Reception on the St. James’s Stage—An Indian Prince—His Comments—The Audience—George Alexander’s Youth—How he missed a Fortune—How he learns a Part—A Scenic Garden—Love of the Country—Actors’ Pursuits—Strain of Theatrical Life—Life and Death—Fads—Mr. Maude’s Dressing-room—Sketches on Distempered Walls—Arthur Bourchier and his Dresser—John Hare—Early and late Theatres—A Solitary Dinner—An Hour’s Make-up—A Forgetful Actor—Bonne camaraderie—Theatrical Salaries—Treasury Day—Thriftlessness—The Advent of Stalls—The Bancrofts—The Haymarket photographs—A Dress Rehearsal.
ONE of the most delightful theatrical entertainments I ever remember was held by Mr. George Alexander on the stage of the St. James’s Theatre. It was in honour of the Coronation of Edward VII., and given to the Indian Princes and Colonial visitors.
The play preceding the reception was that charming piece Paolo and Francesca. I sat in the stalls, and on my right hand was a richly attired Indian, who wore a turban lavishly ornamented with jewels. I had seen him a short while previously at a Court at Buckingham Palace, one of those magnificent royal evening receptions Queen Alexandra has instituted instead of those dreary afternoon Drawing-rooms. This gentleman had been there when the Royalties received the Indian Princes in June, 1902, the occasion when the royal cortége promenaded through those spacious rooms with such magnificent effect. It was the Court held a few days prior to the date first fixed for the Coronation—a ceremony postponed, as all the world knows, till some weeks later in consequence of the King’s sudden illness.
My princely neighbour was very grand. He wore that same huge ruby at the side of his head, set in diamonds and ornamented with an osprey, which had excited so much admiration at Buckingham Palace. Although small he was a fine-looking man and had charming manners. He read his programme carefully and seemed much interested in the performance, then he looked through his opera-glasses and appeared puzzled; suddenly I realised he wanted to know something.
“You follow the play?” I asked; “or can I explain anything to you?”
“Thank you so much,” he replied in charming English. “I can follow it pretty well, but I cannot quite make out whether the lovely young lady is really going to marry that hump-backed man. Surely she ought to marry the handsome young fellow. She is so lily-lovely.”
“No, Francesca marries Giovanni.”
“Ah, it is too sad, poor thing,” answered the Indian gentleman, apparently much grieved. He turned to his neighbour, who did not speak English, and retailed the information. Their distress was really amusing. Evidently the lovely white lady (Miss Millard) deserved a better fate according to their ideas, for he repeatedly expressed his distress as the play proceeded. Before he left the theatre that night he crossed the stage, and making a profound bow, thanked me for helping him to understand the play. His gratitude and Oriental politeness were charming.
The St. James’s presented a gay scene. The Indian dresses, the diamonds, and extra floral decorations rendered it a regular gala performance. At the usual hour the curtain descended. The general public left; but invited guests remained. We rose from our seats and conversed with friends, while a perfect army of stage carpenters and strange women, after moving out the front row of stalls, brought flights of steps and made delightfully carpeted staircases lead up to either side of the stage. Huge palms and lovely flowers banked the banisters and hid the orchestra. Within a few moments the whole place resembled a conservatory fitted up as for a rout. It was all done as if by magic. Methinks Mr. Alexander must have had several “stage rehearsals” to accomplish results so admirable with such rapidity.
The curtain rose, the stage had been cleared, and there at the head of the staircase stood the handsome actor-manager in plain dress clothes, washed and cleaned from his heavy make-up, and with his smiling wife ready to receive their guests.
At the back of the stage the scenery had been arranged to form a second room, wherein supper was served at a buffet.
It was all admirably done. Most of the Colonial Premiers were there, many of the Indian Princes, and a plentiful sprinkling of the leading lights of London. Of course a stage is not very big and the numbers had to be limited; but about a couple of hundred persons thoroughly enjoyed that supper behind the footlights at the St. James’s Theatre. Many of the people had never been on a stage before, and it was rather amusing to see them peeping behind the flies, and asking weird questions from the scene-shifters. Some were surprised to find the floor was not level, but a gentle incline, for all audiences do not know the necessity of raising the back figures, so that those in front of the house may see all the performers.
A party on the stage is always interesting, and generally of rare occurrence, although Sir Henry Irving and Mr. Beerbohm Tree both gave suppers in honour of the Coronation, so England’s distinguished visitors had several opportunities of enjoying these unique receptions. At the supper at His Majesty’s Theatre a few nights later the chief attractions besides the Beerbohm Trees were Mrs. Kendal and Miss Ellen Terry, the latter still wearing her dress as Mistress Page. Every one wanted to shake hands with her, and not a few were saddened to see her using those grey smoked glasses she always dons when not actually before the footlights.
Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W.
MR. GEORGE ALEXANDER.
George Alexander has had a most successful career, but he was not cradled on the stage. His father was an Ayrshire man and the boy was brought up for business. Not liking that he turned to medicine, and still being dissatisfied he abandoned the doctor’s art at an early stage and took a post in a silk merchant’s office. This brought him to London. From that moment he was a constant theatre-goer, and in September, 1879, made his first bow behind the footlights. He owes much of his success to the training he received in Sir Henry Irving’s Company at the Lyceum. There is no doubt much of the business learned in early youth has stood him in good stead in his theatrical ventures, and much of the artistic taste and desire for perfection in stage-mounting so noticeable at the St. James’s was imbibed in the early days at the Lyceum. It takes a great deal to make a successful actor-manager; he must have literary and artistic taste, business capacity, and withal knowledge of his craft.
In 1891 he took the St. James’s Theatre and began a long series of successes. He has gone through the mill, worked his way from the bottom to the top, and being possessed of an exceptionally clear business head, has made fewer mistakes than many others in his profession.
Mr. Alexander tells a good story about himself:
“For many months I continually received very long letters from a lady giving me her opinion not only on current stage matters, but on the topics of the hour, with graphic descriptions of herself—her doings—her likes and dislikes. She gave no address, but her letters usually bore the postmark of a country town not a hundred miles from London. She confided in me that she was a spinster, and that she did not consider her relations sympathetic. She was obviously well-to-do—I gathered this from her account of her home and her daily life as she described them. Suddenly her letters ceased, and I wondered what had happened. Almost two months after I received her last letter, I had a communication from a firm of lawyers asking for an appointment. I met them—two very serious-looking gentlemen they were too! After a good deal of preliminary talk they came to their point.
“‘You know Miss ——’ said the elder of the men.
“‘No,’ I replied.
“‘But you do,’ he said. ‘She has written to you continually.’
“This was very puzzling, but following up the slight clue, I asked:
“‘Is her Christian name Mary?’
“‘Yes,’ he replied.
“‘And she lives at——?’
“Then I knew whom they meant. Their mission, it seemed, was to tell me that the lady had been very ill, and fearing she was going to die, had expressed a wish to alter her will in my favour. As the lawyers had acted for her family for many years, and were friends of her relations, they had taken her instructions quietly, but after much discussion in private had decided to call on me and inform me of the facts, and they asked me to write a letter to them stating that such a course would be distasteful to me and unfair to her relations. I did so in strong terms, and so I lost a little fortune.”
When Mr. Alexander learns a new part he and his wife retire to their cottage at Chorley Wood to study. I bicycled thither one day from Chalfont St. Peter’s, when to my disappointment the servant informed me they were “out.”
“Oh dear, how sad!” I said, “for it is so hot, and I’m tired and wanted some tea.”
Evidently this wrung her heart, for she said she would “go and see.” She went, and immediately Mr. Alexander appeared to bid me welcome.
“I’m working,” he said, “and the maid has orders not to admit any one without special permission.”
What a pretty scene. Lying in a hammock in the orchard on that hot summer’s day was the actor-manager of the St. James’s Theatre. Seated on a garden chair was his wife, simply dressed in white serge and straw hat. On her lap lay the new typewritten play in its brown paper covers, and at her feet was Boris, the famous hound. The Alexanders had been a fortnight at the cottage working hard at the play, and at the moment of my arrival Mrs. Alexander was hearing her husband his part. Not only does she do this, but she makes excellent suggestions. She studies the plays, too, and her taste is of the greatest value as regards dresses, stage decorations, or the arrangement of crowds. Although she has never played professionally, Mrs. Alexander knows all the ins and outs of theatrical life, and is of the greatest help to her husband in the productions.
Had a stranger entered a compartment of a train between Chorley Wood and London a few days later, he might have thought George Alexander and I were about to commit murder, suicide, or both.
“What have you got there?” asked the actor when we met on the platform.
“A gun,” was my reply.
“A gun?”
“Yes, a gun. I’m taking it to London to be mended.”
“Ha ha! I can beat that,” he laughed. “See what I have here,” and opening a little box he disclosed half a dozen razors.
“Razors!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, razors; so be wary with your sanguinary weapon, for mine mean worse mischief.”
He was taking the razors to London to be sharpened.
It was fortunate no accident happened to that train, or a gun and six razors might have formed food for “public inquiry.”
It is a curious thing how many actors and actresses like to shake the dust of the stage from their feet on leaving the theatre. They seem to become satiated with publicity, to long for the country and an outdoor, freer life, and in many instances they not only long for it, but actually succeed in obtaining it, and the last trains on Saturday night are often full of theatrical folk seeking repose far from theatres till Monday afternoon.
Recreation and entire change of occupation are absolutely necessary to the brain-worker, and the man is wise who realises this. If he does, and seeks complete rest from mental strain, he will probably have a long and successful career; otherwise the breakdown is sure to come, and may come with such force as to leave the victim afflicted for life, so it is far wiser for the brain-worker of whatever profession or business to realise this at an early stage. In this respect actors are as a rule wiser than their fellow-workers, and seek and enjoy recreation on Sunday and Monday, which is more than can be said of many lawyers, doctors, painters, or literary men.
The strain of theatrical life is great. No one should attempt to go upon the stage who is not strong. If there be any constitutional weakness, theatrical life will find it out. Extremes of heat and cold have to be borne. Low dresses or thick furs have to be worn in succeeding acts. The atmosphere of gas and sulphur is often bad, but must be endured.
A heavy part exhausts an actor in a few minutes as much as carrying a hod of bricks all day does a labourer. He may have to change his underclothing two or three times in an evening, in spite of all his dresser’s rubbing down. The mental and physical strain affects the pores of the skin and exhausts the body, that is why one hardly ever finds an actor fat. He takes too much physical exercise, takes too much out of himself, ever to let superfluous flesh accumulate upon his bones.
Yes, the actor’s life is often a mental strain, of which the following is a striking instance. A very devoted couple were once caused much anxiety by the wife’s serious and protracted illness. Months wore on, and every night the husband played his part, wondering what news would greet him when he returned home. At last it was decided that an operation was necessary. It was a grave operation, one of life and death, but it had to be faced.
One morning the wife bade her bairns and her home good-bye, and drove off with her spouse to a famous surgical home. That night the poor actor had to play his comic part, with sad and anxious heart he had to smile and caper and be amusing. Think of the mockery of it all. Next morning he was up early, toying with his breakfast, in order to be at the home before nine o’clock, when that serious operation was to be performed. He did not see his wife—that would have upset them both—but like a caged lion he walked up and down, up and down in an adjoining room. At last came the glad tidings that it was over, and all had so far gone satisfactorily.
Back to the theatre he went that night, having heard the latest bulletin, and played his part with smiling face, knowing his wife was hovering between life and death. Next morning she was not so well. It was a matinée day, and in an agony of anxiety and excitement that poor man played two performances, receiving wires about her condition between the acts. Think of it! We often laugh at men and women, who may be for all we know, acting with aching hearts. Comedy and tragedy are closely interwoven in life, perhaps especially so in theatrical life.
By way of recreation from work George Alexander rushes off to his cottage at Chorley Wood to play golf. Sir Charles Wyndham and Sir Squire and Lady Bancroft for many years enjoyed rambles in Switzerland. Sir Henry Irving is a tremendous smoker and never happy without a cigar. Ellen Terry is so devoted to her son and daughter, she finds recreation in their society. Cyril Maude loves shooting and all country pursuits. Winifred Emery never mentions the theatre after she leaves the stage door, and finds relaxation in domesticity. Mrs. Kendal knits. Lewis Waller motors. Dan Leno retires to the suburbs to look after his ducks. Arthur Bourchier is fond of golfing whenever he gets a chance. Miss Marie Tempest lives in a musical set, and is as devoted to her friends as they are to her.
The world is governed by fads. Fads are an antidote to boredom—a tonic to the overworked, and actors enjoy fads like the rest of us; for instance:
Eugene Oudin, that most delightful operatic singer, who was cut off just as he stepped on the top rung of Fame’s ladder, was a splendid photographer. In 1890 photography was not so much the fashion as it is nowadays, but even then his pictures were works of art. He portrayed his contemporaries—the De Reskes, Van Dyck, Calvé, Hans Richter, Mascagni, Joachim, Tosti, Alma-Tadema, John Drew, Melba, and dozens more at their work, or in some way that would make a picture as well as a photograph. Then these worthies signed the copies, which were subsequently hung round the walls of Oudin’s private study.
