played in a film, _Flames of Passion_, -which led to my recent visit to Berlin to play in _Chu Chin Chow_ for -the same firm. - -There, then, is the account of my life, as truthfully as I can record -it. For I have never kept diaries, and have had to rely on what, I find, -is not always as reliable as I could wish—my memory. And yet sometimes -it is too fertile, too ready to remind me, to prompt me to remember -fresh stories. Now, when I feel that I have finished and made an end, -other recollections come to me, and I am tempted to begin all over -again. - -I have at least two in my mind now, which I must give you, though they -have no bearing on what I have been writing. Still, after all, I am not -attempting to give an accredited autobiography; I am only trying to tell -things that happened. So here are the stories which refuse to be left -out, or be put in their proper place in another chapter: - -[Illustration: - - _Camera Study by Florence Vandamon, London._ To face p. 72 - - MISS VAN GORDER - - “The Bat” -] - - -SIR HERBERT TREE.—One night, during a performance at His Majesty’s, he -walked on to the stage just as the curtain was going up. Suddenly he -saw, standing at the far side of the stage, a new member of his company; -he crossed over to him and asked, “Is it true that you were once with -Granville Barker?” “Yes,” replied the man, nervously, “it is true.” “Oh, -my God!” said Tree; then, turning to the stage manager, said, “Ring up.” - - -Again: The day he was to receive his knighthood, a rehearsal was called -in the afternoon. Everyone knew that Tree was being knighted on that -day, and much astonishment was expressed. The company assembled on the -stage, and after a short time Tree appeared in the full glory of his -ceremonial dress. He looked round at the company, slowly, then said: -“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen; I don’t think I need detain you any -longer. Good-bye,” and left the theatre. - - - - - CHAPTER VI - FOR THE DURATION OF THE WAR - - “Oh, well, I shall explain to ’em that the country’s at war.” - —_The Law Divine._ - - -On August 3rd or 4th, 1914, when war was declared, we were at Apple -Porch. My sister Decima was with us, and I can remember her sitting in -the garden drawing up on a piece of paper, headed “H. V. Esmond’s and -Eva Moore’s Tour,” the details of her scheme for organising women’s -work, so that it might be used to the best advantage in the coming -struggle. - -We went to London, and by the Saturday following the offices of the -Women’s Emergency Corps were opened. Gertrude Kingston lent the Little -Theatre, and it was there the work began. I was playing at the -Vaudeville Theatre each evening, and working at the Little Theatre all -day. Women enrolled in thousands; trained women were grouped into their -proper classes, and untrained women were questioned as to what they -“could do”. Weekly lists were sent to the War Office, containing full -particulars as to the numbers of women we could supply for transport, -cooks, interpreters, and so forth; and each week a letter was received -in acknowledgment, saying that women “were not needed”. That was in -1914. Eighteen months later the Corps was found to be the “front door”, -the place where women could be found to meet any emergency. It would be -impossible to give one-tenth of the names of the women who worked for -and with the Corps, women who gave time and money, brain and endurance, -to the work. The Emergency Corps was the first body of women in this -country regularly to meet the refugees from Belgium, find them -hospitality, clothes, and food. It was the first organisation to make a -definite attempt to supply British toys; it sent women, capable of -teaching French, to most of the large training camps throughout the -country. I remember we issued a small book, called _French for Tommies_, -which was remarkably useful. The Corps sent thousands of blankets to -Serbia, ran the first ambulances, organised canteens for the troops in -France, provided cheap meals for workers, and a hundred other things -which I cannot remember. When the cry for respirators was first raised, -the Corps took a disused laundry, and supplied them in thousands; they -were a pattern which was soon superseded, but that was the pattern -supplied to us at the time. - -When I went on tour, I undertook to enrol members in the provinces, and -met with considerable success; and it was a year later, 1915, at -Bournemouth, that I met Miss Marie Chisholm and Mrs. Knocker, who had -been in Belgium with Dr. Munro, and who had the first Ambulance Corps -out in Belgium and did such fine work in the early days of 1914. They -were home on leave, to return when it was ended to their -dressing-station on the Belgian front line. I was very interested in -their work, and promised to do what I could to help. Through the -kindness and generosity of the British public, I was able to send them -money and many useful things. I should like to quote one instance—one of -many—which shows how the public responded to any appeal. At Birmingham I -heard from Miss Chisholm that the Belgian “Tommies” were suffering very -badly from frost-bitten ears; the wind, coming over the inundated fields -in front of the trenches, cut like a knife. “I would give anything,” she -wrote, “for a thousand Balaclava helmets.” On the Thursday night, at the -Birmingham theatre, I made my appeal, and in a week 500 had been sent to -me, and 1000 followed in less than three weeks’ time. Sandbags, too, I -was able to send out in thousands, through the interest and kindness of -those who heard my appeals. It was through the Emergency Corps that I -really first met them. Miss Chisholm had been my messenger in the very -early days of the war, and, before I pass on to other matters, I want to -say a last word about that organisation. It was the parent of -practically all the other war societies. The Needlework Guilds formed -their societies on the lines we had used; the various workrooms, in -which women’s work was carried on, came to us to hear how it was done; -the W.A.F. and W.A.A.C., and other semi-military organisations, were -formed long after we had started the Women’s Volunteer Reserve. Much -concern had been expressed at the bare idea of Women Volunteers; but -Decima and Mrs. Haverfield stuck to their point, and Mrs. Haverfield -carried on that branch finely. Nothing but a national necessity could -have brought women together in such numbers, or spurred them on to work -in the splendid way they did. The Corps was a “clearing house” for -women’s work, and when women settled down into their proper spheres of -usefulness, the Corps, having met the emergency, ceased as an active -body to exist; but, before it did so, it had justified its existence a -dozen times over. - -Major A. Gordon, who was King’s Messenger to the King of the Belgians, -proved himself a great friend to the “Women of Pervyse” and myself. It -was through his efforts that I was able to pay my memorable visit to the -Belgian trenches in 1918, and later I had the honour of receiving the -Order de la Reine Elizabeth. All we five sisters worked for the war in -all different branches at home and abroad, and we all received -decorations: Decima, the Commander of the British Empire, Medallion de -Reconnaissance, and Overseas Medals; Bertha, the O.B.E. for home -service; Emily (Mrs. Pertwee), Le Palm d’Or, for Belgian work; Ada, the -Allied and Overseas Medals for services with the French and British, in -both France and Germany, also, through her efforts in endowing a room in -the British Women’s Hospital for the totally disabled soldier, Star and -Garter. Speaking of this brings back the memory of the wonderful day at -Buckingham Palace, when the Committee of the British Women’s Hospital, -founded by the Actresses’ Franchise League in 1914, were commanded by -the Queen to present personally to her the £50,000 they had raised for -that hospital. If I remember rightly, about 23 of us were there. The -Queen, after the presentation, walked down the line and spoke to each -one of us with her wonderful gracious manner, and to many referred to -the pleasure she had received from seeing our various theatrical -performances. Before the Queen entered the room, we were asked by Sir -Derek Keppel to form ourselves in alphabetical order, and Lady Wyndham -(Miss Mary Moore), my sister Decima, Lady Guggisberg, and myself (Mrs. -H. V. Esmond) all promptly grouped ourselves under the M’s as Moores. - -In the spring of 1918, when the Germans were making their last big -advance, I was able to arrange to pay a flying visit to Belgium, to see -the dressing-station at Pervyse. We had to pass Fumes, and found it in -flames. The sight of that town being steadily bombarded, with the houses -flaming against a brilliant sunset, was one of the most terrible but -wonderful coloured things I have ever seen. We arrived at the H.Q. of -the 2nd Division of the Belgian Army, to find the evening strafe in full -swing. I can see now the Belgian Tommy as I saw him then, quite -unconcerned by the guns, planting little flowers, Bachelor’s Buttons, -outside the General’s hut. I wished that I could have shared his -unconcern; I found the noise simply ear-splitting, and when a -particularly noisy shell burst, and I asked the General if “it was going -or coming”, he roared with laughter. I have never felt less amused than -I did at that moment! - -He sent us over to Pervyse in his car, to collect some papers which Mrs. -Knocker, who was returning to England in a few days, needed. The -dressing-station was a small and much-shelled house, on the very edge of -the flooded land which lay between the Belgian trenches and the -enemy—from the little house you could actually see the German sandbags. -The dressing-station itself was anything but a “health resort”, and -there is no question that these two women faced great danger with -enormous fortitude. - -Afterwards we motored to G.H.Q., where the staff were at dinner—or, -rather tragically for us, where the staff had just _finished_ dinner. I -have the Menu still, signed by all who were present. It consisted of -“Poached Eggs and Water Cress”, with Coffee to follow. We did not like -to say we were “starving for want of food”, and so said we had dined. I -was very glad to remember that in our car reposed a cooked chicken, -which had been bought in Dunkirk. We—that is, Miss Chisholm, Mrs. -Knocker (who had become by then Baroness T’Scerelles), her husband, and -I—slept at a farmhouse some distance from H.Q. The only tolerably -pleasant part of the night, which was noisy with the sound of shells, -was the eating (with our fingers) of the cooked chicken. I do not think -I have ever been so hungry in my life! - -The following day I was taken to the trenches at Ramskeppelle. The men -were very much astonished to see a woman in mufti. What struck me most -was the beauty of the day, for the sun was shining, and birds singing, -yet from behind us came the noise of the 15–inch guns, firing on the -Germans, and back came the thunder of their replies. The sunshine, the -birds, the beauty of the day—and war! - -I stayed at Boulogne, on the way back, for the night, as the guest of -Lady Hatfield at the Red Cross Hospital, and then returned home, -bringing with me the Baroness, who was suffering from shock and the -awful effects of gas. If it has seemed, or did seem at the time, that -these two women had perhaps overmuch praise for what they did, I would -ask you to remember that they worked in that exposed position, -continually running grave risks, for three and a half years. It was the -sustained effort that was so wonderful, which demanded our admiration, -as well as the work which received the grateful thanks of the whole of -the 2nd and 3rd Divisions of the Belgian Army. - -To go back to the theatrical side of things. In 1914, the first week of -the war, some 200 touring companies were taken “off the road”, and we—my -husband and I—were advised to cancel our provincial dates at once. This -we decided not to do, but to “carry on” as we had already arranged. The -financial side was not very satisfactory, but I must say that the -managers in the country appreciated our efforts; and, apart from that, -we had the satisfaction of knowing that we were providing work for, at -anyrate, a few artists and the staffs in the provincial theatres, at a -time when work was very, very difficult to obtain. - -I look back on those years of the war as a rather confused series of -emotions and pictures, when one worked, spoke at meetings, played in the -evening, read the casualty lists, and always “wondered why”; when each -day seemed to bring the news that some friend had made the supreme -sacrifice, when each day brought the knowledge that the world was the -poorer for the loss of many gallant gentlemen. Pictures that -remain—tragic, humorous, and soul-stirring. The first detachment of men -I saw leaving for the front! It was about a quarter to twelve; I had -been playing at Kennington Theatre, and stood waiting for a ’bus at the -end of Westminster Bridge. As I stood, I heard the sound of marching -men, “the men who joined in ’14”. Out of the darkness they came, still -in their civilian clothes, not marching with the precision of trained -men, but walking as they would have done to their work. Not alone, for -beside almost each man walked a woman, and often she carried his bundle, -and he carried—perhaps for the last time—a baby. I wondered if King -Charles, riding his horse in Trafalgar Square, had seen them pass and -realised that in them was the same spirit as lived in the Englishmen who -sent him to the scaffold—that England and the English people might be -free? Nelson, watching from the top of his column, must have known that -the spirit that lived in his men at Copenhagen, the Nile, and Trafalgar -was still there, burning brightly; and His Grace of Cambridge, once -Commander-in-Chief of the British Army, did he too watch the sons and -grandsons of the men who fought in the Crimea, going out to face the -same dangers, the same horrors, as the men he had known? So they passed, -in silence, for at such times one cannot find words to cry “Good luck” -or “God bless you”. Out of the darkness they came, and into the darkness -again they went, in silence—“the men who joined up in ’14”. - -And Southampton in the early days! One night men began to march past the -Star Hotel at six in the evening, and at six the next morning men were -still marching past, and all the time the sound of singing went with -them, all night long—“Tipperary”. I wonder what “Tipperary” meant to -them all; did it mean home, the trenches, or Berlin? Who knows! but they -never seemed to tire of singing it. - -In May, 1915, we went to Ireland, and in Dublin we heard of the loss of -the “Lusitania”. No one believed it was true. It seemed impossible that -England’s super-passenger ship could have been sunk almost in sight of -land. - -We reached Cork on the Sunday evening. Charles Frohman was one of the -missing passengers. Early on the Monday, Harry and I went to Queenstown, -to try and find his body. The sight we saw in the shed on the Cunard -quay is beyond description. Lying on the concrete floor, their hands all -tied with thick pieces of rope, lay nearly a hundred victims of war and -German civilisation! Men, women, children, and little babies. I shall -never forget the pathos of the dead children and babies! Dragged into -the awful machinery of war, the Holy Innocents of the Twentieth Century, -butchered by the order of a Modern Herod. In one corner lay a little -girl, about nine years old; her face was covered with a cloth; the -terrible pathos of her poor little legs, wearing rather bright blue -stockings, the limp stillness of her! We found poor Mr. Frohman—the man -who made theatrical destinies, launched great theatrical ventures, who -had been sought after, made much of, and was loved by all those who knew -him—lying there alone, although he was surrounded by silent men and -women. We took him flowers, the only flowers in all that dreadful shed. -They went with him to America, and later his sister told us they were -buried with him. Outside in the streets and in the Cunard office were -men and women, white-faced and dry-eyed: it was all too big for tears: -tears were dried up by horror. Later in the week the streets from the -station to quay had on each side of the road a wall of coffins. - -I read in the papers accounts of the disaster, of the “wonderful peace -which was on the faces of the dead”. That peace can only have existed in -the minds of the writers—I know I did not see it. Horror, fear, -amazement, and, I think, resentment at being hurled into eternity; but -peace existed no more in the faces of the dead than it did in my heart. -I came away from that shed and cursed the German nation. Yet even little -children had done great things. Lady Allen, from Montreal, was on board -with her two little girls. I was told by their sister, who was over -doing Red Cross work, that they stood all three hand in hand, wearing -life-belts, when a woman friend came up to them; she was without a belt. -One of the little girls took off her belt, saying as she did so, “You -take mine, because I have learnt to swim”. Lady Allen and the two -children, holding hands, jumped into the sea; neither of the children -was ever seen again alive. - -I met an Australian soldier, in a tiny hotel (for every place was full -to overflowing), who had been on board. He told me that in his boat -there was a woman who sang steadily for hours to keep up the spirits of -her companions; she was, he said, “perfectly wonderful”. After they had -been on the water for five hours, they saw a man on a small raft; they -had no oars, and neither had he. The Australian jumped overboard, swam -to him, and towed the raft back to the boat. He did this with three ribs -broken! The thing which he told me he regretted most was the loss of his -concertina, which he had saved up for years to buy! - -I do not mind admitting that I hated the sea trip back to England; apart -from my own feelings, I felt that I was in a great measure responsible -for the rest of our company. We left Dublin with all lights out, and -went full steam ahead all the time. It was the quickest passage the boat -had ever made. Immediately on going on board, I collected enough -life-belts for every woman of the company to have one, piled them on the -deck, and sat on them! - -So the war dragged on, and one did what was possible. It is of no -interest to record the visits to hospitals, the work, and so forth; -everyone worked, and worked hard. My feeling was always, when some -wounded man gave me thanks out of all proportion to what I had been able -to do, that I should have liked to quote to him words from my husband’s -play, _Love and the Man_: “I have done so little, and you have done so -much”. Only the Tommy, being British, would have been very uncomfortable -if I had said anything of the kind. - -Then, at last, came that wonderful morning in November, when, riding on -the top of a ’bus in Piccadilly, I heard the “maroons”, and saw all the -pent-up emotion of the British people break loose. They had heard of -disasters, lost hopes, the death of those they loved best in the world, -almost in silence, but now—“it was over”, and a people thanked God that -“England might be Merrie England once again”. I went on to my Committee -meeting, a meeting for the organisation of a scheme to raise funds for -St. Dunstan’s Blind Soldiers, and I remember, when it was ended, walking -up the Haymarket with Forbes Robertson, and noticing the change that had -come over everything. If we lost our heads a little that day, who can -blame us? For four years we had, as it were, lived in dark cellars, and -now, when we came out into the light, it blinded us—we were so -unaccustomed to “being happy”. - -That night Harry was playing at Wyndham’s Theatre in _The Law Divine_. -He told me that the audience certainly only heard about half of the -play, owing to the noise in the street outside. - -My sister Decima, after having been attached to the French Army in -January, 1915, ran the Leave Club in Paris, which did such fine work and -made a home for thousands of British soldiers in 1917; it continued -there after the Armistice, till 1920. I shall not attempt to describe -it, as I hope she may one day do so herself. When the Armistice was -signed, she went at once to Cologne. She was one of the first women to -get to the city, and began at once to organise a club for the Army of -Occupation, on the same lines as the one in Paris. Before she left, the -work of the club had come to an end, owing to the large reduction of the -Army of Occupation. I went over, and together we did a tour of the -battlefields. With my sister were her Commandant, Miss Cornwallis, Mrs. -Carter, whose husband did fine work with the submarines and went down in -the one he commanded, and Miss Fisher, who was my sister’s chauffeuse in -Cologne. We took the same route as the Germans had taken into Belgium in -1914, and travelled over a thousand miles of devastated land. From Ypres -to Verdun, everywhere the Graves Commission were busy. We saw cemetery -after cemetery full of little wooden crosses, which Rupert Brooke said -made “some corner in a foreign field ... forever England”. We saw the -parties of Annamites who collected the dead from the battlefields; they -were most repulsive looking, and I was told that they were the only -people who could be persuaded to do the work. From Fort Fleure, in the -valley, we saw the little village of wooden huts where they lived, under -the direction of one British soldier, who lived there with his wife. -Through all the battle area were dwarfed, distorted trees, twisted into -almost sinister shapes; and among them moved the blue figures of the -Annamites from Tonkin, looking for the dead. - -It was spring-time, and on Vimy Ridge the cowslips were growing, and at -Verdun the ground was thick with violets. I gathered bunches and placed -them on lonely graves. Looking in my note-book, I see under “Verdun” the -words, “miles of utter desolation”. I shall never forget those miles and -miles of wasted land, torn and churned up by the guns, the ground still -scarred by trenches and pitted with shell-holes, here and there a grave -with a wooden cross, and often a steel helmet on it—a pathetic -loneliness. I thought what England had escaped: we still had our green -fields, our wonderful trees; our villages were still standing, and our -factories still held machinery that was useful and might be worked: - - “This fortress built by Nature for herself, - Against infection and the hand of war; - - · · · · · - - This precious stone set in a silver sea.” - -England was unchanged. The memory of what I saw there in France made me -understand why the French people demand reparations from the nation that -wasted France. - -Outside Arras we met an R.A.C. man and asked him to tell us of an hotel -where we might stay for the night. He told us of one, and we went on our -way. When we got to the town we could not find the hotel, and asked a -Tommy near the ruined Cathedral if he could direct us. He offered to -show us the way, and got on to the step of the car beside Miss -Cornwallis, who was riding outside. She asked him what part of England -he came from, and found he came from the same small place in Kent that -she had lived in all her life. He gave her the additional information: -“I know you quite well; I’ve driven your father’s cows scores of times!” -We reached the hotel, which was a kind of large bungalow, with canvas -walls, run by an Australian—and very well run, too. I went to my room, -which I was sharing with my sister, and realised that every word which -was said in the next room could be heard. The next room was occupied by -the R.A.C. soldier who had directed us to come to the hotel. He was not -alone, but was saying “Good-bye” to his French sweetheart. Poor girl, he -was leaving for England the next day, and she wanted very much to come -with him. It was rather pathetic, and I wished so much the walls had not -been so thin. - -When one thinks now of the “Lights out”, the marching men, the -ambulances at the stations, the men in khaki, and the air raids, it all -seems like something that happened hundreds of years ago! Talking of air -raids reminds me that some time ago I was rehearsing with an American -producer for an American play. Everyone on the stage had to be in a -great state of tension, and, to convey his meaning, he said to me: -“You’re all as if you were waiting for a bomb to drop. Do you understand -what I mean? Have you ever heard a bomb drop?” I assured him that I had, -and knew exactly what “it was like”. I thought, too, “What do some of -you know of England, and England in war time!” - - - - - CHAPTER VII - THE SUFFRAGE - - “The sex is learning sense.” - —_Grierson’s Way._ - - -I am not going to embark upon a long discussion as to the wrongs and -rights of the question, I am not going to attempt to write a history of -the movement; I am only going to try to tell you of some of the -incidents, the thoughts, and personalities that remain with me. - -Why did I become a Suffragist? Because all my life I had been a working -woman; I had, and still have, a passionate love for England; I believed -that I ought to be able to have a voice in the government of that -country; and believed, too, that simply because I was a woman, there -were certain very vital questions on which my opinion, and the opinion -of my sister-women, might be of value—questions which affected “us” as -women, and “us” as mothers. - -I did not go to prison; but I had, and have, the deepest respect for the -women who did. When you look back on the ordeals which women endured, -and what they suffered, as suffer they did, remember that _no woman_ who -faced those ordeals or endured those sufferings did it for either -notoriety, enjoyment, or bravado! - -As for the “damage” they did, well, I am content to leave the wisdom of -such methods to be justified by wiser heads than mine, and to believe, -as I do firmly, that those methods were only resorted to when the -leaders believed that all other means had failed. Were we not advised by -Mr. Hobhouse to abandon a policy of “pinpricks”, and “do as the men had -done”? - -There were many funny incidents connected with the Suffrage Movement, -and not the least funny was Mr. Austen Chamberlain’s reason why women -ought not to have the vote: “Because women are women, and men are men.” -It was Mr. Chamberlain who said that women ought not to mix at all in -political affairs. My sister Decima wrote to him at once, to ask if by -that statement he meant that he wished women to discontinue working for -the Tariff Reform League, and she received a prompt answer “in the -negative”. - -My first public speech was made at the Queen’s Hall. They rang up at -very short notice to ask if I would “say a few words”. Rather fearful as -to my powers of oratory, I went. I remember Christabel Pankhurst was in -the chair. I began to speak, and a small blood vessel broke in my lip. I -stood there speaking, and between sentences mopping up the small but -persistent stream of blood. When my own handkerchief was no longer of -any use, Christabel passed me another. By the time I finished my speech -a small pile of “gory” looking handkerchiefs lay at my feet, and not a -woman on the platform had a handkerchief left. It was a horrible -experience for a “raw hand”. - -What a fighter Christabel Pankhurst was! The hall might be in an uproar, -but it did not daunt Christabel; she spoke, and, if no one listened, she -went on speaking until they did! She was a brilliant speaker, who never -let her brilliance get above the heads of her audience, and never let -them feel she was “talking down to them”. I have never known any woman, -who was so ready-witted; no one ever “caught her out”. - -A man once got up and asked, “Now, Miss Pankhurst, putting all the fun -of talking in public on one side, don’t you really wish you were a man?” -Miss Pankhurst gave the question a second’s consideration, looked -carefully at the speaker, then gave her head that queer little jerk -which always heralded some unexpected answer—the crowds knew it, and -used to watch for it. “Don’t you?” was all she said. Another occasion a -man got up and commenced a long, rambling question as to what would -happen to “the home” if he got into Parliament and his wife got into -Parliament too. It took him a long time to say it all, and he drew a -really very touching picture. “I don’t know your wife, sir,” said -Christabel; “I’ve never seen her; she might, of course, be returned for -Parliament; but you—oh! (very soothingly) I don’t think _you_ need -worry!” Taking the audiences on the whole, they liked her. If there was -a row that even she could not talk down, it was an extraordinary thing. -They liked her humour, they liked her doggedness, her pugnacity, and her -youthful enjoyment of any and every joke, even if one was turned against -her. The famous Pantechnicon was Christabel’s idea. Everyone has heard -of it, and it is exactly the same story as the “Wooden Horse of Troy”, -only “the horse” was a furniture van, the occupants were Suffragists, -and “Troy” was the sacred precincts of the House of Commons. - -Mrs. Pankhurst had all the fighting spirit, but she lacked the quick -humour of her daughter. She was a wonderful woman, who had worked all -her life “for women”, and worn herself out bodily—not mentally—in doing -so. I have seen and heard her often, but never without a sense of deep -admiration for her brain and her endurance. Those of us who remember -will recall the placards in those days: “Arrest of Mrs. Pankhurst”, -followed a fortnight later by “Mrs. Pankhurst Released”—that was after -hunger striking—then, “Illness of Mrs. Pankhurst”. About three weeks -later, when she had regained a little of her strength, you saw, “Arrest -of Mrs. Pankhurst”. (That was under “the Cat and Mouse Act”.) That weary -round used to go on, until you wondered how human brain, let alone human -body, could stand it. But stand it she did, and came back again and -again. I wonder now if all that she suffered, and all that she gained, -ever enters the minds of the women voters who go to the polling-booths -on election days? - -Not only may they remember Mrs. Pankhurst, there are other figures “that -remain”—Flora Drummond, Annie Kenny, Mrs. Howe Martin, Lady Constance -Lytton, and Mrs. Despard. The last was, as Mrs. Nevinson once said, “not -a woman, but an inspiration”. She was born fifty years too soon; she was -an old lady when the Suffrage Movement first began to be a real “thing” -in practical politics. It was a living example of mind over matter that -made it possible for her to work as she did. She was, I suppose, the -most picturesque figure in the movement; she looked what she is—an -aristocrat. You will find her type in the Spanish pictures of Tiapolo. I -can think of one at the moment which hangs in the Scottish National -Gallery; Mrs. Despard might have sat for the court lady on the left. Now -she has become an Irish citizen, and lives outside Dublin, devoting her -time to trying to alleviate the sufferings of her adopted countrymen. -That I do not see eye to eye with her aims and methods does not shake my -belief that those aims and methods are actuated from nothing but rooted -beliefs. It was Mrs. Despard who said once, during the most strenuous -part of the Suffrage campaign, “Oh! then ’twas good to be alive, but to -be young was very heaven!” An idealist, even something of a fanatic, but -with her eyes fixed on the stars and her heart full of high purpose and -great faith in her cause—that is Mrs. Despard as I saw, and still see, -her. - -Of the sufferings (and I use the word advisedly) of the women who “dared -greatly”, I will not write, and for two reasons—first, the fight is -over, we gained our objective, and removed from the Statute Book the -clause which classed women with “lunatics”; and, secondly, because if I -did write, and write truly of the things I know, no one would believe -me, and I even doubt if anyone could print what I could write, and write -in all truth. So I leave that side, and ask you to believe that, even if -we admit (and I reserve my own opinion) that many of the things which -the Suffragists did were foolish, unnecessary, destructive, even wicked, -they had punishment meted out to them in not only full measure, but -“pressed down and running over”; and I can tell you only that the -courage with which they met that punishment was worthy of the great -cause for which they fought, whatever their methods—the Emancipation of -Women. - -The Actresses’ Franchise League was formed after the Women’s Social and -Political Union, and after the Women’s Freedom League. It was “non-party -and non-political”. Though it did not advocate the extreme measures, it -did not condemn; its policy was “The aim is everything”. I remember our -first meeting at the Criterion; Sir Johnston Forbes Robertson took the -chair and spoke for us. He, like his mother before him, has been a warm -supporter of anything which will lead to better conditions for women. -The meeting was a great success, and from that time we, the Actresses’ -Franchise League, took its place with the other franchise societies. I -remember, in one of the processions which were organised from time to -time, the Actresses sent a contingent. Cissy Loftus, May Whitty, Lena -Ashwell, and I were marching four abreast. We all wore white dresses, -with sprays of pink roses, except Lena Ashwell, who was in mourning. At -the end of Northumberland Avenue there was a long wait; we were held up -for some time. A man who was passing looked at us and recognised Lena -Ashwell. He turned to his friend and said, “See ’er, that third one in -that line? I’ll tell you ’oo she is; she’s the ‘Bad Girl of the -Family’!” - -I think in most of us the work cultivated a sense of humour, but it was -certainly due to a lack of that valuable commodity in someone that I was -asked to hand in my resignation to the A.F.L. My husband wrote a one-act -play, called _Her Vote_, the story of a “fluffy” young woman who, after -persuading everyone she meets that it is “their duty” to attend a big -Suffrage meeting, does not go herself, because her “young man” has taken -tickets for a fashionable ball. That, roughly, was the story. I played -the sketch, and it really was very funny. Two days later, at a meeting -of the League, “someone” got up and stated that they had seen the -sketch, and that evidently “Eva Moore preferred Kisses to Votes”, and -suggested that I should be told not to play the sketch again, or resign. -I resigned; I felt that one could work as well for a cause outside a -society as in one. I may say that I was asked to go back, which I did, -still reserving the right to myself to play in _any_ play, without the -assumption that I was working anti-Suffrage propaganda. That line, -“Prefers Kisses to Votes”, has always struck me as so very excellent, it -should be used in a play. - -I did, however, call down upon my head a terrible storm, and quite -innocently. At a time when “forcible feeding” was being resorted to very -much, two girls, who were Suffragists, were presented at Court. They -were both of very good social position, and very charming. One of them, -on being presented to the King, said “Your Majesty, won’t you stop -forcible feeding?” She was promptly hustled out of the presence, and the -Press the following day was full of “the insult offered to the King”. It -may have been, probably was, the wrong time to do it; it was probably -the wrong way to attempt to do it; but I did feel, and still feel, that -the girl must have called up every ounce of courage she possessed to say -what she did. At a meeting next day I ventured to say just what I have -written here, ending with: “Whatever one may feel about the wisdom or -the propriety of her action, you must take off your hat to the girl for -her courage.” Then the storm burst. That evening I found headlines in -the papers: “Eva Moore takes off her hat to the woman who insulted the -King”, and so on; it was astonishing. The result was rather dreadful; -men I had never seen wrote to me, wrote the most abusive, indecent -letters I have ever read or even dreamed could be written, letters which -left me gasping that people who could write at all should descend to -using such epithets and expressions. Had I not already been a -Suffragist, those letters would have made me one! However, it came to an -end and I survived, though I admit at the time it distressed me very -much indeed. - -A disagreeable experience was when I was called to give evidence in the -case of “Pankhurst and Pethick Lawrence _v._ the Crown”. Mrs. Pankhurst -was alleged to have spoken against the Crown and His Majesty’s -Government at the Albert Hall meeting, and the Pethick Lawrences, as -chief organisers of the meeting, were involved. That, so far as my -memory serves me, was the case. I was to give evidence for Mrs. -Pankhurst. I was instructed not to answer too quickly, not to answer too -slowly, and no first night has ever brought such a torture of nerves as -did that cross-examination at the Old Bailey. I remember very little -about it all, except the grim air which seemed to brood over everything, -and the fear that I might “say something wrong”. Sir Rufus Isaacs was -“for the Crown”, and I was in the witness-box. I remember after some -time he said, “—and so you suggest so-and-so, Miss Moore?” It was a -question very like the old story, “Do you still beat your -wife?”