Miss Julia Neilson has a passion for collecting fans. Herbert Waring is a brilliant whist-player. Mrs. Patrick Campbell adores small dogs, and nearly always has one tucked under her arm. Many actresses have particular mascots. Miss Ellen Terry, Miss Lily Hanbury, and a host more have their lucky ornaments which they wear on first nights. Miss Irene Vanbrugh is devoted to turquoises, and has a necklace composed of curious specimens of these stones, presents from her many friends.
Miss Violet Vanbrugh declares she is “one of those people who somehow never contrive actively or passively to be the heroine of any little stage joke.” This is rather an amusing assertion for a lady who is continually playing stage heroines. Her husband, Mr. Arthur Bourchier, however, tells a good story against himself.
“My present servant, or ‘dresser,’ as they are called at the theatre, was one of the original Gallery First Nighters and a member of the celebrated Gaiety Gallery Boys. Of course when he joined me I imagined he had forsaken the auditorium for the stage. One night, however, a play was produced by me, the dress rehearsal of which he had seen, and I noticed that he seemed particularly gloomy and morose at its conclusion. On the first night, when I came back to my dressing-room from the stage, I found the door locked. Here was a pretty predicament. It was clear that he had got the key and had mysteriously disappeared. I had the door broken open, for dress I must as time was pressing, and sent another man to search for my missing servant. The sequel is as follows. He was caught red-handed in the gallery among his old associates loudly ‘booing’ his master. Arraigned before me, he maintained the firmest attitude possible, and asserted boldly:
“‘No, sir, I am your faithful servant behind the scenes, but as an independent man and honest gallery boy I am bound to express my unbiased opinion either for or against any play which I may happen to see at a first night!’”
Mr. Hare, like most men, has his hobby, and it is racing: he loves a horse, and he loves a race meeting. In fact, on one occasion report says he nearly missed appearing at the theatre in consequence.
John Hare is one of the greatest character-actors of our day. He is a dapper little gentleman, and lives in Upper Berkeley Street, near Portman Square. His house is most tasteful, and while his handsome wife has had much to say to the decoration, the actor-manager has decided views of his own in these matters. He has a delightful study at the back of the house, round the sides of which low book-cases run, while the walls reflect copper and brass pots, and old blue china. It is here he is at his best, as he sits smoking a cigarette, perched on the high seat in front of the fire.
What an expressive face his is. The fine-chiselled features, the long thin lips are like a Catholic priest of ?sthetic tendency; but as the expression changes with lightning speed, and the dark deep-set eyes sparkle or sadden, one realises the actor-spirit.
Evidence of fads may often be seen in an actor’s dressing-room, where the walls are decorated according to the particular taste of its occupant.
Cyril Maude has a particularly interesting dressing-room at the Haymarket Theatre. It is veritably a studio, for he has persuaded his artistic friends to do sketches for him on the distempered walls, and a unique little collection they make. Phil May, Harry Furniss, Dudley Hardy, Holman Clarke, Bernard Partridge, Raven Hill, Tom Brown, are among the contributors, and Leslie Ward’s portrait of Lord Salisbury is one of the finest ever sketched of the late Prime Minister. It is a quaint and original idea of Mr. Maude’s, but unfortunately those walls are so precious he will never dare to disturb the grime of ages and have them cleaned.
The St. James’s Theatre, as it stands, is very modern, and therefore Mr. Alexander is the proud possessor of a charming sitting-room with a little dressing-room attached. It is quite near the stage, and has first-floor windows which look out on King Street, next door to Willis’s Rooms, once so famous for their dinners, and still more famous at an earlier date as Almack’s, where the beaux and belles of former days disported themselves.
Both Mr. Alexander and his wife are fond of artistic surroundings, and his little room at the theatre is therefore charming. Here on matinée days the actor-manager dines, an arrangement which saves him much time and trouble, and his huge dog Boris—the famous boarhound which appeared in Rupert of Hentzau—is his companion, unless Mrs. Alexander pops in with some little delicacy to cheer him over his solitary meal.
That is one of the drawbacks of the stage, the poor actor generally has to eat alone. He cannot expect ordinary mortals to dine at his hours, and he cannot accommodate himself to theirs. The artist who appears much in public is forced to live much by himself, and his meals are consequently as lonely as those of a great Indian potentate.
If we are to follow Mr. Pinero’s advice we shall all have to eschew dinner and adopt a “high-tea” principle before the play; but as all the audience are not agreed upon the subject there seems to be some difficulty about it.
Why not have the evening performance as late as usual on matinée days, to allow the players time to take food and rest, and early on other days to suit those folk who prefer the drama from seven to ten instead of nine to twelve? By this means early comers and late diners would both be satisfied. Instead of which, as matters stand in London, the late diners arrive gorged and grumbling half through the first act to disturb every one, and the ’bus and train folk struggle out halfway through the last act, sad and annoyed at having to leave.
Most theatrical folk dine at five o’clock. Allowing an hour for this meal, they are able to get a little rest before starting for the theatre, which generally has to be reached by seven.
Preparing for the stage is a serious matter. All that can be put on beforehand is of course donned. Ladies have been known to wear three pairs of stockings, so that a pair might be taken off quickly between each act. Then a long time is required to “make up.” For instance in such a part as Giovanni Malatesta (Paolo and Francesca), Mr. Alexander spent an hour each day painting his face and arranging his wig. He did not look pretty from the front, but the saffron of his complexion and the blue of his eyes became absolutely hideous when beheld close at hand. That make-up, however, was really a work of art.
An actor’s day, even in London, is often a heavy one. Breakfast between nine and ten is the rule, then a ride or some form of exercise, and the theatre at eleven or twelve for a “call,” namely, a rehearsal. This “call” may go on till two o’clock or later, at which hour light luncheon is allowed; but if the rehearsal be late, and the meal consequently delayed, it is impossible to eat again between five and six, consequently the two meals get merged into one. Rehearsals for a new play frequently last a whole month, and during that month the players perform eight times a week in the old piece, and rehearse, or have to attend the theatre nearly all day as well. Three months is considered a good run for a play—so, as will be seen, the company scarcely recover from the exertions of one play before they have to commence rehearsing for another, to say nothing of the everlasting rehearsals for charity performances. The actor’s life is necessarily one of routine, and routine tends to become monotonous.
A well-known actor was a very absent-minded man except about his profession, where habit had drilled him to punctuality. One Sunday he was sitting in the Garrick Club when a friend remarked he was dining at A——.
“God bless me, so am I.”
He rushed home, dressed, and went off to the dinner, during the course of which his neighbour asked him if he were going to the B.’s.
“I’d really forgotten it—but if you are going I’ll go too.”
So he went.
About midnight he got home. His wife was sitting in full evening dress with her gloves and cloak on.
“You are very late,” she said.
“Late? I thought it was early. It is only a quarter past twelve.”
“I’ve been waiting for nearly two hours.”
“Waiting—what for?”
“Why, you arranged to fetch me a little after ten o’clock to go to the B’s.”
“God bless me—I forgot I had a dinner-party, forgot there was a soirée, and forgot I had a wife.”
“And where’s your white tie?” asked his wife stiffly.
“Oh dear, I must have forgotten that too! Dear, dear, what a man I am away from the stage and my dresser!”
There is a wonderful bonne camaraderie among all people engaged in the theatrical profession.
Theatrical people are as generous to one another in misfortune as the poor. In times of success they are apt to be jealous; but let a comrade fall on evil days, let him be forced to “rest” when he wants to work, and his old colleagues will try and procure him employment, and when work and health fail utterly, they get up a benefit for him. These benefits take much organising; they often entail endless rehearsals and some expense, and yet the profession is ever ready to come forward and help those in need.
People on the stage have warm hearts and generous purses, but to give gracefully requires as much tact as to receive graciously.
It is a curious thing how few actors have died rich men. Many have made fortunes, but they have generally contrived to lose them again. Money easily made is readily lost. He who buys what he does not want ends in wanting what he cannot buy. Style and show begun in flourishing times are hard to relinquish. Capital soon runs away when drawn upon because salary has ceased, even temporarily. Many an actor, once a rich man, has died poor. Kate Vaughan, once a wealthy woman, died in penury, and so on ad infinitum.
Actors, like other people, have to learn there is no disgrace in being poor—it is merely inconvenient.
Theatrical salaries are sometimes enormous, although George Edwardes has informed the public that ￡100 a week is the highest he ever gives, because he finds to go beyond that sum does not pay him.
It seems a great deal for a pretty woman, not highly born, nor highly educated, nor highly gifted—merely a pretty woman who has been well drilled by author, stage manager, and conductor, to be able to command ￡100 a week in a comic opera, but after all it is not for long. It is never for fifty-two weeks in the year, and only for a few years at most. Beauty fades, flesh increases, the attraction goes, and she is relegated to the shelf, a poorer, wiser woman than before. But meanwhile her scintillating success, the glamour around her, have acted as a bait to induce others to rush upon the stage.
The largest salary ever earned by a man was probably that paid to Charles Kean, who once had a short engagement at Drury Lane for ￡50 a night, and on one occasion he made ￡2,000 by a benefit. Madame Vestris, however, beat him, for she had a long engagement at the Haymarket at ￡40 a night, or ￡240 a week, a sum unheard of to-day.
It may be here mentioned that salaries are doled out according to an old and curious custom.
“Treasury day” is a great event; theatrical folk never speak of “pay”: it is always “salaries” and “treasury day.” Each “house” has its own methods of procedure, but at a great national theatre like Drury Lane the “chiefs” are paid by cheque, while every Friday night the treasurer and his assistants with trays full of “salary” go round the theatre and distribute packets in batches to the endless persons who combine to make a successful performance. The money is sealed up in an envelope which bears the name of the receiver, so no one knows what his neighbour gets. It takes five or six hours for the treasurer and his two assistants to pay off a thousand people at a pantomime, and check each salary paid.
There is no field where that little colt imagination scampers more wildly than in the matter of salaries. For instance, a girl started as “leading lady” in a well-known play on a provincial tour. Her name, in letters nearly as big as herself, met her on the hoardings of every town the company visited. She was given the star dressing-room, and a dresser to herself. This all meant extra tips and extra expenses everywhere, for she was the “leading lady”! Wonderful notices appeared in all the provincial papers and this girl was the draw. The manager knew that, and advertised her and pushed her forward in every way. All the company thought she began at a salary of ￡10 a week, and rumour said this sum had been doubled after her success. Such was the story. Now for the truth. She was engaged for the tour at ￡3 a week, and ￡3 a week she received without an additional penny, although the tour of weeks extended into months. She was poor, others were dependent on her, and she dared not throw up that weekly sixty shillings for fear she might lose everything in her endeavour to get more.
This is only one instance: there are many such upon the stage.
“I suppose A—— has given more time to rehearsals this year,” said the wife of a well-known actor, “than any man in London, and yet he has only drawn ten weeks’ salary. Everything has turned out badly; so we have had to live for fifty-two weeks on ten weeks’ pay and thirty-four weeks’ work.”
Large sums and well-earned salaries have, of course, been made—in fact, Sir Henry Irving was earning about ￡30,000 a year at the beginning of the century, an income very few actor-managers could boast.
Among thrifty theatrical folk the Bancrofts probably take front rank. Marie Wilton and her husband amused England for thirty years, and had the good sense always to spend less than they made. The result was that, while still young enough to enjoy their savings they bought a house in Berkeley Square, retired, and have enjoyed a well-earned rest. More than that, Sir Squire Bancroft stands unique as regards charities. Although not wishing to be tied any more to the stage, he does not mind giving an occasional “Reading” of Dickens’s Christmas Carol, and he has elected to give his earnings to hospitals and other charities, which are over ￡15,000 the richer for his generosity. Could anything be more delightful than for a retired actor to give his talent for the public good?
I was brought up on Mrs. Bancroft and Shakespeare, so to speak. The Bancrofts at that time had the Haymarket Theatre, and their Robertson pieces were considered suitable to my early teens by way of amusement, while I was taken to Shakespeare’s plays by way of instruction. I remember I thought the Robertson comedies far preferable, and should love to see them again.
It is always averred by old playgoers that Marie Wilton (Lady Bancroft) was the originator of modern comedy. She and her husband at one time had a little play-house in an unfashionable part of London, to which they attracted society people of that day. The theatre was not then what it is now, the “upper ten” seldom visited the play at that time, and yet the Prince of Wales’ Theatre known as “The Dust-hole” drew all fashionable London to the Tottenham Court Road to laugh with Marie Wilton over Robertson’s comedies.
Her company consisted of men and women who are actor-managers to-day: people went forth well drilled in their profession, accustomed to expending minute care over details, each in their turn to inculcate the same thoroughness in the next generation. These people numbered John Hare, Mr. and Mrs. Kendal (Madge Robertson was the younger sister of the dramatist), H. J. Montague, and Arthur Cecil. Again one finds the best succeeds, and there is always room at the top, hence the Bancroft triumph.
One of their innovations was to rope off the front rows of the pit, which then occupied the entire floor of the house, and call them “stalls,” for which they dared ask 6/-apiece. They got it—more were wanted. Others were added, and gradually the price rose to 10/6, which is now the charge: but half-guinea stalls, though now universal, are a modern institution.
At a dinner given by the Anderson Critchetts in 1891 I sat between Squire Bancroft and G. Boughton, R.A. Mr. Bancroft remarked in the course of conversation that he was just fifty, though he looked much younger. His tall figure was perfectly erect, and his white hair showed up the freshness of his complexion. I asked him if he did not miss acting, the applause, and the excitement of the theatre.
“No,” he replied. “It will be thirty years this September since I first went on the stage, and it is now nearly six since I gave it up. No, I don’t think I should mind much if I never entered a theatre again, either as spectator or actor—and my wife feels the same. My only regret about our theatrical career is that we never visited America, but no dollars would induce Mrs. Bancroft to cross the sea, so we never went.”
He surprised me by saying that during the latter years of their theatrical life they never took supper, but dined at 6.0 or 6.30 as occasion required, and afterwards usually walked to the theatre. During the performance they had coffee and biscuits, or sometimes, on cold nights, a little soup, and the moment the curtain was down they jumped into their carriage, and were in their own house in Cavendish Square, where they then lived, by 11.30, and in bed a few minutes later. They were always down to breakfast at 9 o’clock year in year out; an early hour for theatrical folk.
I spoke of the autograph photographs which I had seen in the Haymarket green-room.
“How curious,” he said, “that you should mention them to-night. We have always intended to take them away, and only yesterday, after an interval of six years, I gave the order for their removal. This evening as we started for dinner they arrived in Berkeley Square. A strange coincidence.”
Lady Bancroft has the merriest laugh imaginable. I used to love to see her act when I was quite a girl, and somehow Miss Marie Tempest reminds me strongly of her to-day. She has the same lively manner.
Lady Bancroft’s eyes are her great feature—they are deeply set, with long dark lashes, and their merry twinkle is infectious. When she laughs her eyes seem to disappear in one glorious smile, and every one near her joins in her mirth. Mrs. Bancroft was comparatively a young woman when she retired from the stage, and one of her greatest joys at the time was to feel she was no longer obliged to don the same gown at the same moment every day.
At some theatres a dress rehearsal is a great affair. The term properly speaking means the whole performance given privately right through, without even a repeated scene. The final dress rehearsal, as a rule, is played before a small critical audience, and the piece is expected to run as smoothly as on the first night itself—to be, in fact, a sort of prologue to the first night. This is a dress rehearsal proper, such as is given by Sir Henry Irving, Messrs. Beerbohm Tree, Cyril Maude, George Alexander, or the old Savoy Company.
Before this, however, there are endless “lighting rehearsals,” “scenic rehearsals,” or “costume parades,” all of which are done separately, and with the greatest care. As we saw before, Mrs. Kendal disapproves of a dress rehearsal, but she is almost alone in her opinion. It is really, therefore, a matter of taste whether the whole performance be gone through in separate portions or whether one final effort be made before the actual first night. As a rule Sir Henry Irving has three dress rehearsals, but the principals only appear in costume at one of them. They took nine weeks to rehearse the operetta The Medal and the Maid, yet Irving put The Merchant of Venice with all its details on the Lyceum stage in twenty-three days.
Sir Henry strongly objects to the public being present at any rehearsal. “The impression given of an incomplete effort cannot be a fair one,” he says. “It is not fair to the artistes. A play to be complete must pass through one imagination, one intellect must organise and control. In order to attain this end it is necessary to experiment: no one likes to be corrected before strangers, therefore rehearsals—or in other words ‘experiments’—should be made in private. Even trained intellect in an outsider should not be admitted, as great work may be temporarily spoiled by some slight mechanical defect.”
In Paris rehearsals used to be great institutions. They were opportunities for meeting friends. In the foyers and green-rooms of the theatres, at répètitions générales, every one talked and chatted over the play, the actors, and the probable success or failure. This, however, gradually became a nuisance, and early in this twentieth century both actors and authors struck. They decided that even privileged persons should be excluded from final rehearsals, which are always in costume in Paris. As a sort of salve to the offended public, it was agreed that twenty-four strangers should be admitted to the last great dress rehearsal before the actual production of a new piece, hence everybody who is anybody clamours to be there.
Sarah Bernhardt and her Tomb—The Actress’s Holiday—Love of her Son—Sarah Bernhardt Shrimping—Why she left the Comédie Fran?aise—Life in Paris—A French Claque—Three Ominous Raps—Strike of the Orchestra—Parisian Theatre Customs—Programmes—Late Comers—The Matinée Hat—Advertisement drop Scene—First Night of Hamlet—Madame Bernhardt’s own Reading of Hamlet—Yorick’s Skull—Dr. Horace Howard Furness—A Great Shakespearian Library.
It is not every one who cares to erect his own mausoleum during his life.
There are some quaint and weird people who prefer to do so, however: whether it is to save their friends and relations trouble after their demise, whether from some morbid desire to face death, or whether for notoriety, who can tell? Was it not one of our dukes who built a charming crematorium for the benefit of the public, and beside it one for himself, the latter to be given over to general use after he himself had been reduced to spotless ashes within its walls? He was a public benefactor, for his wise action encouraged cremation, a system which for the sake of health and prosperity is sure to come in time.
Madame Sarah Bernhardt has not erected a crematorium, but on one of the highest spots of the famous Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris she has placed her tomb. It is a solid stone structure, like a large sarcophagus, but it is supported on four arches, so that light may be seen beneath, and the solidity of the slabs is thereby somewhat lessened. One word only is engraven on the stone:
BERNHARDT.
This is the mausoleum of one of the greatest actresses the world has ever known. What is lacking in the length of inscription is made up by the size of the lettering.
Upon the tomb lay one enormous wreath on the Jour des Morts, 1902, and innumerable people paid homage to it, or stared out of curiosity at the handsome erection.
Though folk say Madame Bernhardt courts notoriety, there are moments when she seeks solitude as a recreation, and she has a great love of the sea.
Every year for two months she disappears from theatrical life. She forgets that such a thing as the stage exists, she never reads a play, and as far as theatrical matters are concerned she lives in another sphere. That is part of her holiday. It is not a holiday of rest, for she never rests; it is a holiday because of the change of scene, change of thought, change of occupation. Her day at her seaside home is really a very energetic one.
Photo by Lafayette, New Bond Street.
MADAME SARAH BERNHARDT AS HAMLET.
At five the great artiste rises, dons a short skirt, country boots, and prepares to enjoy herself. Often the early hours are spent in shooting small birds. She rarely misses her quarry, for her artistic eye helps her in measuring distance, and her aim is generally deadly. Another favourite entertainment is to shrimp. She takes off her shoes and stockings and for a couple of hours will stand in the water shrimping, for her “resting” is as energetic as everything else she does. She plies her net in truly professional style, gets wildly enthusiastic over a good catch, and loves to eat her freshly boiled fish at déjeuner. Perhaps she has a game with her ten lovely Russian dogs before that mid-day meal.
Her surroundings are beautiful. She adores flowers—flowers are everywhere; she admires works of art—works of art are about her, for she has achieved her own position, her own wealth, and why should she not have all she loves best close at hand?
After déjeuner the guests, of whom there are never more than two or three, such as M. Rostand (author of Cyrano de Bergerac) and his wife, rest and read. Not so Madame Bernhardt. She sits in the open air, her head covered with a shady hat, and plays Salta with her son. This game is a kind of draughts, and often during their two months’ holiday-making she and her only child Maurice will amuse themselves in this way for two or three hours in the afternoon; generally she wins, much to her joy. She simply loves heat, like the Salamanders, and, even in July, when other people feel too hot, she would gladly wear furs and have a fire. She can never be too warm apparently. Her own rooms are kept like a hothouse, for cold paralyses her bodily and mentally.
How she adores her son—she speaks of him as a woman speaks of her lover; Maurice comes before all her art, before all else in the world, for Maurice to her is life. He has married a clever woman, a descendant of a Royal house, and has a boy and two girls adored by their grandmother almost as much as their father. She plays with them, gets up games for them, dances with them, throws herself as completely into their young lives as she does into everything else.
About 3.30 au tennis is the cry. Salta is put aside and every one has to play tennis. Away to tennis she trips. Sarah never gets hot, but always looks cool in the white she invariably wears. She wants an active life, and if her brain is not working her body must be, so she plays hard at the game, and when tea is ready in the arbour close at hand, about 6.30, she almost weeps if she has to leave an unfinished “sett.”
She must be interested, or she would be bored; she must be amused, or she would be weary; thus she works hard at her recreations, the enforced rest while reading a novel being her only time of repose during her summer holiday. She walks when she has nothing else to do, and rambles for miles around her seaside home, only occasionally going on long carriage expeditions, with her tents and her servants, to pitch camp for the night somewhere along the coast.
Then comes dinner—dinner served with all the glories of a Parisian chef, for Madame, although a small eater, believes well-cooked food necessary to existence. There is no hurry over dinner, and “guess” games are all the fashion, games which she cleverly arranges to suit the children. No evening dresses are allowed, nor décolleté frocks; except for flowers and well-cooked food, Madame likes to feel she is in the country and far removed from Paris, therefore a dainty blouse is all that is permitted. Music is often enjoyed in the evening. Sometimes on a fine night Madame will exclaim:
“Let us go and fish,” and off they all go. Down the endless steps cut in the rock the party stumble, and on the seashore they drag their nets. Up those same steps every night toil men with buckets of salt water, for the great actress has a boiling salt water bath every morning, to which she attributes much of her good health. Fishermen throw nets for the evening’s catch, but “Sarah” is most energetic in hauling them in, and gets wildly excited at a good haul. Her unfailing energy is thrown even into the fishing, and she will stay out till the small hours enjoying the sport. One summer Madame Bernhardt caught a devil fish—this delighted her. She took it home and quickly modelled a vase from her treasure. Seaweed and shells formed its stand, the tail its stem. She seldom sculpts nowadays, but the power is still there.
It was in 1880 that she retired from the Comédie Fran?aise, not being content with her salary of ￡1,200 a year, and she then announced her intention of making sculpture and painting her profession. After a rest, however, she fortunately changed her mind, or the stage would have lost one of the greatest actresses the world has known. Perhaps the apotheosis of her life was in December, 1896, when she was acclaimed Queen of the French stage, and the leading poets of her country recited odes in her honour. On that occasion the heroine of the fête declared:
“For twenty-nine years I have given the public the vibrations of my soul, the pulsations of my heart, and the tears of my eyes. I have played 112 parts, I have created thirty-eight new characters, sixteen of which are the work of poets. I have struggled as no other human being has struggled.... I have ardently longed to climb the topmost pinnacle of my art. I have not yet reached it. By far the smaller part of my life remains for me to live; but what matters it? Every day brings me nearer to the realisation of my dream. The hours that have flown away with my youth have left me my courage and cheerfulness, for my goal is unchanged, and I am marching towards it.”
She was right; there is always something beyond our grasp, and those who think they have seized it must court failure from that moment. Those nearest perfection best know how far they really are from it.
Madame Bernhardt’s mind is penetrating, yet her body never rests. She can do with very little sleep—can live without butcher’s meat, rarely drinks alcohol, and prefers milk to anything. Perhaps this is the reason of her perpetual youth. She loves her holiday, she loves the simple life of the country, the repose from the world, the knowledge that autograph hunters and reporters cannot waylay her, and in the country she ceases to be an actress and can enjoy being a woman.
In Paris her life is very different. She resides in a beautiful hotel surrounded by works of art, and keeps a table ouverte for her friends. She rises at eleven, when she has her masseuse and her boiling bath, sees her servants, and gives personal orders for everything in the establishment. She is one of those women who find time for all details, and is capable of seeing to most matters well. At 12.30 is déjeuner, rarely finished till 2 o’clock, as friends constantly drop in. Then off to the theatre, where she rehearses till six. There she sits in a little box, from which point of vantage she can see everything and yet be out of draughts. She always wears white, even in the theatre, and looks as smart as though at a party instead of on business bent. Dresses are brought her for inspection, she alters, changes, admires, or deplores as fancy takes her; she arranges the lighting, decides a little more blue or a little less green will give the tone required; but then she has that inner knowledge of harmony and the true painter spirit. She is never out of tune. At six high-tea is served in her dressing-room, for she rarely leaves the theatre. The meal consists mostly of fish—lobster, crab, cray-fish, shrimps, scallops cooked or raw—with a little tea and lots of milk. A chat with a friend, a peep at a new play, and then it is time to dress for the great work of the day. She changes quickly. After the performance is over she sees her manager, and rarely leaves the theatre in Paris before 1.30, when she returns home to a good hot supper. But her day is not ended even then. She will have a play read to her or read it herself, study a new part, write letters, and do dozens of different things before she goes to bed. She can do with little rest, and seems to have the energy of many persons in one. In spite of this she has never mastered English, although she can read it.