—whichever way you answered, you were wrong. I admit frankly I was -paralysed with fright; I tried to collect my wits, tried to think of -some “really telling” answer; no inspiration came. At last I said, with -what dignity I could muster, “I suggest nothing”, and heard him say the -most welcome words which, I think, have ever struck my ears, “You may -stand down!” - -And we were told we went through that kind of ordeal because we liked it -and loved the notoriety! What imagination some people have! - -Some day, when we look back from a distance of years, the things will -fall into their right perspective, and we shall be able to tell stories -which will fire the imagination of those who hear them; such stories -will be the Pantechnicon; the story of “Charlie” Marsh, lying hidden on -the roof of Birmingham Town Hall, followed by three months’ -imprisonment, during the whole of which time she was forcibly fed; the -story of Lilian Lenton, who hid for two days in the organ loft in Leeds -Town Hall; the story of Theresa Billington and the Dog Whip, and many -others. We are still too near them as actual happenings, we still let -our political opinions, on either side, colour our feelings; but in the -future we shall see them for what they were: as brave attempts to fight -whole-heartedly for a great cause. - -I think of the great public funeral accorded to Emily Davidson, and -remember that a martyr is “one who suffers death or grievous loss in -defence or on behalf _of any belief or cause_”; the worthiness or -unworthiness of the cause is a question which only the martyr can answer -to his or her own soul. Emerson says: “A man does not come the length of -the spirit of martyrdom without some flaming love”, and I believe that -it was a “flaming love” for their sister-women which was the -driving-force behind all they did. - -I look back, no longer “dreaming dreams”, but seeing “visions”—and the -visions I see are of women coming from all parts of England, from the -factories of Lancashire, from Yorkshire, from the hunting-fields, from -offices, schools, and from every place where women might be found, who -wanted to see the dawn of the new era, giving up much which made life -pleasant and easy, braving scorn, ridicule, and often bodily danger, to -do what they might to “right a wrong”. I like to remember that “I did -what I could” and was, at anyrate, one of the rank and file in that -great army. - -I go back to August, 1914, and think how all those women put aside their -political ambitions, even their demand for recognition, and declared a -truce, so that they might concentrate against a common enemy which -threatened their country. “I hated war,” one of them said to me, -speaking of ’14, “I was and always had called myself a pacifist, but, -when the war came, well, I worked with the rest of us, to help to win -it.” - -The war was over, and at a luncheon given at the Savoy I met Mr. Lloyd -George. I told him that I had not seen him for a long time, and reminded -him that the last time was when I came, as a member of a deputation on -behalf of Women’s Suffrage, to see him at 10 Downing Street. “Yes,” he -said, “I remember. Well, I always told Christabel Pankhurst you should -all have the vote, and I kept my word!” After nearly forty years of -“constitutional methods”, of spade-work and propaganda, and after nearly -a decade of active work—nearly ten years during which constitutional -methods were flung to the winds, and the women fought for the franchise -as “the men had fought”—they won that which they demanded: their -political freedom—obtained, as all freedom has been obtained, “with a -great price”, and that “great price” was years of self-sacrifice, -culminating in the European War. - -So political swords were turned to ploughshares, for, as Mrs. Pankhurst -used to say, “Remember when you have gained the vote your work is only -beginning”; and the women of England were at last able to say, each one, -“I am a citizen of no mean city.” - - - - - CHAPTER VIII - PEOPLE I HAVE MET - - “There is so much in Nature—so many sides.” - —_Love and the Man._ - - -If all these “impressions that remain” seem—what, indeed, they are—very -disjointed, remember that Life as one lives it is, after all, a “patchy” -and disjointed business. - - -MRS. JOHN WOOD.—I have spoken elsewhere of Mrs. John Wood, and the -following incident happened when I was playing under her management at -the Court Theatre. I came to the theatre by Underground, and one night -the train stopped and was held up between Kensington and Sloane Square -Stations. I looked nervously at my watch, and saw the time was rapidly -approaching when I ought to be in my dressing-room. Still the train -remained stationary. I began to feel rather desperate, so decided to do -all I could to “get ready” in the train. I was wearing buttoned boots—I -undid the buttons; I was wearing a dress with many small buttons down -the front—I undid them all, keeping my coat buttoned tight to hide the -state of “undress”. (I remember an unfortunate man who was in the same -carriage, gazing at me, evidently thinking I was a dangerous lunatic and -wondering what I should do next.) At last the train moved, and I got out -and rushed into the theatre, gained my dressing-room, and began to tear -off my clothes. I did not attempt to “make up”—there was no time; I -directed all my energies to getting into my stage frock—which, by the -way, was a dress for a “drawing-room”, with train and feathers all -complete. The stage manager, who was not blessed with the capacity for -doing the right thing at the right moment, chose the moment when I was -struggling into this very elaborate costume to come to the door and to -begin to expostulate with me for being late. “What has made you so late, -Miss Moore?”, “Do you know you should have been in the theatre half an -hour ago?”, “Do you know you’ll be off?”, and so on, until in sheer -exasperation I called to him (and I do not regret it), “Oh! for Heaven’s -sake, _go away_, you fool!” He did. He went and told Mrs. John Wood that -I had been very rude to him, and she sent for me, after the performance, -to “know why”. I told her the whole story, and as it was unfolded to her -I saw her lips begin to quiver and her eyes dance with amused -understanding. When I finished, she gave her verdict. I know she felt -the discipline of the theatre _must_ be upheld at all costs, but she saw -the humour of it. “I understand,” she said. “We will say no more about -it, this time—_but_ it must not happen again!” - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by The Dover Street Studios, Ltd., London, W._ To face p. - 102 - - ELIZA - - “Eliza Comes to Stay” -] - - -A MANAGER IN THE SUBURBS.—I had been playing “Eliza”. We had played to -capacity all the week, at a certain suburban theatre which shall be -nameless. On the Saturday night the local manager came to me; he was -very delighted at the “business”, and said so with great enthusiasm. The -play was “great”, I was “great”, the business was equally “great”. “And -now,” he concluded “you will have a little something _with me_, to drink -to your return to this theatre.” I said it was very kind of him, but -that I really didn’t want the “little something”; but he seemed rather -hurt, and so I consented. I do not know exactly what nectar I expected -him to send into my room, but I certainly did not expect a small bottle -of Guinness’s stout, which was what he _did_ send. - - -SIMONE LE BARGE.—She was playing in London with George Alexander, and -was present at a very representative theatrical lunch. The thing which -struck her most, so she told me, was that everyone was married or going -to be married. There was George Alexander and his wife; Fred Terry and -his wife; Cyril Maude and his wife; H. B. Irving and his wife; Martin -Harvey and his wife; Oscar Asche and Sir Herbert Tree, both with their -wives; Harry and I, and so on. It astonished her! She said, in the tone -of one who sees “strange things and great mystries”: “Dans la -France—c’est impossible!” - - -A SCOTCH LANDLADY.—I arrived in Glasgow one Sunday, and I feel rather -about Glasgow as poor Dan Leno did. “They tell me this is the second -city of our Empire; when I find a real ‘outsider’, I’m going to back it -for a place!” However, when I arrived by the night train from the South, -I found the landlady cleaning the house with the vigour of twenty women. -I had to sit in her room until my own were cleaned. When finally this -was accomplished to her satisfaction, I was allowed to take possession. -I unpacked and took out some sewing, which was a series of small flannel -garments I was making for Jack, then a baby. She walked into my room, -and saw what I was doing; she fixed me with a “cold eye”. “Sewin’!” she -ejaculated. I explained they were for my baby, etc., but the cold eye -still remained cold. “On the Sawbath!” she said. “Weel, Ah ca’ it -naething but _impious_,” and with that she walked out and left me alone -with my “impiety”. - - -DAN LENO.—I have no real right to include Dan Leno. I never met him, but -my sister Decima did, and someone else who did told me this story, which -I think is worth repeating. Leno lived at Brixton (I am told that, as -all good Americans go to Paris when they die, so all good music hall -artists go to Brixton when they die), and he used on Sunday mornings to -potter round his garden wearing carpet slippers, an old pair of -trousers, his waistcoat open, and no collar; quite happy, and enjoying -it immensely. He went round, on one of these Sunday mornings, to a -“hostelry” for liquid refreshment, and met there a “swell comedian” who -knew him. This gentleman, who appeared on the halls dressed rather in -the manner of Mr. George Lashwood, was faultlessly dressed in a frock -coat, the regulation dark grey trousers, and looked rather “stagily” -immaculate. He looked at Dan with disapproval, and proceeded to -expostulate with him. “Danny, boy, you shouldn’t come out dressed like -that. After all, you _are_ England’s leading comedian, and—well—you -ought to make yourself look smart. Let people know _who you are_!” Then, -with pride, he added: “Look at me, boy; why don’t you do like I do?” -Leno looked at him gravely. “Like you?” he repeated. “Look like you?—I -_never_ come out in my ‘props’, old boy.” - - -Mr. Henry Arthur Jones years ago said a thing to Harry that has ever -lived in my memory. They were discussing acting and plays, and Mr. Jones -said “A play is as good as it is acted.” That remark sums up the whole -question. A play can only be seen and valued through the acting; it’s -the only art that has to be judged through the medium of other -personalities, and not by the creator. When I once saw a revival of one -of Harry’s plays, that had not the advantage of his personal -supervision, I realised how completely true Mr. Jones’s remark was. - - -A SCOTTISH SOLDIER.—It was during the war. I was walking up Regent -Street, and there I saw him, fresh from France, hung round like a -Christmas tree, obviously knowing nothing of London, and, being a Scot, -far too proud to ask his way. I ventured to speak to him, for, as in the -old days girls suffered from “scarlet” fever, during the war I suffered -from “khaki” fever. “Do you want to get to a railway station?” I asked. -“Aye; Paddington.” As it happened, I too was going to Paddington, and I -said so. “I am going there myself; if you will come with me, I can tell -you where to find the platform. We will get on the ’bus that comes -along; I’ll show you the way.” He looked at me, not unkindly, but with -the scorn of a true Scot for the simplicity of a Southerner who -underrates the intelligence of the men from “over the Border”. “Ye wull, -wull ye?” he said. “Aye—well—ye wull _not_. Ah’ve been warrrrned aboot -lassies like you!” And he walked away with great dignity and -self-possession. - - -ELLEN TERRY.—I have seen her, as you have seen her—and if by chance you -have not done so, you have missed one of the things that might well be -counted “pearls of great price”—on the stage, looking perfectly -beautiful, with the beauty which did not owe its existence to wonderful -features or glorious colouring, but to that elusive “something” that the -limitations of the English language force me to describe as “magnetism”; -but the most lovely picture I carry in my mental gallery is of her in -her own house at Chelsea. A letter, signed by all the actresses of Great -Britain, was to be sent to the Queen concerning a big charity matinée. -It had been most carefully worded, and a most wonderful copy made. Mrs. -Kendal had signed it, and I was deputed to take it to Ellen Terry for -her signature. When I got to her house, she was ill in bed, neuralgia in -her head, and I was shown into her bedroom. I don’t know if you could -look beautiful with your head swathed in flannel, suffering tortures -from neuralgia; I know I couldn’t; but Ellen Terry did. She looked -rather as she did in _The Merry Wives of Windsor_. If you can imagine -“Mistress Ford” sitting up in an old four-poster bed, still wearing her -“wimple”, and looking sufficiently lovely to turn Ford’s head, and -Falstaff’s head, and everybody else’s head a dozen times—that was Ellen -Terry as I saw her then. I gave her the letter, this carefully made -“fair copy”, for her to sign. She read the letter, slowly, pen in hand. -Some phrase failed to please her, and saying “No, I don’t think that -will do”, she took her pen, scored through some words, and substituted -others, handing the letter back to me, with “I think that is better, -don’t you?” Have you seen her writing? It is rather large, very black, -very distinct, and very pretty; I did not dare to say that no letter -could be given to the Queen with corrections—a Queen had made them, and -it was not for me to remark on what she did. I said I was sure it was an -improvement, and took my precious letter away for other signatures. What -happened to the letter eventually, whether another copy was made or -not—that has all vanished from my mind; but the picture of lovely -“Mistress Ford” remains. - - -A ’BUS DRIVER.—In the old days I used to walk from the Strand to -Piccadilly and catch my ’bus there. It saved a penny. One old ’bus -driver—there were horse ’buses then, of course—used to wait for me. I -used to climb on to the top of the ’bus, and he used to talk to me, and -take an enormous interest in “how I was getting on”. Years afterwards I -was at Paddington, and as I came out of the station I saw, seated on the -box of a cab, my old friend of the ’bus. He told me he had “got on”, and -had bought a cab, a four-wheeler; that he had never “lost sight of me”; -and that he still thought of me, and always should think of me, as “his -Miss Moore”. Bless his red face! I wonder what he is driving now. Taxis -and motor ’buses may be very good things in their way, but they lost us -the “real” ’bus driver and the “real” cab driver. - - -A “TOMMY” FROM THE SECOND LONDON GENERAL HOSPITAL.—I was playing “Eliza” -at the Brixton Theatre, and on the Saturday the manager, the late Newman -Maurice, asked a party of wounded boys from the London General Hospital -to come, as our guests, to the matinée. I, in my turn, asked if they -would come round to my dressing-room, at the end of the play, for tea -and cigarettes; they came, and in a terrific state of excitement, too. -All talking at once, they tried to tell me the reason, and after some -time I began to understand. One of their number had been -“shell-shocked”, and so badly that he had lost his speech; he had been -watching the play that afternoon and suddenly began to laugh, and, a -second later, to the delight Of his companions, to speak! I have never -seen such congratulations, such hand-shakings, such genuine delight, as -was expressed by those boys over their comrade’s recovery. One of the -boys that afternoon was a mass of bandages; you could not see anything -of his face and head but two bright eyes, so badly had he been wounded. -When I went to Canada, two years ago, this man was waiting for me at the -hotel at Vancouver. He was no longer wrapped in bandages, but he had -been so certain that I should not know him again that he had brought -photographs of himself, taken while still in hospital, “complete with -bandages”, to prove his identity! As a matter of fact—how or why, I -cannot say—I did remember him at once. - - -GEORGE BERNARD SHAW.—I once rehearsed for a play of his at the Haymarket -Theatre. I remember he used to sit at rehearsals with his back to the -footlights, tilting his chair so far on its hind legs that it was only -by the intervention of heaven that he did not fall into the orchestra. -There he sat, always wearing kid gloves, firing off short, terse -comments on the acting, and rousing everybody’s ire to such an extent -that the fat was in the fire, and finally the production was abandoned, -after five weeks’ rehearsal! It was produced later, and was a very great -success, Henry Ainley playing the lead. When Bernard Shaw and Granville -Barker went into management at the Court Theatre, Harry and I met Shaw -one day, and Harry asked how the season “had gone”. “Well,” said Bernard -Shaw, “I’ve lost £7000, and Barker’s lost his other shirt.” - - -MRS. KENDAL.—She came to a reception the other day at Sir Ernest and -Lady Wilde’s, to which I had taken my little daughter, Jill. “Look, -Jill,” I said, as she entered the room, “that is Mrs. Kendal.” She -looked, and her comment is valuable, as showing the impression which -“The Old General” made on the “new recruit”: “How perfectly beautiful -she looks.” I lunched with her, not long ago, at her house in Portland -Place, and I remarked how charming her maids looked. She nodded. “When -anyone is coming to see me, I always say to my servants, ‘A clean cap, a -clean apron, look as nice as you can; it is a compliment we owe to the -visitors who honour this house’.” We sat talking of many things, and -Mrs. Kendal said reflectively: “Think of all the things we have missed, -people like you and me, through leading—er—shall we say, ‘well-conducted -lives’! And, make no mistake, we _have_ missed them!” What an unexpected -comment on life from Mrs. Kendal! and yet, I suppose, true enough. I -suppose, as “Eliza” says, one “can be too safe”, and perhaps it might -be, at all events, an experience to “be in danger for once”. - - -ELLA SHIELDS.—I met her again in Canada. She had come from the States, -where, in common with many other artists who are assured successes in -England, she had not had the kindest reception. Canada, on the other -hand, delighted in her work, and gave her a wonderful ovation wherever -she went. One day we went out walking together, and she gave me the best -lesson in “walking” I have ever had. I have never seen anyone who moved -so well, so easily, and so gracefully. I told her that I wished I could -walk with her every day, to really learn “how she did it”. - - -ARTHUR BOURCHIER.—When both Harry and I were playing in _Pilkerton’s -Peerage_, Arthur Bourchier suddenly made a rule that no one was to leave -their dressing-room until called by the call-boy, immediately before -their entrance on to the stage. One night the call-boy forgot, and Harry -was not called, as he should have been. Bourchier came off, and there -was a bad “wait”. He turned to me and whispered, in an agonised voice, -“Go on and say _something_”, which I declined to do. At that moment -Harry rushed on to the stage, and, as he tore past Bourchier, very, very -angry at missing his “cue”, shook his fist in Bourchier’s face, saying -fiercely “Damn you!” After his scene he came off, still very angry, and -went up to Bourchier. The storm burst. “There you are!” Harry said; “you -see the result of your damned, idiotic rules——”, and much more in the -same strain. Bourchier, in a soothing voice, said: “It’s all right, it’s -all right, Harry—_I’ve sacked the call-boy!_” - - -THE GERMAN PRODUCTION OF “OLD HEIDELBERG.”—Before George Alexander -produced this play, it was done at the old Novelty Theatre by a German -company, under the direction of Herr Andresson and Herr Berhens. -Alexander asked me to go and see it, with Mrs. Alexander, which we did. -I have rarely seen such a badly “dressed” play. The one real attempt to -show the “glory” of the reigning house of “Sachsen-Karlsburg” was to -make the footmen wear red plush breeches. The “State apartments” were -tastefully furnished in the very best period of “Tottenham Court Road” -mid-Victorian furniture. After the performance was over, Herr Berhens -came to see us in the box. I did not know quite what to say about the -production, so I murmured something rather vague about the “back cloth -looking very fine.” Herr Berhens bowed. “So it should do,” he said, “the -production cost £25!” - - -RUDGE HARDING.—He is a “bird enthusiast”, and will sit and watch them -all day long, and half the night too, if they didn’t get tired and go to -roost. Rudge Harding was coming to stay with us at “Apple Porch”—our -house in the country, near Maidenhead. Harry met him at the station, -saying breathlessly, “Thank God you’ve come! We have a _bottle-throated -windjar_ in the garden; I was so afraid it might get away before you saw -it!” Harding said he had never heard of the bird (neither, for that -matter, had anyone else, for Harry had evolved it on his way to the -station). Needless to say, on arriving at “Apple Porch”, the -“bottle-throated windjar” could not be located, but Harry had -“recollected” many quaint and curious habits of the bird. He possessed a -large three-volume edition of a book on birds—without an index—and for -three days Rudge Harding searched that book for the valuable additional -information on the bird which Harry swore it must contain. He might have -gone on looking for the rest of his visit, if Harry had not tired of the -game and told him the awful truth! - - -MORLEY HORDER.—He is now a very, very successful architect, and is, I -believe, doing much of the planning for the re-building of North London. -He designed “Apple Porch” for us, and when it was in process of being -built we drove over one day with him to see it. We had then a very early -type of car, a Clement Talbot, with a tonneau which was really built to -hold two, but on this occasion held three—and very uncomfortable it -was—Morley Horder, Phillip Cunningham, and I. Horder, a very quiet, -rather retiring man, with dark eyes and very straight black hair, said -not a word the whole journey. Cunningham chatted away, full of vitality -and good humour. When we finally reached “Apple Porch”, Cunningham got -out and turned to Morley Horder. “Now then,” he said, “jump out, -_Chatterbox_!” - - -ERIC LEWIS.—There is no need to speak of his work, for everyone knows -it, and appreciates the finish and thought which it conveys. He played -“Montague Jordon” in _Eliza_ for us, for a long time, and has been the -“only Monty” who ever really fulfilled the author’s idea. Others have -been funny, clever, amusing, eccentric, and even rather pathetic; Eric -Lewis was all that, and much more. He is, and always has been, one of -the kindest of friends, as time has made him one of the oldest. - - -FRED GROVE.—Another of the “ideals” of the evergreen play, _Eliza_. He -has played “Uncle Alexander” a thousand times and more, each time with -the same care and attention to detail. He has evolved a “bit of -business” with a piece of string, which he places carefully on the stage -before the curtain goes up; never a week has passed, when he has been -playing the part, but some careful person has picked up that piece of -string and taken it away, under the impression that they were making the -stage “tidy”. What a wonderful memory Fred Grove has, too! Ask him for -any information about stage matters—any date, any cast—and the facts are -at his finger-tips at once. He has made a very large collection of books -on the stage, and among them a copy of the poems written by Adah Isaacs -Menken, the “first female Mazeppa”, who married the famous Benicia Boy, -a great prize-fighter of his day. The poems were considered so beautiful -that some of them were attributed to Swinburne, who declared he had -nothing to do with them beyond giving them his deep admiration. Fred -Grove is one of the people who never forget my birthday; Sydney Paxton -is another. - - -CLEMENCE DANE.—My sister Ada knew her first, and it was at her -suggestion that I went down to see “Diana Courtis” (the name she used -for the stage) play at Hastings. We were about to produce _Sandy and His -Eliza_, the title of which was changed later to _Eliza Comes to Stay_. I -decided she was exactly the type I wanted to play “Vera Lawrence”, the -actress, and engaged her at once. It was not until she began to write -that she changed her name from “Diana Courtis” to “Clemence Dane”. I -remember we were doing a flying matinée, to Southend, and I took Jill, -then a very tiny girl, with me. All the way there she sat on “Diana -Courtis’s” knee and listened to wonderful stories, Kipling’s _Just So -Stories_. When they came to an end, Jill drew a deep breath and said, -“What wouldn’t I give to be able to tell stories like that!” “Yes,” -responded the teller of the stories, “and what wouldn’t I give to be -able to write them!” She designed and drew our poster, which we still -use, for _Eliza_—Cupid standing outside the green-door, waiting to -enter. I have a wonderful book, which “Clemence Dane” made for me; all -the characters in _Eliza_, everyone mentioned, whether they appear or -not, are drawn as she imagined them. To be naturally as versatile as -this—actress, artist, and writer—seems to me a dangerous gift from the -gods, and one which needs strength of character to resist the temptation -to do many things “too easily” and accomplish nothing great. Clemence -Dane has three books, and what I shall always regard as a great poem in -blank verse, to prove that she has resisted the temptation. - - - - - CHAPTER IX - PERSONALITIES - - “You are surprised that I know such nice people?” - —_Fools of Nature._ - - -The Pageantry of Great People! If I could only make that pageant live -for you as it does for me! I know it is impossible; it needs greater -skill than mine to make the men and women live on paper. It is only -possible for me to recall some small incident which seems typical of the -individual. In itself, that may be a poor way of drawing mental -pictures; but it is the only way I can attempt with the smallest hope of -success. Great people, whether great in art, wit, or greatness of heart, -demand great skill to depict them, so, having excused myself for my -inevitable shortcomings, I will set to work. If I fail utterly, I ask -you to remember it is due to lack of skill, and not lack of -appreciation. If I seem to recall these “big” people chiefly through -incidents that seem humorous, it is because I like to remember the -things which have made me, and others with me, laugh. If the stories do -not appear very laughable, then you must make allowances again, and -believe that they “were funny at the time”, perhaps because when they -happened I was young. We all were young, and the world was a place where -we laughed easily—because we were happy. - - -SIR HERBERT TREE.—I begin my Pageant with Herbert Tree because he was a -great figure; he stood for a very definite “something”. You might like -or dislike him, but you had to admit he was a personality. He certainly -posed, he undoubtedly postured; but how much was natural and how much -assumed, I should not like to attempt to decide. There was something -wonderfully childlike about him; he would suddenly propound most -extraordinary ideas in the middle of a rehearsal—ideas which we knew, -and for all I know Tree knew too, were utterly impossible. I remember -during the rehearsals of _Carnac Sahib_, when we were rehearsing the -scene in the Nabob’s palace, Tree suddenly struck an attitude in the -middle of the stage and called for Wigley (who, by the way, he always -addressed as “Wiggerley”), who was “on the list” as either stage manager -or assistant stage manager, but whose real work was to listen to Tree -and to prompt him when necessary—which was very often. Tree called -“Wiggerley”, and “Wiggerley” duly came. “I’ve got an idea,” said Tree. -“Wiggerley” expressed delight and pleasure, and waited expectant. “Those -windows” (pointing to the open windows of the “palace”); “we’ll have a -pair of large, flopping vultures fly in through those windows. Good, I -think; very good.” The faithful “Wiggerley” agreed that the idea was -brilliant, and stated that “it should be seen to at once”. Tree was -perfectly satisfied. The vultures never appeared, and I have not the -slightest belief that “Wiggerley” ever looked for any, or indeed ever -had the smallest intention of doing so. - -Tree was very fond of Harry, and used often to ask him to go back to -supper, after the theatre, when Tree lived in Sloane Street. One evening -he asked him to “come back to supper”, and Harry, for some reason, -wanted to come straight home; probably he had a very nice supper of his -own waiting. Tree persisted. “Oh, come back with me; there’s stewed -mutton; you know you like stewed mutton”, and finally Harry gave way. -They drove to Sloane Street, and walked into the dining-room. There was -on the table a large lace cloth, and—a bunch of violets! That was all. -Tree went up to the table, lifted the violets and smelt them, an -expression of heavenly rapture, as of one who hears the songs of angels, -on his face. He held them out to Harry (who smelt them), saying “Aren’t -they wonderful?”, then, taking his hand and leading him to the door, he -added “_Good_-night, good-night.” Harry found himself in the street, -Tree presumably having gone back either to eat or smell the violets in -lieu of supper. - -When he produced _Much Ado_, playing “Benedick”, he introduced a scene -between “Dogberry” and “Verges”, and also some extraordinary business -when Sir Herbert sat under a tree and had oranges dropped on him from -above. Harry and I went to the first night, and he resented each -“introduction” more fiercely than the last. He sank lower and lower in -his stall, plunged in gloom, and praying that Tree would not send for -him at the end of the play and ask “what he thought of it all”. However, -Tree _did_, and we found ourselves in the “Royal Room”, which was packed -with people, Tree holding a reception. I begged Harry to be tactful, and -Harry had made up his mind not to give Tree the opportunity of speaking -to him at all, if it could be avoided. Tree saw him and came towards us; -Harry backed away round the room, Tree following. Round they went, until -Harry was caught in the corner by the stair. Tree put the fateful -question, “What do you think of it?” By this time Harry’s “tact” had -taken wings, and he answered frankly, if rather harshly, “Perfectly -dreadful!” I fancy Tree must have thought the world had fallen round -him; he couldn’t believe he was “hearing right”. He persisted, “But my -scene under the tree?” Back came Harry’s answer, “Awful!” “And the scene -between Dogberry and Verges?” Again, “Perfectly appalling!” Tree stared -at him, then there was a long pause. At last Tree spoke: “Yes, perhaps -you’re right.” - -Here is a picture of Tree at a dress rehearsal of, I think, _Nero_. -Tree, attired in a flowing gold robe, moving about the stage, with what -was apparently a crown of dahlias on his head. The crown was rather too -big, and, in the excitement of some discussion about a “lighting -effect”, it had slipped down over one eye, giving Tree a dissipated -appearance, not altogether in keeping with his regal character. Lady -Tree (I don’t think she was “Lady” Tree then) called from the stall: -“Herbert, may I say one word?” Tree turned and struck an “Aubrey -Beardsley” attitude; with great dignity he replied, “_No_, you may not”, -and turned again to his discussion. - -A wonderful mixture of innocence and guile, of affectations and genuine -kindness, of ignorance and knowledge, of limitations and possibilities, -that was Herbert Tree as I read him. But a great artist, a great -producer, and a very great figure. - - -WILLIAM TERRISS.