Madame Bernhardt will ever be associated in my mind with a night spent at a theatre behind a French claque. That claque was terrible, but the actress was so wonderful I almost forgot its existence, and sat rapt in admiration of her first night of Hamlet.
Till quite lately there was a terrible institution in France known as the claque, nothing more or less than a paid body of men whose duty it was to applaud actors and actresses at certain points duly marked in their play-books.
At the Comédie Fran?aise of Paris a certain individual known as the Chef de Claque had been retained from 1881 for over twenty years at a monthly salary of three hundred francs, that is to say, he received ￡12 a month, or ￡3 a week, for “clapping” when required. He was a person of great importance. Though disliked by the public, he was petted and feasted by actors and actresses, for a clap at the wrong moment, or want of applause at the right, meant disaster; besides, there was a sort of superstitious fear that being on bad terms with the Chef de Claque foreboded ill luck.
After performing his duties for twenty-one years with considerable success, the Chef de Claque was dismissed, and it was decided that professional applause should be discontinued. Naturally the Chef was indignant, and in the autumn of 1902 sued the Comédie Fran?aise for 30,000 francs damages or a pension. Paris, however, found relief in the absence of the original claque, and gradually one theatre after another began to dispense with a nuisance it had endured for long. History says that during the early days of the claque there was an equally obnoxious institution, a sort of organised opposition known as siffleurs. It was then as fashionable to whistle a piece out of the world as to clap it into success. There was a regular instrument made for the purpose, known as a sifflet, which was wooden and emitted a harsh creaking noise. No man thought of going to the theatre without his sifflet—but the claque gradually clapped him away. Thus died out the official dispensers of success or failure.
It so chanced that having bicycled through France from Dieppe along the banks of the Seine, my sister and I were leaving Paris on the first occasion of Sarah Bernhardt’s impersonation of Hamlet—that is to say, in May, 1899. We were so anxious to see her first performance, however, that we decided to stay an extra day. So far all was well, but not a single ticket could be obtained. Here was disappointment indeed. Of course our names were not on the first night list in Paris and, as in England, it is well-nigh impossible for any ordinary member of the public to gain admittance on such an occasion.
The gentleman in the box office became sympathetic at beholding our distress, and finally suggested he might let us have seats upstairs.
“It is very high up, but you will see and hear everything,” he added.
We decided to ascend to the gods, where, instead of finding ourselves beside Jupiter and Mars, Venus or Apollo, we were seated immediately behind the claque.
Never, never shall I forget my own personal experience of the performance of a claque. Six men sat together in the centre of the front row. The middle one had a marked book—fancy Shakespeare’s Hamlet marked for applause!—and according to that book’s instructions the Chef and his friends clapped once, twice, thrice.
On ordinary occasions the claque slept or read, and only woke up to make a noise when called upon by the Chef, who seemed to have free passes for his supporters every night, and took any one he liked to help him in his curious work. The noise those men made at Hamlet was deafening. The excitement of the leader lest the play should not go off well on a first night was terrible—and if their hands were not sore, and their arms did not ache, it was a wonder indeed. They were so appallingly near us, and so overpowering and disturbing, nothing but interest in the divine Sarah could have kept us in our seats during all those hot, stuffy, noisy hours. It was a Saturday night, the piece began at 8 p.m., and ended at 2 a.m.
Think of it, ye London first-nighters! Especially in a French theatre, where the seats are torture racks, the heat equal to Dante’s Inferno, and no sweet music soothes the savage breast, only long dreary entr’actes and the welcome—if melancholy—three raps French playgoers know so well.
Two years later, when I was again in Paris, there were different excitements in the air, one a strike of coal-miners, the other—and in Paris apparently the more important—a strike of the orchestras at the theatres. A few years previously there could not have been a strike, for the sufficient reason there were no orchestras; but gradually our plan of having music during the long waits crept in. The musicians at first engaged as an experiment were badly paid. When they became an institution they naturally asked for more money, which was promptly refused.
Then came the revolt. From the first violin to the big drum all demanded higher pay. It seems that theatre, music hall, and concert orchestras belong to a syndicate of Artistes Musiciens numbering some sixteen hundred members. During the strike I chanced to be present at a theatre where there was generally an orchestra—that night one small cottage piano played by a lady usurped its place. She managed fairly well—but a piano played by a mediocre musician, does not add to the gaiety of a theatre although it may decrease its melancholy. When November came, the strike ceased. The managers capitulated.
The orchestra in an English theatre is a little world to itself. The performers never mix with the actors, they have their own band-room, and there they live when not before the curtain. At the chief theatres, as is well known, the performers are extremely good, and that is because they are allowed to “deputise”; when there is a grand concert at the St. James’s Hall or elsewhere, provided they find some one to take their place in their own orchestra, they may go and play. Consequently, when there is a big concert several may be away from their own theatre. Many of these performers remain in the same orchestra for years. For instance, Mr. Alexander told me he met a man one day roving at the back of the stage, so he stopped and asked whom he wanted. The man smiled and replied:
“I am in your orchestra, sir, and have been for eleven years.”
“Ah, yes, so you are; I thought I knew your face; but I am accustomed to look at it from above, you see!”
In many London theatres the orchestra is hidden under the stage, a decided advantage with most plays.
Parisian theatres are strange places. They are very fashionable, and yet they are most uncomfortable. The seats are invariably too small and too high. The result is there is nowhere to lay a cloak or coat, and short people find their little legs dangling high above the ground. All this causes inconvenience which ends in annoyance, and the hangers-on at the theatres are a veritable nuisance. Ugly old women in blue aprons, without caps, pounce upon one on entering and pester for wraps. It is difficult to know which is the worse evil, to cling to one’s belongings in the small space allotted each member of the audience, or to let one of those women take them away. In the latter case before the last act she returns with a great deal of fuss, hands over the articles, and demands her sous. If the piece be only in three acts, one pays for being free of a garment for two of them and is annoyed by its presence during the third. Again, when one enters a box these irritating ouvreuses demand tips pour le service de la loge, s’il vous pla?t, and will often insist on forcing footstools under one’s feet so as to claim the pourboires afterwards. The pourboires of the vestiaire are also a thorn in the flesh, and the system which exacts payment from these women turns them from obliging servants into harpies. How Parisians put up with these disagreeable creatures is surprising, but they do.
The stage is conservative in many ways; for instance, that tiresome plan of charging for programmes still exists in England in some theatres, and even good theatres too. Programmes cost nothing: the expense of printing is paid by the advertisements. Free distribution, therefore, does not mean that the management are out of pocket. Why, then, do they not present them gratis? As things are it is most aggravating. Suppose two ladies arrive; as they are shown to their seats, holding their skirts, opera-bags and fans in their hands, they are asked for sixpence. While they endeavour to extract their money they are dropping their belongings and inconveniencing their neighbours: in the case of a man requiring change the same annoyance is felt by all around, especially if the play has begun.
Programmes and their necessary “murmurings” are annoying, and so is the meagreness of the space between the rows of stalls. There are people who openly declare they never go to a theatre because they have not got room for their knees. This is certainly much worse in Parisian theatres, where the seats are high and narrow as well; but still, when people pay for a seat they like room to pass to and fro without inconveniencing a dozen persons en route.
Matinée hats and late arrivals are sins on the part of the audience so cruel that no self-respecting person would inflict either upon a neighbour. But some women are so inconsiderate that we shall soon be reduced to an American notice like the following, “Ladies who cannot, or are unwilling to, remove their hats while occupying seats in this theatre, are requested to leave at once; their money will be returned at the box office.” A gentlewoman never wears a picture hat at the play; if she arrives in one she takes it off. In the same way a gentleman makes a point of being in time. People who offend in these respects belong to a class which apparently knows no better, a class which complacently talks, or makes love, through a theatrical entertainment!
Another strange Parisian custom is the advertisement drop-scene. At the end of the act, a curtain descends literally covered with pictures and puffs of pills, automobiles, corsets, or tobacco. After a tragedy the effect is comical, but this is an age of advertisement.
But to return to Madame Bernhardt’s Hamlet. When the great Sarah appeared upon the scene I did not recognise her. Why? Because she looked so young and so small. This woman, who was nearly sixty, appeared quite juvenile. This famous tragédienne, who had always left an impression of a tall, thin, willowy being in her wonderful scenes in La Tosca, or Dame aux Caméllias, deprived of her train appeared quite tiny. She had the neatest legs, encased in black silk stockings, the prettiest feet with barely any heel to give her height, while her flaxen wig which hung upon her shoulders, made her look a youth, in the sixteenth century clothes she elected to wear. At first I felt woefully disappointed; she did not act at all, and when she saw her father’s ghost, instead of becoming excited, as we are accustomed to Hamlet’s doing in this country, she insinuated a lack of interest, an “Oh, is that really my father’s ghost!” sort of style, which seemed almost annoying; but as she proceeded, I was filled with admiration—her players’ scene was a great coup.
On the left of the stage a smaller one was arranged for the players’ scene, and before it half a dozen torches were stuck in as footlights. On the right there was a high raised da?s with steps leading up on either side—a sort of platform erection. The King and Queen sat upon two seats at the top, the courtiers grouped themselves upon the stairs. Immediately below the Royal pair sat Ophelia, and at her feet, upon a white polar-bear-skin rug, reclined Sarah Bernhardt, with her elbow upon Ophelia’s knee and her hand upon some yellow cushions. As the play went on she looked up to catch a glimpse of the King, but he was too high above her, the wall of the platform hid him from view. Very quietly she rose from her seat, crawled round to the back, where she gradually and slowly pulled herself up towards the da?s, getting upon a stool in her eagerness to see her victim’s face. The King, in his excitement, rose from his seat at the fatal moment, and putting his hand upon the balustrade, peered downwards upon the play-actors.
At that instant Sarah Bernhardt rose, and the two faces came close together across the barrier in eager contemplation of each other. It was a magnificent piece of acting, one which sent a thrill through the whole house; and as the “divine Sarah” saw the guilt depicted upon her uncle’s face she gave a shriek of triumph, a perfectly fiendish shriek of joy, once heard never to be forgotten, and springing down from her post, rushed to the torch footlights, and seizing one in her hand stood in the middle of the stage, her back to the audience, waving it on high and yelling with wild exultant delight as the King and all his courtiers slunk away, to the fall of the curtain. It was a brilliant ending to a great act, and Sarah triumphed not only in the novelty of her rendering, but in the manner of its execution.
Another hit that struck me as perfectly wonderful in its contrasting simplicity, was, when she sat upon a sofa, her feet straight out before her, a book lying idle upon her lap, and murmured, mots, mots, or again, when she came in through the arch at the back of the stage, and leaning against its pillar repeated quietly and dreamily the lines “To be, or not to be.”
Apropos of Hamlet, Madame Bernhardt wrote to the Daily Telegraph:
“Hamlet rêve quand il est seul; mais quand il y a du monde il parle; il parle pour cacher sa pensée....
“On me reproche, dans la scène de l’Oratoire, de m’approcher trop près du Roi; mais, si Hamlet veut tuer le Roi, il faut bien qu’il s’approche de lui. Et quand il l’entend prier des paroles de repentir, il pense que s’il le tue il l’enverra au ciel, et il ne tue pas le Roi; non pas parcequ’il est irrésolu et faible, mais parcequ’il est tenace et logique; il veut le tuer dans le péché, non dans le repentir, car il veut qu’il aille en enfer, et pas au ciel. On veut absolument voir, dans Hamlet, une ame de femme, hésitante, imponderée; moi, j’y vois l’ame d’un homme, résolue mais refléchie. Aussit?t que Hamlet voit l’ame de son père et appréhend le meurtre, il prend la résolution de le venger; mais, comme il est le contraire d’Othello, qui agit avant de penser, lui, Hamlet, pense avant d’agir, ce qui est le signe d’une grande force, d’une grande puissance d’ame.
“Hamlet aime Ophélie! il renonce à l’amour! il renonce à l’étude! il renonce à tout! pour arriver à son but! Et il y arrive! Il tue le Roi quand il est pris dans le péché le plus noir, le plus criminel; mais il ne le tue que lorsqu’il est absolument s?r. Lorsqu’on l’envoie en Angleterre, à la première occasion qu’il rencontre il bondit tout seul sur un bateau ennemi et il se nomme pour qu’on le fasse prisonnier, s?r qu’on le ramenera. Il envoie froidement Rosencrantz et Guildenstern à la mort. Tout cela est d’un être jeune, fort et résolu!
“Quand il rêve: c’est à son projet! c’est à sa vengeance! Si Dieu n’avait pas défendu le suicide, il se tuerait par dégo?t du monde! mais, puisqu’il ne peut pas se tuer, il tuera!
“Enfin, Monsieur, permettez-moi de vous dire que Shakespeare, par son génie colossal, appartient à l’Univers! et qu’un cerveau Fran?ais, Allemand, ou Russe a le droit de l’admirer et de le comprendre.
“SARAH BERNHARDT.
“Londres, le 16 Juin, 1899.”
Madame Bernhardt made Hamlet a man, and a strong man—there was nothing of the halting, hesitating woman about her performance, one which she herself loves to play.
It was a fine touch also when she went into her uncle’s room, where, finding him on his knees, she crept up close behind, and taking out her dagger, prepared to kill him. She said nothing, but her play was marvellous, her expression of hatred and loathing, her pause to contemplate, and final decision to let the man alone, were done in such a way as only Sarah Bernhardt could render them.
Another drama took place on this memorable first night of Hamlet. Two famous men when discussing whether Hamlet ought to be fat or thin, struck one another in the face and finally arranged a duel—a duel fought two or three days later, which nearly cost one of them his life.
Opposite is the programme of the first night of Sarah Bernhardt’s Hamlet.
LA TRAGIQUE HISTOIRE D’
HAMLET
PRINCE DE DANEMARK
Drame en 15 Tableaux de William SHAKESPEARE
Traduction en prose de MM. Eugène MORAND et Marcel SCHWOB
page decoration
M?? SARAH BERNHARDT
HAMLET
MM.
Bremont Le Roi
Magnier Laertes
Chameroy Polonius
Deneubourg Horatio
Ripert Le Spectre
Schutz Premier fossoyeur
Lacroix Deuxième ?
Teste Le Roi Comédien
Scheler Osric
Jean Darav Rosencrantz
Jahan Voltimand
Colas Bernardo
Krauss Marcellus
Laurent Guildenstern
Barbier Fortinbras
Stebler Deux?? comédien
Cauroy Francesco
Lahor Un Prêtre
Bary Cornélius
Caillere Trois?? comédien
Bertaut Un Gentilhomme
MM???
Marthe Mellot Ophélie
Marcya La Reine Gertrude
Boulanger La reine comédienne
Prêtres, Comédiens, Marins, Officiers, Soldats, etc.
There is a famous Hamlet skull in America, known as Yorick’s skull, which is in the possession of Dr. Horace Howard Furness, of Philadelphia.
Dr. Furness is one of the greatest Shakespearian scholars of the day. Dr. Georg Brandes, of Copenhagen, Mr. Sydney Lee, of London, and he probably know more of the work of this great genius than any other living persons.
When I was in America I had the pleasure of spending a few days at Dr. Furness’s delightful home at Wallingford, on the shores of the Delaware River. The place might be in England, from its appearance—a low, rambling old house with wide balconies, creeper-grown with roses, and honey-suckle hugging the porch. The dear old home was built more than a century ago, by some of Dr. Furness’s ancestors, and one sees the love of those ancestors for the old English style manifest at every turn. The whole interior bespeaks intellectual refinement.
He stood on the doorstep to welcome me, a grey-headed man of some sixty-eight years, with a ruddy complexion, and closely cut white moustache. His manner was delightful; no more polished gentleman ever walked this earth than Horace Howard Furness, the great American writer. His father was an intimate friend of Ralph Waldo Emerson, whose famous portrait at the Philadelphia Art Gallery was painted by the doctor’s brother; so young Horace was brought up amid intellectual surroundings.
At the back of the house is the world-renowned iron-proof Shakespearian library, the collection of forty ardent years. It is a veritable museum with its upper galleries, its many tables, and its endless cases of treasures. The books which line the walls were all catalogued by the doctor himself. He has many of the earlier editions of Shakespeare besides other rare volumes. Some original MSS. of Charles Lamb, beautifully written and signed Elia, are there; a delightful sketch of Mary Anderson by Forbes Robertson; Lady Martin’s (Helen Faucit) own acting editions of the parts she played marked by herself; and in a special glass case lie a pair of grey gauntlet gloves, richly embroidered in silver, which were worn by Shakespeare himself when an actor. If I remember rightly they came from David Garrick, and the card of authenticity is in the case. Then there are Garrick’s and Booth’s walking-sticks, and on a small ebony stand, the famous Yorick skull handled in the grave-digging scene by all the great actors who have visited Philadelphia, and signed by them—Booth, Irving, Tree, Sothern, etc.
I never spent a more delightful evening than one in October, 1900, when the family went off to Philadelphia to see the dramatisation of one of Dr. Weir Mitchell’s novels by his son, and I was left alone with Dr. Furness for some hours.
What a charming companion. What a fund of information and humour, what a courtly manner, what a contrast to the ruggedness of Ibsen, or the wild energy of Bj?rnsen. Here was repose and strength. Not an originator, perhaps, but a learned disciple. How he loved Shakespeare, with what reverence he spoke of him. He scoffed at the mere mention of Bacon’s name, and was glad, very glad, so little was known of the private life of Shakespeare.
“He was too great to be mortal; I do not want to associate any of Nature’s frailties with such a mind. His work is the thing, for the man as a man I care nothing.” This was unlike Brandes, whose brilliant books on Shakespeare deal chiefly with the man.
There was something particularly delightful about Horace Furness and his home. Even the dinner-table appointments were his choice. The soup-plates were of the rarest Oriental porcelain, and the meat-plates were of silver with mottoes chosen by himself round the borders.
“I loved my china, but it got broken year by year, until in desperation I looked about for something that could not break—solid and plain, like myself, eh?” he chuckled. The mottoes were well chosen and the idea as original as everything else about Dr. Furness.
It was Mrs. Kemble’s readings that first awakened his love for Shakespeare; but he was nearly forty years old when he gave up law and devoted himself to writing; much the same age as Dr. Samuel Smiles when he exchanged business for authorship.
Dr. Furness loves his Shakespeare and thoroughly enjoys his well-chosen library; but still an Englishwoman cannot help hoping that when he has done with them, he will bequeath his treasures to the Shakespeare Museum at Stratford-on-Avon.
An Interesting Dinner—Peace in the Transvaal—Beerbohm Tree as a Seer—How he cajoled Ellen Terry and Mrs. Kendal to Act—First-nighters on Camp-stools—Different Styles of Mrs. Kendal and Miss Terry—The Fun of the Thing—Bows of the Dead—Falstaff’s Discomfort—Amusing Incidents—Nervousness behind the Curtain—An Author’s Feelings.
THE scene was changed.
It was the 1st of June. I remember the date because it was my birthday, and this particular June day is doubly engraven on my mind as the most important Sunday in 1902. It was a warm summer’s evening as I drove down Harley Street to dine with Sir Anderson and Lady Critchett, whose dinners are as famous as his own skill as an oculist.
Most of the company had assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Kendal were already there, Frank Wedderburn, K.C., Mr. Luke Fildes, R.A., who had just completed his portrait of the King, Mr. Orchardson, R.A., Mr. Lewis Coward, K.C., and their wives, Mr. and Mrs. Edward Sassoon, Mr. and Mrs. W. L. Courtney, when the Beerbohm Trees were announced. He bore a telegram in his hand.
“Have you heard the news?” he asked.
“No,” every one replied, guessing by his face it was something of importance.
“Peace has been officially signed,” was the reply.
Great was the joy of all present. There had been a possibility felt all day that the good news from South Africa might be confirmed on that Sunday, although it was supposed it could not be known for certain until Monday. Sunday is more or less a dies non in London, but as the tape is always working at the theatre, Mr. Tree had instructed a clerk to sit and watch the precious instrument all day, so as to let him have the earliest information of so important an event. As he was dressing for dinner in Sloane Street, in rushed the clerk, breathless with excitement, bearing the news of the message of Peace that had sped across a quarter of the world.
This in itself made that dinner-party memorable, but it was memorable in more ways than one, as among the twenty people round that table sat four of the chief performers in The Merry Wives of Windsor, which was to electrify London as a Coronation performance ten days later.
Sir Anderson himself is connected with the drama, for his brother is Mr. R. C. Carton, the well-known dramatic author. Sir Anderson is also an indefatigable first-nighter, and being an excellent raconteur, knows many amusing stories of actors of the day. In his early years an exceptionally fine voice almost tempted him on to the lyric stage, but he has had no cause to regret that his ultimate choice was ophthalmic surgery.
It was a stroke of genius, the genius of the seer, on the part of Beerbohm Tree, to invite the two leading actresses of England to perform at his theatre during Coronation season.
It came about in this way. On looking round the Houses, Mr. Tree noticed that, although Shakespeare was to the fore in the provinces, filling two or three theatres, there happened to be no Shakespearian production—except an occasional matinée at the Lyceum—going on in London during the Coronation month. Of course London without Shakespeare is like Hamlet without the Dane to visitors from the Colonies and elsewhere. Something must be done. He decided what. A good all-round representation, played without any particular star part would suit the purpose, and a record cast would suit the stranger. Accordingly Mr. Tree jumped into a hansom and drove to Mrs. Kendal’s home in Portland Place, where he was announced, and exclaimed:
“I have come to ask you to act for me at His Majesty’s for the Coronation month. Your own tour will be finished by that time.”
For one hour they talked, Mrs. Kendal declaring she had not played under any management save her husband’s for so many years that the suggestion seemed well-nigh impossible.
“Besides,” she added, “you should ask Ellen Terry, who is my senior, and stands ahead of me in the profession. She has not yet appeared since she returned from America. There is your chance.”
Whereupon there ensued further discussion, till finally Mrs. Kendal laughingly remarked:
“Well, if you can get Ellen Terry to act, I will play with you both with pleasure.”
Off went Mr. Tree to the hansom, and directed the driver to take him at once to Miss Terry’s house, for he was determined not to let the grass grow under his feet. He brought his personal influence to bear on the famous actress for another hour, at the end of which time she had consented to play if Sir Henry Irving would allow her. This permission was quickly obtained, and two hours after leaving Portland Place Mr. Tree was back to claim Mrs. Kendal’s promise. It was sharp work; one morning overcame what at the outset seemed insurmountable obstacles, and thus was arranged one of the best and luckiest performances ever given. For weeks and weeks that wonderful cast played to overflowing houses. The month wore on, but the public taste did not wear out, July found all these stars still in the firmament, and even in August they remained shining in town.
Moral: the very best always receives recognition. The “best” lay in the acting, for as a play the Merry Wives is by no means one of Shakespeare’s best. It is said he wrote it in ten days by order of Queen Elizabeth. How delighted Bouncing Bess would have been if she could have seen the Coronation performance!
Photo by London Stereoscopic Co., Ltd., Cheapside, E.C.
MR. BEERBOHM TREE AS FALSTAFF.
I passed down the Haymarket early in the morning preceding that famous first night. There, sitting on camp-stools, were people who had been waiting from 5 a.m. to get into the pit and gallery that evening. They had a long wait, over twelve hours some of them, but certainly they thought it worth while if they enjoyed themselves as much as I did. It was truly a record performance.
The house was packed; in one box was the Lord Chief Justice of England, in the stalls below him Sir Edward Clarke, at one time Solicitor-General, and who has perhaps the largest practice at the Bar of any one in London. Then there was Mr. Kendal not far off, watching his wife. Mr. and Mrs. Beerbohm Tree’s daughter—showing a strong resemblance to both parents—was in a box; Princess Colonna was likewise there; together with some of the most celebrated doctors, such as Sir Felix Semon, learned in diseases of the throat, Sir Anderson Critchett, our host of a few nights before, while right in the front sat old Mrs. Beerbohm, watching her son with keen interest and enjoyment, and, a little behind, that actor’s clever brother, known on an important weekly as “Max,” a severe and caustic dramatic critic.
The enthusiasm of the audience was extraordinary. When some one had called for the feminine “stars” at one of the rehearsals, Mrs. Kendal, with ready wit, seized Ellen Terry by the hand, exclaiming:
“Ancient Lights would be more appropriate, methinks!”
Below is the programme.
TUESDAY, JUNE 10th, 1902, at 8.15
SHAKESPEARE’S COMEDY
the merry wives of windsor
Sir John Falstaff Mr. Tree
Master Fenton Mr. Gerald Lawrence
Justice Shallow Mr. J. Fisher White
Master Slender (Cousin to Shallow) Mr. Charles Quartermain
Master Ford } Gentlemen dwelling at { Mr. Oscar Asche
Master Page Windsor Mr. F. Percival Stevens
Sir Hugh Evans (a Welsh Parson) Mr. Courtice Pounds
Dr. Caius (a French Physician) Mr. Henry Kemble
Host of the “Garter” Inn Mr. Lionel Brough
Bardolph
Mr. Allen Thomas
Nym Followers of Falstaff Mr. S. A. Cookson
Pistol Mr. Julian L’Estrange
Robin (Page to Falstaff) Master Vivyan Thomas
Simple (Servant to Slender) Mr. O. B. Clarence
Rugby (Servant to Dr. Caius) Mr. Frank Stanmore
Mistress Page Miss Ellen Terry
(By the Courtesy of Sir Henry Irving)
Mistress Anne Page (Daughter to Mrs. Page) Mrs. Tree
Mistress Quickly (Servant to Dr. Caius) Miss Zeffie Tilbury
Mistress Ford Mrs. Kendal
(By the Courtesy of Mr. W. H. Kendal)
The Merry Wives of Windsor is a comedy, but it was played on the first night as a comedy of comedies, every one, including Lionel Brough as the Innkeeper, being delightfully jovial. Every one seemed in the highest spirits, and all those sedate actors and actresses thoroughly enjoyed a romp. When the two ladies of the evening appeared on the scene hand in hand, convulsed with laughter, they were clapped so enthusiastically that it really seemed as if they would never be allowed to begin.