—“Breezy Bill Terriss”, the hero of the Adelphi dramas. -Handsome, lovable, with a tremendous breadth of style in his acting that -we see too seldom in these days of “restraint”. His “Henry VIII.” to -Irving’s “Wolsey” was a magnificent piece of acting. There is a story -told of him, when Irving was rehearsing a play in which there was a -duel—_The Corsican Brothers_, I think. At the dress rehearsal (“with -lights” to represent the moon, which lit the fight), Irving called to -“the man in the moon”: “Keep it on me, on me!” Terriss dropped his -sword: “Let the moon shine on me a little,” he begged; “Nature is at -least impartial.” Everyone knows of his tragic death, and his funeral -was a proof of the affection in which he was held—it was practically a -“Royal” funeral. When, a few months ago, Marie Lloyd was buried, the -crowds, the marks of affection, the very real and very deep regret shown -everywhere, reminded me of another funeral—that of “Breezy Bill -Terriss”. - - -MARIE LOFTUS.—One of the names which recall the time when there were -still “giants” on the music hall stage. I don’t mean to imply that -Variety does not still possess great artists, but there seems to be no -longer that “personal” feeling, the affection, admiration—I might almost -say adoration—which was given to the “giants”; and Marie Loftus was “of -them”. I saw her years ago at the Tivoli, when she came on with a “baby” -in her arms, playing a “comic-melodrama”. I remember she “threw snow -over herself”, and finally committed suicide by allowing a small toy -train to run over her. Perhaps it does not sound amusing, perhaps we -have all grown too sophisticated; if so, we are losing something—and -something very well worth keeping. The Second time I saw Marie Loftus -was at the Chelsea Palace, about two years ago. I saw her do a “Man and -Woman” act, one half of her dressed as a woman, the other half as a man. -These “two” people fought together—it was a masterpiece. I shall never -forget the unstinted praise which it called forth from Harry, who was -with me. I saw her not long ago, not on the stage; she was then looking -forward to an operation on her eyes, which she hoped would make it -possible for her to “work” again. Whether she does so or not, I shall -always look back on those two evenings—one at the Tivoli, the other many -years later at Chelsea—as occasions when I saw a very brilliant artist -at work. - - -SIR HENRY IRVING.—I saw him first when I stayed with Florrie Toole, when -I first went on the stage, and Irving came to see her father. I do not -remember anything he said or anything he did, but I do remember the -impression which the appearance of the two men (and, after all, it was -more truly an indication of their character than it is of most people) -made upon me. Toole, short and eminently cheerful—you could not imagine -him anything but what he was, a natural comedian, with all a comedian’s -tricks of speech; and Irving, tall, thin, with something of the monastic -appearance, which stood him in such good stead in “Becket”, dignified, -and to all but his friends rather aloof. And the one attracted the other -so that they were unchangeable friends. I have heard that Irving could -be very bitter, very cruelly sarcastic: I know he could be the most -truly courteous gentleman who ever stepped, and I will give an instance -which was one of the finest illustrations of “fine manners” that I ever -witnessed. A most wonderful luncheon was given at the Savoy to Mr. Joe -Knight, a critic, on his retirement. The whole of the theatrical -profession was there, and Irving was in the chair. Harry and I were -present. He was rather unhappy at the time, because he had been “pilled” -for the Garrick Club; he felt it very much—much more then than he would -have done a few years later. He was quite young then, and took it rather -to heart. After the lunch we went up to speak to Sir Henry, who, as he -shook hands with Harry, said in a tone half humorous, half sardonic, and -wholly kindly, “I understand you have been honoured by the Garrick Club -as I have been”; adding, still more kindly, “only to me it happened -twice.” If anything could have salved the smart in Harry’s mind it was -to know he shared the treatment which had been given to Sir Henry -Irving; that is why I cite this incident as an example of real courtesy. - - -H. B. IRVING.—Often so detached that his very detachment was mistaken -for rudeness or unkindness; with mannerisms which, to those who did not -know him, almost blotted out the very genuine goodness of heart which -lay underneath them. Yet again with a queer lack of knowledge of “who -people were” and what went on around him, as the following story will -show. This was told me by a man who knew him well and witnessed the -incident. “Harry” Irving was playing _Waterloo_ on the variety stage, -and on the same “bill”, on this particular week, were George Chirgwin -(the White-Eyed Kaffir) and Marie Lloyd. One evening there was a knock -at the door of Irving’s dressing-room, and a dresser told him “Miss -Lloyd would like to speak to you in her dressing-room, please, sir!” “H. -B.” turned to James Lindsay, who was in the room, and asked blandly, -“Who is Miss Lloyd, Jimmy? Ought I to answer the summons? I don’t know -her, do I?” Jimmy explained that Miss Lloyd was certainly accustomed to -people coming when she sent for them, and that “anyway she was -distinctly a lady to meet, if the opportunity arose”. Irving went, and -was away for over half an hour; when he returned he sat down and said -earnestly, “You were quite right. She _is_ distinctly a lady to know. -Most amusing. I must meet her again. Her humour is worth hearing, -perhaps a little—er—but still most amusing.” “But why did she want you -at all?” Jimmy asked. “Ah!” said Irving, “that is the really amusing -thing! She didn’t want me! She really wanted a man called _George -Chirgwin_, who is apparently a friend of hers. The dresser mixed the -names, poor fool.” The sequel is from Marie Lloyd herself. Someone asked -her about the incident. “I remember,” she said, “I remember it quite -well. I sent for Chirgwin, to have a chat, and in walks this other -fellow. I didn’t know who he was, and he didn’t say who he was; and I’m -certain he didn’t know me. He sat down and chatted; at least, I chatted; -he seemed quite happy, so I went on, and presently he wandered out -again. He seemed a nice, quiet fellow.” Try and read under all that the -simplicity of two great artists, and you will realise that it is not -only an amusing incident, but a light on the character of both. - - -LAWRENCE IRVING.—_I think_—no, I am sure—that he would, had he lived, -have been a very great actor; his performance in _Typhoon_ was one of -the finest things I have ever seen. He was a man full of enthusiasms. I -can remember him talking to Harry of Tolstoi, for whom he had a great -admiration, and being full of excitement about his work. Once he was at -our house, and Harry and he were arguing about some writer as if the -fate of the whole world depended upon the decision they came to. Harry -offered Lawrence a cigar, and had at once poured upon his head a torrent -of reasoned invective against “smoking” in general and cigars in -particular. It was “a disgusting and filthy habit”, men who smoked were -“turning themselves into chimneys”, and so on. The next morning Harry -was going by the Underground to town, and on the opposite platform saw -Lawrence Irving _smoking_ a perfectly enormous cigar. Harry, delighted, -called out, “What about ‘filthy habits’ and ‘chimney pots’ now!” in -great glee. Lawrence took the cigar from his lips and looked at it -seriously, as if he wondered how it got there at all. _Then_ he climbed -down from the platform, over the rails to the other side, where Harry -stood, simply to give him an explanation, which, he said, he “felt was -due”. He was smoking “to see how it tasted”! - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Bassano, London, W._ To face p. 124 - - HARRY AS LORD LEADENHALL - - “The Rocket” -] - - -W. S. GILBERT.—He was Jill’s God-father, and I have a photograph of him, -which he signed “To Eva, the mother of my (God) child.” And that was -typical of Gilbert; he could make jokes from early morning to set of -sun—and did. Once, many years ago, when Decima was playing at the Savoy, -I had hurt my knee, and for some reason she told Gilbert. I think it was -because she wanted to be excused a rehearsal so that she might come back -to be with me “when the doctor came”. Gilbert insisted that I should be -taken to his own doctor, Walton Hood, and that at once. So, without -waiting for my own doctor to arrive, off we went to Walton Hood. He -looked at my knee, tugged at it, something clicked, and he said “Walk -home”, which I did, putting my foot to the ground for the first time for -a month. I am sure it is due to W. S. Gilbert that I am not now a -cripple. - - -SIR CHARLES HAWTREY.—Once upon a time (which is the very best way of -beginning a story) Charles Hawtrey owed Harry some money—a question of -royalties, as far as I remember. Harry was “hard up”—in those days we -were all often “hard up”, and didn’t mind owning it, though I don’t -suppose we really liked it any better then than we do now—so away went -“H. V.” to see Charles Hawtrey at the Haymarket. He was shown into his -room, and the question was discussed. Mr. Hawtrey decided that “of -course you must have it at once”. He took Harry into an adjoining -office, where upon a table were numbers of piles of money, all with a -small label on the top of the pile, each label bearing a name. Hawtrey’s -hand hovered above the piles of money, and alighted on one. “You shall -have this one,” he said, and prepared to hand it over to Harry, when a -voice called from an inner office, “You can’t take that one, sir; that -belongs to So-and-so.” Again the actor-manager’s hand went wandering -over the table, and he had just announced “You shall have this one”, -when the same voice called out the same warning. This went on for -several minutes, until at last Hawtrey turned to Harry. “They all seem -to belong to _somebody_,” he said; “but never mind, I’ll go out now and -_borrow it for you_!” This story might be called “A New Way to Pay Old -Debts.” - - -ANTHONY HOPE.—I might call him Sir Anthony Hope Hawkins, but I knew him -first (and shall always think of him) as Anthony Hope. I have met a good -many brilliant authors, but very few who were as brilliant “out of their -books” as in them. Anthony Hope is the exception. He used to give the -most delightful supper parties at his flat in Savoy Mansions, supper -parties where everyone seemed to shine with the brilliance inspired by -their host. He—well, he talked as he wrote—polished, clever witticisms. -Speaking of him reminds me of a holiday Harry and I spent at -Hazleborough one summer, years ago. We were staying at a bungalow there, -and soon after we arrived a note was delivered to Harry. It was from -“The Mayor of Hazleborough”, and stated that he had heard of the arrival -of the “well-known dramatist, Mr. H. V. Esmond”, and begged that the -said “Mr. H. V. Esmond” would open the local bazaar, which was to be -held in a few days’ time. I thought Harry ought to say “Yes”; Harry was -equally certain that he should say “No”, and added that he had brought -no suitable clothes with him. A note was finally dispatched to the Royal -Castle Hotel, from which “the Mayor” had written, to say that “Mr. -Esmond regretted, etc.” Later we were sitting in the garden. I was still -maintaining that it had been a mistake to refuse, and Harry equally -certain that he had done the best thing in refusing, when three heads -appeared over the fence and three voices chanted in unison, “Ever been -had?”—Anthony Hope, May and Ben Webster, who had sent the letter, and -were indeed, combined, “The Mayor of Hazleborough”. - - -MRS. PATRICK CAMPBELL.—Harry knew her much better than I did. They had -been at the same theatre for a long time, in different plays, and he -admired her tremendously. He used to say that one of the most beautiful -pictures he had ever seen was one evening when he went home to her flat, -somewhere in Victoria, with her husband, Patrick Campbell. It was very -late, and she had gone to bed, but she got up and came into the -dining-room in her nightdress. She curled herself up in a large -armchair, wrapped a skin rug round her, and, with her hair falling loose -on her shoulders, Harry said she was one of the most lovely things he -had ever seen in his life. He even railed at Kipling, after this -incident, for daring to describe any woman as “a rag, and a bone, and a -hank of hair”. The meeting with Mrs. Campbell that I remember was this: -A matinée was to be given, Royalty was to be present, and I was asked to -approach Mrs. Campbell if she would consent to appear. She was then -playing, I think, at the Haymarket. I went, and Harry went with me. We -were shown into her dressing-room. For some reason, which neither he nor -I could ever quite fathom, she did not wish to remember who he was. She -repeated his name in a vague, rather bored voice: “Mr. Esmond? Esmond?”; -then, as if struck with a sudden thought, “You write plays, don’t you?” -Harry, entering into the spirit of it all, said very modestly that he -“tried to do so”. More inspiration seemed to come to her: “Of -course—_yes_! _Sisters_—you have had an enormous success with _Sisters_ -in America, haven’t you?” (I should say here that he never wrote a play -called _Sisters_ in his life.) He smiled and agreed: “Tremendous!” “It -is _so_ interesting to meet clever people—who write successful plays,” -she added. The conversation went on along these lines for some time. -When we left, she said “Good-bye” to me, and turned to Harry with -“Good-night, Mr.—er—Esmond.” An extraordinary incident, possibly an -extraordinary woman, but a very great actress. - - -MARIE LLOYD.—I can give two “flashlights” of Marie Lloyd. One, when I -saw her at the Tivoli, when she wore a striped satin bathing-costume, -and carried a most diminutive towel; the other, when I saw her at the -Palladium, and spent one of the most enjoyable thirty minutes of my -life. Was she vulgar? I suppose so; but it was a “clean” vulgarity, -which left no nasty taste behind it; it was a happy, healthy vulgarity, -and when it was over you came home and remembered the artistry which was -the essential quality of all she said and did. I met her at a charity -concert I arranged at the Alhambra during the war; I know she came all -the way from Sheffield to appear. We had an auction sale of butter, -eggs, pheasants, and so forth. Poor Laurie de Freece was the auctioneer, -and he was suffering from a very bad throat; his voice was dreadfully -hoarse. He stuck bravely to his work, and when he got to the pheasants -Marie Lloyd could bear it no longer. She put her head round the side of -the “back cloth” and said, “Five pounds, me—Marie Lloyd. I can’t bear to -hear you going on with that voice; it’s awful.” When Harry died, she -said to a woman who knew both Marie Lloyd and me, “I did think of -sending her a wire, and then I thought of writing a letter (Marie Lloyd, -who never wrote letters if she could avoid doing so!), then somehow—I -didn’t do either. Will you just say to Eva Moore that you’ve seen me, -and say, ‘Marie’s very sorry’?” Already she is becoming almost a -legendary figure; men and women will tell stories of Marie Lloyd long -after the songs she sang are forgotten. Personally, to me she will -always rank as one of the world’s great artists, and I like to remember -that, when I was given the sympathy of so many loving men and women, -Marie Lloyd too was “very sorry”. - - - - - CHAPTER X - STORIES I REMEMBER - - “When you know as much of life as I do, you will see a jest in - everything.”—_Bad Hats._ - - -“Tell me a story”—that was what we used to ask, wasn’t it? And when the -story was told it was of knights, and lovely ladies, and giants who were -defeated in their wickedness by the prince, and the story ended—as all -good stories should end—“and they lived happy ever after”. - -As we grew older we still wanted stories, but, because we found life -lacked a good deal of the laughter we had expected to find, we wanted -stories to make us laugh. I am going to try and tell you “true stories -that will make you laugh”. If they are new, so much the better; but if -they are old—well, are you too old yourself to laugh again? - - -Frank Curzon objected, and very rightly, to ladies wearing large hats at -matinées. He objected so strongly that everyone heard of the fight to -the death between Frank Curzon and the matinée hat, “The Lady and the -Law Case”. One day, at a meeting of West End managers, when arrangements -were being made for some big matinée, Frank Curzon proposed something -which Herbert Tree opposed. There was some argument on the matter, and -at last Tree launched his final bolt: “My friend, Frank Curzon,” he -said, “is evidently talking through his matinée hat.” - - -George Edwardes had a servant who stuttered very badly. He had been with -Edwardes, “man and boy”, for many years, and at last attended his -master’s funeral. He was telling the glories of the ceremony to someone, -and said: “It was a l-l-lovely funeral! S-s-some b-boy sang a s-s-solo; -he s-ang it b-b-beautifully; I expected any m-m-minute to see the -G-guvenor sit up and say, ‘G-give him a c-c-contract!’” - - -George Edwardes was once interviewing a lady for the chorus at the -Gaiety; he asked her, “Do you run straight?” “Yes, Mr. Edwardes,” was -the reply, “but not very far, or very fast.” - - -He once gave a supper party at the old Waldorf Hotel, which at that time -was literally overrun with mice. G. P. Huntly was present, and, among -others, Mr. Blackman, one of George Edwardes’s managers. All dined -well—and many not wisely. Presently G. P. Huntly saw a mouse on the -curtain, and the dreadful fear assailed him that perhaps “it wasn’t -really a mouse—not a real mouse, anyway”. He turned to Mr. Blackman and -said, “Did you see that?” “See what?” asked the other. Huntly pointed to -the curtain. “That mouse on the curtain.” By that time the mouse had -moved, and Blackman replied in the negative. In a minute Huntly asked -the same question again: “See that mouse?” Blackman (who by this time -had seen it), to “rag” him, said “No.” Poor Huntly turned very white, -rose from his seat, and said, “Ah!—Good-night!” and went home. - - -Alfred Lester and Mr. W. H. Berry—at one time, at least—did not “get -on”. One morning Lester was going to interview Edwardes about something, -and Edwardes, knowing about this “rift in the theatrical lute”, warned -Blackman before Lester came, “Now, on no account mention Berry! Let’s -have a nice, quiet, pleasant interview; keep Berry out of it,” and so -on. When Alfred Lester came into the room, Edwardes stretched out his -hand and said cordially, “Well, _Berry_, how are you, my boy? Sit down.” - - -When we were married, W. S. Gilbert gave us a silver tea-set, and later -a day came when we pooled our worldly wealth and found we had eighteen -shillings in the whole world—and Gilbert’s tea-set. We debated as to -whether the tea-set should find a temporary home with “uncle”, but -decided to wait as long as we could before taking this step. Harry heard -that a tour was going out from the Gaiety, and thought he would try for -the “Arthur Roberts” part on tour. (Could anything have been more -absurd!) He learnt a song, and set out, calling at the Websters’ flat to -practise the song again. He arrived at the Gaiety, full of hope and—the -song; was told to begin, opened his mouth, and found he had forgotten -every note; and so—Arthur Roberts lost a rival, and he came home. Soon -afterwards George Alexander gave him a contract, and Gilbert’s tea-set -was saved! - - -A well-known producer of sketches and revues, who is noted more for his -energy than his education, was once rehearsing a company in which a -number of young men, chiefly from the Whitechapel High Street, were -enacting the parts of aristocrats at a garden party. One of them -advanced to a young woman to “greet her”, which he did like this: -Raising his hat, he exclaimed: “’Ello, H’Ethel!” A voice came from the -stalls—the producer: “Good Lord! _That_ isn’t the way that a h’earl -talks. Let me show you.” He rushed up on to the stage and advanced to -the young lady, raising his hat and holding his arm at an angle of 45 -degrees. “Ello! H’Ethel!” he began; “what are you a-doin’ ’ere?”; then -turning to the actor, he said, “There you are! that’s the way to do it!” - - -H. B. Irving was manager at the Savoy Theatre during the air raids. One -evening, when the news of an air raid came through, he went to warn his -leading lady. He walked straight into her dressing-room, and found the -lady absolutely—well, she had reached the _final_ stage of undressing. -Irving, quite absent-minded as usual, never even saw _how_ she was -dressed. “Take cover!” he said, and walked out again. - - -During the war I sat on many Committees—we all did, for that matter. -This particular one was concerned with arranging work for women, work -which needed “pushing through” quickly, and the secretary was reading -the suggested scheme. It read something as follows: “It is suggested -that the women shall work in shifts, etc., etc.” A well-known Peeress, -who was in the chair, leant forward. “Quite good,” she said, “quite -good, but I should like some other word substituted for ‘shifts’; it -really sounds—not _quite_ nice, I think.” - - -Another Committee—this time for providing work for women who had been -connected either with art, music, or the drama—all of which, I may say, -became elastic terms. It was a large Committee—much too large—and it -consisted of many very well-known and charitably inclined ladies. There -were—but no, I had better not give you names! The secretary was -reporting on the case of a woman who had just been admitted to the -workrooms—an elderly, self-respecting, very good-looking woman, who had -years before played—and played, I believe, very admirably—in “sketches”, -but in the days when £3 was considered a very good salary. The report -finished, the secretary waited for comments. From the end of the table -came a voice—a very full, rich, deep voice—which belonged to a lady -swathed in sables, and wearing pearls which would have kept a dozen -women in comfort for a year. - -“And you say this lady has been working for many years?” The secretary -replied that she had—many years. - -“And she was receiving a salary all the time?” The secretary again -explained that “in those days salaries were very small”. - -“And now she wants work in our workrooms?”. A pause, the speaker pulled -her sables round her, the pearls rattled with her righteous indignation. -“_Another_ improvident actress!” she said, in the tone of one who has -plumbed the enormity of human depravity to its very depths. - - -During the war I used sometimes to go to a munition factory and, during -the dinner-hour, to entertain the “boys and girls”. Such nice “boys and -girls”, too, who apparently liked me as much as I liked them. I heard a -story there about their “works motto”, which struck me as rather -amusing. The owner of the works chose it—“Play for the side”—and had it -put up in the canteen. When the workers were assembled for dinner, he -took the opportunity to say a few words on the subject of the motto. -“Play for the side,” he began, when a voice from the back of the canteen -was heard: “That’s all right, Guv’nor, but _whose_ side—ours or yours?” - - -Here is a story of Martin Harvey. He was playing _The Breed of the -Treshams_ in the provinces, and had in the company an actor who played a -very small part, and who loved to talk in what is known as “rhyming -slang”. It is a stupid kind of slang which designates “whisky” as “gay -and frisky”, “gloves” as “turtle doves”. Martin Harvey was going on to -the stage one evening, and met this actor rushing back to his -dressing-room. Knowing that he should have been on the stage when the -curtain went up, Harvey asked “Where are you going?” “It’s all right,” -replied the man, “I’m just going back to my dressing-room for a second; -I’ve forgotten my turtle doves.” “Well, be quick about it,” Harvey told -him; “and please remember in future I don’t like you to keep birds in -the dressing-rooms!” - - -After the war, a well-known “play-going” society gave a dinner to a -representative section of the legitimate and variety stages who had done -work for the soldiers in the war. Mr. George Robey was to respond for -Variety. I sat opposite to him, with Mr. Harry Tate on my left, and -almost opposite me, quite close to George Robey, sat Marie Lloyd. She -was wonderfully dressed, with a marvellous ermine cloak; and it was -quite evident, from the moment she arrived (which was very late), that -she was in a very bad temper. (As a matter of fact, I heard later that -she was upset at the death of an old friend, Mr. Dick Burge.) Mr. Robey -got up to “respond for Variety”, and really I must admit that his speech -was very much on the lines of “_I_ have been very glad—er—er—that is, -_we_ have been very glad”, and so on. I watched Marie Lloyd’s face; it -got more and more “black” as his speech went on. When he finished, she -rose and said in that attractive, rather hoarse voice—which was at that -moment a remarkably cross voice too—“I’m Marie Lloyd; I’ve done my bit -for the “boys”; I haven’t had _my_ photo in the papers for years; and -what I want to know is—touching this speech we have just listened -to—_what’s Marie Lloyd_ and poor old _Ellen Terry_ done?” She leant -across to Harry Tate, said “Come on, Harry”, and walked from the room. -Everyone gasped. It was all over in a few seconds, but it left its mark -on the dinner. - - -When Brookfield took a company to America he lost a good deal of money -over the venture. On his return he walked into the Green Room Club, and -met Grossmith (“Old G. G.”), and began to tell him of his losses. “Can’t -understand it,” said G. G., “you people take thousands of pounds of -scenery, trainloads of artists, spend money like water, and come back -and say ‘It hasn’t paid!’ Look at me: I take nothing to America with me -but a dress suit, come back having made ten thousand pounds!” “Very -likely,” said Brookfield; “remember everyone doesn’t look as damned -funny in a dress suit as you do!” - - -Lionel Monckton was in the Green Room Club one evening, having supper. -Mr. Thomas Weiglin, a well-developed gentleman, walked in, faultlessly -attired in full evening dress; everyone applauded his entrance. Mr. -Monckton looked up, and said in a voice of protest, “I have been coming -to the club in evening dress for forty years, and no one has ever done -that to me.” - - -Winifred Emery told me this. She and Cyril Maude were on their -honeymoon. She was lying in bed, wearing a most engaging nightdress, and -she thought that she was looking very nice. He stood at the end of the -bed, watching her, and presently walked to her, took a small piece of -the nightdress in his fingers, saying as he did so, “Don’t you think it -would be better if it was made of _stronger calico_?” - - -Herbert Tree met Fred Terry in the Garrick Club one day, and said to -him: “My new production—er—what do you think about my having your -beautiful daughter, Phyllis, to play the leading lady’s part?” - -Fred Terry said he thought it would be very admirable for all concerned, -and that he approved entirely. - -“What handsome remuneration should I have to offer her?” Tree asked. Mr. -Terry named a sum, which he thought “about right”. - -“What;” said Tree; “_what!_” Then came a long pause, and at last Tree -said in a dreamy voice, “Do you know I can get Marie Lloyd for that?” - - -I was once playing a sketch at a hall in the provinces, where the -population apparently come to the performance so that they may read -their evening papers to the accompaniment of music. At the end of the -week, the manager asked me how “I liked the audience”, and I told him. -“You’re quite right,” he replied, “but I’ve got a turn coming next week -that they _will_ appreciate, that they _will_ understand.” I asked what -the turn was. “Roscoe’s Performing _Pigs_,” he told me. - - -A certain actor tells a story about himself when he first went on the -stage. He had just sold out of the Army, and felt he was rather -conferring a favour upon Henry Irving by joining his company at the -Lyceum. They were rehearsing _Coriolanus_, and someone was wanted to -“walk on” as a messenger. Irving looked round, and his eye lit upon our -friend, who was wearing—as smart young men did in those days—a large -white fluffy tie. “Here you, young man in the white tie,” he said. The -product of the Army took not the slightest notice. “Here you,” Irving -repeated; “come here, I want you.” Our friend, with offended dignity on -every line of his face, advanced and asked, “Did you want _me_?” “Yes,” -said Irving, “I did.” “Then,” said the budding Thespian, “_my_ name is -Gordon!” “Oh, is it?” Irving said, affably. “Mine is Irving; how are -you?” Then, changing his tone, “Now I want you to come on here, -carrying,” etc., etc. - - -When Barrie’s _Twelve Pound Look_ was at the Coliseum, two “comedy -sketch artists” were in the stalls. The play went very well—very well -indeed. One of the comedians turned to the other: “Who wrote this?” -“Fellow called ‘Barrie’,” was the reply. “Ah!” said the first, “he -writes our next; he’s good!” - - -While rehearsing a scene in a film production, the producer described to -the two artistes the Eastern atmosphere he wanted—the warmth, the -amorous love conveyed in the love scenes. He read the scene, with all -the usual Eastern language, such as “Rose of Persia”, “O, Light of My -Desire”, “Look at me with your lovely eyes”, and other such remarks -which might convey the “kind of acting” which he was trying to get. The -actor listened to what the producer said in silence, then remarked -cheerfully, “Yes, yes, I know—‘Shrimps for Tea’.” - - -Decima’s son was very young when the war broke out. He was a “Snotty” at -Dartmouth, and saw a great deal of active service. After the Battle of -Jutland he wrote home to us a short description of the fight, saying -briefly that he had seen this or that ship sunk, adding: “And now to -turn to something really serious; I owe my laundry thirty shillings, and -until the bill is paid the blighter refuses to let me have my shirts. -Could you loan me a couple of quid?” - - -When _Flames of Passion_, the film in which I appeared, was showing at -the Oxford, a woman I knew went to see it, and was sitting in the -gallery. Next to her was a flower-woman—one of the real old type, -complete with shawl and small sailor hat. After a time they began to -talk to each other. This is the conversation as it was reported to me -later: - -“It’s a good picture, dearie, ain’t it?” asked the “flower-girl”. “Very -good.” - -“I think Eva Moore’s good, don’t you?” “Very good.” - -“She’s lorst ’er ’usband lately, pore thing; very ’ard for ’er. Though, -mind yer, it’s a pleasant change, in one way: most of these ’ere -actresses only _mislay_ theirs.” - - -Which reminds me of another story. Some time after Harry died, a man I -knew slightly called to see me. He came in, and began to say how grieved -he was to hear of Harry’s death, and how much he sympathised with me in -my loss. This went on for some time, then he said: “But the real thing I -came to ask was—do you know of a good ‘jobbing’ gardener?” - - -An author once engaged an actor for a part, simply on account of his -very ugly face and his exceeding bad complexion. At the dress rehearsal -the author met the actor at the side of the stage, “made up”. “Who are -you?” he asked. The actor gave his name. “Go and wash all the make-up -off at once,” said the author; “I only engaged you for your ugly face.” - - -At Henley Regatta, years ago, Jack (about six years old, very fair and -attractive) was watching the races from a balcony over Hobbs’ boathouse, -which belonged to kind friends of ours, Mr. and Mrs. Pidgeon, who yearly -invited us to see the wonderful view. After watching several races, Jack -turned to our hostess and said, “Please, does the steamer never win?” - -It was from their balcony, too, that I saw Mr. Graham White, when he -flew right down the racecourse in his aeroplane, dipping and touching -the water like a swallow, to the alarm of the crowds in their boats on -either side of the course—a never-to-be-forgotten sight. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Alfred Ellis, London, W._ To face p. 142 - - HARRY AS MAJOR-GENERAL SIR R. CHICHELE - - “The Princess and the Butterfly” -] - - - - - CHAPTER XI - ROUND AND ABOUT - - “We’ve been to a good many places in the last few months, but we’ve - had a very pleasant time.” - - —_Grierson’s Way._ - - -When we first went out to America together, Harry and I, in 1914, it was -my first visit, though not his; he had been over before to produce -several of his own plays. We took with us _The Dear Fool_, which was -played in this country in 1914, and _Eliza Comes to Stay_. Personally, I -did not enjoy the visit very much; and, to be quite candid, it was not -the success we could have wished. The critics were not too kind, and, -though American theatrical criticism may have changed since then, I -found their articles such an extraordinary mixture of journalese, slang, -and poker terms as to be almost unintelligible—at all events to my -British intelligence. These articles may have been very amusing; perhaps -if I could have read them “on this side”, I might have found them so, -but in New York I admit the kind of writing—of which I give an example -here—merely irritated me, as I imagine it must have irritated many other -English artists: “After the first act there was a universal call for the -water-boy, yet we all stayed; nobody raised the ante, so we all -cheerfully drew cards for the second act. Alas, when it was too late, we -discovered it was a bum deck. I don’t believe there was anything higher -than a seven spot.” That may be very clever. I can almost believe it is -very witty; but I still hold that it is not “criticism”. - -I give one more example, and also the comment of another American -newspaper upon the extract from the first journal. The extract concerns -_The Dear Fool_, and is as follows:—“A pretty severe strain on one’s -critical hospitality. Betty at best a cackling marionette made of -sawdust. It is but a meaningless jumble of stock phrases and stock -situations. Anything more feeble it would be hard to imagine. The ‘Dear -Fool’ is one of the worst.” Now mark the pæan of thanksgiving which this -criticism calls forth from another New York journal:—“Not only is this -(referring to the extract given above) an accurate and intelligent -account of last night’s play—healthy fearlessness which rarely gets into -the New York criticisms. Let us have more of this honest and -straightforward writing about the current drama.” - -That is only the worst—may I say “the worst”, not only from “our” point -of view, but also from the point of view of “criticism”—which I still -maintain it was not, in any sense of the word. Some weeks ago I read a -very admirable series of essays by Mr. Agate, and in writing of critics -he says (and he is one of them) that every critic should be a “Jim -Hawkins”, looking for treasure. Too often, I can believe, it is a weary -search; but surely in every play there is something which calls for -approbation, and which may point to possibilities in the author’s work. -To find that streak of gold, to incite the author to follow it, and to -perhaps point out in what manner he may best do so, coupled with a fair -review of his play as a whole, giving faults as they appear and merits -where they can be found—that seems to me the justification of criticism. - -Another critic wrote with perhaps a less racy pen, but with more -understanding:—“There was a literary quality in the writing and a -neatness in the construction which were inviting, and there was a -mellowness to the story of its middle-aged lovers which had real appeal. -Over it all was the unmistakable atmosphere of English life. All these -qualities and the fact that the play was extremely well acted, counted -strongly in its favour.” - -Alan Dale, the critic who was regarded as _the critic_ of America, under -whose pen actors and managers quaked in their shoes, wrote:—“It has the -gentle, reluctant English atmosphere of other plays by this -actor-author, and it is interesting by reason of its lines and its -characterisation. After all the ‘shockers’ of to-day, with their red and -lurid types, after the insensate struggle for garish effects and -horrors, this play gives us a whiff of repose; it is unstagy, its -characters are real human beings who talk like human beings; if they -haven’t anything startling to say from the theatrical point of view, -they are at least human.” - -What a good thing it is we don’t all see things through one pair of -glasses! - -But I am wandering from my story of the visit to America. I look back on -it all now, and remember the series of untoward events and mishaps which -occurred before our journey began. The week before we left England, a -cable came from “C. F.” (Charles Frohman) to say that he had altered the -theatre which was to be the scene of our production. Our theatre had -been let to a big film company, and we were to be sent to the Garrick. A -wretched little place it was, too; as the stage manager there said -frankly: “Only fit for a garage.” As a matter of fact, I believe it now -is one. Even before we left Liverpool a wave of depression came over me, -when our ship met with an accident as she was leaving port. The sun—a -wintry, pale sun—was sinking as we began to move, towed out of the -river. The order to release was, I suppose, given too soon; on board we -felt nothing—the only sign that anything was wrong was that we saw -everyone on the landing-stage running for dear life, like frightened -rabbits. Then we realised that our big ship was crashing into the -landing-stage, crushing like matchwood a big dredger which was lying -alongside, and also the iron gangway. All we felt on board was a slight -shiver which seemed to run through the ship. We were delayed seven hours -while the screws were examined. I am not a superstitious mortal, but the -feeling that all this was a bad omen clung to me—and, be it said, proved -true. - -On board we were a happy party; many of the company had been with us -before, and so were old friends. Jack and Jill (who was nearing her -fifth birthday) loved their first experience of travelling a long -distance; the Esmond family were out to enjoy the trip—and succeeded. -The entrance to New York harbour filled me with interest. I still -remember and wonder at those eight or nine tiny tugs, veritable -cockle-shells they looked, which “nosed” our huge liner into dock. I -remember, too, the ghastly business of the Customs! I am not a good -sailor, and the moment I stood on solid earth again it seemed to heave -up and down, and continued to do so for several days. The hours which we -spent, waiting for our baggage to be examined, were absolute torture to -me. Socially, we had a perfect time, kindness and hospitality were shown -to us in every possible way; but our poor _Eliza_ was abused up hill and -down dale. - -The first night was the most horrible I can remember. The theatre was -boiling hot, and the hot-water pipes continually went off like great -guns. I was as cold as ice. After playing _Eliza_ everywhere in England -to the accompaniment of roars of laughter, the coldness of the reception -at the Garrick in New York was hard to bear. - -For some reason, it was said that _Eliza_ was copied from a play then in -New York—_Peg o’ My Heart_—and which was an enormous success. It was -stated, with almost unnecessary frankness, that for us to have presented -_Eliza_ in New York was an impertinence. Naturally there was not a word -of truth in the statement; as a matter of fact, _Eliza_ had been written -some years before _Peg_, and there had been a suggestion (which had not -materialised) that it should have been produced in America soon after it -was written. We made no reply to these unjust and utterly untrue -statements and suggestions; it would have been useless; but I am glad -now to take this opportunity of referring to them. _Eliza_ had been the -cause of trouble before: it is a long story, but one which I think is -worth recording here, and at this particular point. - -When we produced _Eliza_ at the Criterion, Miss Mabel Hackney came to -see it, bringing with her Miss Simmons, the authoress of a play called -_Clothes and The Woman_. This play had been sent to me to read some time -before, and, having been very busy, I had not done so at once. Miss -Simmons wrote to me, asking if I would return it, to which I replied -that I should be glad to keep it for a little longer, so that I might -read it. In all, I suppose the play was in my house for three months. At -the end of that time the MS. was returned to Miss Simmons, with a letter -in which I stated that I liked the play very much, “up to a point”, but -that at the moment I was not producing anything. I read dozens of plays -in the course of a year, and, having returned it, dismissed the matter -from my mind. _Eliza_, as I have said, was produced, and a performance -witnessed by Miss Simmons, who at once, without approaching Harry or -myself, sent a letter to the Authors’ Society, demanding that they -should apply for the immediate withdrawal of Harry’s play, on the -grounds that it was plagiarism of her comedy, _Clothes and The Woman_. -Harry, on receipt of the letter from the Authors’ Society, at once -communicated with Miss Dickens, that efficient lady who has typed so -many of his plays. Miss Dickens was able to prove conclusively to the -Authors’ Society that _Eliza Comes to Stay_ had been typed by her at -least two and a half years before _Clothes and The Woman_ had been sent -to me by Miss Simmons. The Society was satisfied, and laid the facts -before Miss Simmons, who, I regret to say, did not feel it necessary to -offer an apology to Harry for the injustice she had done him. - -To use an old joke, which I find the critics are still willing to use -whenever _Eliza_ is performed, “she” did _not_ come to stay in New York, -and we put on _The Dear Fool_. This play was as warmly praised as -_Eliza_ had been slated, and we both scored a great personal success. We -later renamed the play, as Harry discovered that the title, _The Dear -Fool_, means in America a kind of “silly ass”, which was not at all what -he intended to convey. In consequence, he called it _The Dangerous Age_, -and under that title it was produced in London. - -I am reminded here of a story which Harry told me once when he came home -after a trip to America. He had been to see Maud Adams and William -Feversham playing _Romeo and Juliet_. Miss Adams, so he was told, -believed that the love between Romeo and Juliet was strictly platonic, -and would therefore have no bed in the famous bedroom scene. The two -lovers were discovered, as the curtain rose, seated on a sofa reading a -book of poems. Harry, in telling me of the play, said he was certain -that the book was _Dr. Chavasse’s Advice to a Wife_, a book which is -well known in this country to all families—at least those of the last -generation. - -Our visit to America ended, and we went for three weeks to Canada before -returning home to begin our own season at the Vaudeville Theatre in -London. - -Our next visit to Canada was in 1920, when we took with us _Eliza_—be it -said, “by special request”—and _The Law Divine_. To tell one half of the -kindness we received at the hands of the Canadian people would fill a -huge book alone, and I must content myself with saying that it was -nothing short of “wonderful”—quite, quite wonderful. Everywhere we went, -people were anxious to do everything possible to make our visit -pleasant, and how well they succeeded! - -The Trans-Canada Company, with which we went, had formed a splendid -idea, and one which I hope will meet with the success it deserves; this -is, to bring from London, British plays with British players, and to -visit, as far as is possible, every town in Canada, so that the people -of Canada may be in touch with the Mother Country in her ideas and -ideals, and so cement the affection between the two countries which has -been so splendidly aroused by the Great War. We were delighted to be -pioneers, or one of the sections of the pioneers, of the scheme; but in -the smaller towns we found that the inhabitants had so long been -accustomed to American farces (and “bedroom” farces at that) or the -lightest of musical comedies, that an English comedy, spoken by English -people with English voices, was almost Greek to them. As someone said to -me one day, “Your accent is so difficult to understand”, and one could -see that was true, for in the opening scene of _The Law Divine_, which -should be played quickly, we had to decrease the pace to let the -audiences get used to our voices. This only applied to the smaller -places; in the larger towns the audiences loved the plays; the English -home setting, the sailor and the Tommy, in _The Law Divine_, won all -hearts, and the simplicity and directness of the acting astonished those -of the audiences who had never seen a London production. - -On arriving at Quebec, we were rushed off by a night train to Montreal, -in order that we might be present at a big luncheon party, given by Lord -and Lady Shaughnessy, to welcome us to Canada. There we met many people -who became our warm friends, Sir Frederick and Lady Taylor, Mrs. -Drummond (who is so well known in the amateur dramatic world), Mrs. -Henry Joseph—to mention only a few of the friends we made in Canada. - -That week we started our tour at Halifax (Nova Scotia), and visited 48 -towns in four months, travelling right through Canada to Victoria, B.C. -It was all tremendously interesting, and the hospitality we received was -boundless—luncheons, dinners, suppers, given both by private friends and -numerous clubs, such as the Canadian Women’s Club, The Daughters of the -Empire, the Men’s Canadian Club, the Rotary, the Kyannias, and the -various dramatic clubs. - -At Toronto we were asked to speak in the new theatre at Hart Hall, the -beautiful college that has been built on the lines of an Oxford College, -and given by Deane Massey, Esq. This was the first time that a woman had -been asked to speak there, and I believe some little anxiety was felt as -to “what I should say”, but my subject was a safe one. I dealt with -“Women’s Work during the War, and the Work for Her to do in the Future”. -Harry, on this occasion, spoke of “The Drama”. It was an effort—a very -real effort—as he hated and was really frightened of public speaking. On -such occasions he usually recited, and used to make a tremendous effect -with that great poem, _The Defence of Lucknow_. When I say “a tremendous -effect”, I do not mean only from a dramatic point of view, but from the -point of view that it was “Empire work”. - -I remember at Edmonton, Alberta—the city that is built farthest north of -Canada—we were invited to lunch at the big college. There in the big -hall we met the students, and sat down with some four hundred men of all -ages from 18 to 40—students who, I was interested to learn, were all -learning Spanish as well as German in their course. In the middle of the -hall hung a huge Union Jack, and under it Harry stood reciting _The -Defence of Lucknow_ to four hundred spellbound men and boys. I shall -never forget the rousing cheers which went up from those who had -listened to him when he ceased speaking. Professor Carr was the head of -the College, and both he and his wife were charming to us. There we met -Mr. Evans, who has done so much for the city. He and his wife gave a -hockey match for us and the members of our company, which resulted in -Harry “coming down” very hard on his gold cigarette case and squashing -it quite flat. - -At Winnipeg—“The Golden Gate to the West”, I believe it is called—we met -more delightful people, among them the Hon. “Bob” Rogers, as he is -called. At the Barracks, where “Princess Pat.’s Own” were quartered, I -met many men who had been friends of Decima’s in France during the war. -It was here that I saw what, up to that time, I had only read of—a real -dog-sledge. It was a bitter day, with a howling wind off the prairies, -and at least 29 degrees below zero. Suddenly I saw dashing up the main -street nine dogs, dragging what looked to me like a small boat. -Forgetting the biting wind, I stopped to watch. “The boat” stopped, and -all the dogs lay down instantly in the snow, all looking as if they were -grinning, and wagging their tails with vigour. Then a man got out of -“the boat”, and lifted out a dog with a strap attached to it; this he -harnessed to the rest of the team, stopping only to cuff one of the -resting dogs, which had taken the opportunity to eat some snow. The man -got back into the sledge, and they were off again at full tilt. I loved -the sight, so strange and picturesque—so strange to English eyes, and -yet enacted for me by some unknown man, who was yet “part and parcel” of -the Empire, even as I was. - -I never got over my feeling of depression when I looked at the prairies. -Perhaps I saw them at a bad time, covered with snow—endless flat snow, -which seemed limitless, seemed to stretch away to infinity. The only -time I ever saw any beauty which brought joy in them, was one day when -we had to leave Moose Jaw. We had a long journey to our next town, and -left at three in the morning. I remember that through the night some of -the company played bridge, the ever-cheerful Florrie Lumley, of course, -being one of the players. I went to bed, to snatch what sleep I could -after two performances. The morning was the most amazing sunrise I have -ever seen; the sky full of rich mauves and pinks, melting into blues and -yellows, over the vast expanse of flat ground, is something which I -could never hope to describe. I only know that I felt more than repaid -for my early rising by the joy, the wonderful colour, the beauty, and -the happiness which that sunrise gave to me. - -Again I seem to see Calgary, with its crowd of men of all nationalities; -here a cowboy in full kit, with rattlesnake stirrups; there an Indian, -incongruous with his hair in plaits and yet wearing European clothes, -his squaw with him; a Japanese; even an Indian wearing a turban—all -making a wonderful picture of East and West. And then, in the midst of -all this cosmopolitan crowd, the huge hotel with all the most modern -comforts—for all the C.P.R. Hotels are wonderful. It was from the roof -garden of this hotel at Calgary that I had my first sight of the -Rockies—and, oh! the joy of the Rockies. To me all those days of long -journeys, the fatigues, the distress were nothing, were forgotten, in -the joy of the sight of the mountains, the delight of feeling that one -was actually “in” such beauty, and that the joy of looking at them would -go on for days. - -We stayed to play at two little towns in the mountains. Kamloops, one of -them, made us laugh—as, indeed, did many of our experiences. Fortunately -our company was a happy one, all being ready to make light of -difficulties. On this occasion we had to dress for the performance under -most uncomfortable conditions, for the theatre at Kamloops is just a -“frame” or wood hall. Rooms—of sorts—are provided for the artists; for -instance, Harry’s room was built on the ground, no floor boarding, just -bare earth—and the temperature at 40 degrees below zero; no heating was -provided except in one room. The lighting, too, left much to be desired; -we all had about two very tiny electric lights to dress by, and, just -before the curtain went up, a knock came to the door, and the request -was made for “the electric-light globes, as they were wanted for the -footlights”. When we did ring up, the seven or eight globes which were -to assist the public to see us clearly were all backed by yellow -posters, on which was printed “Cyril Maude as ‘Grumpy’”. If we had not -all laughed so immoderately, I think the sight, facing us all through -our performance, might have made us “Grumpy”. - -At Vancouver we were very gay. Our visit was all too short, and -accordingly many different societies joined forces, and by this means we -succeeded in meeting as many people as possible in the short time we -were able to spend in the city. I think I have never felt more nervous -in my life than I did at the luncheon given to us by the Canadian Men’s -Club at the vast Vancouver Hotel, the largest hotel I have ever seen. -About five hundred men were present, and I was the only woman. My -entrance was almost a royal one; I was led by the President of the Club -down a big flight of stairs into the hall; all the men rose to their -feet and gave us a tremendous reception; I found myself, half tearfully, -saying, “Oh, thank you, thank you so much.” It was a wonderful feeling, -to be so far away from home, and yet to find such a lovely welcome from -people who were not only glad to see you, but told you so. Miss M. -Stewart, the daughter of Mrs. and General Stewart, who did such great -work in France, laughingly constituted herself my chauffeuse, and drove -me everywhere. I look forward to seeing Vancouver again one day. - -At Medicine Hat we played only one night, and, as I was walking down the -main street, a frail little woman came up to me and asked, “Are you Eva -Moore?” When I answered her, she said “I’m your cousin.” She had come -countless miles from her prairie farm, which she ran with her son, to -see me play. I had never seen her before; had not known, even, that I -had a cousin in that part of the world! - -It was at Revelstoke, again in the Rockies—a place that had once been -very flourishing, but owing to vast forest fires had almost ceased to be -a working town—that I had an amusing experience. At every theatre _God -Save the King_ had always been played at the end of each performance. -Here, to my astonishment, not a note was played. I asked the reason, and -was told that the gentleman who played the piano—the only instrument in -the orchestra—was a German. I was furious, and, knowing that the -following week the famous “Dumbells” were coming with their latest -revue, _Biff Bang_, I wrote to the Major who was their manager, telling -him what had happened, and asking him to see that the matter was put -right. I knew I was safe in making the request, as the “Dumbells”, who -had won all hearts on their tour through Canada, were all ex-Service -men, all men who had served in the trenches. I also wrote to the -Canadian Women’s Club, who had presented me with a bouquet, and to the -manager of the theatre. All this had to be done very quickly, as we were -only a few hours in the place. I never heard anything in reply until, by -good fortune, the week we said “Good-bye” to Canada the “Dumbells” came -to Montreal and I went to see them play, and after the performance went -round to speak to the actors. It was then that their manager told me -that, on receiving my letter, which was awaiting him, he had at once -sent round to the stage to tell “the boys” that _God Save the King_ -would be sung twice before the play started and twice after the -performance. He said, “Of course, the boys thought I was mad, but they -did as I asked.” He went on to tell me that after the performance he -went on to the stage and read them my letter, which was greeted with -cheers. The next morning he went out and met the chief townsman, the -butcher, who remarked how disgraceful it was that, though we called -ourselves British, we had not had the Anthem played at the end of our -performance. The Major again produced my letter and read it to him, -asking that he would make its contents known in the town, which he -promised to do. I hope he did, for it impressed me very much everywhere -to see the staff of the theatres standing, hat in hand, while the Anthem -was played, and I should hate any Canadian to think that we were less -loyal than they. - -Going west through the Rockies, we missed seeing the first part, as the -train went through that section at night; but coming back, by staying -one night at a town, we were able to do the whole of the journey by -day—and this Harry and I determined to do. During the night more snow -had fallen, and we woke to a spotless, glistening world of white; the -eighteen inches of snow which had fallen during the night, on the top of -what had already fallen during the long winter, made the country look -beautiful. As we sledged to the wee station, right in the midst of vast -white mountains, under a sky of sapphire blue, the ground seemed to be -set with millions of diamonds. I shall never forget that day; it gave me -the most wonderful joy. Later I sat on a chair outside the observation -car, drinking in the beauty, until my feet became so cold that the pain -was real agony, and I could bear it no longer. I went inside to thaw -them on the hot-water pipes, sitting even then with my face glued to the -window, so that nothing of the beauty might escape me. I did this all -day. Harry did at last persuade me to lunch, but the moment it was over -I went back to my chair. Later, as the sun went down, a huge moon, like -a harvest moon, rose with its cold, clear light, picking out fresh -peaks, showing up snow-covered mountains in a new light. I refused to -move, and Harry had to dine alone, while I froze outwardly, but inwardly -was all glowing with excitement at the beauty and joy of what I saw. Now -I can close my eyes and think that I see it all again: the canvas tents -where the men working on the C.P.R. live; the pathetic, lonely little -graves; the Indians; the squaws on the frozen rivers, sitting by holes -in the ice, fishing; then Kicking Horse Valley, the climb from Field, -that marvellous engineering feat when the train goes twice through the -mountain in a figure-eight to enable it to mount the height. You lose -all sense of direction as you go up and up, for one moment you see the -moon on one side of the train, a moment later you see her on the other. -I am not sure that this part of the journey is not the best, and yet I -don’t know; it is hard to say. - -The Great Divide! All my life I had read and heard of it, and now at -last I saw it. We got out at Banff and sledged to the hotel, where we -stayed the night; next morning we wandered about until it was time to -get the train. Perhaps we had seen too much beauty, seen too many -wonders, and had become capricious, but I found Banff disappointing; the -ice-run and the ice-castle seemed poor and out of place in their vast -surroundings. The last stage of our journey was through the Park, where -we saw herds of buffaloes, peacefully browsing in the snow, and an elk, -too. We saw also the “Three Sisters” Canmore, and bade adieu to the snow -mountains. I hope it’s only adieu. I have books of photographs which -were taken there; one photograph is of the inveterate “punster”, Fred -Grove, who was in Canada at the time, with Sir John Martin Harvey’s -Company. He had it taken standing under a poster of _Eliza_, in which he -had played “Uncle Alexander” so many times. On the back of it he wrote -“Fred Grove at Regina—how he wishes he could re-jine ’er.” - -Another picture illustrates what was a curious coincidence. Harry and I -were taken standing under a poster of _The Law Divine_. There had been a -heavy snowstorm, and the whole of the poster was obliterated except the -two letters, “D ... V”. Soon after, Harry was taken ill at Saskatoon -with pneumonia. I had to go on with the company, and play every evening -a comedy! knowing that any moment might bring me the news I dreaded. -But, “D.V.”—and I say it with all reverence—Harry pulled through, and -joined us in time to return to England. - -He was an amazing patient. Left there alone, very, very ill, his -wonderful sense of humour never failed him. I remember one evening a -wire came through for me, from Harry. It was a quotation over which we -had often laughed, written by the late Poet Laureate, Alfred Austin, at -the time when King Edward lay ill with appendicitis. It ran: - - “Across the wires the hurried message came— - He is no better, he is much the same.” - -With us in the company was Nigel Bruce, who regards a Test Match as one -of the really important things of life, and who would, I believe, -infinitely rather “play for England” in one of the Test Matches than be -Prime Minister. One evening Harry wired to me: - -“England lost both Test Matches. Get Willie (Nigel Bruce) oxygen.” - -Both these wires were sent when he was very, very ill, when the majority -of us would have been too much concerned over the probability of leaving -the world to wish in the least to be amusing. I have, too, a packet of -letters which he wrote to me. Written in pencil, and often the writing -indicating great physical weakness, but still the fun is there in every -one of them. Here are some extracts from his letters at that time: - -“Holy Pigs, I am getting so fed up with this business.... Mrs. —— sent a -note that if I wanted some cheery society would I ring her up, and the -doctor would let her see me. I shall tell her my back is too sore! -Cheerio to everybody. There’s a lot of fun to be got out of life.” - -“... This goes to Toronto. I shall not do much there, I’m afraid. -However, it might have been worse (his illness), and it’s given me a -nice pair of mutton-chop whiskers anyhow. There is a wonderful monotony -about these white walls, day in, day out; one needs the patience of Job -not to throw the soap-dish at the Crucifix sometimes.... I daresay I may -write a fairy play, and, as Jowett says in one of his letters to Mrs. -Asquith, ‘the pursuit of literature requires boundless leisure’.... I -don’t think I am a very good patient; there are moments when I seethe -with impotent rage against everything and everybody, which is all very -foolish; so I have a cup of orange-water, and try and keep my nails -clean.... Play all the bridge you can, that you may be the expert at our -week-end parties, and support the family at the gaming-table.” - -The following is written when he was very ill, for he writes at the -bottom, as a kind of postscript, “This took ages to write.” In this -letter he enclosed a small tract, which I gave to “Florrie Lumley”, as -he suggests. This is the letter: - -“Another night and day wiped off—they all count. Love to everybody. -Nobody is allowed to see me yet, but, to-day being Sunday, a nice old -man pushed the latest news of Jesus through a crack in the door while he -thought I was asleep. Perhaps it will do that worldly Florrie Lumley a -bit of good.” - -In another letter he says: “There is a devil in the next room that has -done nothing but groan at the top of his voice all day; if I could get -at him with a hat-pin, I’d give him something to groan for.” - -The following must have been the first letter he wrote after the worst -time was over, for he begins: “No more death-struggles, my dear. But I -am still on my back, and it takes two of the nurses to move me. I can -see telegraph poles out of the corner of my eye, if I squint; and the -dawn rolls up each morning. People are very kind, and my room is full of -daffodils—they remind me of little children playing. Bless you!” - -So the tour which began so brightly, with us both speaking at huge -meetings of the Empire League, with us both enjoying the wonderful new -scenes, the trip through the Rockies (for which alone it would have been -worth visiting Canada), with us both laughing at the discomforts of the -theatres and some of the queer little hotels at which we had to stay, -ended with Harry just able to join us before we sailed. Still, he did -sail back to England with us. - -I was full of thanksgiving, not only for his recovery, but for the care -and love that Dr. Lynch, who had had charge of his case, had given him. -It was his care that had pulled Harry out of danger; both he and Mrs. -Lynch had been so wonderful to him, and treated him as though he were an -old friend and not as a chance visitor to their town; no one could have -done more than they had done for Harry. Curiously enough, I found out -later that Dr. Walker, who had been called in to give a second opinion -on Harry’s case, had lived, during the war, close to “Apple Porch”, our -house at Maidenhead. He had been at Lady Astor’s, and had attended the -Canadian soldiers who were so badly gassed. - -I am reminded of so many holidays and small travels we took together—to -the sea, to Switzerland, to Ireland, Scotland: holidays which stand out -as lovely pictures, as days which were crowded with laughter and -sunshine. Were there days when the rain poured down, and the skies were -not blue?... I have forgotten them. - -I remember one holiday in Scotland, when every evening we used to play -bridge, the minister—who, as he expressed it, “just loved a game o’ -cairds”—joining us. One Saturday evening he came, and declined to play -because the next day was the “Sawbath”, and he did not think it right. -He explained this at some length, and then turned to me with a smile: -“I’ll just sit by your side, Mrs. Esmond,” he said, “and advise ye.” -During that same visit we had with us two dogs—one a real Scotch -terrier, the other—just a dog. As a matter of fact, he was the famous -“Australian Linger” to which Harry was so devoted, and which has been -mentioned elsewhere. One Sunday we all set out for the Kirk, to hear our -“minister” friend preach, first locking both dogs in a shed near the -hotel. We arrived at the Kirk—Ada (my sister, who has always been with -Harry and myself in our joys, helping us in our troubles and often with -heavy work, just a tower of strength and understanding); Charles -Maitland Hallard, in the full glory of the kilt; and Harry and I. During -the service we heard a noise at the door, and one of the party went to -investigate. There were our two dogs, guarded by the minister’s own -Aberdeen, lying with their three noses pressed against the crack of the -door, waiting for the service to end. The Aberdeen, with a proper -knowledge of what is right and proper during divine service, had -evidently prevented our two dogs from entering. We found, on returning -to the hotel, that they had gnawed a large hole in the door of the shed -in which they had been locked, thus making their escape. It was on that -particular Sunday that poor Charles Hallard had his knees so badly -bitten by a horse-fly—or, from their appearance, a host of -horse-flies—that the kilt could not be worn again during the holiday. - -As I write this, my boxes are still standing waiting to be unpacked, for -I have just returned from Berlin, where I have spent the past ten weeks. -Berlin! What a city! Wonderful, wonderful trees everywhere; a city which -one feels is almost too big, too vast! The enormous buildings, the -colossal statues, it seems a city built not for men and women but for -giants. Gradually you realise that the wide streets, sometimes with four -avenues of trees, have a definite purpose; that the city was so planned -that the air might reach all who lived within its boundaries. The -Tiergarten, which is a joy to behold, until you