What a contrast they were, in appearance and style. They had played together as children, but never after, till that night. During the forty years that had rolled over Ellen Terry’s head since those young days she has developed into a Shakespearian actress of the first rank. Her life has been spent in declaiming blank verse, wearing medi?val robes, and enacting tragedy and comedy of ancient days by turn, and added to her vast experience, she has a great and wonderful personality.
Mrs. Kendal, on the other hand, who stands at the head of the comedians of the day, and is also mistress of her art, has played chiefly modern parts and depicted more constantly the sentiment of the time; but has seldom attacked blank verse; therefore, the two leading actresses of England are distinctly dissimilar in training and style. No stronger contrast could have been imagined; and yet, although neither part actually suited either, the finished actress was evident in every gesture, every tone, every look of both, and it would be hard to say which achieved the greatest triumph, each was so perfect in her own particular way.
Miss Ellen Terry did not know her words—she rarely does on a first night, and is even prone to forget her old parts. Appearing in a new character that she was obliged to learn for the occasion, she had not been able to memorise it satisfactorily; but that did not matter in the least. She looked charming, she was charming, the prompter was ever ready, and if she did repeat a line a second time while waiting to be helped with the next, no one seemed to think that of any consequence. When she went up the stairs to hide while Mrs. Kendal (Mrs. Ford) made Tree (Falstaff) propose to her, Mrs. Kendal packed her off in great style, and then wickedly and with amusing emphasis remarked:
“Mistress Page, remember your cue,” which of course brought down the house.
Their great scene came in the third act, when they put Falstaff into the basket. Mr. Tree was excellent as the preposterously fat knight—a character verily all stuff and nonsense. He is a tall man, and in his mechanical body reaches enormous girth. Falstaff and the Merry Wives had a regular romp over the upset of the basket, and the audience entering into the fun of the thing laughed as heartily as they did. Oh dear, oh dear! how every one enjoyed it.
A few nights later during this same scene Mr. Tree was observed to grow gradually thinner. He seemed to be going into a “rapid decline,” for his belt began to slip about, and his portly form grew less and less. Ellen Terry noticed the change: it was too much for her feelings. With the light-hearted gaiety of a child she was convulsed with mirth. She pointed out the phenomenon to Mrs. Kendal, who at once saw the humour of it, as did the audience, but the chief actor could not fathom the cause of the immoderate hilarity until his belt began to descend. Then he realised that “Little Mary”—which in his case was an air pillow—had lost her screw, and was rapidly fading away.
But to return to that memorable first night; as the curtain fell on the last act the audience clapped and clapped, and not content with having the curtain up four or five times, called and called until the entire company danced hand in hand across the stage in front of the curtain. Even that was not enough, although poor Mrs. Kendal lost her enormous horned head-dress during the dance. The curtain had to be rung up again and again, till Mr. Tree stepped forward and said he had no speech to make beyond thanking the two charming ladies for their assistance and support, whereupon these two executed pas seuls on either side of the portly Falstaff.
It was a wonderful performance, and although the two women mentioned stood out pre-eminently, one must not forget Mrs. Tree, who appeared as “Sweet Anne Page.” She received quite an ovation when her husband brought her forward to bow her acknowledgments. Bows on such an occasion or in such a comedy are quite permissible; but was ever anything more disconcerting than to see an actor who has just died before us in writhing agony, spring forward to bow at the end of some tragedy—to rise from the dead to smile—to see a man who has just moved us to tears and evoked our sympathy, stand gaily before us, to laugh at our sentiment and cheerily mock at our enthusiasm? Could anything be more inartistic? A “call” often spoils a tragedy, not only in the theatre but at the opera. Over zeal on the part of the audience, and over vanity on the side of the actor, drags away the veil of mystery which is our make-believe of reality, and shows glaringly the make-believe of the whole thing.
Mr. Beerbohm Tree never hesitates to tell a story against himself, and he once related an amusing experience in connection with his original production of The Merry Wives of Windsor.
In the final scene at Herne’s oak, where Falstaff is pursued by fairy elves and sprites, the burly knight endeavours to escape from his tormentors by climbing the trunk of a huge tree. In order to render this possible the manager had ordered some pegs to be inserted in the bark, but on the night of the final dress rehearsal these necessary aids were absent. A carpenter was summoned, and Mr. Tree, pointing to his namesake, said in tones of the deepest reproach:
“No pegs! No pegs!”
When the eventful first night came Falstaff found to his annoyance and amazement that he was still unable to compass the climb by which he hoped to create much amusement. On the fall of the curtain the delinquent was again called into the managerial presence and addressed in strong terms. He, however, quickly cut short the reproof by exclaiming:
“’Ere, I say, guvnor, ’old ’ard: what was your words last night at the re-’earsal? ’No pegs,’ you said—’no pegs’—well, there ain’t none,” and he gave a knowing smack of the lips as if to insinuate another kind of peg would be acceptable.
Experience has shown Mr. Tree that he can give the necessary appearance of bloated inflation to the cheeks of the fat knight by the aid of a paint-brush alone; but then Mr. Tree mixes his paints with brains. When he first essayed the character of Falstaff he relied for his effect on cotton wool and wig-paste. Even now his nose is deftly manipulated with paste to increase its size and shape, and I once saw him give it a tweak after a performance with droll effect. A little lump of nose-paste remained in his hand, while his own white organ shone forth in the midst of a rubicund countenance.
On an early occasion at the Crystal Palace Mr. Tree was delighted at a burst of uproarious merriment on the part of the audience, and flattered himself that the scene was going exceptionally well. Happening to glance downwards, however, he saw that the padding had slipped from his right leg, leaving him with one lean shank while the other leg still assumed gigantic proportions. He looked down in horror. The audience were not laughing with him, but at him. He endeavoured to beat a hasty retreat, but found he could not stir, for one of his cheeks had fallen off when leaning forward, and in more senses than one he had “put his foot in it” and required extra cheek, not less, to compass an exit from the stage.
Such are the drolleries incumbent on a character like Falstaff.
Mr. Tree has his serious moments, however, and none are more serious than his present contemplation of his Dramatic School, which he believes “will appeal not only to the profession of actors, but to all interested in the English theatre, the English language, and English oratory, men whose talents are occupied in public life, in politics, in the pulpit, or at the Bar. Unless a dramatic school can be self-supporting it is not likely to survive. Acting cannot be taught—but many things can—such as voice-production, gesture and deportment, fencing and dancing.”
Every one will wish his bold venture success; and if he teaches a few of our “well-known” actors and actresses to speak so that we can follow every word of what they say, which at present we often cannot do, he will confer a vast boon on English playgoers, and doubtless add largely to the receipts of the theatres. It is a brave effort on his part, and he deserves every encouragement.
As this chapter began with a first-night performance, it shall end with first-night thoughts.
Are we not one and all hypercritical on such occasions?
Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.
MISS ELLEN TERRY AS QUEEN KATHERINE.
We little realise the awful strain behind the scenes in the working of that vast machinery, the play. Not only is the author anxious, but the actors and actresses are worn out with rehearsals and nervousness: property men, wig-makers, scene-painters, and fly-men are all in a state of extreme tension. The front of the house little realises what a truly awful ordeal a first night is for all concerned, and while it is kind to encourage by clapping, it is cruel to condemn by hissing or booing.
All behind the footlights do their best, or try so far as nervousness will let them, and surely we in the audience should not expect a perfect or a smooth representation, and should give encouragement whenever possible.
After all, however much the actors may suffer from nervousness and anxiety on a first night, their position is not really so trying as that of the author. If the actor is not a success, it may be “the part does not suit him,” or “it is a bad play,” there may be the excuse of “want of adequate support,” for he is only one of a number; but the poor author has to bear the brunt of everything. If his play fail the whole thing is a fiasco. He is blamed by every one. It costs more to put on another play than to change a single actor. The author stands alone to receive abuse or praise; he knows that, not only may failure prove ruin to him, but it may mean loss to actors, actresses, managers, and even the call boy. Therefore the more conscientious he is, the more torture he suffers in his anxiety to learn the public estimation of his work. The criticism may not be judicious, but if favourable it brings grist to the mill of all concerned.
How W. S. Gilbert loves a Joke—A Brilliant Companion—Operas Reproduced without an Altered Line—Many Professions—A Lovely Home—Sir Arthur Sullivan’s Gift—A Rehearsal of Pinafore—Breaking up Crowds—Punctuality—Soldier or no Soldier—Iolanthe—Gilbert as an Actor—Gilbert as Audience—The Japanese Anthem—Amusement.
FEW authors are so interesting as their work—they generally reserve their wit or trenchant sarcasm for their books. W. S. Gilbert is an exception to this rule, however; he is as amusing himself as his Bab Ballads, and as sarcastic as H.M.S. Pinafore. A sparkling librettist, he is likewise a brilliant talker. How he loves a joke, even against himself. How well he tells a funny story, even if he invent it on the spot as “perfectly true.”
His mind is so quick, he grasps the stage-setting of a dinner-party at once, and forthwith adapts his drama of the hour to exactly suit his audience.
Like all amusing people, he has his quiet moments, of course; but when Mr. Gilbert is in good form he is inimitable. He talks like his plays, turns everything upside-down with wondrous rapidity, and propounds nonsensical theories in delightful language. He is assuredly the greatest wit of his day, and to him we owe the origin of musical-comedy in its best form.
With a congenial companion Mr. Gilbert is in his element. He is a fine-looking man with white hair and ponderous moustache, and owing to his youthful complexion appears younger than his years. He loves to have young people about him, and is never happier than when surrounded by friends.
In 1901, after an interval of nearly twenty years, his clever comic opera Iolanthe was revived at the Savoy with great success. Not one line, not one word of its original text had been altered, yet it took London by storm, just as did Pinafore when produced for the second time. How few authors’ work will stand so severe a test.
The genesis of Iolanthe is referable, like many of Mr. Gilbert’s libretti, to one of the Bab Ballads. The “primordial atomic globule” from which it traces its descent is a poem called The Fairy Curate, in which a clergyman, the son of a fairy, gets into difficulties with his bishop, who catches him in the act of embracing an airily dressed young lady, whom the bishop supposes to be a member of the corps de ballet. The bishop, reasonably enough, declines to accept the clergyman’s explanation that the young lady is his mother, and difficulties ensue. In the opera, Strephon, who is the son of the fairy Iolanthe, is detected by his fiancée Phyllis in the act of embracing his mother; Phyllis takes the bishop’s view of the situation, and complications arise.
Mr. Gilbert has penned such well-known blank verse dramas as The Palace of Truth, Pygmalion and Galatea, The Wicked Worlds, Broken Hearts, besides many serious and humorous plays and comedies—namely, Dan’l Druce, Engaged, Sweethearts, Comedy and Tragedy, and some dozen light operas.
It is a well-known fact that almost every comedian wishes to be a tragedian, and vice versa, and Mr. Gilbert is said to have had a great and mighty sorrow all his life. He always wanted to write serious dramas—long, five-act plays full of situations and thought. But no; fate ordained otherwise, when, having for a change started his little barque as a librettist, he had to persevere in penning what he calls “nonsense.” The public were right; they knew there was no other W. S. Gilbert; they wanted to be amused, so they continually clamoured for more; and if any one did not realise his genius at the first production, he can hardly fail to do so now, when the author’s plays are again presented after a lapse of years, without an altered line, and still make long runs. Some say the art of comedy-writing is dying out, and certainly no second Gilbert seems to be rising among the younger men of the present day, no humourist who can call tears or laughter at will, and send his audience away happy every night. The world owes a debt of gratitude to this gifted scribe, for he has never put an unclean line upon the stage, and yet provokes peals of laughter while shyly giving his little digs at existing evils. His style has justly created a name of its own.
W. S. Gilbert has always had a deep-rooted objection to newspaper interviews, just as he refuses ever to see one of his own plays performed. He attends the last rehearsal, gives the minutest directions up to the final moment, and then usually spends the evening in the green-room or in the wings of the theatre. Very few authors accept fame or success more philosophically than he does. When Princess Ida was produced he was sitting in the green-room, where there was an excitable Frenchman, who had supplied the armour used in the piece. The play was going capitally, and the Frenchman exclaimed, in wild excitement, “Mais savez-vous que nous avons là un succès solide?” To which Mr. Gilbert quietly replied, “Yes, your armour seems to be shining brightly.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with a gesture of amazement, “mais vous êtes si calme!”
And this would probably describe the outward appearance of the author on a first night; nevertheless nothing will induce him to go in front even with reproductions.
Mr. Gilbert, who was born in 1836, proudly remarks that he has cheated the doctors and signed a new lease of life on the twenty-one years’ principle. During those sixty-eight years he has turned his hand to many trades. After a career at the London University, where he took his B.A. degree, he read for the Royal Artillery, but the Crimean war was coming to an end, and consequently, more officers not being required, he became a clerk in the Privy Council Office, and was subsequently called to the Bar at the Inner Temple. He was also an enthusiastic militiaman, and at one time an occasional contributor to Punch, becoming thus an artist as well as a writer. His pictures are well known, for the two or three hundred illustrations in the Bab Ballads are all from his clever pencil. Neatly framed they now adorn the billiard-room of his charming country home, and, strange to relate, the originals are not much larger than the reproductions, the work being extremely fine. I have seen him make an excellent sketch in a few minutes at his home on Harrow Weald; but photography has latterly cast its fascinations about him, and he often disappears into some dark chamber for hours at a time, alone with his thoughts and his photographic pigments, for he develops and prints everything himself. The results are charming, more especially his scenic studies.
What a lovely home his is, standing in a hundred and ten acres right on the top of Harrow Weald, with a glorious view over London, Middlesex, Berks, and Bucks. He farms the land himself, and talks of crops and live stock with a glib tongue, although the real enthusiast is his wife, who loves her prize chickens and her roses. Grim’s Dyke has an ideal garden, with white pigeons drinking out of shallow Italian bowls upon the lawn, with its wonderful Egyptian tent, its rose-walks and its monkey-house, its lake and its fish. The newly-made lake is so well arranged that it looks quite old with its bulrushes, water-lilies of pink, white, and yellow hue, and its blue forget-me-nots. The Californian trout have proved a great success, and are a source of much sport. Everything is well planned and beautifully kept; no better lawns or neater walks, no more prolific glass houses or vegetable gardens could be found than those at Harrow Weald.
The Gilberts give delightful week-end parties, and the brightest star is generally the host himself.
At one of these recent gatherings, for which Grim’s Dyke is famous, some beautiful silver cups and a claret jug were upon the table. They were left by will to Mr. Gilbert by his colleague of so many years, Sir Arthur Sullivan, and are a great pleasure to both the host and hostess of that well-organised country house. I have met many interesting and clever people at Harrow Weald, for the brilliancy of the host and the charm of his wife naturally attract much that is best in this great city. It is a good house for entertaining, the music-room—formerly the studio of F. Goodall, R.A.—being a spacious oak-panelled chamber with a minstrels’ gallery, and cathedral windows. Excellent singing is often heard within those walls. Mr. Gilbert declares he is not musical himself; but such is hardly the case, for he on one or two occasions suggested to Sir Arthur Sullivan the style best suited to his words. His ear for time and rhythm is impeccable, but he fully admits he has an imperfect sense of tune.
The Squire of Harrow Weald is seen at his best at rehearsal.
H.M.S. Pinafore was first performed, I believe, in 1878, and about ten years afterwards it was revived in London. Ten years later, that is to say 1899, it was again revived, and one Monday morning when I was leaving Grim’s Dyke, Mr. Gilbert, who was coming up to town to attend a rehearsal, asked me if I would care to see it.
“Nothing I should like better,” I replied, “for I have always understood that you and Mr. Pinero are the two most perfect stage managers in England.”
We drove to the stage door of the Savoy, whence down strange and dark stone stairs we made our way to the front of the auditorium itself. We crossed behind the footlights, passing through a small, unpretending iron door into the house, Mr. Gilbert leading the way, to a side box, which at the moment was shrouded in darkness; he soon, however, pushed aside the white calico dust-sheets that hung before it, and after placing chairs for his wife and myself, and hoping we should be comfortable, departed. What a spectre that theatre was! Hanging from gallery to pit were dust-sheets, the stalls all covered up with brown holland wrappers, and gloom and darkness on all things. Verily a peep behind the scenes which, more properly speaking, was before the scenes in this case, is like looking at a private house preparing for a spring cleaning.
Photo by Langfier, 23a, Old Bond Street, London, W.
MR. W. S. GILBERT.
Built out over what is ordinarily the orchestra, was a wooden platform large enough to contain a piano brilliantly played by a woman, beside whom sat the conductor of the orchestra, who was naturally the teacher of the chorus, and next to him the ordinary stage manager, with a chair for Mr. Gilbert placed close by. The librettist, however, never sat on that chair. From 11.30 to 1.30—exactly two hours, he walked up and down in front of the stage, directing here, arranging there; one moment he was showing a man how to stand as a sailor, then how to clap his thighs in nautical style, and the next explaining to a woman how to curtsey, or telling a lover how to woo. Never have I seen anything more remarkable. In no sense a musician, Mr. Gilbert could hum any of the airs and show the company the minutest gesticulations at the same time. Be it understood they were already word and music perfect, and this was the second “stage rehearsal.” He never bullied or worried any one, he quietly went up to a person, and in the most insinuating manner said:
“If I were you, I think I should do it like this.”
And “this” was always so much better than their own performance that each actor quickly grasped the idea and copied the master. He even danced when necessary, to show them how to get the right number of steps in so as to land them at a certain spot at a certain time, explaining carefully:
“There are eight bars, and you must employ so many steps.”
Mr. Gilbert knows every bar, every intonation, every gesture, the hang of every garment, and the tilt of every hat. He has his plans and his ideas, and never alters the situations or even the gestures he has once thought out.
He marched up and down the stage advising an alteration here, an intonation there, all in the kindest way possible, but with so much strength of conviction that all his suggestions were adopted without a moment’s hesitation. He never loses his temper, always sees the weak points, and is an absolute master of stage craft. His tact on such occasions is wonderful.
The love and confidence of that company in Mr. Gilbert was really delightful, and I have no hesitation in saying he was the best actor in the whole company whichever part he might happen to undertake. If anything he did not like occurred in the grouping of the chorus he clapped his hands and everybody stopped, when he would call out:
“Gentlemen in threes, ladies in twos,” according to a style of his own.
Twenty-five years previously he had been so horrified at chorus and crowd standing round the stage in a ring, that he invented the idea of breaking them up, and thereafter, according to arrangement, when “twos” or “threes” were called out the performers were to group themselves and talk in little clusters, and certainly the effect was more natural.
Mr. Gilbert had no notes of any kind. He brought them with him, but never opened the volume, and yet he knew exactly how everything ought to be done. This was his first rehearsal with the company, who up till then had been in the stage manager’s hands and worked according to printed instructions. The scene was a very different affair after the mastermind had set the pawns in their right squares, and made the bishops and knights move according to his will. In two hours they had gone through the first act of Pinafore, and he clapped his hands and called for luncheon.
“It is just half-past one,” he said; “I am hungry, and I daresay you are hungry, so we will halt for half an hour. I shall be back by five minutes past two—that is five minutes’ grace, when”—bowing kindly—“I shall hope to see you again, ladies and gentlemen.”
We three lunched at the Savoy next door, and a few minutes before two he rose from the table, ere he had finished his coffee, and said he must go.
“You are in a hurry,” I laughingly said.
“Yes,” he replied, “I have made it a rule never to be late. The company know I shall be there, so the company will be in their places.”
A friend once congratulated him on his punctuality.
“Don’t,” he said; “I have lost more time by being punctual than by anything else.”
One thing in particular struck me as wonderful during the rehearsal. Half a dozen soldiers are supposed to come upon the stage, and at a certain point half a dozen untidily dressed men with guns in their hands marched in. Mr. Gilbert looked at them for a moment, and then he went up to one gallant warrior and said:
“Is that the way you hold your gun?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Really! Well, I never saw a soldier with his thumbs down before—in fact, I don’t think you are a soldier at all.”
“No, sir, I am a volunteer.”
Mr. Gilbert turned to the stage manager hastily, and said:
“I told you I wanted soldiers.”
“But there is a sergeant,” he replied.
“Sergeant,” called Mr. Gilbert, “step forward.” Which the sergeant did.
“You know your business,” the author remarked, watching the man’s movements, “but these fellows know nothing. Either bring me real soldiers, or else take these five men and drill them until at least they know how to stand properly before they come near me again.”
Later in the proceedings a dozen sailors marched on: he went up to them, asked some questions about how they would man the yard-arm, and on hearing their reply said:
“I see you know your business, you’ll do.”
As it turned out, they were all Naval Reserve men, so no wonder they knew their business. Still, Mr. Gilbert’s universal knowledge of all sorts and conditions of men struck me as wonderful on this and many other occasions. No more perfect stage manager exists, and no one gets more out of his actors and actresses.
At one time Patience was being played in the United States by dozens of companies, but that was before the days of copyright, and poor Mr. Gilbert never received a penny from America excepting once when a kindly person sent him a cheque for ￡100. Had he received copyright fees from the United States his wealth would have been colossal.
When Iolanthe was revived in London in 1902 I again attended a “call.” An entirely new company began rehearsing exactly ten days before the first night—any one who knows anything of the stage will realise what this means, and that a master-mind was necessary to drill actors and chorus in so short a time—yet the production was a triumph. This was the first occasion on which Sir Arthur Sullivan did not conduct the dress rehearsal or the first night of one of their joint operas. He had died shortly before.
Mr. Gilbert was delighted with the cast, and declared it was quite as good, and in some respects perhaps better, than the original had been. A few of the people had played principals in the provinces before; but he would not allow any of their own “business” and remarked quietly:
“In London my plays are produced as I wish them; in the provinces you can do as you like.”
And certainly they obeyed him so implicitly that if he had asked them all to stand on their heads in rows, I believe they would have done it smilingly.
When Mr. Gilbert was about thirty-five years old, a matinée of Broken Hearts was arranged for a charity. The author arrived at the theatre about one o’clock, to find Kyrle Bellew, who was to play the chief part, had fallen through a trap and was badly hurt. There was no understudy—and only an hour intervened before the advertised time of representation.
Good Heavens! what was to be done? The audience had paid their money, which the charity wanted badly, and without the hero the play was impossible.
He good-naturedly and kind-heartedly decided to play the part himself rather than let the entertainment fall through, wired for wig and clothes, and an hour and a half later walked on to the stage as an actor. He knew every line of the play of course, not only the hero’s, but all the others’, and he had just coached every situation. The papers duly thanked him and considered him a great success. That was his only appearance upon the stage in public.
For twenty-five years he never saw one of his own plays, not caring to sit in front; but once, at a watering-place in the Fatherland where The Mikado was being given, some friends persuaded him to see it in German.
“I know what rubbish these comic operas are, and I should feel ashamed to sit and hear them and know they were mine,” he modestly remarked.
Nevertheless he went, and was rather amused, feeling no responsibility on his shoulders, and afterwards saw The Mikado in England at a revival towards the end of the nineties. He once told me a rather amusing little story about The Mikado. A gentleman who had been many years in the English Legation at Yokohama, attended some of the rehearsals, and was most useful in giving hints as to positions and manners in Japan. Mr. Gilbert wanted some effective music for the entrance of the Mikado—nothing Mr. Arthur Sullivan suggested suited—so turning to the gentleman he said:
“Can’t you hum the national Japanese anthem?”
“Oh yes,” he said cheerily. And he did.
“Capital—it’ll just do.”
Mr. Sullivan—for he was not then Sir Arthur—made notes, wrote it up, and the thing proved a great success. Some time afterwards a furious letter came from a Japanese, saying an insult had been offered the Mikado of Japan, the air to which that illustrious prince entered the scene instead of being royal was a music hall tune! Whether this is so or not remains a mystery, anyway it is a delightful melody, and most successful to this day.
Mr. Gilbert has been a great traveller—for many years he wintered abroad in India, Japan, Burmah, Egypt, or Greece, and at one time he was the enthusiastic owner of a yacht; but this amusement he has given up because so few of his friends were good sailors, and so he has taken to motoring instead.
Croquet-playing and motoring are the chief amusements of this “retired humourist,” as a local cab-driver once described the Squire of Grim’s Dyke.
Origin of Pantomime—Drury Lane in Darkness—One Thousand Persons—Rehearsing the Chorus—The Ballet—Dressing-rooms—Children on the Stage—Size of “The Lane”—A Trap-door—The Property-room—Made on the Premises—Wardrobe-woman—Dan Leno at Rehearsal—Herbert Campbell—A Fortnight Later—A Chat with the Principal Girl—Miss Madge Lessing.
EXACTLY nine days before Christmas, 1902, the first rehearsal for the pantomime of Mother Goose took place at Drury Lane. It seemed almost incredible that afternoon that such a thing as a “first night,” with a crowded house packed full of critics, could witness a proper performance nine days later, one of which, being a Sunday, did not count.
The pantomime is one of England’s institutions. It originally came from Italy, but as known to-day is essentially a British production, and little understood anywhere else in the world. For the last three years, however, the Drury Lane pantomime has been moved bodily to New York with considerable success.
What would Christmas in London be without its Drury Lane? What would the holidays be without the clown and harlequin? Young and old enjoy the exquisite absurdity of the nursery rhyme dished up as a Christmas pantomime.