reach the Sesarsalle, -which ruins the beauty with its endless and often ugly statues. Houses, -big and beautifully kept, with real lace curtains, spotlessly clean, in -almost every window; the whole city planted out with a wealth of -flowers, roses by the million, cactus plants, lilac and syringa. Every -spare piece of ground planted and laid out to perfection. When I came -back to England, and on my way home passed Buckingham Palace, I was -struck with the beds laid out there. The three or four hundred geraniums -seemed so poor and inadequate after the streets of Berlin! I wondered -why some of the money spent on street decoration could not have been -paid in “reparation”; for the Germans it would mean fewer flowers, less -beauty in their streets, but something towards the payment of their just -debts. - -Numberless theatres, some very beautiful, others glaringly hideous both -in design and colouring. All places of amusement—theatres, picture -palaces, concerts, and dance-rooms—are literally packed out at every -performance. The interest in music is wonderful, no matter if the -performance is operetta, opera, or concert; it is an amazing sight to -see the audience surge up to the platform at the end of a performance -and storm it, offering applause and congratulation to the artist or -artists. After Act 1 at the theatre, the audience rise as one man, and -pour out into the vestibule, where they walk round and round, eating -heartily of dark-brown bread sandwiches, drinking beer or wine which -they buy from the buffet. To one unaccustomed to the country, it is an -amusing sight and rather astonishing, but it is a wise practice, as most -entertainments begin as early as 7 p.m., and the latest hour for a -performance to begin is 7.30. - -I, personally, saw no lack of anything. The hotels are full, not only -with people who are staying in them, but with casual visitors who come -in for 5 o’clock tea; this begins at 3, and continues until about 8 -o’clock. The dining-rooms are never closed, and meals seem to go on all -day long. “Men with corrugated backs to their necks”, as Sir Philip -Gibbs so aptly describes them, sit for hours partaking of sugar cakes, -ices, and liquors. - -Only once during my stay did I see the slightest hint of poverty, and -that was where some wooden houses had been built outside the city during -the war for poor people with families. Here the children were of the -real gypsy type, played round us as we worked (for I was playing in a -film), rolling and tumbling in the sand. - -I was taken over The Schloss by a soldier who had served under -Hindenburg, and done much fighting in the infantry and later as a -gunner. He described vividly to me the Riots, when the Palace was -stormed by the sailors, who took possession and lived a life of riotous -enjoyment there for a short time, dancing each evening on the wonderful -floor of the ballroom where so many crowned heads had gathered in other -days. The sailors were finally turned out after forty-eight hours’ heavy -fighting. The man who was my guide told me that the rioters managed -their firing badly, as they fired from both sides of the Palace, thus -wounding many of their own men. He told me also that many soldiers held -the belief that the riots had been permitted by the authorities in order -to draw attention from the Staff, as the feeling at the time against the -Army was so strong. I can only give this as his own opinion, and cannot -vouch for its correctness. - -One drenching day I visited Potsdam, which seemed to me a perfectly -hideous place, both inside and out, so ornate that it hurt. The -much-vaunted Mussel Hall, a large room entirely covered with shells, -seemed to me ghastly and a place in which no one could bear to remain -for long. The one perfect room was the Kabinet, delightful in -colour-scheme and construction. The Theatre, a small, beautifully -designed place with a delightful stage, seats about four hundred people, -and it was here that the Kaiser witnessed the performance of his own -works. - -On an April day in June, with sunshine, heavy rain, and lovely clouds, I -took a long motor drive down the famous track, which is twenty miles -long, with fir trees on either side, past a great lake and many big -houses with perfectly kept gardens, to Sans Souci. Perfect, with its -lovely Kolonade in a semi-circle, and the Palace which looks down and up -a grassy slope to a ruin on the summit, surrounded by trees. The ruin is -an artificial one, copied from one in Rome, but the effect is quite -charming. I saw the narrow Gallerie, the cedar-and-gold writing-room, -which is round in formation, its door concealed by a bookcase, where -Fredrick Rex used to sit and write, looking out on to a pergola which is -French in design. The reception-room with its perfect green walls and -rose-covered furniture—each room seemed more delightful than the last. -Lovelier still, the garden, with its six wonderful terraces leading down -to the large pond filled with goldfish, many of which are so old that -they have become quite white; in the centre of the pond a fountain, -which when playing throws a jet as high as the flagstaff, six terraces -up. The whole place gave me a feeling of poetry and romance, quite -different to anything I had experienced in Berlin. I visited the church -where the two coffins of Fredrick the Great and Fredrick Rex lie side by -side, covered with flags. The church is a small but impressive building, -but spoilt by a huge Iron Cross on one wall, which is made of wood and -almost entirely covered with nails: a similar idea to the Hindenburg -statue (no longer to be seen) into which people knocked nails, paying -money to be allowed to do so. - -My guide on this occasion was an ex-soldier who was decorated with the -Iron Cross. He told me many interesting facts. He had been in the Crown -Prince’s regiment—the King’s Hussars—first on the Western Front, and -later at Verdun. He told me that the Crown Prince never left -headquarters, nor led his regiment; that this was always done by General -Gneiseuan, who refused to allow his name to appear as having led the -troops, as he considered it an insult to the Prince. He said that at -Verdun in 1917 no less than 366 men were shot dead on the field for -refusing to advance. - -I listened often to remarks made about the Kaiser by the men who had -been his subjects, and never once did I hear one word of pity for him, -one word of regret at his downfall. The fact that so many valuable -articles, plate, jewels, pictures, were sent by him to Holland is a -bitter pill to his people. So valuable were many of the articles that, -had he allowed them to be sold, the proceeds might have paid off a -considerable amount of the reparation debt. It seemed to me that any -love which his people once had for William Hohenzollern was dead. - -My mind went back to the time when my own country mourned the loss of a -King, a King who had enjoyed as much lifetime as is given to many men, -and who was deposed only by that strongest of all monarchs—Death. I saw -the picture of the Great Hall at Westminster, with the crowds waiting to -pay their last tribute to King Edward VII. I remembered how I stood, -with many others, on the steps at the entrance, and, looking down into -the hall, saw a solid, slowly moving mass of people, the representatives -of a mourning nation. There in the centre stood the coffin, with the -signs of temporal power laid upon it, and at each corner a soldier with -bowed head, each representing one of Britain’s Colonies. Above the -coffin, showing in the pale light of the candles, was a canopy, a cloud -which floated over it. The breath of all the hundreds who had passed had -gathered and hung there: the very life of his people had gone to make a -canopy for the King. I thought how in the hall where the English people -had won so much of their liberty, Edward the Seventh had held a last -audience with his subjects; how he had lain there that everyone who -wished might find him, for the last time, waiting for his people. For -“the deposing of a rightful King” I had seen a nation mourn, mourning -with a personal sorrow; and here in Germany I listened to the men who -had been subjects of “The Peacock of the World”, and who for his -passing, his degradation, his loss, had not one word of pity or regret. - -The German people? I left Germany wondering, and even hoping. The -breaking of the military party, the downfall of the house of -Hohenzollern, with its brood of decadent, idle, pleasure-loving princes -and the “Tinsel and Cardboard King” may mean ultimate salvation for the -German people. Not perhaps in my lifetime, but in the wonderful -“someday” when all the world will be wiser and happier than it is now. A -country where the very waiters can discuss music, literature, and -poetry; a country of beautiful towns, green trees, and great -manufactures; a country where, because of the heights to which one -realises it _might_ have climbed, its fall is all the greater and more -dreadful. - -Not the least interesting feature of my visit has been the closer -contact with the director of the film, and his wife—Mr. Herbert Wilcox, -a short man with a great dignity and immense charm. He was one of the -gallant youngsters of 1914, who joined up as a Tommy and later did great -work in the Flying Corps. Through Mr. Wilcox I have had my first -intimate knowledge of film direction, and it has filled me with great -respect for that branch of the theatrical profession, which, because it -is still comparatively new, is less well-known and understood. - - - - - CHAPTER XII - A BUNDLE OF OLD LETTERS - - “Wait till you read the letter.” - —_Eliza Comes to Stay._ - - -To explain why I include this chapter at all, I want to give you the -scene as it happened in my study in Whiteheads Grove. I think that will -be a better explanation than if I were to tell you my ideas on letters -and letter-writing, however fully and completely I might do so. - -It was one of those days when the desire to explore drawers and boxes, -the top shelves of cupboards, and brown paper parcels, comes over one; -that desire came over me, and I began. I did not get on very fast—one -never does—and the first obstacle was a parcel marked “Letters, -Private”. I untied the string, and began to read them; that was the end -of my exploring for the day, for as I read I went back to the times when -those letters were written and turned over in my mind the happenings -which had caused them ever to be written. I saw the writers, and heard -their voices. So the afternoon went past very quickly, for when ghosts -come to visit you they demand your whole attention, and will not be -dismissed quickly, will not be told, as one can tell ordinary people, “I -am so busy to-day, will you come and see me some other time?”; they -demand attention, and you find most of them too dear to deny it to them. - -Besides, does anyone ever really lose their fondness for letters? I -write, I think, more than most people; sometimes I seem to spend my life -writing letters, but—I still look forward to “to-morrow morning’s post”, -and I think I always shall. - -As I read these old letters, written to me and to Harry during the past -twenty years, I found myself laying aside first this one, and then that -one, because they seemed amusing, or very kind, or especially indicative -of the character of the writer. When the afternoon was over, my heap of -letters had grown, and I had determined to make them into a parcel again -and give them to whoever cared to read them as “A Bundle of Old -Letters”. - -Listen to this one: I do not know why it was written, or when, except -that it is headed “February 1st”—but it takes me back to the days of -“The Gent., the Genius, and the Young Greek God”—the days when Harry -Esmond, Charles Hallard, and Gerald du Maurier went holiday-making -together: - - MY DEAR HARRY, - - Expressing one’s thoughts in any way is a form of conceit, surely, - isn’t it? If you speak them, or write them, you expect others to - listen—therefore you must consider what _you_ think of importance. - Authors must all be of a conceit that is abnormal, and preachers, - and—Good God—Poets! - - Some people would rather not listen to the commonplace thoughts of - others—for these there should just be a “news sheet”, giving - generally what is taking place, with no garnishings and comments and - “what we think”, etc.—for silent men like “Tug” Wilson, engineers, - scientists, and equilibrists. Nowadays (do you agree with me?) too - much expression is given to “feelings”, and little feeble feelings - at that. There is no loud roar of a lion, no sweet song of a - nightingale, and no great hush either—it is all sparrows, and a - banging door. Everything is “tuppence”. You never read: “Death of - A——”; it is always “Tragic Death”, “Splendid Death”, “Comic Death”; - why not “Death”? - - Love to you all. - - GERALD. - -Here is a letter dated “June 30th, 1898”; it is headed New York, and -begins: - - MY DEAR ESMOND, - - I accept your play. I suppose even a manager may give way to his - feelings sometimes, and I am going to do it now. I cannot express to - you sufficiently how much I like the play. If it meets with the same - impressions on an audience as it has with me, we will both have a - fine thing. However, independent of all that, in these times when a - manager is compelled, regretfully, to refuse so many plays, it is a - gratification to be able to say “I will accept and am glad of it”. - - Yours truly, - CHARLES FROHMAN. - -That was a glimpse of the Charles Frohman (“C.F.”, as he was always -called), whom Harry knew and loved. - - -This is a letter that Harry must have written out as a rough draft, for -there are alterations and “cuts” in it. I cannot remember why or to whom -it was written, but I am sure he wrote it very seriously, and chuckled -over it after it was finished: - - “If authors in engaging artists for plays allowed themselves to be - biassed by the private life of each artist, I fear many theatres - would close and many deserving people would starve. If Miss Smith, - Jones, or Robinson suits the requirements of a play, it is not my - business, or the manager’s, to enquire whether or no she murdered - her mother. Is she the right person for the play?—that’s all one can - consider.” There the letter—or, rather, the draft—ends; I do not - know who the lady was—but I hope she made a great success. - -I wonder why I have this next letter? Someone sent it to me, I suppose, -with that great kindness some people show in “passing on” the really -nice things that are sometimes said of one. And why not? If only -everyone would forget the unkind things they hear, and only treasure and -repeat the kind ones—well, the world would be a happier place for -everyone. This letter is dated “May 19th, 1901”, so I feel I may be -allowed to quote from it without being accused of undue conceit, because -it is “so many years ago”: - - “You are right, and I think it is only fair to the ‘new lead’ to say - so—Eva Moore is a revelation—and that delicious natural laugh, which - is of all Nature’s inventions about the hardest to reproduce at - will. I suspect that Alexander has discovered what we all want so - much—the new ‘Madge Kendal’.” If there is one thing for which I have - always striven, it is a natural laugh, and I like to think that I - had attained it twenty-two years ago; I like to think I still retain - it! - -Here is a letter, in large, black writing, but such charming writing it -is! Full of vigour, full of humour too. I do not know when it was -written; the only date is “June 22”. It runs: - - Let there be no mistake about this little matter. - - We _do_ want to come, and we _are_ coming, - _To You_ - on - Thursday, 1 July, 4 o’clock. - _Question_: Until ——? - _Answer_: We go away. - - ELLEN TERRY. - -That letter brings another memory with it. Perhaps it was the time when -she stayed “until she went away”, but I remember Ellen Terry in my -garden, going up to my mother, who was seated there, and saying, “How -are you, Mrs. Moore? My name is Ellen Terry.” The simplicity and beauty -of that Great Lady is something to remember always. - -The next letter in my packet is very short, and its brevity and the fact -that it is “very much to the point” appeals to me. It was written after -seeing _The Law Divine_: - - MY DEAR HARRY ESMOND, - - Do you mind my saying your Play will live long after you—or I? That - is the one thought I brought away with me. - - Yours with his Hat off, - FRED WRIGHT. - - 28/3/19. - -Here is another, and again undated, except for “Feb. 19th”: - - DEAR MR. ESMOND, - - Only a line to say how tremendously I enjoyed the play this - afternoon. Why won’t you write me a play like that? I want to play - “a mother”!! - - Kindest regards, - Yours sincerely, - GLADYS COOPER. - -What a contrast to another letter, from one of the worst actors I have -ever seen, who begins by telling “My Dear Esmond” that he wants a play -written for him, and proceeds to describe for six sheets of notepaper -_how_ the play is to be written and how the climax is to be reached; he -ends with the words, “remember I want at least _one great moment of -passion_”. I cannot remember that Harry ever embarked on this play, -which, with its one “great moment” only insisted on, might not have held -an audience for two and a half hours! Harry’s answer was, “My Dear X., -God is in His Heaven.” - -This letter interests me for many reasons; the writer herself had an -arresting personality, and this letter, with its clarity of style, its -beautifully clear and artistic writing, writing which never ceases for a -single word to depict character and sensitive feeling, the sentiment -bravely speaking what the writer felt, and yet never deteriorating into -nothing but carping criticism; all these things go to give a very true -idea of the writer: - - DEAR MR. ESMOND, - - I followed every word and scene of your play with the deepest - interest. I found it quite terrible. It would be absurd to say that - such stories ought not to receive illustration on the stage. But I - do say that, when they are presented, they should be told in the - Shakespearean and not in the Ibsen manner. One requires poetry and - music and every softening aid for tragedies so dismal, otherwise the - whole thing is a nightmare. I am not older than you are, but I have - had a great deal of sorrow, and I have been forced to see the - squalid side of every ideal. Yet I thought you were unjust even to - the worst in human nature. I know you won’t mind my saying this, - because I have such an admiration for your great talents. There are - so few dramatists in Europe that, where one recognises unusual - ability, one may be pardoned for wishing to see it displayed to the - highest advantage. Life, as it is, is quite “strong” enough; if you - show it as it is _not_, it becomes inartistically weak from excess - of horrors.—Then follows some criticism of the acting, ending with - the words, “Its (the play’s) balance was so good, and it never - halted or drooped. You have got the real gift.” The letter is signed - “Yours sincerely, Pearl Mary-Teresa Craigie” (whom the world knew - better as “John Oliver Hobbes”). - -On a large sheet of very excellent paper, and somewhere near the bottom -of the sheet, is written: - - DEAR ESMOND, - - Thanks very much for Grierson. I am devouring him—gloom and all—with - great gusto. - - Sincerely yours, - MAX BEERBOHM. - -This next letter must have been written concerning _Grierson’s Way_, and -is in the queer irregular handwriting of William Archer, the great -critic. He says: “Of course Messieurs of the Old Guard in criticism die, -but never surrender. Never mind! You have scored a big victory, and I -congratulate you with all my heart. The mantle of ‘Clemmy’ (Clement -Scott) has certainly descended upon the _Telegraph_ gentleman.” - -The next item in my bundle is a photograph of the “Weekly Box Office -Statement” of the Knickerbocker Theatre, New York, and at the bottom is -printed “This theatre’s largest week’s business at regular prices”. The -“attraction” was “Mr. N. C. Goodwin and Miss Maxine Elliott”, and the -play was _When We Were Twenty-One_. - -Letters here from Maxine Elliott! Black, rather wild writing, straggling -over the pages, written with a soft, thick pen, and very “decided” ink. -This one was written soon after Jill was born. Maxine Elliott is her -godmother, hence the enquiries: - - DEAR HARRY ESMOND, - - What is Miss Esmond’s Christian name? You didn’t tell me, and I have - a little souvenir for her that I want to get marked. How proud you - and Eva must be, and how secret you were! I almost believe you - bought her at the Lowther Arcade! (once the Home of dolls). - -Another letter from her begins: “Dear Harry Esmond,—Philadelphia the -_frigid_, Philadelphia the _unappreciative_, has received us well, even -at this inauspicious time to open, and I am full of hope and confidence -in New York.” - -Here is a third from the same source; this, I think, was written when -Harry first agreed to write a play for her, which when completed was -called _Under the Greenwood Tree_: - - I am longing to hear the new play, and full of excitement over it, - and what an _angel_ you are to write it for me! I sail April 4th, - and that means London—Blessed London—about the 11th.... I am doing - the biggest business of my life this year, which is the only - satisfaction to be derived from this laborious, monotonous, - treadmill sort of grind that it is in this country of vast distances - (America). I shall retire (ha! ha!) after we finish with the big - play you are writing for me, you nice Harry Esmond! - - My best love to you all. - - Yours very sincerely, - MAXINE ELLIOTT GOODWIN. - -Letters from busy men and women, how much they mean! Not the formal -typewritten affair, but written with their own hands, and meaning -moments snatched from the rush of work that they always have before -them. This one from Mr. Robert Courtneidge, for instance, written from -his office to Harry after _The Law Divine_ was produced. And the -sidelight that it gives to the character of the man who wrote it! -Listen: - - MY DEAR ESMOND, - - I saw _The Law Divine_ yesterday, and enjoyed it more than I can - express. It is a delightful play—admirably acted. It was quite a - treat to me, who am not given to the theatre spirit nowadays. I - didn’t go round to see you, for I’m as backward as a novice, and I - tremble at “going behind” where I have no business. - - Kindest regards, - - Yours truly, - ROBERT COURTNEIDGE. - - P.S.—And I remember Miss Illington playing juvenile parts in - Edinburgh—dear, dear! She was a braw young lassie then, but a - delightful actress. - -That is the Robert Courtneidge I have met; with a twinkle in his shrewd, -kindly eyes, and that more than a touch of his country’s humour always -ready to appear—when rehearsals are over. He is one of the people who -remain young, despite the fact that at a rehearsal he has been known to -put on his hat and, shaking his head, say sadly, “I’m an old man, I -can’t stand it”, and so walk away. Underneath it all, though actors may -turn pale and actresses may shed tears in the dark recesses of the -prompt corner, there is always the twinkle in Robert Courtneidge’s -eye—if you look for it! - - -I should not wish to praise myself; I should never wish to be an -egotist, even though this is an account of “My Life”; and that is why I -have included in my bundle of letters only a few that have been written -to me, but mostly those which were written to Harry. Here is one, -however, which appealed to me then, and does still, as “high praise”. It -is from a Frenchwoman—and is, therefore, “praise from Sir Hubert -Stanley”—for it refers to the performance of _Mumsie_, by Edward -Knoblauch—that dear, human, though unsuccessful play for which I had so -much love: - - I could see working in you all the feelings of a Frenchwoman. You - are a great artist. You give me intense pleasure. I wish to thank - you very much. - - Very sincerely yours, - MARGUERITE ARNOLD BENNETT. - -This letter was written after Harry played “Touchstone”, when he was so -severely criticised by some for his conception of the part: - - MY DEAR ESMOND, - - Touchstone, Touchstone, Touchstone at last! A creation, a triumph, a - delight; wit, fantasy, irony—that hint of the Great God Pan behind - the motley—all unite to make the Touchstone I have always longed for - but have only now seen for the first time. - - Sincerely yours, - JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY. - -Here is a letter which Harry wrote to me. He was arranging for a theatre -at the time, though what theatre I cannot remember. He evidently feels -that he has been successful in an absolutely business-like way—probably -because he never was, and if he had made a fair “deal” over anything it -was due entirely to the honesty of his associates and not to his own -capacity, for, as I have said elsewhere, he was never “one of the -children of this world”: - -“Your poor husband,” he writes, “has been having a devil of a time. The -evolving, the planning, the diplomacy, the craft!—but we rehearse -Monday, and open in ten days. Jill had a lovely time in the garden -to-day, as happy as a bumble bee. I think I’ve had the dreariest week -I’ve ever had in my life, but all’s well that ends well.” Evidently all -the “craft” had been taking all the colour out of life for him! - -When he died, I had so many wonderful letters from all our friends, and -not only friends who were personally known to me, but dear people who -wrote to me from all over the world, offering their sympathy and love; -offerings of sympathy from their Majesties the King and Queen—one of -those signal proofs of their kindly thought in and for their subjects -which have helped to make them so dearly loved by the Empire; from men -and women who had worked with us, who had known Harry as an actor, as a -man, or as both; from people who had never known him, but loved him for -his written and spoken word; from people who had known me, and wished to -send me their loving help at such a time. Among these many letters there -is one from Sir Johnston Forbes Robertson, a letter full of regret at -Harry’s death, and of kind and cheering thoughts for me; it gives a -picture of Harry, riding a bicycle past Buckingham Palace one morning. -The night before Forbes Robertson had played in a new production, and -the critics in some of the papers had not been too kind. The letter -recalls how Harry, riding past Forbes Robertson that morning, called out -cheerily, “Never mind what they say, _you were fine_.” The writer adds, -“Wasn’t it just like him?” One of those happy pictures of Harry which -did so much to bring rays of happiness to me at that time. - -Not the least beautiful was one which consisted only of a single line, -the letter of the best type of Englishman, the man who “cannot talk”, -but whose very affection renders him dumb. It was just this: “Eva, dear, -I am so sorry for you”—and so said everything that a kind heart could -say. - - -The pleasant memories that many of those letters recalled! As Charles -Hawtrey wrote, “I look back on _One Summer’s Day_ as nearly the -happiest, if not quite the happiest, of my stage life, and it is one of -the ‘memories’ that seem to dwell in the minds of many of my audiences.” - - -The gift that some people have of putting so much into a few lines, all -the tragedy of a lifetime in a few words! One dear woman wrote to me, -she having lost her much-loved husband about a year previously: “I have -such pleasant memories of him (Harry); always so kind and charming to me -in the early days; and, since then, both of us with both of you—and now -only you and me.” - - -And they gave me a great deal, those letters; and here is one which -expresses all I want to say—a letter from Miss Sybil Thorndike—and so I -give you her words, as an expression of what I feel and what I felt -then: “Doesn’t it seem strange that out of a big personal grief comes -sometimes a wonderful recognition of warmth that’s in the hearts of -outsiders?” - - -So I finish my “Bundle of Letters”, tie up the parcel, and put them -away—for I cannot bring myself to destroy them. They are part of one’s -life; they came as an unexpected joy, or as something looked for -anxiously; they came, bringing praise, good news, sympathy, and kindly -thoughts. Letter-writing as an art may be lost; but I still say, with a -feeling which has always something of a child’s expectancy and hope: -“There is always to-morrow morning’s post.” - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Turner & Drinkwater, Hull._ To face p. 187 - - HARRY AS LITTLE BILLEE - - “Trilby” -] - - - - - CHAPTER XIII - HARRY, THE MAN - - “The dearest, bravest, truest chap that ever stepped in shoe - leather.”—_When We Were Twenty-One._ - - “He’s such an odd sort of chap, always doing such rum things.”—_The - Wilderness._ - - -If I was asked to describe Harry in one word, the one I should -instinctively use would be “_Youth_”; youth with its happy joy in the -simple things of life, youth with its hope and ambition, youth with its -intolerance, feeling disappointment and unkindness so deeply, and yet -with its tears so quickly dried by the laughter that was never very far -away. That was Harry Esmond, who found the world a giant playroom full -of toys of which he never tired. - -An Irishman, with the true Irishman’s imagination, living so much in -dreams that dreams became more real than reality. He saw everything in -pictures, vividly and full of life. It would seem that the ideas, which -were born in dreams, became the living things of reality. Once, I -remember, when he told Charles Hallard, very excitedly, that something -he said or did was “foul”, poor Charles protested, “My God! and in the -morning he’ll believe it’s true!” We all laughed, Harry with the rest, -but I realise how very truly he had judged Harry’s character. Not that -he believed it in this particular instance, but, through life, what he -said on impulse to-day became conviction to-morrow. - -And with all his imagination his love of the fantastic went hand in -hand. As little children love to play games in which there is a certain -element of “fear”, so Harry loved the fantastic which bordered on -terror. - -I can see him, seated at dinner at Whiteheads Grove, arguing on the -comparative merits of William Morris and Tennyson—he, and those who -listened to him, utterly oblivious of the fact that the dinner was -rapidly growing cold. To point his argument, he began to quote the -_Idylls of the King_—Arthur’s return: - - “And as he climbed the castle stair, _a thing_ fell at his feet, - And cried ‘I am thy fool, and I shall never make thee smile again’.” - -I shall never forget the horror he put into the words “a thing fell at -his feet”, and how the whole tragedy was unrolled in two lines of verse. - -Once, too, someone asked him to tell some spiritualistic experience, or -some story he had heard from someone who had “seen a spirit”. “Tell us -about it,” they asked. Harry, loving the terror which he felt the story -would bring, answered in almost a whisper, “No, no, I daren’t; it -_terrifies_ me!”, and promptly went on to tell the whole story, enjoying -the horror of it all, as children love a ghost story. - -The very people he knew were either, in his eyes, wonderful compounds of -every virtue or there was “no health in them”. He would meet some -individual who, in the first five minutes of their acquaintance, would -say or do something which appealed to him: that person became for ever -“a splendid chap”; while, on the other hand, some harmless individual -who struck a “wrong note” (probably quite unwittingly) was referred to -for months as “a terrible fellow”. - -The name he took for the stage—Harry Vernon Esmond—was a tribute to -romance and imagination. He was young—young in years, I mean—and he -loved a wonderful lady, to whom he never addressed a single word. She -was Harriet Vernon, who, attired as Gainsborough’s “Duchess of -Devonshire”, used to thrill the hearts of the young men of the day every -evening at the Tivoli, the Old Oxford, and other Temples of Variety. -Harry, with others, worshipped at the shrine of Harriet Vernon. He never -spoke to her; I doubt if he ever wanted to: it was simply the adoration -of a very young man for a beautiful woman, whose life to him was wrapped -in wonderful mystery. Night after night he watched her, and, when he -took up the stage as a career, he, being a nineteenth century knight and -so unable to “bind her gage about his helm”, openly avowed his -admiration and allegiance by taking her name, and so became Harry Vernon -Esmond. - -Foolish? Ridiculous? I don’t think so; and it was rather typical of -Harry’s feelings with regard to women all his life. He loved beautiful -women as he loved the beautiful pictures, the beautiful books, and -beautiful places of the world. Women, individually, he might—and often -did—dislike; but women as women, _en masse_, he idealised. In all his -plays he never drew a woman who was wholly unkind or entirely worthless. -He might set out to draw a vampire, a heartless creature without any -moral sense; but before the end of the play, the fact that she was a -woman would be too strong for him, and in one sentence—perhaps only half -a dozen words—he would make you feel that “she so easily might have been -different, had fate been kinder”. - -Perhaps you remember “Vera Lawrence” in _Eliza Comes to Stay_. She is -mercenary, heartless, and throws over Sandy so that she may marry his -rich uncle; but Harry Esmond could not give her to the world as nothing -more than that—she was a woman, and a beautiful woman. Listen to the -extenuating clause. She is showing Sandy a new umbrella, and says, “It -isn’t meant for rain; once it was opened to the rain it would never go -back and be slim and elegant again. Oh! Sandy, they opened me to the -rain too soon!” That is the echo of some half-forgotten tragedy which -had made Vera Lawrence what she was, instead of the woman “she might -have been”. - -He began to write when he was very young, and I have a manuscript at -home of his first play, entitled _Geraldine, or Victor Cupid_. It is a -rather highly coloured work, which has never been inflicted on the -public, written in an exercise-book when he was fourteen. - -He used to recite, too, when he was a very small boy, and a man who knew -him then described him as “a tiresome little boy who _would_ recite long -poems to which no one wanted to listen”. The tragedy of the prophet -without honour! - -We were very young when we married, and it was perhaps due to that fact -that Harry was really a very casual lover. I have told elsewhere how his -friend was sent to escort me home from the theatre, and there were many -other instances which I could quote. After our marriage he changed -entirely; he was the most perfect lover any woman ever had, and his -letters to me, written when he was on tour and in America, are as -beautiful, as full of tenderness and imagery, as anything he ever wrote. - -We married with Hope as a banking account, and lived in a little studio -flat in Chelsea. In the flat below us (and this is “by the way”, and has -nothing to do with Harry as I am trying to depict him to you) lived -another young married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Shortt. He became, as all the -world knows, the “Right Hon.”, and I wonder if he held as harsh views on -the subject of Women’s Suffrage then as he did later. - -It was not for some time that Harry realised that he could write. He -loved acting passionately, and in his plays you will find all the fire -and life which he put into his spoken work. It was perhaps to him, as it -has been to many, something of a disadvantage that he could do two -things well, for it divided his powers, and he was torn between his -desire to act and his desire to create characters which others should -portray. Acting was his first love, and the knowledge that he had the -power to write, and write well, came to him slowly; I think perhaps he -almost distrusted it, as a possible menace to his career as an actor. - -They were good days in the little flat, they were indeed “the brave days -when we were twenty-one”. Troubles came and we shouldered them, hardly -feeling their weight. The small happenings, which then were almost -tragedies we were able soon after to look back upon as comedies, because -we were young, and happy, and very much in love with each other. The -dreadful day came when Harry, who wanted a new bicycle very badly, went -to the bank and asked for an advance of eight pounds, which was refused -by the manager—the day when our worldly wealth was represented by -eighteen shillings, and two pounds in the bank (which we dare not touch, -for it would have “closed our account”). Then Cissie Graham (now Mrs. -Allen) played the part of the Good Fairy and saved us, though she does -not know it. She offered me a special week at Bristol. In the nick of -time I was engaged to play in Justin Huntly McCarthy’s _Highwayman_, and -soon after Harry went to George Alexander on contract; and so fate -smiled on us again! - -Then came his _first play_—a one-act curtain-raiser called _Rest_. I -suppose all young authors are excited when the first child of their -brain is given to the world. I have never seen Harry so excited over any -play as he was over _Rest_. It was played at a matinée for Mr. Henry -Dana, who was with Sir Herbert Tree for so long, and died not long ago, -to the deep regret of all who knew him. - -When I speak of Harry’s excitement over this play, I do not want you to -think that excitement was unusual with him. He was often roused to a -great pitch of excitement by the small, pleasant things of life, because -he loved them. He was the embodiment of Rupert Brooke’s “Great Lover”: -for him “books and his food and summer rain” never ceased to bring joy -and delight. To be blasé or bored were things unknown to him. No man -ever needed less the Celestial Surgeon to “stab his spirit wide awake”! -His joy in the lovely, small things of life was as keen at fifty as it -had been at fifteen. - -Once, after great difficulty, I persuaded him to go for a holiday on the -Continent—for he hated to go far away from his own roof-tree. I always -remember the effect the first sight of the Swiss mountains had on him. -Do you remember the story of the great Victorian poet who, travelling to -Switzerland with his friend, was reading _The Channings_?—how, when his -friend touched him on the arm and said, “Look, the Alps”, he replied, -without raising his eyes from his book, “Hush, Harry is going to be -confirmed”! This is how differently the sight affected Harry: He had -been sitting in the corner of the carriage, dreaming dreams; at last I -saw the snow-covered Alps. “Look, Harry,” I said, “the mountains!” He -woke from his dreams and looked out; there was a long silence, which I -broke to ask if they impressed him very much. All his reply was, “Hush! -don’t speak!” - -Three things never ceased to make an appeal to him—old people, young -children, and animals. I shall never forget his beautiful courtesy to my -mother, and in fact to anyone who was old and needed care. Children all -loved him, and his relations with his own children were wonderful. Our -first baby, Lynette, died when she was only a few days old, and Harry’s -first experience of having a child was really when Decima’s little boy -Bill came to live with us. When later Jack, and still later Jill, were -born, the three were to all intents and purposes one family. Harry was -never too busy or too tired to tell them wonderful stories—stories which -were continued from night to night, year by year. He used to tell the -most exciting adventures of imaginary people, always leaving them in the -very middle of some terrible predicament, from which he would extricate -them the next evening. I can remember him coming down one evening, after -telling one of these adventures to Jill, with a frown of very real worry -on his forehead, and rumpling his hair in distress, saying, as he did -so, “I’ve left them on the edge of a precipice, and God only knows how -I’m going to save them to-morrow night!”—“them” being the characters in -the story. - -His dogs! In Harry’s eyes, none of them could really do wrong. One I -remember, a great Harlequin china-eyed Dane. She was a huge beast, and -suffered from the delusion that she was a “lap dog”, and as Harry was -the only person who existed in the world, so far as she was concerned, -so his was the only lap on which she ever wished to sit. At those -moments he was totally extinguished under the mass of dog. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Miss Compton Collier, London, N.W.6._ To face p. 194 - - JILL AND HER MOTHER -] - -But his best-loved dog was “Buggins”, who was an animal of doubtful -ancestry, called out of courtesy by Harry an “Australian Linger”. He -originally belonged to the Philip Cunninghams, and Harry, calling there -one day and finding Buggins in deep disgrace for some misdemeanour, -decided that our flat would be the ideal home for the dog. From that -moment, until he died from eating another dog’s meal as well as his own -(for, be it said frankly, Buggins was greedy), his life was as gorgeous -as Harry could make it. He had a state funeral and lies at “Apple -Porch”—the place which he, as well as his master, loved so dearly. - -I wish I could tell you adequately of Harry’s humour, but the things he -said were funny because he said them and because of the way in which he -said them. Put down in black and white, they seem nothing, they might -even seem rather pointless; but the memory of Bill sitting with his -mouth open, ready to laugh at “Pop’s” jokes, and never waiting in vain, -the memory of the roars of laughter which were the accompaniment of -every meal—that has lasted while the jokes themselves are forgotten. - -The jokes are forgotten, and the laughter remains! That is how Harry -lives always for us, who knew and loved him; that is how he lives for -Bill, and Jack, and Jill: as the finest playmate they ever had; the man -who, though he might treat life as a jest, was desperately serious over -games and the things of “make-believe”; who might laugh at the faults -which the world thinks grave, and was grave over the faults at which the -world too often laughs. - -And the sound of his laughter, and of the children laughing with him, -brings me to the last picture; brings me to a scene in which Harry, -though he did not appear, was the most actual personality in the memory. -It was in the restaurant of the Gare du Nord in Paris, in the April of -1922. It was a perfect spring day, the sun was shining, birds were -singing, all the trees were full of budding leaf and flowers. We had -given his “body to the pleasant earth”; not, I felt, sleeping there -alone, for France had become the resting-place of so many Englishmen who -had been young, and brave, and beautiful. We had come back to Paris from -St. Germain, the children and I. The restaurant was empty, and anyone -entering would never have imagined from where we had come and what had -been our errand that morning. The children spoke all the time of Harry, -and spoke of him with laughter and smiles. It was “Do you remember what -Pops said?”, and “What a joke it was that day when Pops did this, that, -or the other”, until I realised that, though he had finished his work -here, he would always live for the children and for me in the “laughter -that remained”. - -Graves are kept as green with laughter as with tears; but in our minds -there is no feeling of “graves” or death, only the joy of looking back -on the sunny days, which had been more full of sunshine because the -figure which stood in the midst of the sunlight had been Harry. - -Harry would have hated, almost resented, another illness, with all the -attendant weariness; would have dreaded a repetition of all he went -through in Canada. He, who loved to live every moment of his life to the -full, always felt that “to pass out quickly” was the only way to hope to -die. His wish was fulfilled when he died so suddenly in Paris. And yet, -though he had loved his friends, loved his work, and loved, too, the -public life which was the outcome of it, he loved best of all the quiet -of his home; there, within its four walls, he would have, had it been -possible, done all his work, and had all his friends gather round him. - -A last token of the love which those friends bore him is being made to -him now by “His Fellow-Craftsmen”; it is a bronze medallion, made by the -sculptor, Mr. Albert Toft, and will be placed where Harry’s body lies, -at the Cemetery at St. Germain-en-Laye. The beautiful thought originated -with Mr. Cyril Harcourt and Mr. Dion Clayton Calthrop, and many who -loved Harry have joined hands with them. As I write, a letter has just -come to me from Mr. Harcourt, saying: “It is done, and we think -beautifully. The face and hand, with the cigarette smoke curling up, are -wonderful.” I can fancy that Harry sees it too, and says in that -beautiful voice of his, full of all the tones and music I know so well: - - “And I, in some far planet, past the skies, - I shall look down and smile; - Knowing in death I have not lost my friends, - But only found in death their lasting love.” - -Of his wonderful charm it is almost impossible to write, and yet it was -essentially part of him, and a feature of his personality. Whatever his -faults may have been—and he had them, as have all of us—it was his -wonderful charm which made them so easy to forgive. As Fred Grove used -to say of him: - - “Though to the faults of mortals he may fall, - Look in his eyes, and you forget them all.” - -His friends know, as I do, his generosity; that keen anxiety to help, -either by money or kindness, anyone who was unfortunate. Harry never -waited to wonder if his help was wise or judicious; a man or woman was -poor, underfed, or unhappy, that was enough for him, and any help he -could give was at once forthcoming, and given with such unfeigned -pleasure at being able to help that I am convinced many of those who -asked him for money went away feeling they had conferred a favour on -Harry Esmond by borrowing his money. - -On his work, both as a writer and an actor, I shall try to touch later. -I have tried here to give you the man as I knew him: A boy with the soul -of a poet; a man who always in his heart of hearts believed that most -men were brave, and, unless life had been unkind, all women good; who -evolved a philosophy which, though it may not have been very deep, was -always gay; to whom life was full of small excitements, wonderful -adventures, and splendid friends; who remained, after thirty years of -married life, still a very perfect lover; and who understood his -children and was their most loved playmate, because he never ceased -himself to be a child; complex, as all artistic natures must be, and -sometimes, if he seemed too ready to sacrifice the real to the -imaginary, it was because the imaginary to him seemed so much more -“worth while”. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by The Dover Street Studios, London, W._ To face p. 199 - - HARRY AS WIDGERY BLAKE - - “Palace of Puck” -] - -Perhaps the best summing-up of Harry that can be given is to quote -Henley’s lines on Robert Louis Stevenson: - - “A streak of Ariel, a hint of Puck, - Of Hamlet most of all, and something of - The Shorter Catechist.” - -There, then, is the picture I have tried to make for you: Harry elated -over the success of a play; Harry cast down over some unkind cut, grave -for a moment, with his gravity turned to smiles at some happy thought -which suddenly struck him; our hopes and fears; our good and bad times -together; and over all, drowning all other sounds, comes the noise of -Harry’s laughter and that of three happy children laughing with him. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV - HARRY, THE PLAYWRIGHT - - “He used to write of life as it ought to be.” - —_The Law Divine._ - - -The last thing I wish to give you is a list of his plays, with the -comment that they were a success or the reverse, adding what eminent -critics said of them. I want only to tell you how he wrote his plays, -and try to make you understand why he wrote as he did. If I quote what -critics said of his work, it will not be because in this or that extract -I find undiluted praise, but because that critic has—or, at least, so it -seems to me—found truth. - -Harry’s first play I have still; it is written in an exercise-book, and -is called _Geraldine, or Victor Cupid, or Love’s Victory_. It is a -highly coloured piece of work, which has never been inflicted upon the -public; written, I imagine, when he was about twelve years old. - -Not until we had been married for some years did Harry realise that he -could write plays; he was passionately fond of acting, and wished to -take up nothing that might interfere with his profession, but gradually -the knowledge came to him that he could create characters on paper as -well as on the stage. - -He made his plays long before he wrote them; I mean he thought the whole -play out in its entirety, lived for weeks with the characters in his -mind, came to know them intimately and to be absolutely at home with -them, before he began actually to write the play in black and white. - -I have known him to write the last act first, simply because he had -planned the play so entirely before he put pen to paper. Often when at -“Apple Porch” he would write for an hour, then go out on the golf -course, knock a ball about for two or three holes, then return to his -desk, and pick up the scene just where he had left it. - -_Grierson’s Way_ he wrote straight off in three weeks; there is hardly -an alteration in the manuscript. He was intensely happy when writing; -talked very little about his work, as a rule, but lived in two -worlds—his friends in the play, and his family. He thought sad and -gloomy plays were a mistake, and should not be written, or, if written, -whatever the subject, the author “should be able to let in the sunshine -somewhere”. He never wrote another _Grierson’s Way_. - -_The Wilderness_ was written under most difficult circumstances. Jack -was three months old, he was frightfully ill for weeks, and I was up -night after night nursing him. Harry used to sit in the study at the end -of the passage, writing, writing, coming in now and again to see how we -were getting on. Later, when Jack was better, Harry took a table and put -it up in the loft over a wee stable we had, where the car was kept; -there, daily, he and his big dog Diana, which George Alexander had given -him, used to climb up the ladder that was flat up against the wall, and -do his writing. The going up was all right, but the coming down was the -difficulty. Harry put a heap of straw on the ground, and, after he had -got half-way down the ladder, Diana used to put her fore paws on his -shoulders, then Harry would drag her till her hind legs got to the edge -of the trap-door, when she would drop on Harry, and together they would -fall on to the straw; this went on for weeks. - -His first play to be produced in London, with the exception of a one-act -play called _Rest_, was _Bogey_; and here I must quote the _Standard_ -critic, who wrote of the play: “A fairy tale, if you will, but a fairy -tale which deals with the passions of men and women.” That was so very -true of so many of Harry’s plays; they were “fairy tales”, because that -was how he saw life—as a wonderful fairy tale, with an ending that was -intended to be happy, and, if it failed to be, was so because mortals -had meddled with the story and spoiled it. A playwright should “hold the -mirror up to Nature”, but the result must depend upon what he sees in -the mirror; if he sees stories which have the gold and glitter of -romance, then, in writing his play, which contains both, he is only -depicting truly what he has seen. - -_Bogey_ was not the success that it might have been, but it was -sufficient to prove finally to its writer that he had the power to -write, a power which only needed developing. It lacked the concise -beauty of his later work; he had not then learnt his craft; but, as many -of the critics testified, it was the work of “a dramatist, a writer of -plays, born, if as yet not fully made”. - -He began to write other plays, and gradually, if you read them, you will -find how he advances in his knowledge of words. He would seek for hours -for the right word. He used to say that a word which was not exactly the -one he wanted, and for which he was seeking, hurt him like a discord on -the piano. From the actor’s point of view, Harry was generous; that is -to say, every part he wrote was “worth playing”, and every part had a -line which would appeal to the audience and stamp the actor on their -minds, no matter how small the part might be. For example, in the first -act of _Eliza_ (a play for which Harry had no very great affection), the -carman who brings in the rocking-horse has two lines to say, and two -only, but one of them will gain a laugh from the audience, and lifts the -part from being nothing but a “one-line part”. - -Another point of his writing is that almost all the characters, where it -is possible, have to depict a full range of emotions. Fun and pathos are -in almost every part, every part is worthy of study, for by giving the -time and thought to it the actor can come to realise the character in -full, because behind the actual written word lies so much that may be -found if it is sought for. That is due, I think, to the fact that Harry -could, if necessary, have written the whole life of every character, -because before he began to write he lived with them, as it were, for -weeks. - -In his plays—or, rather, in every act of his plays—you will find a great -sense of completeness, not only in the actual “curtains” themselves, but -in the construction of the act. As he says in _The Wilderness_, which -George Alexander produced at the St. James’s Theatre, “the wheel has -come full circle”. Take the second act of that particular play, which -begins with Sir Harry Milanor bringing his uncle to the place in the -woods where he, Sir Harry, played as a child. He begins to create an -atmosphere of fairyland; he tells of how he stormed the pass, fought the -elephants, killed the giants, and so won his kingdom. Then come the two -children, who bring with them food for the fairies, and Sir Harry and -his old uncle creep away. As the act goes on, mundane things come into -the scene, but the curtain falls with the children again in the fairy -ring, looking for the food which they brought the “good people”; it has -gone, and the curtain falls with the children stating firmly, “I knowed -they was hungry”. So, perhaps subconsciously, you wait for the next act -with the spirit of fairyland and all that it means still with you. You -have your belief in the good, simple, unquestioned things of life -established, which is the author’s way of setting for his next scene. - -Again, in the second act of _Eliza_, Monty Jordan sits reading plays for -Vera Lawrence, whom Sandy is going to marry, and find her a theatre and -a play to make her name, for she is an actress. You see Vera Lawrence as -the centre of Sandy’s world; even his best friend is dragged in to work -for her. So at the end of the act you find Vera Lawrence, her hair -falling round her shoulders, to prove to Eliza that it is not a wig, -while the latter stands nonplussed and dismayed. Vera is the “top note” -all through the act, at the end as at the beginning; so your mind, -holding the picture of the triumphant Vera, feels the same surprise as -does Lady Pennybroke when in Act 3 Eliza enters, looking no longer a -“sight, sticking in at the front and out at the back”, but quite -charming, ready to conquer not only Monty Jordan, but Sandy Verrall. Act -2 has made the audience not only laugh at Eliza for what she is, but -makes them contrast her with Vera, and realise how unlikely it is that -she can ever enter successfully into the lists for Sandy’s affections, -as she does eventually. - -I suppose all playwrights have their favourite methods of gaining mental -effects, and the “full circle” was one of Harry’s. He loved to have what -are known as “good curtains”—that is, he loved a scene or act to end on -a very high, strong note. Time after time you will find the act ends -with some short sentence, but which is really the concentration of a -long speech, so written that in a few words you get all the energy and -determination, or all the pathos and tragedy, that a speech of many -lines might have made less vivid. - -For example, take the last act of _Love and the Man_ (played by Forbes -Robertson and Miss Kate Rorke), when Wagoneur comes to ask Lord -Gaudminster if he may see his wife (who lies dead upstairs) and whom -Wagoneur has loved. - -“You won’t let me see her?” he asks, and Gaudminster answer simply “No.” -Wagoneur turns and, half-blind with grief, gropes his way from the room. -That is all! But could a speech of many pages be more eloquent? - -Again, the last lines of the second act of _The Dangerous Age_ (played -by Harry and myself). Jack lies hurt, perhaps dying, after an accident; -Bill, his brother, sits with Egbert Inglefield waiting for news. His -mother, Betty Dunbar, has gone to London to say good-bye to her lover. -Egbert Inglefield, who also loves her, knows this, though of course -Bill, her son, does not. Bill comes to Egbert and says, “Oh, Eggy, I -feel rotten”; Egbert, knowing that all his hopes are falling in ruins, -says “So do I, old man!” Very simple, but the tragedy of his answer -touches you far more than a noble speech would do at that particular -juncture. - -With regard to the plays themselves, and again I do not want to give a -long list of them, but only to touch one or two which seems to me -particularly typical of the writer’s philosophy. I remember that after -his death one paper spoke of him as the “gay philosopher”, and I should -seek long before I found a better phrase in which to express his -outlook. His own attitude was “valiant in velvet, light in ragged luck”, -and so he drew his men and women. They may suffer, and you suffer with -them; but it is healthy pain, which looks towards the east for the -sunshine of to-morrow which will bring alleviation. There is no feeling -in your mind, as you watch them, that “things can never be better”, that -misfortune is inevitable; except in _Grierson’s Way_, which was one of -his earlier works, when the critics were still waiting for “him to grow -old, and sensible, and happy”, as one of them said after the production -of _My Lady Virtue_, which Arthur Bourchier, Violet Vanbrugh, and myself -played at the Garrick. - -He calls certainly 75 per cent. of his plays “Comedies”, but they are -comedies which touch very often on tragedy. And in a sense he was right -in so calling them, for comedy, properly speaking, is a comment on the -imperfections of human nature, which causes amusement to those who -understand men and manners. So most of his plays are comedies, though -some of them rely on tragic incidents for their story. - -I have spoken before of Harry’s fondness for the “redeeming feature” in -even his worst characters, and how few really bad people he ever tried -to draw! I think as he wrote, or earlier still, when he began to think -about his characters, he acquired a certain affection for them, which -made him wish to make them something less than the villains he had at -first intended. Added to that, his dislike of unpleasant things, and you -get some idea of why he wrote the type of plays he did. Even Mr. Clement -Scott, who disliked his first play, _Bogey_, so intensely, wrote of him -later: “Believe me, his two last plays, _When We Were Twenty-One_ and -_The Wilderness_, will be English classics when all the mock Ibsenism -and sham exercise in society salacity are buried in the dust of -oblivion.” So he gave the world what I think are not only beautiful -plays, but essentially kindly plays. - -_Eliza Comes to Stay_ he never liked very much; he thought it below the -level of the rest of his work; and though this evergreen play has -certainly been a very valuable property, yet I think Harry would have -been better pleased by the same success of one of his other plays. Yet -Eliza is lovable, even before she becomes “the new me”, even when she is -still dressed to look “dreadfully respectable”. And what a part it is, -too! what is called “an actress-proof” part—which means, in the -vernacular of the stage, “it will play itself”; so it may, but what a -difference when it is played—well, as it can be played by anyone who -will take the trouble to study Eliza, and then, by the grace of God, is -able to give her to the audience as, not a freak, but a very human, -affectionate girl, standing rather breathless on the threshold of a -world she does not know. - -Perhaps his favourite play was _The Dangerous Age_, which we first -played in America, where the audiences liked it enormously, and which, -when we brought it to London, was not a great success. There is no -character to which Harry has been more kind than to Betty Dunbar; she -does ugly things, but you are never allowed to feel they have really -touched her; she remains, after her indiscretions, still the same -delightful and charming person; you are made to feel that the agony -which she suffers, when she waits to hear if her little son will live or -die, has wiped out all her foolishness—to give it no harsher name. - -It was during a performance of this play that a young man turned to a -friend who sat with him, and said “I can’t watch it; it’s terrible to -see a woman’s soul stripped naked”; and a story he told later is of -value here, because I think it gauges so correctly Harry’s attitude -towards women. This man had been a sailor, and, talking over the play -with a friend later, he took exception to his remark that “Betty Dunbar -was a pretty worthless woman”, and to account for his defence of the -character he told this story:—“I was once doing a Western Ocean trip, on -a tramp steamer, in November. We struck a bad gale, and the Atlantic -rollers stripped her of everything. Next morning I stood with the -skipper on deck. There she was, rolling about, not rising to the -rollers, but just lying there—down and out. I said to the skipper, ‘She -looks what she is—a slut.’ He turned on me sharply and said, ‘Don’t you -ever say that about a ship or a woman. If some man hadn’t scamped his -job, and not done his best, she wouldn’t be looking as she does this -morning’.” I think that was Harry’s feeling about women like his heroine -in _The Dangerous Age_—that it was probably the fault of a very definite -“someone” that they had not made a greater success of life. - -He loved to write of children, and wrote of them with almost singular -understanding and reality. The children in _The Wilderness_, the two -boys in _The Dangerous Age_, the “Tommy” and the Midshipman in _The Law -Divine_, the small caddie in _A Kiss or Two_, are all real children, -full of humour and wonderful high spirits, who never—as do so many -“stage children”—become tedious or boring. - -_A Kiss or Two_ was produced at the London Pavilion—a legitimate venture -which followed years of variety. It was a charming play, and one speech -from it—the legend—is one of the most delightful things Harry ever -wrote. The character was an Irish soldier, Captain Patrick Delaney, and -was played by Harry. I give part of it here: - -“It’s a legend I’m tellin’ ye, an’ all true legends begin with ‘My Dear -and My Judy.’ Well, My Dear and My Judy, one fine day Mother Nature, -havin’ nothin’ better to do, she made a man. You know what a man is? -That’s all right then—well, she made a man, and this mighty fine piece -of work tickled her to death, it did, and so she went to bed devilish -pleased with herself, had a beautiful dream, woke up next morning, went -one better than the day before—she made a woman. Ye can’t say you know -what a woman is, for she’s a mystery to the lot of us. Well, she made a -woman, and then she sat down and looked at the pair of them, and the -pair of them looked at each other, and mighty uneasy they felt, -wondering what the devil it was all about. At last, after them two had -been looking at each other till the perspiration was breaking out upon -their foreheads, Mother Nature breaks the awful silence, and pointing to -the woman, who was standing all of a quiver, with her eyes lookin’ -anywhere except at the man, yet seein’ him all the time, Mother Nature -pointin’ to the woman, say to the man, ‘That sweet lookin’ thing’s all -yours,’ says she. ‘I can’t believe it,’ says the man with a gulp. Then -Mother Nature, pointing to the man, who was looking at the woman as if -there was nothin’ else in the wide, wide world worth looking at which -there wasn’t—Mother Nature, pointing to the man, says to the woman, ‘An’ -that fine looking thing’s all yours,’ says she. ‘Sure I know it,’ says -the woman, bold as brass, and the fat was in the fire. But that’s only -the beginning: it’s now that the trouble comes. At last, when everything -had settled into its proper place between these two, the man came home -one day and couldn’t find his collar stud. ‘Where’s that woman?’ says -he. ‘Out walkin’ with another man,’ says they. ‘That won’t do at all,’ -says he. ‘How’ll you stop it?’ says they. ‘I’ll make a law,’ says he, -and that’s where the trouble began.... He sent for all the stuffy old -men of his acquaintance, and they had a meeting by candle-light in the -Old Town Hall. And he up an’ spoke to them: ‘Now all you gentlemen,’ -says he, ‘have been casting sheep’s eyes at the girls. I’ve been -watchin’ you at it the times I haven’t been busy doin’ it myself,’ says -he. ‘Them girls have been casting them same sheep’s eyes back at you -with interest,’ says he. ‘Can’t help it,’ says the old men. ‘It’s -Nature,’ says they. ‘Nature is it?’ says he, ‘then there’s too much of -this Nature about,’ says he, ‘and I’m goin’ to stop it.’ With that his -eloquence carried the meeting, and they started in to make laws. Oh, -them laws that they made, sure they forgot all about the days of their -youth, when their blood was warm, and the sunshine was singin’ in their -hearts. They just sat there on them cold stones in that old Town Hall, -chilled to the marrow, and made them laws to stop love-making. And while -they were at it, there came a tap at the door, and they all gave a jump -which showed you they were doin’ something they were ashamed of. ‘What’s -that?’ says they, and they all looked round and then there came another -little tap, and the door slowly opened, and there in the sunlight stood -a beautiful young woman, lookin’ in at them, her eyes all agog with -wonder. ‘What the divil are you doin’?’ says she. ‘None of your -business,’ says they. ‘True for you,’ says she. An’ she took them at -their word, and slammed the door, an’ she’s been slamming the door on -them same laws ever since!” - -I have given that speech fully, because it seems to me to be so very -much the spirit in which Harry wrote and to show so well his attitude -towards life—fantastic, ideal, almost but not quite a fairy tale. - -You will find it, too, in _The Law Divine_ (which Harry played at -Wyndham’s Theatre for so long with Miss Jessie Winter), when Edie tells -her son about her honeymoon, when she says: “Ordinary people! We were -the children of the moon, we were the spirits of sea mist and soft night -air—Dads said we were.” The whole scene is full of that imagery which -was so much part of the writer’s mental composition. - -In _Bad Hats_, which play he renamed, having first called it _The Rotten -Brigade_, and which at the production was called _Birds of a Feather_, -he wrote another of those plays which, though called by the author “a -comedy”, had all the elements of a tragedy. Harry intended to write -another First Act, making the First Act the Second, in order that the -existing circumstances would be more easy for the audience to grasp. It -was, and is, a great play, and Jacob Ussher is one of the finest -character-studies he ever created. - -I should have liked to have dealt more fully with many of his -less-well-known plays; with _One Summer’s Day_, which Charles Hawtrey -produced, and which was the first emotional part he had ever played, and -of which I am asked so often, “When are you going to revive it?”; with -_Grierson’s Way_, which caused so much comment when it was produced; -with _The Sentimentalist_, with its wonderful first act, the play being -the story of a man’s life, which was praised for its beauty and -imagination by some, while others asked, “What’s it all about?” - -Harry was accused of writing “sugary” plays, sentimental plays, plays -which were thin, and the like; but, in answer to these accusations, I -can only quote two critics and give my own opinion afterwards. One of -them says: “This is what they call pinchbeck sentiment. I don’t know. It -convinced me, and that was quite enough. This is the kind of human story -that has elicited the art of a Frederic Robson, a Johnnie Toole, and a -Henry Irving in England.” And the other: “Do you know what personal -charm is? It is the effect produced by a man or a woman who enters a -room, makes a few graceful remarks, says a few words very much to the -point in an agreeable voice, and suddenly creates an atmosphere which -wins everybody around. Mr. Esmond as a playwright possesses it.” And my -own opinion, which is that, if Harry wrote of charming, simple, loving, -and lovable people, it was because that was how he found his fellow-men; -that his characters who go through three acts lightly, bravely, and -gallantly, are just as real as the characters in those rather depressing -plays which are hailed as “slices of life”—and much more entertaining. - -He filled his plays with beautiful things about life, because he -honestly thought life itself was beautiful; he made his men and women -“straight” and with decent impulses, because he was convinced that was -how God made real people; and he gave his plays, or nearly all of them, -“happy endings”, because he thought that “those who were good shall be -happy”. That was how Harry “held the mirror up to Nature”, and how he -tried to do what no artist can do more than succeed in doing: - - “Draw the thing as he sees it.” - - - - - CHAPTER XV - HARRY, THE ACTOR - - “There comes a time in every man’s life when his own judgment is of - greater use to him than other people’s.” - - —_When We Were Twenty-One._ - - “I have been lectured a good deal during my career.” - - —_Fools of Nature._ - - -No man in his time played more parts than Harry. To begin with, he -started very young, started off from the bosom of a family which had no -knowledge of the stage. So innocent were they of the life on which he -was embarking, that his mother, hearing that he had joined a company of -touring actors, asked, in all seriousness, “What time is the caravan -calling for you, my dear?” - -He started his career with a salary of ten shillings a week, and played -anything and everything that was offered. He used to tell the story of -“how he played a wave”—lying underneath a very dusty floor cloth, -“billowing up and down”—and a nasty, stuffy business it must have been, -too! Imagine the horror of the modern young actor, touring the -provinces, if he were asked to lie on the stage and give an -impersonation of that element which Britain is popularly reputed to -rule! - -One of his first real parts—and I doubt if it was even a speaking -part—was that of a waiter who had to carry on a basket of refreshments -for the guests at a picnic. Harry was determined to make the part “stand -out”. He took the script back to his rooms—rooms, did I say? Room, a -combined room, at probably eight shillings a week—and thought over it -very earnestly. Inspiration came to him—he would make the waiter a very -lame man with an elaborate limp; and at rehearsal next day he entered -limping. Mr. Fernandez, the producer, shouted from the stalls, “Here, -here, my boy, what _are_ you doing?”, and added very seriously, “never -fool with a part, take your work seriously. Take it from him, give it to -somebody else!” That was the result of Harry’s first attempt at -characterisation. You must remember that at this time he was about 15 or -16, very slight and boyish-looking, and he went round the provinces -playing heavy villains in _The Stranglers of Paris_, _The Corsican -Brothers_, _Uriah Heep_, _Oliver Twist_, etc. Think of a boy of that age -portraying “Bill Sykes”! However, he stuck to the provinces for some -time, like many another actor who won his spurs in London after a long -and perhaps rather dreary apprenticeship; though I cannot believe that -Harry ever found any acting dreary, he loved it too well. - -When at last he came to London it was to appear in _The Panel Picture_, -in which he made an amazing success in the part of a boy who was shot on -the stage and had a big death scene; and then the round of playing old -men began. I have told how, when I first met him, he was playing the -part of a villain, and so padded as to be almost unrecognisable. When, -many years later, he went to George Alexander, it was to play “Cayley -Drummle”, the old man in _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_, and it took George -Alexander a long time to believe that Harry could make a success of a -part which was suited to his years. This, in spite of the fact that he -had already played the boy in _Sweet Nancy_, when Clement Scott (who -disliked his first play so heartily) lifted his hands to the skies and -“thanked Heaven for this perfect actor!” When George Alexander produced -_Much Ado_, I remember he sent for Harry and asked him tentatively if he -thought he could play “Claudio”. Harry was delighted at the prospect, -and I remember, too, his disappointment when he was finally cast for -“Verges”. Later came Henry Arthur Jones’s _Masqueraders_, when at last -his chance came; he played a young man, and won not only the heart of -George Alexander, but the heart of the public, by his performance. - -I hesitate to use the word “genius”; but my excuse, if one is needed, -must be that others used it before in referring to Harry. In the old -days, when we all used to go holiday-making together, when Harry, Gerald -du Maurier, and Charles Hallard were almost inseparable companions, they -were known as “The Gent., The Genius, and The Young Greek God”—one of -those happy phrases, coined under sunny skies, which, under all the fun -that prompts them, have a sub-stratum of truth. The phrase has lived, -for only a year ago Gerald du Maurier wrote to me, saying, “And when we -meet, I will be the Young Greek God again, and we will talk of the -Genius—bless him!” So I use the word in connection with Harry as an -actor, and will only modify it by adding that he had one handicap—he was -too versatile. As a young man he could play old men, and play them well, -even brilliantly. As an older man he could still play young men, who -were indeed young, not creatures born of grease paint and wigs, whose -only attempt at being young came from affected movements and smart -clothes. - -His character-studies were real people, not bundles of eccentricities, -with amazing and repulsive tricks; they were real old people, treated, -where it was demanded, with humour, but a humour which was from the -heart and spoke to the heart, and not only apparent to the eye of the -beholder. His young men were charming, virile, and obviously enjoying -life. He could play devout lovers, rakes (and what delightful rakes, -too, they were!), old men, and mad men, and play them all with more than -a touch of genius. There you had his handicap: from the very fact of the -excellence of all he did, he was never allowed to specialise. He never -became definitely associated with any special type of part. It never -became a case of “No one can play that except Harry Esmond”, for there -was probably a part in almost every play which Harry Esmond could have -played, and played with charm and distinction. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Alfred Ellis, London, W._ To face p. 218 - - HARRY AS MAJOR BLENCOE - - “The Tree of Knowledge” -] - -Consider for a moment some of the parts which he played, and consider -the variety of them. There is “Little Billee”, a part which I find many -people remember best; “Kean”, the mad musician, in _Grierson’s Way_; -“D’Artagnan” in _The Three Musketeers_; “Sir Benjamin Backbite” in _The -School for Scandal_; “Touchstone” in _As You Like It_; old “Jacob -Ussher” in _Birds of a Feather_; and various characters in _Dear -Brutus_, _The Times_, _Lights Out_, _Chance_, _The Idol_. They were all -parts which were as different as could well be imagined, and every one -worthy of notice, and played with sympathy and great understanding. - -When the Royal Performance of _Trilby_ was given, as far as possible it -was attempted to present the original cast. Harry was asked to play the -“young and tender Little Billee”. At first he refused, saying that he -was too old, but finally he was persuaded to appear. Phyllis Neilson -Terry was to play “Trilby”, and I remember hearing of her dismay when -she was told who was to be “Billee”. She remembered seeing Harry in the -part when she “was a little girl”! At the dress rehearsal her fears -vanished. She came up to me and told me what she had feared. “But now,” -she said, “well, just look at him; he’s straight from the nursery; my -husband says I’m baby-snatching.” - -Swing the pendulum to the other side, and recall his “Jacob Ussher” in -his own play, _Birds of a Feather_—the old Jew, the modern Shylock, who -sees himself bereft of the only thing he loves in life, his daughter. -Ussher is no more ashamed of the way in which he has made his money than -Shylock was, but he, with all his pride of race, is very definitely -ashamed that his daughter should wish to marry such a poor “aristocratic -fish” as “Rupert Herringham”. How the part includes every note in the -scale of the emotions; how Ussher alternates between the over-indulgent -father and the martinet who rules his women exactly as his forefathers -did; how he bullies and cajoles; how he uses persuasion and force; how -he raves, rails, and finally weeps; and who, when Harry played him, wept -not as an Englishman, but as a Jew who sees, in the ruin of his -daughter, the destruction of the Temple and the Holy City by those who -“know not the Law and the Prophets”. After seeing the play, a Jew told -him that the only disappointment, the only thing which seemed “unreal”, -was to find Harry seated in his dressing-room “talking English and not -Hebrew”; and yet a critic said of this performance that “as far as -characterisation is concerned, Ussher might have been a Gentile”. Let -that critic see to it that he knows well the sons of Jacob, and then let -him recall the performance at the Globe Theatre, with Harry Esmond as -“one of them”. - -I have told you how he came to play “D’Artagnan” in the _Musketeers_, in -the place of Lewis Waller, and I remember the doubts which were -expressed everywhere as to whether Harry was sufficiently robust and -virile to play the part of the Gascon soldier of fortune. How Harry, -realising that so far as personal appearance went he was as unlike the -traditional hero of Dumas’ romance as well could be imagined, set to -work to give such a reading that his slimness, his boyishness, his -delicate air of romance, might be changed from handicaps to assets. -Lewis Waller was probably more the man Dumas had in his mind; he was -outwardly the typical mercenary fire-eater with a love of adventure, and -a great-hearted courage behind it all; Harry Esmond was more like the -conventional “Athos”, but he made you feel that here was the “soldier in -spite of himself”; here was the son of Gascony who might so easily have -been made a courtier or even a priest, but for the love of adventure, -the romance, the high-spirited courage, which had driven him out to join -the King’s Musketeers at any cost. Speaking of this part reminds me that -during the run of the play Harry allowed his hair to grow, so that he -did not need to wear a full wig. He was riding down the King’s Road one -morning on his bicycle, when two small boys caught sight of him. “’Ere, -Bill,” shouted one, “’ere’s a poet.” The other gazed at Harry, and -returned with scorn, “Garn wiv yer, that ain’t a poet, that’s a bloomin’ -b——dy _poem_.” - -When Lewis Waller produced _Romeo and Juliet_, Harry was cast for -“Mercutio”, a part which called for all the gaiety, all the youth, all -the gallantry which he knew so well how to portray. I find that one -critic said of his performance that “it had that touch of mystery which -Mr. Esmond has given before, a touch of aloofness, indefinably appealing -and tragic”, which seems to me to sum up the performance admirably. I -find, too, another critic who says “he cannot interpret that -youthfulness which springs from the joy of living”—“the joy of living”, -which was an integral part of the man all his life! - -Speaking of “Mercutio” brings me to another Shakespearean part which -Harry played—that of “Touchstone”. And here again he committed the crime -of playing “Touchstone” as he felt he should be played, not as custom, -convention, and tradition dictated. The first intimation that he was -outraging the feelings of these three old gods came at rehearsal, when -on the exit “bag and baggage, scrip and scrippage” the producer told him -“Here you exit, dancing. You know what I mean: ‘the light fantastic -toe’.” Harry did know, and he did not see why the exit demanded that -particular method. He asked “Why?” “Why?” repeated the producer, Mr. H. -H. Vernon; “why? Well, because it is always made like that.” Again Harry -asked “Yes, but why? what’s the reason?” “_Reason_,” repeated Mr. -Vernon, “I don’t know any _reason_; it’s _always done like that_.” “Give -me a reason,” Harry begged, “and if it’s a good one, I’ll think it -over”; but no reason was forthcoming, except the reiteration that “it -had always been done so, etc.” Now, to Harry, “Touchstone” was a -“jester”, not a “clown”, and he believed that when Shakespeare so -designated him it was used in the sense of “one who clowns or jests”; he -saw no reason to make “Touchstone” anything but a “clown” in name, for -he held that his words prove him to be the cleverest man in the play, -and that he is the forerunner of “Jack Point”, “Grimaldi”, and even poor -dear pathetic Dan Leno and Charlie Chaplin—the great comedians who make -you laugh with the tears never very far from your eyes, because they are -so tragically funny; the comedians whose comedy is ever very nearly -tragedy, and who, when they cease to convulse their audiences, look out -at the world with eyes that have in them no mirth, but a great sadness, -which springs from knowledge that they “are paid to be funny”; that -feeling which makes W. S. Gilbert’s “Point” sing: - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Gabell & Co., London, W._ To face p. 222 - - HARRY AS TOUCHSTONE - - “As You Like It” -] - - “Though your wife ran away - With a soldier that day, - And took with her your trifle of money— - Bless your heart, they don’t mind, - They’re exceedingly kind; - They don’t blame you so long as you’re funny.” - -That is the cry of your jester all the world over, and that was the -feeling which existed in Harry’s mind when he depicted “Touchstone” as a -rather sardonic, melancholy person, with a great brain, the only use for -which he can find is to make people laugh. - -I will take only two instances to justify his idea of “Touchstone”. The -first: Are the words - - “The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do - foolishly” - -those of a “clown” or “a fool” in the ordinary sense? - -Take also “Corin’s” words: - - “You have too courtly a wit for me, I’ll rest.” - -He is frankly puzzled by the Jester’s humour. Yet “Corin” is a typical -shepherd of the times, and an English shepherd (for all we meet him in -the Forest of Arden): as such, he was used to the jokes and witticisms -of the ordinary clown; he had “roared his ribs out” at them at the -village fairs. This “Touchstone” is no ordinary clown, and “Corin” finds -his humour makes a demand upon the head; he is more than “funny”, he is -the Court wit. Read the conversation which has gone before, and you will -find that this is indeed “The Court Jester”, and a courtier before he -was a jester—a man accustomed to sharpen his wits upon those of the men -he met at Courts. And so Harry gave him—a wise man, a disappointed, -cynical man, but a man who could afford to value the wit of those around -him at its proper worth—less than his own. - -When Sir Herbert Tree revived _The School for Scandal_, Harry played -“Sir Benjamin Backbite”. Harry, Who loved sincerity, and truth, and -simplicity, played the affected fop of the period, with his cane, his -lace handkerchief, his fur muff, his bouquet, and his general air of -affectation, and played him so that to watch and listen to it was a -sheer delight. - -These are but a few of his parts—the parts which, when he played them, -were both praised and blamed. I want to touch on his method of playing, -and call to your memory some of the features which characterised it. He -was always sincere; he might, and did (as in _Eliza_), get bored with a -part, but he was too good an actor, too proud of his work, ever to let -it appear to an audience. - -His voice was wonderful; he could put more tenderness, without the least -touch of sentimentality, into his words than anyone I ever heard. To -hear Harry say “My dear”, as he did in _The Dangerous Age_ and again in -_The Law Divine_, was to hear all the essence of love-making, with all -the love in the world behind it, put into two words. - -His gesture was superb; he was not, as so many actors are, apparently -afraid of using a big sweeping movement; he (perhaps it was the Irishman -in him) was never afraid that a big gesture would look ridiculous. He -knew that anything, whether tone of voice or gesture or movement is very -rarely ridiculous if it is prompted by real feeling. He knew that the -real justification for anything an actor may do on the stage is “because -I _feel_ it”, not “because I think it will look effective”. As a -producer—and he was one of the best producers I have ever seen—he got -the very last ounce out of his company because he always, when asked -“What do you want me to do here?”, answered “What do you feel you _want_ -to do?” He “nursed” his company, and watched them grow strong under his -care. - -All his movements were good. He could use his feet in a way that, if -anyone had tried to copy, would have looked ridiculous. He had a little -rapid trick of shifting from one foot to the other, when he was worried -or uncertain, which I have never seen attempted by anyone else. He did -it in the last act of _Twenty-One_, when the girl he loves is trying to -get him to propose to her; he used it again in _A Kiss or Two_, and it -gave you the keynote to the man’s mental attitude as much as his spoken -words. In this latter play, during his telling of the “Legend”, which I -have quoted in another chapter, he used that sweeping gesture of his arm -of which I have spoken. Seated in a chair, leaning forward, carried away -by the story he tells, he comes to the words, “and there in the sunlight -stood a beautiful young woman”. Out went his arm, his eyes following it, -the fingers outspread to take in the whole of the picture, until, when -he looked behind him, looked to where his arm and hand pointed, you -might almost have seen her, “her eyes all agog with laughter”. - -He was curiously affected by the parts he played; I mean he actually -became very much the man he depicted on the stage. When he played old -men, he would come home in the evening still very much “in the part”, -inclined to walk slowly and move rather stiffly. When he played young -men—such as “Captain Pat Delaney”, for example—he was gallant, walked -buoyantly, and very evidently was thoroughly in love with life. I have -known him at such times, when we were out together, raise his hat to any -girl we met who was young and pretty—not because he wanted to speak to -her, certainly not because he knew her, but simply because he loved -pretty girls, and wanted an excuse to smile at them, all from the pure -joy of being alive. - -So there is Harry Esmond, the actor, as I knew him—enjoying his work, -never letting it sink to anything less than a profession of which he was -very proud. He chose the Stage because he loved it, and he loved it as -long as he lived. He studied each part with a kind of concentrated -interest, and played them as he believed them to be meant to be played. -I think for everything he did he could have given a definite and -sufficient reason, and so believed in what he did. “He hath the letter, -observe his construction of it”; and if his construction was new or -strange, unconventional or untraditional, it was so because that was how -Harry Esmond was convinced it should be. - -His position as an actor was something of the attitude of “How happy I -could be with either, were t’other dear charmer away”. He loved all his -work, whether character-studies, gallant soldiers, or tender lovers; -they all claimed the best that was in him, and, as the best was “very -good”, it became not what he could play, but what he could _not_ play. -So I review them mentally, the parts that Harry played, and wonder if he -had been less gifted, if he had not had in his composition that very big -streak of genius, whether he might not perhaps have been one of the -names which will be handed down to posterity as “the world’s greatest -actors”. Then I ask myself in which direction should he have -concentrated, and which of the big parts that he played would I have -been willing to have missed. Which? I cannot decide. “D’Artagnan”, -“Touchstone”, “Sandy”, “Kean”, “Jacob Ussher”, “Mercutio”, even that -really poor part “Little Billee”, were all so good that I am glad he -played them. I think, too, that the success of them all came from a -great understanding as well as great observation, and that was why “one -man in his time” played so many parts, and played them all with more -than ordinary distinction and feeling. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI - AND LAST - - “Hush! Come away!”—_The Wilderness._.sp 2 - - -So I come to the end, so far as one can come to the end of recollections -and memories, for each one brings with it many others; they crowd in -upon me as I write, and I have to be very firm with myself and shut the -door in the face of many. - -I have tried to tell you some of the incidents which have amused and -interested me; I have tried to make you see men and women as I have seen -them; and have tried to make you walk with me down “life’s busy street”. -I have tried to pay the tribute of affection and regard to the various -“Cæsars” I have known, and if in this book any names are missing—names -of men and women who have been, and are, my very dear and good friends—I -can only tell them that they are not missing in my heart. - -I look back over the years that are past, look back to the time when I -first came to London, and looked on “leading ladies” and “leading men” -as giants who walked the earth, when I used to wonder if I could ever -hope to be one of them; and then, it seemed with wonderful swiftness, -the years flew past and, behold! I was a leading lady myself. That is -one of the wonderful tricks life plays for our mystification: the -far-off hope of “some day” becomes the realisation of “to-day”. - -To-day, as I sit writing this, I can look out on the garden of “Apple -Porch”—the house that Harry and I almost built together; the garden -which we turned, and changed, and planted, to make it what it has -become, “our ideal garden”. And in that garden ghosts walk for me—not -“bogeys”, but kindly spirits of men and women who lived and laughed with -us as friends; not that in life all of them walked in this garden of -ours, but because now they come to join the procession which moves -there. With them are many who are still with me, and whose companionship -still helps to make life very happy. They join the others, and walk in -my garden, to remind me of the times we have laughed together, and to -assure me that life in the future still has good things for me. - -For, make no mistake, youth is very wonderful, youth is very beautiful, -but it passes and leaves behind, if you will only try to cultivate it, -something which can never pass away: that is the youth that is not a -question of years, but of humanity and a young heart. If you can still -feel the delight of the first primrose, if you can still feel your heart -leap at the sight of the leaves throwing off their winter coats and -showing the first vivid green of the spring; if you can stand in the -glory of a sunny day in March and thank God for His annual proof of the -Resurrection, the re-birth of what all through the winter had seemed -dead and is “now alive again”—then you are one of those whom the gods -love; you will die young, for you can never grow old. - -So, in my garden, the procession of ever-young people passes. - -Over in that far corner is Herbert Lindon, sitting at an easel, painting -a picture of the house. “A plain man, my masters”, but the kindliest of -friends, with the most helpful nature in the world. Behind him stands -Forbes Robertson, with his beautiful face, his wonderful voice, and his -courtly manners. Had he lived five hundred years ago, he would have -ridden out, dressed in shining armour, to fight for the Right against -the Wrongs of the World; but, dressed in the clothes of 1923, he is -still a knight, the instinctive supporter of the weak against the -strong, the good against the evil. - -Lawrence Kellie passes my window, a cigar in his mouth, and pauses a -moment to tell me that he is going in to play some of his own -compositions, to my great delight. On the golf links, outside the -garden, I can see Charles Frohman, looking like a kindly “brownie”; he -is flying a huge kite, so big that he might be in danger of flying after -the kite, were it not for two small boys, Jack and Bill, who are holding -fast to his legs. - -Arthur Collins, very spruce and dapper, passes with E. S. Willard; they -tell me they are going to persuade Frohman to leave his kite-flying and -come in to play poker with them and Fred Terry. - -Fred Terry stops outside the window for a talk with me, and reminds me -of the winter he came to stay with us here, when Harry would insist upon -his going out, in a biting east wind, to see “the beauty of the night”! -I ask him if he remembers the Bank Holiday when he was with us, when -Harry had to go back to a rehearsal of some approaching production? How -he (Fred) was taken ill with a bad heart attack, and that, rather than -let me see how he was suffering, for fear the sight should frighten me, -he shut himself up in a room and refused to let me enter. Fred Terry, -large and genial, wearing eye-glasses, moves away, and I see him stop to -speak to Lottie Venne, who on very high heels, looking like a very -alert, very “wide awake” bird, is coming towards us, her heels tapping -on the stones of the path. - -That gentle-looking woman over there is Marion Terry, and with her Lena -Ashwell, talking, I am certain, of some plan or scheme which she is -preparing to “carry through” with her extraordinary capacity and -originality. - -You see that squarely built man yonder, who looks—what he is—a sailor? -That is Ernest Shackleton. He comes over to me, bringing his book with -him. He shows me the title—one word, _South_—and asks if I think Harry -will consider making it into a film-play. I tell him that the day -England publicly mourned his loss in St. Paul’s Cathedral, during the -service a sudden ray of sunlight came through one of the painted windows -and struck the wall, just under the dome; how I followed it with my -eyes, and saw that it fell on the words “The glory of his works endureth -forever”. I think he smiles a little, and says, as Englishmen do when -praised for what they have done, “Oh, I didn’t do anything very great or -glorious.” - -Here is a man who, too, has done great things. An explorer also, but he -has explored the depths of humanity; he has seen just how far his -fellow-men and women can fall, and yet he still retains his faith in -“the good that is in the worst of us”. It is W. T. Waddy, the -Metropolitan magistrate. Burns’s prayer that we should “deal gently with -your brother man, still gentler sister woman” has no application to Mr. -Waddy; he “keeps the faith” that believes that fundamentally humanity is -good, and each day in his work he testifies to it. I remind him that it -was his father, Judge Waddy, who first escorted me to the House of -Commons. - -Over there is “Billy” Congreave, who gained the Victoria Cross and made -the Great Sacrifice in the war. With him, telling his battles over -again, is Dr. Leahy. He left his leg at the Marne, but that did not -prevent him enjoying, as he does still, a round or two with the gloves. -I should think he “enjoys” it more than his opponent, for “Micky” Leahy -is an enormous man. He appears to be the last man in the world likely to -possess, as he does, wonderful gifts of healing. - -Who is that woman laughing at some joke made by the man walking with -her? She is Dame May Whitty, and the man is Sir Alfred Fripp. You see -him at his very best when surrounded by his wife and ’a large family of -very healthy children. She, Dame Whitty, is a friend of thirty years, -and her affection and goodness to me have never altered. - -The woman who has just joined them is Susanne Sheldon. I parody the -saying, “better twenty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay” when -speaking of Suzanne, and say “better one day of Susanne than a month of -the people who lack her understanding and great heart.” Some day go to -the Children’s Hospital in Great Ormond Street, and hear of the work she -has done there; they will tell you more than I can, for she does not -talk of all she does. - -The lame man, who looks so fierce, is Sydney Valentine. He looks fierce, -and rather as though he had more brain than heart. His looks belie his -nature. He leans on his stick by my window, and we talk of the early -days of the Actors’ Association. I remind him of the splendid fight he -made to gain the Standard Contract for the acting profession. I ask him, -“Do you remember the Lyric Theatre meeting?”, and I add some hard things -about the people who attacked him there. He smiles, and reminds me of -our own Suffrage motto (and how he used to hate the Suffrage Movement, -too!), “The aim is everything”, and adds “After all, we won our battle, -didn’t we?” - -J. L. Toole, coming up, hears the last sentence, and asks, “Battle, what -battle?” Just as I am about to answer, he pops a “bullseye” into my -mouth, as he used to years ago when I was playing with him on the stage. -Toole laughs, and I laugh with him; but our laughter is checked by a -tall man, with a heavy moustache, who, with a melancholy face, is -filling a pipe from a tobacco-pouch like a sack—and not a very small -sack, either! He brings an air of tragedy with him, and I ask, “What is -the matter, Aubrey?” - -It is Aubrey Smith, the “Round the Corner Smith” who took the first -English cricket eleven to South Africa, and still, when his work on the -stage allows him, will rush away to Lords or the Oval to watch a match. -“Haven’t you heard?” he asks; and adds, “Dreadful, dreadful; I don’t -know what England’s coming to.” “What _has_ happened?” I ask again. He -looks at me sadly and tells me—“England has lost the _Test Match_!” He -wanders away, and a few minutes later I hear him laughing—a laugh which -matches him for size. He is probably telling the woman he is talking to -(Elizabeth Fagan) of the new pig-styes he has built at West Drayton. - -There is Marie Tempest, and how fascinating she is! She has the -cleverest tongue and the most sparkling humour of any woman I know. The -woman near her is Julia Neilson, a dream of loveliness, and with a -nature as lovely as her face. There, too, are Lady Martin Harvey and -Lady Tree—Lady Tree, whom I first understood when I met her under -circumstances which were very difficult for us both; and who showed me -then what “manner of woman” she is, so that ever since I have loved and -admired her. And Nell Harvey, who can face the rough patches of life -with equanimity, and who can “walk with kings” without losing that -“common touch” which gives her the breadth of vision, the tolerance, and -kindness which have made her ever ready to give help to those who need -it. - -This man coming towards me, his hands clasped behind him, who looks as -if he were meditating deeply, is Sir Charles Wyndham. When he was -playing in London, and Harry was a very young actor in the provinces, -and had heard of but had never seen Charles Wyndham, one paper said it -was “a pity that Mr. Esmond has tried to give such a slavish imitation -of the great actor”. He stands for a moment to ask me if I remember the -evening he came to see _The Dangerous Age_, and repeats again his -admiration and praise of the play. I tell him that I remember, also, how -after the play he sat in Harry’s dressing-room for an hour and a half, -delighting both of us with his stories of the stage, “past and present”. - -He passes on, and you see him stop to speak to Anthony Hope, that -delightful man who possesses a manner of joyous cynicism of which one -never tires. George Alexander has joined them, perhaps speaking of the -success of _The Prisoner of Zenda_. You notice his beautiful white hair. -Once, in _The Wilderness_, he had to darken it, and as in the play he -had to lay his head on my shoulder, my dress was gradually marked with -the stain he used for his hair. - -I stand and reach out to shake the hand of Lewis Waller, and ask him if -he is still “putting square pegs into round holes”. He asks, in his -beautiful voice that was the salvation of so many really poor plays, -what I mean. I remind him of a play, many years ago, when Harry -remonstrated with him and said that some of the parts in the production -were played so badly, adding “Why _do_ you engage such people? they are -not, and never will be, actors”; and how Lewis Waller replied, “I know, -I know, Harry, but I would sooner have round pegs in square holes than -not have people round me who love me.” Dear Will! He moves away, -speaking to this person and that person, and giving to each one -something of his very gentle and infinitely lovable personality. - -That beautiful woman, surely “God’s most wonderful handiwork”, to whom -Will is speaking now, is Maxine Elliott; she is Jill’s God-mother, -another of the lovely women whose faces are only the mirrors of the -natures which lie beneath. - -The sound of the piano reaches me, and I look to see if Lawrence Kellie -is still playing, and have to look twice before I can believe that it is -not he who sits playing, but Raymond Rose, who is so wonderfully like -him. Perhaps he is at work composing, not this time for His Majesty’s -Theatre, but, like Henry Purcell, for “that blessed place where only his -music can be excelled”. - -Then the gate at the end of the garden opens, and, carrying a bag of -golf clubs, and clad in an old coat and equally old trousers which seem -to be “draped” round his ankles, comes Harry. He comes up to the window, -full of the joy of life and never-ending youth; leaning his arms on the -window-sill, he looks at the men and women in the garden, and smiles. - -“Our friends,” I tell him. - -And he repeats after me, “Yes, our friends.” After a moment he goes on, -thoughtfully: “I used to tell you that ‘Friendship was a question of -streets’; I think I was wrong: it’s something more than that.” And, as -if to prove his words, we both see Malcolm Watson walking in the garden, -the kindly Scot, who never fails anyone, a real friend of countless -years. - -[Illustration: - - _Photograph by Miss Compton Collier, London, N.W.6._ To face p. 237 - - APPLE PORCH -] - -“I think it is—something more than that,” I answer. - -As we talk, the sun suddenly blazes out, filling all the garden with -light; Harry stretches out his hand, smiling, and says: “Sunshine! Let’s -go out!” - - * * * * * - -So the dream ends, but the garden and the sunshine remain; and not only -the garden and the sunshine, but the knowledge that “these are my -friends”; that these men and women have known and, I think, loved me, as -I have known and loved them; and the fact that they have been and are, -many of them, still in my life, making the world a finer and cleaner -place in which to live. - -That is how I should wish to look back on life: not always easy, or -smooth, or always happy, but with so much that has been worth while, so -much that has been gay and splendid. - -Gradually everything falls into its right perspective; things which -seemed so important, so tragic, so difficult “at the time”—why, now one -can almost look back and laugh. Not everything: the things which were -rooted in beliefs and convictions do not shrink with the years; and I am -glad, and even a little proud, that I lived through the time which held -the Boer War, the Suffrage Campaign, and the Greatest World Struggle -that the world has ever seen—please God, the Last Great War of All! - -My work, my own work, it has been hard—there have been difficult times, -when lack of understanding made work less of a joy than it should have -been—but, looking at it all as a whole, and not as a series of detached -memories, it has been very good to do, and I have been very happy in -doing it. It has kept my brain working, and, I think, kept my heart -young; and never once since the front door of my father’s house closed -behind me, and I left home in that storm of parental wrath, have I -regretted that I chose the Stage as a profession. - -I have tried to tell you something of what the years have brought, with -no real thought except that it was a joy to me to remember it all. I -have not tried to “point a moral or adorn a tale”, but simply to tell my -story as it happened. Yet there is surely a moral—or, at least, some -lesson—which has been learnt in all the years of work and play. I think -it is this: Let God’s sunlight into your lives, live in the sunlight, -and let it keep you young. For youth is the thing which makes life -really worth living, youth which means the enjoyment of small things, -youth which means warm affections, and which means also the absence of -doubting and distrusting which, if you allow it, will take so much of -the glorious colour out of life’s pictures. - -So, in Harry’s words, I would end all I have tried to tell you by -saying: - - “Sunshine! Let’s go out!” - - - FINIS - - - - - APPENDICES - - - APPENDIX I - PARTS PLAYED BY EVA MOORE - - 1887 - - “Varney” _Proposals_ - “Spirit of Home” (Dot) _The Cricket on the Hearth_ - - 1888 - - “Alice” _A Red Rag_ - “Alice Marshall” _The Butler_ - “Dora” _The Don_ - —— _The Spittalfields Weaver_ - —— _Toole in the Pig Skin_ - —— _Ici on Parle Française_ - —— _Birthplace of Podgers_ - —— _Artful Cards_ - —— _Paul Pry_ - - 1889 - - “Kitty” _A Broken Sixpence_ - “Felicia Umfraville” _The Middleman_ - “Alice Jolliffe” _The Home Feud_ - “Nancy” _The Middleman_ - “Diana” _Pedigree_ - - 1890 - - “Countess of Drumdurris” _The Cabinet Minister_ - - 1891 - - “Gwendoline Fanlight” _Culprits_ - “Mrs. Richard Webb” _The Late Lamented_ - “Nita” _The Mountebanks_ - - 1892 - - “Matilde” _A Scrap of Paper_ - “Violet Melrose” _Our Boys_ - - 1893 - - “Miss Violet” _A Pantomime Rehearsal_ - “Amanda P. Warren” _Allendale_ - “Mrs. Delafield” _Man and Woman_ - “Lettice” _Time will Tell_ - “Winifred Chester” _The Younger Son_ - “Pepita” _Little Christopher Columbus_ - - 1894 - - “Nellie Dudley” _The Gay Widow_ - “Lead” _The Shop Girl_ - *†“Fairy Buttonshaw” _Bogey_ - - 1895 - - “Angela Brightwell” _The Strange Adventures of Miss - Brown_ - “Nelly Jedbury” _Jedbury, Jun._ - “Dora” _The Wanderer from Venus_ - - 1896 - - “Molly Dyson” _Major Raymond_ - *†“Margaret” _In and Out of a Punt_ - †“Miss Savile” _A Blind Marriage_ - “Madam de Cocheforet” _Under the Red Robe_ - - 1897 - - “Mistress Golding” _The Alchemist_ - “Elladeen Dunrayne” _An Irish Gentleman_ - *††“Maysie” _One Summer’s Day_ - - 1898 - - “April” _The Sea Flower_ - “Angela Goodwin” _Tommy Dodd_ - †“Gabrielle de Chalius” _The Three Musketeers_ - - 1899 - - “Sybil Crake” _The Dancing Girl_ - “Ellice Ford” _Carnac Sahib_ - “Lucie Manette” _The Only Way_ - “Christina” _Ibb and Christina_ - “Louise” _Marsac of Gascony_ - - 1901 - - “Kate Duewent” _A Fools’ Paradise_ - *“Mabel Vaughan” _The Wilderness_ - —— _The Importance of Being Earnest_ - - 1902 - “Lady Hetty Wrey” _Pilkerton’s Peerage_ - *“Lady Ernstone” _My Lady Virtue_ - - 1903 - - “Kathie” _Old Heidelberg_ - *“Miss Wilhelmina Marr” _Billy’s Little Love Affair_ - “Lady Henrietta Addison” _The Duke of Killiecrankie_ - - 1904 - - “Lady Mary Carlyle” _Monsieur Beaucaire_ - - 1905 - - †“Klara Volkhardt” _Lights Out_ - - 1906 - - “Judy” _Punch_ - “Miss Blarney” _Josephine_ - - 1907 - - “Muriel Glayde” _John Glayde’s Honour_ - “Sweet Kitty Bellaires” _Sweet Kitty Bellaires_ - - 1908 - - “Mrs. Crowley” _The Explorer_ - “Dorothy Gore” _The Marriages of Mayfair_ - “Mrs. Errol” (Dearest) _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ - “Lady Joan Meredith” _The House of Bondage_ - - 1909 - - “Kathie” (revival) _Old Heidelberg_ - “Hon. Mrs. Bayle” _The Best People_ - “Hon. Mrs. Rivers” _The House Opposite_ - - 1910 - - “Gay Birch” _Company for George_ - - 1911 - - “Christine” _A Woman’s Wit_ - - 1912 - - “Kate Bellingham” _Looking for Trouble_ - *†“Eliza” _Eliza Comes to Stay_ - *†“Betty” _The Dangerous Age_ - - 1913 - - *†“Eliza” _Eliza Comes to Stay_ - *†“Betty” _The Dangerous Age_ - - 1914 - - *†“Eliza” _Eliza Comes to Stay_ - *†“Betty” _The Dangerous Age_ - - 1915 - - *†“Phyllis” _When We Were Twenty-One_ - - 1918 - - “Mrs. Culver” _The Title_ - “Mrs. Etheridge” _Cæsar’s Wife_ - - 1920 - - “Mumsie” _Mumsie_ - - 1921 - - “Lady Marlow” _A Matter of Fact_ - *†“Edie La Bas” _The Law Divine_ - - 1922 - - “Miss Van Gorder” _The Bat_ - - 1923 - - “Mary Westlake” _Mary, Mary Quite Contrary_ - - All those marked * were plays written by my husband. - - All those marked † we played together. - - - APPENDIX II - SOME PARTS PLAYED BY H. V. ESMOND - - - “Lord John” _The Scorpion_ - “Harold Lee” _Rachel_ - —— _Frou Frou_ - “Gibson” _Ticket of Leave_ - “Horace Holmcroft” _New Magdalen_ - “Eglantine Roseleaf” _Turn Him Out_ - “Feversham” _Take Back the Heart_ - “Theodore Lamb” _Glimpse of Paradise_ - “Capt. Damerel” _The Lord Harry_ - “Jack” _Ruth’s Romance_ - “The Marquis de Presles” _The Two Orphans_ - “Megor” _Nana_ - “George Talboys” _Lady Audrey’s Secret_ - “Philip” _Eve’s Temptation_ - “Bill Sykes” _Oliver Twist_ - “Uriah Heep” _Little Emily_ - “Ishmael, the Wolf” _Flower of the Forest_ - “Tulkinghorn” _Poor Joe_ - “Charles Torrens” _Serious Family_ - “Mr. Lynx” _Happy Pair_ - “Mr. Debbles” _Good for Nothing_ - “Rafael de Mayal” _The Marquesa_ - “Capt. Kirby” _Dick Venables_ - “Fillipo” _Fennel_ - “Paddington Grun” _If I Had a Thousand a Year_ - “Harold Wingard” _Daughters_ - “Fred Fanshaw” _Weak Woman_ - “Harry Stanley” _Paul Pry_ - “John” _In Chancery_ - *“Pierre” _Rest_ - “Frank Bilton” _Churchwarden_ - “Weston Carr” _Flight_ - “Plantagent Watts” _Great Unpaid_ - “Phil Summers” _Dregs_ - “Eric” _Too Happy by Half_ - “Reggie” _The Rise of Dick Halward_ - * †“Hugh” _In and Out of a Punt_ - “Dolly” _A Blind Marriage_ - “Le Barrier” _The Storm_ - “Cayley Drummle” _The Second Mrs. Tanqueray_ - “Touchstone” _As You Like It_ - “Major-General Sir R. Chichele” _The Princess and the Butterfly_ - “Verges” _Much Ado About Nothing_ - “Capt. Theobald Kerger” _The Conquerors_ - “Vivian Seauvefere” _The Ambassador_ - “Fritz von Tarbenhelm” _Rupert of Hentzau_ - “D’Artagnan” _The Three Musketeers_ - “Major Blencoe” _The Tree of Knowledge_ - —— _The Debt of Honour_ - “Charles II.” _His Majesty’s Servant_ - “Mercutio” _Romeo and Juliet_ - “Augustus III.” _Hawthorne, U.S.A._ - “Corporal Helbig” _Lights Out_ - “Louis IV.” _Bond of Ninon_ - “Widgery Blake” _Palace of Puck_ - “Mr. Whitly” _The Education of Elizabeth_ - “Sir Benjamin Backbite” _The School for Scandal_ - “Little Billee” _Trilby_ - “Viscount Bolingbroke” _Mr. Jarvis_ - *“Philip Kean” _Grierson’s Way_ - “Sir Francis Leverson” _East Lynne_ - “Alfred Meynard” _The Corsican Brothers_ - “Chaucer” _Vice Versa_ - “Robert de Belfort” _The Grip of Iron_ - “Adrian Fiore” _The Panel Picture_ - “Capt. Julian Chandler” _The Middleman_ - “Algernon Grey” _Sweet Nancy_ - “Graham Maxwell” _The Pharisee_ - “Edward Pendlecoop” _Culprits_ - “Lord Leadenhall” _The Rocket_ - “Howard Bombas” _The Times_ - “Cis Farrington” _The Magistrate_ - “Eddie Remon” _The Masqueraders_ - “George Round” _Guy Domville_ - “Willie Hasselwood” _The Triumph of the Philistines_ - [1]“Uncle Archie Buttonshaw” _Bogey_ - “Earl of Addisworth” _Pilkerton’s Peerage_ - “Cyril Ryves” _Chance, The Idol_ - “Hon. Sandy Verrall” _Eliza Comes to Stay_ - “Jack Le Bas” _The Law Divine_ - “Adam Haggarth” _In Days of Old_ - —— _Barton Mystery_ - “Sir Egbert Ingelfield” _The Dangerous Age_ - “Jacob Ussher” _Birds of a Feather_ - -Footnote 1: - - Parts in his own plays. - - - APPENDIX III - PLAYS WRITTEN BY H. V. ESMOND - - *_When We Were Twenty-One_ - *_Under the Greenwood Tree_ - *_Billy’s Little Love Affair_ - *_One Summer’s Day_ - *_Grierson’s Way_ - *_My Lady Virtue_ - *_The Divided Way_ - *_The Wilderness_ - *_Bogey_ - *_The Sentimentalist_ - *_Eliza Comes to Stay_ - *_The Dangerous Age_ - *_The O’Grindles_ - *_A Kiss or Two_ - _Clorinda’s Career_ - *_My Lady’s Lord_ - *_A Young Man’s Fancy_ - _The Tug of War_ - *_The Forelock of Time_ - *_Love and the Man_ - *_The Law Divine_ - *_Birds of a Feather_ - *_Leoni_ - *_Cupboard Love_ - - - SHORT PLAYS - - *_In and Out of a Punt_ - *_Her Vote_ - *_Rest_ - _A Woman in Chains_ - *_Island of Dreams_ - - Those marked * have been produced either in England or America. - - - - - INDEX - - - Actors’ Association, 40, 233. - - Actresses’ Franchise League, 77, 94, 95. - - Adams, Maude, 149. - - Adelphi Theatre, The, 13. - - Ainley, Henry, 61, 109. - - Albani, Madame, 47. - - Aldwych Theatre, The, 70. - - Alexander, Sir George, 43, 44, 54–57, 59, 61, 66, 103, 134, 192, 202, - 216, 235. - - Alexander, Lady, 111. - - Alhambra, The, 129. - - Allen, Lady, 83, 84. - - Ambulance Corps, The, 75. - - America, 55, 57, 62, 83, 138, 143, 145–147, 149, 150, 181. - - Andresson, Herr, 111. - - Apple Porch, 74, 112, 163, 201, 229. - - Archer, William, 179. - - Army of Occupation, The, 34, 86. - - Asche, Oscar, 103. - - Ashwell, Lena, 85, 94, 95, 231. - - Asquith, Mrs. H. H., 161. - - Astor, M.P., The Rt. Hon. Viscountess, 163. - - _As You Like It_, 219. - - Austin, Alfred, 160. - - Australia, 23, 35, 36, 84. - - Authors’ Society, The, 148, 149. - - Aynesworth, Allen, 25, 62. - - - _Bad Hats_, 212. - - Bailey, Rt. Hon. W. H., 57. - - Barker, Granville, 48, 73, 109. - - Barrie, Bart., Sir James, 63, 140. - - _Bat, The_, 72. - - Beardsley, Aubrey, 120. - - Beerbohm, Max, 179. - - Belgium, 75. - - _Belle Marseille, La_, 69. - - Bennett, Arnold, 70. - - Bennett, Marguerite Arnold, 182. - - Berhens, Herr, 111, 112. - - Berlin, 164, 165. - - Berry, W. H., 133. - - _Biff Bang_, 156. - - Billington, Theresa, 98. - - _Billy’s Little Love Affair_, 62, 63. - - _Birds of a Feather_, 212, 219. - - _Blind Marriage, The_, 46. - - _Bogey_, 43–46, 202, 207. - - Bourchier, Arthur, 60, 110, 111, 206. - - Brandram, Rosina, 32. - - _Breed of the Treshams, The_, 136. - - Brighton, 2, 3, 9–12, 15, 17, 47, 55, 67. - - British Army, The, 34. - - _Broken Sixpence, The_, 21. - - Brooke, Rupert, 86, 193. - - Brookfield, Charles, 83, 34. - - Brough, Fanny, 30, 31. - - Brough, Lal, 31. - - Brough, Mary, 21. - - Brough, Sydney, 31, 32. - - Browne, Graham, 63. - - Bruce, Nigel, 160. - - Buest, Scot, 14. - - Burge, Dick, 137. - - Burnett, Mrs. Hodgson, 68. - - _Butler, The_, 22. - - - _Cabinet Minister, The_, 24–26. - - _Cæsar’s Wife_, 70. - - Calthrop, Dion Clayton, 197. - - Calvert, Mrs., 50. - - Campbell, Mrs. Patrick, 128, 129. - - Canada, 150, 151. - - _Carnac Sahib_, 53, 117. - - Carr, Professor, 152. - - Carson, Mrs., 31. - - Carte D’Oyley, 26. - - Carter, Mrs., 86. - - Castle, Egerton, 66. - - Cecil, Arthur, 25. - - Chamberlain, Austen, 90. - - _Chance_, 219. - - _Channings, The_, 193. - - Chaplin, Charlie, 222. - - Chelsea Palace, The, 121. - - Chevalier, Albert, 68. - - Chirgwin, George, 123, 124. - - Chisholm, Miss Marie, 75, 76, 79. - - _Chu Chin Chow_, 72. - - Churchill, M.P., The Right Hon. Winston Spencer, 10. - - _Cinderella_, 13 - - Clark, Holman, 48. - - Clarkson, Willie, 51. - - _Clothes and the Woman_, 148, 149. - - Cochrane, Sir Ernest, 72. - - Collier, Constance, 50. - - Collier, Dr. Mayer, 27. - - Collins, Sir Arthur, 230. - - Comedy Theatre, The, 51, 72. - - Cooper, Gladys, 177. - - Copperfield, David, 20. - - _Coriolanus_, 140. - - Cornwallis, Miss, 86, 87. - - _Corsican Brothers, The_, 120, 216. - - Courtneidge, Robert, 181, 182. - - Court Theatre, The, 24, 101, 109. - - Craig, Edith, 36. - - Craigie, Pearl Mary-Teresa, 179. - - _Cricket on the Hearth, The_, 14, 16, 17. - - Criterion Theatre, The, 46, 148. - - _Culprits_, The, 26, 34. - - Cunningham, Philip, 113, 195. - - Curzon, Frank, 33, 131. - - - Dacre, Arthur, 35. - - Dale, Alan, 145. - - Dana, Henry, 192. - - _Dancing Girl, The_, 52. - - Dane, Clemence, 114, 115. - - _Dangerous Age, The_, 69, 149, 206, 208, 209, 224, 235. - - Dare, Phyllis, 54. - - Dare, Zena, 54. - - Daughters of the Empire, The, 151 - - _David Garrick_, 34. - - Davidson, Emily, 98. - - Davis, Ben, 18, 47. - - _Dear Brutus_, 219. - - _Dear Fool, The_, 143, 144, 149. - - _Defence of Lucknow, The_, 152. - - d’Erlanger, Baron Emile, 71. - - de Freece, Sir Laurie, 129. - - Despard, Mrs., 93. - - Dick, Cotsford, 26. - - Dickens, Miss Ethel, 148. - - Dockers’ Theatre, The, 56. - - _Dr. Chavasse’s Advice to a Mother_, 30. - - _Dr. Chavasse’s Advice to a Wife_, 30, 149. - - _Dr. Dee_, 26. - - _Dorothy_, 18. - - Drummond, Mrs., 151. - - Drummond, Flora, 92. - - Drury Lane Theatre, The, 32, 36, 53, 68. - - Dublin, 19, 57, 82, 84, 93. - - _Duke of Killiecrankie, The_, 63. - - Dumas, Alexandre, 220, 221. - - du Maurier, Sir Gerald, 173, 174, 17, 218. - - “Dumbells, The,” 156, 157. - - - Edinburgh, 19, 20, 181. - - Edward VII., 169, 170. - - Edwardes, George, 39, 132, 133. - - _Eliza Comes to Stay_, 1, 14, 30, 102, 108, 113–115, 143, 147–150, 159, - 190, 203–205, 207, 224. - - Elliott, G. W., 43. - - Elliott, Maxine, 180, 181, 236. - - Elmore, Belle (Mrs. Crippen), 31. - - Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 98. - - Emery, Winifred, 16, 48, 103, 138, 139. - - Empire League, The, 162. - - Empire Theatre, The, 35, 42. - - Esmond, H. V. _Passim_. - - Esmond, Jack, 1, 142, 146, 194, 201, 230. - - Esmond, Jill, 1, 17, 66, 109, 114, 125, 146, 180, 183, 195, 236. - - Evans of Edmonton, Mr., 152. - - Everard, Walter, 34. - - _Explorer, The_, 67. - - - Fagan, Elizabeth, 234. - - Farren, William, 32. - - _Faust_, 13. - - Feversham, William, 149. - - Fisher, Miss, 86. - - _Flames of Passion_, 72, 141. - - Frederick the Great, 168. - - _French for Tommies_, 75. - - Fripp, Sir Alfred, 232. - - Frohman, Charles, 82, 83, 146, 174, 175, 230. - - Fulton, Charles, 85, 64, 65. - - - Gaiety Theatre, The, 38, 50, 132, 133. - - Gainsborough, Thomas, 189. - - Gallery First Night Club, The, 45. - - Garrick Club, The, 34, 122, 139. - - Garrick Theatre, The, 146. - - _Gay Widow, The_, 43. - - George, A. E., 67. - - George, M.P., The Rt. Hon. David Lloyd, 99. - - _Geraldine, or Victor Cupid_, 190, 200. - - Germany 34. - - Gibbs, Sir Philip, 166. - - Gilbert, W. S., 29, 125, 133, 134, 223. - - Gilbert and Sullivan Operas, 32. - - Globe Theatre, The, 220. - - Gneiseuan, General, 168. - - _Gondoliers, The_, 27. - - Goodwin, Maxine Elliott, 180, 181, 236. - - Goodwin, N. C., 180. - - Gordon, Major A., 77. - - Graham, Cissie (Mrs. Allen), 192. - - Green Room Club, The, 65, 138. - - Grierson’s Way, 179, 201, 206, 213, 219. - - Grossmith, George, 138. - - Grossmith, Weedon, 25, 63. - - Grove, Fred, 25, 30, 113, 114, 159, 160, 198. - - Groves, Charles, 62. - - Guerini, Madame, 11. - - Guggisberg, Lady, 78. - - - Hackney, Mabel, 148. - - Hallard, Charles Maitland, 65, 164, 173, 187, 217. - - Hamilton, Harry, 51. - - _Harbour Lights_, 13. - - Harcourt, Cyril, 197. - - Harding, Lyn, 17, 68. - - Harding, Rudge, 112. - - Hare, Sir John, 69. - - Harvey, Sir John Martin, 103, 136, 137, 159. - - Harvey, Lady Martin, 103, 234. - - Hatfield, Lady, 80. - - Haverfield, Mrs., 76, 77. - - Hawkins, Sir Anthony Hope, 60, 126, 127, 235. - - Hawtrey, Sir Charles, 43, 49, 126, 185, 213. - - Haymarket Theatre, The, 109, 126, 128. - - _Hearts is Hearts_, 13. - - Hendrie, Ernest, 50. - - Henley, W. E., 199. - - _Her Vote_, 95. - - Hicks, Seymour, 39. - - _Highwayman, The_, 192. - - Hindenburg, Field Marshal Von, 166, 168. - - His Majesty’s Theatre, 34, 72, 236. - - Hobbes, John Oliver, 179. - - Hobhouse, M.P., Rt. Hon. Henry, 90. - - Hood, Dr. Walton, 125. - - Horder, Morley, 112, 113. - - House of Commons, The, 92. - - Hughes, Annie, 24. - - Huntly, G. P., 132. - - - _Idylls of the King_, 188. - - Illington, Marie, 63, 181. - - _Importance of Being Earnest, The_, 64. - - _Imprudence_, 63. - - India, 53. - - Interlude Players, The, 12. - - Ireland, 20, 55, 56, 82. - - _Irish Gentleman, An_, 48. - - Irving, Sir Henry, 32, 120, 122, 140, 213. - - Irving, H. B., 65, 103, 123, 124, 134. - - Irving, Lawrence, 124, 125. - - Isaacs, Sir Rufus, 97. - - Isle of Man, The, 56. - - - James, David, 32. - - Jay, Isabel, 33. - - _John Glayde’s Honour_, 66. - - Johnson, Eliza, 20, 21. - - Jones, Henry Arthur, 53, 105, 217. - - Joseph, Mrs. Henry, 151. - - _Josephine_, 63. - - Jowett, Professor Benjamin, 161. - - _Just So Stories_, 114. - - - Karno, Edie, 31, 69. - - Karno, Fred, 31. - - Kellie, Lawrence, 230, 236. - - Kemble, Henry, 50. - - Kendal, Mrs., 11, 106, 109, 110 176. - - Kennington Theatre, The, 81. - - Kenny, Annie, 92. - - Keppel, Sir David, 78. - - Kerr, Fred, 46. - - Kingston, Gertrude, 74. - - Kipling, Rudyard, 114, 128. - - _Kiss or Two, A_, 209, 225. - - Knight, Joe, 122. - - Knoblauch, Edward, 71, 182. - - Knocker, Mrs. (Baroness T’Scerelles), 75, 78, 79. - - - Lang, Matheson, 67. - - Lashwood, George, 104. - - _Late Lamented, The_, 27, 30. - - Law, M.P., the Rt. Hon. Bonar, 48. - - _Law, Divine, The_, 85, 150, 151, 160, 177, 181, 209, 212, 224. - - Lawrence, Mr. and Mrs. Pethick, 97. - - Leahy, Dr. M., 232. - - Leave Club, The, 85. - - Le Barge, Simone, 103. - - Leno, Dan, 103–105, 222. - - Lenton, Lilian, 98. - - Lester, Alfred, 153. - - Lewis, Eric, 113. - - _Lights Out_, 64, 66, 219. - - Lindon, Herbert, 230. - - Lindsay, James, 123. - - Little, Dr., 57. - - _Little Christopher Columbus_, 36, 37. - - _Little Golden Hope_, 11. - - Little Theatre, The, 74. - - Liverpool, 8, 10, 56, 146. - - Lloyd, Marie, 69, 120, 123, 124, 129, 130, 139. - - Loftus, Cissy, 94. - - Loftus, Marie, 120, 121. - - London, 12, 14, 18, 22, 74, 151, 180. - - London County Council, The, 34. - - Lonnen, Teddie, 37. - - _Looking for Trouble_, 70. - - _Love and the Man_, 84, 205. - - Lowne, Charles M., 21. - - Lucy, Arnold, 46. - - Lumley, Florrie, 154, 162. - - Lyceum Theatre, The, 48, 140. - - Lynch, Dr. and Mrs., 163. - - Lyric Theatre, The, 233. - - Lytton, Lady Constance, 93. - - - Macarthy, Justin Huntly, 17, 183, 192. - - McKinnel, Norman, 72. - - Mackintosh, William, 24. - - _Man and Woman_, 34, 35. - - _Marriages of Mayfair, The_, 68. - - _Marsac of Gascony_, 53. - - Marsh, “Charlie,” 98. - - Martin, Mrs. Howe, 92. - - _Masqueraders, The_, 217. - - Massey, Deane, 151. - - _Matter of Fact, A_, 72. - - Maude, Cyril, 48, 103, 138, 139, 155. - - Maugham, Somerset, 67. - - Maurice, Newman, 108. - - May, Ackerman, 27. - - May, Edna, 33. - - Melville Brothers, The, 48. - - Menken, Adah Isaacs, 114. - - _Merchant of Venice, The_, 32. - - _Merry Wines of Windsor, The_, 107. - - Michau, Madame, 8, 9. - - _Middleman, The_, 23, 24, 27. - - Millet, Maude, 14, 24. - - Monckton, Lionel, 138. - - _Monsieur Beaucaire_, 66. - - Moore, Ada, 6, 7, 28, 77, 114, 164. - - Moore, Bertha, 11, 77. - - Moore, Decima, 4–8, 13, 17, 26, 27, 32, 74–78, 85, 90, 104, 125, 141, - 153. - - Moore, Edward Henry, 3, 4:, 6–8, 11–13, 15, 67. - - Moore, Mrs. E. H., 3, 7, 14, 15, 67. - - Moore, Emily (Mrs. Pertwee), 11, 77. - - Moore, Eva, _Passim_. - - Moore, Henry, 7, 18, 22. - - Moore, Jessie, 3, 18, 26. - - Morris, William, 188. - - _Mountebanks, The_, 29. - - _Mrs. Punch_, 63. - - _Much Ado About Nothing_, 36, 118, 217. - - _Mumming Birds_, 31. - - _Mumsie_, 71, 182. - - Munro, Dr., 75. - - Music, The Royal College of, 26. - - Music Hall Ladies’ Guild, The, 31. - - _Musical World, The_, 23. - - _My Lady Virtue_, 206. - - - Needlework Guild, The, 76. - - Neilson, Julia, 56, 234. - - Neilson-Terry, Phyllis, 56, 139, 219. - - _Nero_, 119. - - Neville, Henry, 35, 36. - - Nevinson, Mrs., 93. - - New York, 143, 144, 147, 149, 174, 179, 180. - - Novelty Theatre, The, 111. - - - Old Bailey, The, 97. - - _Old Heidelberg_, 61, 111. - - Old Oxford, The, 109. - - _Oliver Twist_, 216. - - _One Summer’s Day_, 32. - - Oxford Theatre, The, 189. - - - _Pair of Spectacles, A_, 69. - - Palladium, The, 129. - - _Panel Picture, The_, 216. - - Pankhurst, Mrs., 92, 97, 100. - - Pankhurst, Christabel, 90–92, 99. - - _Pantomime Rehearsal, A_, 83. - - _Partners_, 12, 14. - - Pavilion, The, 209. - - Paxton, Sydney, 114. - - _Peg o’ My Heart_, 147. - - _People, The_, 18. - - Pertwee, Ernest, 11. - - _Peter Pan_, 17. - - Philippi, Rosina, 25, 26. - - Phillips, Kate, 16. - - Pidgeon, Mr. and Mrs., 142. - - Pinero, Sir Arthur W., 24, 63. - - _Pilkerton’s Peerage_, 60, 110. - - Play Actors, The, 12. - - Press, The, 18, 33, 48, 96. - - Pringle, Miss, 8. - - _Prisoner of Zenda, The_, 235. - - _Punch_, 18. - - Purcell, Henry, 236. - - - Queenstown, 82. - - - _Red Rag, The_, 17, 19. - - Reeve, Ada, 38. - - Repertory Players, The, 12. - - _Rest_, 192, 202. - - Rex, Frederick, 168. - - Richards, Cicely, 32. - - Roberts, Arthur, 134. - - Robertson, Sir Johnston Forbes, 85, 94, 184, 205, 230. - - Robey, George, 40, 137. - - Robson, Frederick, 213. - - Rock, Charles, 13. - - Roe, Bassett, 40. - - Rogers, The Hon. “Bob”, 153. - - _Romeo and Juliet_, 149, 221. - - Rorke, Kate, 205. - - Roscoe’s Performing Pigs, 139. - - Rose, Patrick, 28. - - Rose, Raymond, 236. - - Roselle, Amy, 35. - - _Rotten Brigade, The_, 212. - - Royalty Theatre, The, 26, 70. - - Rubens, Paul, 33. - - _Ruined Lady, The_, 71. - - - St. James’s Theatre, 1, 43, 54, 56, 58, 61, 72, 204. - - St. John, Florence, 13, 62. - - Saker, Annie, 48. - - Savoy Theatre, The, 27, 125, 134. - - _School for Scandal, The_, 219, 224. - - Scott, Clement, 44, 45, 179, 207, 217. - - Scottish National Gallery, 93. - - _Scrap of Paper, A_, 31. - - _Sea Flower, The_, 51. - - _Second Mrs. Tanqueray, The_, 217. - - _Sentimentalist, The_, 213. - - Serbia, 75. - - Sevier, Robert, 36. - - Sevier, Lady Violet, 36. - - Shackleton, Sir Ernest, 71, 231. - - Shaftesbury Theatre, The, 23. - - Shakespeare, William, 32, 222. - - Shaughnessy, Lord and Lady, 151. - - Shaw, George Bernard, 109. - - Sheldon, Susanne, 233. - - Shelton, George, 17. - - Shields, Ella, 110. - - Shine, J. L., 48. - - _Shop Girl, The_, 38. - - Shortt, The Rt. Hon. Edward and Mrs., 191. - - Simmons, Miss, 148, 149. - - Sims, George R., 47. - - _Sisters_, 128, 129. - - Smith, Aubrey, 54, 70, 71, 234. - - _South_, 71, 231. - - _Sporting Times, The_, 45. - - “Spy”, 25. - - _Stage, The_, 31. - - _Standard, The_, 202. - - Standing, Herbert, 27, 46–48. - - Stanley, Sir Hubert, 182. - - Stevenson, Robert Louis, 199. - - Steward, Miss M., 156. - - _Strange Adventures of Miss Brown, The_, 46. - - _Stranglers of Paris, The_, 216. - - Stuart, Cosmo, 51. - - Suffrage Movement, The, 90, 93, 233. - - Sutro, Alfred, 66. - - _Sweet Kitty Bellaires_, 66. - - _Sweet Nancy_, 26, 217. - - _Sweet Nell of Old Drury_, 56. - - Swinburne, Algernon Charles, 114. - - - Tariff Reform League, The, 90. - - Tate, Harry, 137, 138. - - _Tatler, The_, 38. - - Taylor, Sir Frederick and Lady, 151. - - Tempest, Marie, 18, 234. - - Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 188. - - Terriss, Ellaline, 33. - - Terriss, William, 120. - - Terry, Edward, 28, 29, 30. - - Terry, Ellen, 36, 38, 106, 107, 138, 176. - - Terry, Florence, 18. - - Terry, Fred, 36, 56, 103, 139, 230, 231. - - Terry, Marion, 231. - - Terry’s Theatre, 26, 28–30. - - Theatrical Girls’ Club, 17. - - Theatrical Ladies’ Guild, 30. - - Thesiger, Ernest, 40. - - Thomas, Brandon, 33. - - Thompson, Mrs., 22. - - Thorndike, Sybil, 185. - - Thorne, Fred, 12. - - Thorne, Tom, 11, 12. - - Three Arts Club, 17. - - _Three Musketeers, The_, 51, 219, 220. - - Tiapolo, 93. - - _Times, The_, 21, 28. - - _Times, The_ (Play), 219. - - _Title, The_, 70. - - Tivoli Theatre, The, 121, 129, 189. - - Toft, Albert, 197. - - Tolstoi, Count Leo, 124. - - Toole, Florrie, 11, 12, 14, 20, 121. - - Toole, J. L., 13, 14, 16, 18, 19, 21, 23, 121–123, 233. - - Trans-Canadian Company, The, 150. - - Tree, Sir Herbert Beerbohm, 34, 51–53, 72, 73, 103, 117–120, 132, 139, - 192, 224. - - Tree, Lady, 119, 234. - - _Trilby_, 219. - - _Twelve Pound Look_, 140. - - _Typhoon_, 124. - - - Ulmar, Geraldine, 27. - - _Under the Greenwood Tree_, 180. - - _Under the Red Robe_, 48. - - _Uriah Heep_, 216. - - - Valentine, Sydney, 39, 233. - - Vancouver, 109, 155. - - Vanbrugh, Irene, 23. - - Vanbrugh, Violet, 19, 207. - - _Vanity Fair_, 25. - - Vaudeville Theatre, The, 11–13, 16, 150. - - Vedrenne, J. E., 70, 71. - - Venne, Lottie, 43, 231. - - Verity, Agnes, 24. - - Vernon, Harriet, 189. - - Vernon, H. H., 222. - - Vincent, H. H., 59. - - - Waddy, Judge, 232. - - Waddy, W. T., 232. - - Walker, Dr., 163. - - Waller, Lewis, 51, 52, 66, 220, 221, 235, 236. - - Ward, Rowland, 54. - - Waring, Herbert, 46. - - War Office, 74. - - _Waterloo_, 123. - - Watson, Malcolm, 237. - - Watts, Dr., 12. - - Webster, Ben, 36, 58, 127. - - Webster, Dame May (May Whitty), 32, 58, 94, 127, 232. - - Weiglin, Thomas, 138. - - Weyman, Stanley, 48. - - _When We Were Twenty-One_, 180, 207, 225. - - White, Claude Grahame, 142. - - Wilberforce, Canon, 11. - - Wilberforce, Miss, 11. - - Wilcox, Herbert, 170, 171. - - Wilde, Sir Ernest and Lady, 109. - - _Wilderness, The_, 54, 55, 57, 58, 201, 204, 207, 209, 235. - - Willard, E. S., 23, 24, 230. - - William Hohenzollern of Germany, 169, 170. - - Winter, Miss Jessie, 212. - - Women’s Air Force, 76. - - Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps., 76. - - Women’s Emergency Corps, 74–77. - - Women’s Freedom League, 94. - - Women’s Social and Political Union, 94. - - Women’s Volunteer Reserve, 76. - - Wood, Mrs. John, 25, 101, 102. - - Wright, Fred, 177. - - Wyndham, Sir Charles, 34, 235. - - Wyndham, Lady (Miss Mary Moore), 78. - - Wyndham’s Theatre, 85, 212. - - - Yohe, May, 37. - - Young, Miss Harriet, 11. - - _Younger Son, The_, 36. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - _From CHAPMAN & HALL’S AUTUMN LIST_ - - - GENERAL LITERATURE - - - BY INTERVENTION OF PROVIDENCE - -By _STEPHEN McKENNA_. _7s. 6d. net._ - - No one will be surprised that, when Mr. Stephen McKenna sets out to - follow an old trail, he finds it a necessity of his artistic - temperament to diverge into bye-paths. Last winter, finding London - an uninspiring city of refuge, he set sail for the Bahamas. The - result of his sojourn there is one of the most personal, the most - individual books of this generation. It is not fiction though it - contains stories; not a travel book though it talks of travel; not - autobiography though written in the first person. It is a sort of - literary confessional of a singularly attractive and communicative - intellect. - - - TOGETHER - -By _NORMAN DOUGLAS_. _12s. 6d. net._ With a special hand-made paper -edition limited to 250 signed copies at £2 2s. net. - - It is difficult at this late day to say anything new of Norman - Douglas. His reputation as one of the most original writers of this - generation is solidly established. A vast number of travel books is - published every year, but there is to be found in none of them that - quality of personal flavour that is the chief charm and - characteristic of Mr. Douglas’s writing. His new book, “Together,” - is as delightful as “Alone,” and it has the added attraction of - being a piece of continuous narrative. - - - LANDSCAPE PAINTING. Vol. I. From Giotto to Turner. - -By _C. LEWIS HIND_. _25s. net._ - - Mr. Hind is the author of many volumes, but he has always looked - forward to the writing of this particular book as one of the chief - events of his career. Wherever he has gone, to the Shires of - England, the States of America, to Italy or the provinces of France, - he has always sought material for this volume. The book will be - profusely illustrated. - - - THE SECRET OF WOMAN - -By _HELEN JEROME_. _7s. 6d. net._ - - During the war men and women rushed recklessly into marriage. Now in - the hour of post-war disillusion they are seeking to diagnose the - symptoms of their troubles. Never before has there been such a - demand for sane, clear-thinking books on the sex question; for books - that are addressed not to the neurotic, nor the thin-blooded, nor - the over-sexed; but to healthy-minded, healthy-bodied men and women - who honestly desire to make each other happy. Such a book is Helen - Jerome’s “The Secret of Woman.” It deals exhaustively, though - lightly and wittily, with the relationships of men and women. Here - are some of the chapter headings: “Wherein men are superior,” - “Woman’s attitude to male beauty,” “Are women liars?” “Does woman - know passion?” - - - ROBERT BURNS: His Life and Genius. - -By _ANDREW DAKERS_. _10s. 6d. net._ - - In spite of the assumed lack of sympathy between their rival - interests, there are a great many publishers who are also authors. - But to the best of our knowledge, the first literary agent to write - books as well as sell them is Andrew Dakers, one of the youngest and - most enterprising members of his profession. His critical and - biographical study of Burns develops a new and distinctly - provocative interpretation of Burns’s private life. - - - EXITS AND ENTRANCES - -By _EVA MOORE_. _15s. net._ - - A light, witty, merry volume of reminiscence by one of the most - fascinating and popular actresses the stage has ever known. - - - SPARKS FROM THE FIRE: a Volume of Essays. - -By _GILBERT THOMAS_. _6s. net._ - - The career of Gilbert Thomas as an essayist and a poet has been for - a long time followed with attention by those who value taste and - scholarship. His new book is certain of a warm welcome. - - NEW FICTION AT 7S. 6D. NET. - - - ONE OF THE GUILTY - -By _W. L. GEORGE_, Author of “A Bed of Roses,” “The Stiff Lip,” “The -Confession of Ursula Trent.” - - “One of the Guilty” is a romantic story, a novel of action; it is a - study of the primitive human instincts that underlie the veneer of - education and environment. In “The Confession of Ursula Trent” Mr. - George told how a well-bred girl of county family became, through - circumstances and influence, a demi-mondaine. In “One of the Guilty” - he shows how a public schoolboy can become a criminal. Never before - has the life of a thief, of a successful thief, been presented so - graphically, so dramatically, so intimately. Every detail of the - methods and implements of modern burglary is described, and yet - throughout one’s sympathies, one’s affections, are with the thief; - one hopes, in spite of oneself, that he will win through. - - “One of the Guilty” is not, in the accepted sense of the word, a sex - novel. But it is as much a love story as it is an adventure story, - and in no other novel, perhaps, has W. L. George written more - tender, more beautiful, more passionate love scenes that he has in - this book. - - - GOOD HUNTING - -By _NORMAN DAVEY_. - - Norman Davey, the author of “The Pilgrim of a Smile,” is not one of - those novelists who believe that it is necessary to produce a new - book every autumn. Indeed, two years have passed since the - successful appearance of “Guinea Girl,” his romance of Monte Carlo. - His new novel, “Good Hunting,” is, as was “The Pilgrim of a Smile,” - a series of stories grouped about one man; a fashionable and popular - young man whom a number of girls endeavour to ensnare into marriage, - and it is dedicated to the 1,337,208 superfluous women (last - census)! - - - SMOKE RINGS - -By _G. B. STERN_, Author of “The Room,” “The Back Seat,” etc. - - A first collection of short stories by one of the most brilliant of - our younger novelists. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. - 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. - 3. 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