The interior of that vast theatre, Drury Lane, was shrouded in dust-sheets and darkness, the front doors were locked, excepting at the booking office, where tickets were being sold for two and three months ahead, and a long queue of people were waiting to engage seats for family parties when the pantomime should be ready.
At the stage door all was bustle; children of all ages and sizes were pushing in and out; carpenters, shifters, supers, ballet girls, chorus, all were there, too busy to speak to any one as they rushed in from their cup of tea at the A.B.C., or stronger drink procured at the “pub” opposite. It was a cold, dreary day outside; but it was colder and drearier within. Those long flights of stone steps, those endless stone passages, struck chill and cheerless as a cellar, for verily the back of a theatre resembles a cellar or prison more than anything I know.
Drury Lane contains a little world. It is reckoned that about one thousand people are paid “back and front” every Friday night. One thousand persons! That is the staff of the pantomime controlled by Mr. Arthur Collins. Fancy that vast organisation, those hundreds of people, endless scenery, and over two thousand dresses superintended by one man, and that a young one.
For many weeks scraps of Mother Goose had been rehearsed in drill-halls, schoolrooms, and elsewhere, but never till the day of which I write had the stage been ready for rehearsal. They had worked hard, all those people; for thirteen-and-a-half hours on some days they had already been “at it.” Think what thirteen-and-a-half-hours mean. True, no one is wanted continuously, still all must be on the spot. Often there is nowhere to sit down, therefore during those weary hours the performers have to stand—only between-whiles singing or dancing their parts as the case may be.
“I’m that dead tired,” exclaimed a girl, “I feel just fit to drop,” and she probably expressed the feelings of many of her companions.
The rehearsal of The Rose of the Riviera, was going on in the saloon, which a hundred years ago was the fashionable resort of all the fops of the town. Accordingly to the saloon I proceeded where Miss Madge Lessing, neatly dressed in black and looking tired, was singing her solos, and dancing her steps with the chorus.
“It is very hard work,” she said. “I have been through this song until I am almost voiceless; and yet I only hum it really, for if we sang out at rehearsal, we should soon be dead.”
The saloon was the ordinary foyer, but on that occasion, instead of being crowded with idlers smoking and drinking during the entr’actes, it was filled with hard-worked ballet girls and small boys who were later to be transformed into dandies. They wore their own clothes. The women’s long skirts were held up with safety-pins, to keep them out of the way when dancing, their shirts and blouses were of every hue; on their heads they wore men’s hats that did not fit them, as they lacked the wigs they would wear later, and each carried her own umbrella, many of which, when opened, seemed the worse for wear. At the end of the bar was a cottage piano, where the composer played his song for two-and-a-half hours, while it was rehearsed again and again—a small man with a shocking cold conducting the chorus. He is, I am told, quite a celebrity as a stage “producer,” and was engaged in that capacity by Mr. George Edwards at the New Gaiety Theatre. How I admired that small man. His energy and enthusiasm were catching, and before he finished he had made those girls do just what he wanted. But oh! how hard he worked, in spite of frequent resort to his pocket-handkerchief and constant fits of sneezing.
“This way, ladies, please”—he repeated over and over, and then proceeded to show them how to step forward on “Would—you like a—flower?” and to take off their hats at the last word of the sentence. Again and again they went through their task; but each time they seemed out of line, or out of time, not quick enough or too quick, and back they had to go and begin the whole verse once more. Even then he was not satisfied.
“Again, ladies, please,” he called, and again they all did the passage. This sort of thing had been going on since 11 o’clock, the hour of the “call,” and it was then 4 p.m.—but the rehearsal was likely to last well into the night and begin again next morning at 11 a.m. This was to continue all day, and pretty well all night for nine days, when, instead of a holiday, the pantomime was really to commence with its two daily performances, and its twelve hours per diem attendance at the theatre for nearly four months. Yet there are people who think the stage is all fun and frolic! Little they know about the matter.
Actors are not paid for rehearsals, as we have seen before, and many weeks of weary attendance for the pantomime have to be given gratis, just as they are for legitimate drama. Those beautiful golden fairies, all glitter and gorgeousness, envied by spectators in front, only receive ￡1 a week on an average for twelve hours’ occupation daily, and that merely for a few weeks, after which time many of them earn nothing more till the next pantomime season. It is practically impossible to give an exact idea of salaries: they vary so much. “Ballet girls,” when proficient, earn more than any ordinary “chorus” or “super,” with the exception of “show girls.” Those in the rank of “principals,” or “small-part ladies,” of course earn more.
Ballet girls begin their profession at eight years of age, and even in their prime can only earn on an average ￡2 a week.
In the ballet-room an iron bar runs all round the sides of the wall, about four feet from the floor, as in a swimming bath. It is for practice. The girls hold on to the bar, and learn to kick and raise their legs by the hour; with its aid suppleness of movement, flexibility of hip and knee are acquired. Girls spend years of their life learning how to earn that forty shillings a week, and how to keep it when they have earned it; for the ballet girl has to be continually practising, or her limbs would quickly stiffen and her professional career come to an end.
No girl gets her real training at the Lane. All that is done in one of the dancing schools kept by Madame Katti Lanner, Madame Cavalazzi, John D’Auban, or John Tiller. When they are considered sufficiently proficient they get engagements, and are taught certain movements invented by their teachers to suit the particular production of the theatre itself.
The ballet is very grand in the estimation of the pantomime, for supers, male and female, earn considerably less salary than the ballet for about seventy-two hours’ attendance at the theatre. Out of their weekly money they have to provide travelling expenses to and from the theatre, which sometimes come heavy, as many of them live a long distance off; they have to pay rent also, and feed as well as clothe themselves, settle for washing, doctor, amusements—everything, in fact. Why, a domestic servant is a millionaire when compared with a chorus or ballet girl, and she is never harassed with constant anxiety as to how she can pay her board, rent, and washing bills. Yet how little the domestic servant realises the comforts—aye luxury—of her position.
The dressing-rooms are small and cheerless. Round the sides run double tables, the top one being used for make-up boxes, the lower for garments. In the middle of the floor is a wooden stand with a double row of pegs upon it, utilised for hanging up dresses. Eight girls share a “dresser” (maid) between them. The atmosphere of the room may be imagined, with flaring gas jets, nine women, and barely room to turn round amid the dresses. The air becomes stifling at times, and there is literally no room to sit down even if the costumes would permit of such luxury, which generally they will not. In this tiny room performers have to wait for their “call,” when they rush downstairs, through icy cold passages, to the stage, whence they must return again in time to don the next costume required.
Prior to the production, as we have seen, there are a number of rehearsals, followed for many weeks by two performances a day, consequently the children who are employed cannot go on with their education, and to avoid missing their examinations a school-board mistress has been appointed, who teaches them their lessons during the intervals. These children must be bright scholars, for they are the recipients at the end of the season of several special prizes for diligence, punctuality, and good conduct.
An attempt was recently made to limit the age of children employed on the stage to fourteen, but the outcry raised was so great that it could not be done. For children under eleven a special licence is required.
Miss Ellen Terry said, on the subject of children on the stage: “I am an actress, but first I am a woman, and I love children,” and then proceeded to advocate the employment of juveniles upon the stage. She spoke from experience, for she acted as a child herself. “I can put my finger at once on the actors and actresses who were not on the stage as children,” she continued. “With all their hard work they can never acquire afterwards that perfect unconsciousness which they learn then so easily. There is no school like the stage for giving equal chances to boys and girls alike.”
There seems little doubt about it, the ordinary stage child is the offspring of the very poor, his playground the gutter, his surroundings untidy and unclean, his food and clothing scanty, and such being the case he is better off in every way in a well-organised theatre, where he learns obedience, cleanliness, and punctuality. The sprites and fairies love their plays, and the greatest punishment they can have—indeed, the only one inflicted at Drury Lane—is to be kept off the stage a whole day for naughtiness.
They appear to be much better off in the theatre than they would be at home, although morning school and two performances a day necessitate rather long hours for the small folk. They have a nice classroom, and are given buns and milk after school; but their dressing accommodation is limited. Many of the supers and children have to change as best they can under the stage, for there is not sufficient accommodation for every one in the rooms.
The once famous “Green-room” of Drury Lane has been done away with. It is now a property-room, where geese’s heads line the shelves, or golden seats and monster champagne bottles litter the floor.
There have been many changes at Drury Lane. It was rebuilt after the fire in 1809, and reopened in 1812, but vast alterations have been carried out since then. Woburn Place is now part of the stage. Steps formerly led from Russell Street to Vinegar Yard, but they have been swept away and the stage enlarged until it is the biggest in the world. Most ordinary theatres have an opening on the auditorium of about twenty-five feet; Drury Lane measures fifty-two feet from fly to fly, and is even deeper in proportion. The entire stage is a series of lifts, which may be utilised to move the floor up or down. Four tiers, or “flats,” can be arranged, and the floor moved laterally so as to form a hill or mound. All this is best seen from the mezzanine stage, namely, that under the real one, where the intricacies of lifts and ropes and rooms for electricians become most bewildering. Here, too, are the trap-doors. For many years they went out of fashion, as did also the ugly masks, but a Fury made his entrance by a trap on Boxing Day, 1902, and this may revive the custom again. The actor steps on a small wooden table in the mezzanine stage, and at a given sign the spring moves and he is shot to the floor above. How I loved and pondered as a child over these wonderful entrances of fairies and devils. And after all there was nothing supernatural about them, only a wooden table and a spring. How much of the glamour vanishes when we look below the surface, which remark applies not only to the stage, but to so many things in life.
Every good story seems to have been born a chestnut. Some one always looks as if he had heard it before. At the risk of arousing that sarcastic smile I will relate the following anecdote, however.
A certain somewhat stout Mephistopheles had to disappear through a trap-door amid red fire, but the trap was small and he was big and stuck halfway. The position was embarrassing, when a voice from the gallery called out:
“Cheer up, guv’nor. Hell’s full.”
Electricity plays a great part in the production of a pantomime, not only as regards the lighting of the scenes, but also as a motive power for the lifts which are used for the stage. Many new inventions born during the course of a year are utilised when the Christmas festival is put on.
The property-room presents a busy scene before a pantomime, and really it is wonderful what can be produced within its walls. Almost everything is made in papier maché. Elaborate golden chairs and couches, chariots and candelabras, although framed in wood, are first moulded in clay, then covered with papier maché. Two large fires burned in the room, which when I entered was crowded with workmen, and the heat was overpowering. Amid all that miscellaneous property, every one seemed interested in what he was doing, whether making wire frames for poke bonnets, or larger wire frames for geese, or the groundwork of champagne bottles to contain little boys. Each man had a charcoal drawing on brown paper to guide him, and very cleverly many of the drawings were executed. Some of the men were quite sculptors, so admirably did they model masks and figures in papier maché. The more elaborate pieces are prepared outside the theatre, but a great deal of the work for the production is done within old Drury Lane.
What becomes of these extra property-men after the “festive season”? Practically the same staff appear each Christmas only to disappear from “The Lane” for almost another year. Of course there is a large permanent staff of property-men employed, but it is only at Christmas-time that so large an army is required for the gigantic pantomime changes with the transformation scenes.
That nearly everything is made on the premises is in itself a marvel. Of course the grander dresses are obtained from outside; some come from Paris, while others are provided by tradesmen in London. The expense is very great; indeed, it may be roughly reckoned it costs about ￡20,000 to produce a Drury Lane Pantomime; but then, on the other hand, that sum is generally taken at the doors or by the libraries in advance-booking before the curtain rises on the first night.
An important person at Drury Lane is the wardrobe-woman. She has entire control of thousands of dresses, and keeps a staff continually employed mending and altering, for after each performance something requires attention. She has a little room of her own, mostly table, so far as I could see, on which were piled dresses, poke bonnets, and artists’ designs, while round the walls hung more dresses brought in for her inspection. In other odd rooms and corners women sat busily sewing, some trimming headgear, other spangling ribbon. Some were joining seams by machinery, others quilling lace; nothing seemed finished, and yet everything had to be ready in nine days, and that vast pile of chaos reduced to order. It seemed impossible; but the impossible was accomplished.
“Why this hurry?” some one may ask.
“Because the autumn drama was late in finishing, the entire theatre had to be cleared, and although everything was fairly ready outside, nothing could be brought into Drury Lane till a fortnight before Boxing Day. Hence the confusion and hurry.”
Large wooden cases of armour, swords and spears, from abroad, were waiting to be unpacked, fitted to each girl, and numbered so that the wearer might know her own.
Among the properties were some articles that looked like round red life-belts, or window sand-bags sewn into rings. These were the belts from which fairies would be suspended. They had leather straps and iron hooks attached, with the aid of which these lovely beings—as seen from the front—disport themselves. What a disillusion! Children think they are real fairies flying through air, and after all they are only ordinary women hanging to red sand-bags, made up like life-belts, and suspended by wire rope. Even those wonderful wings are only worn for a moment. They are slipped into a hole in the bodice of every fairy’s back just as she goes upon the stage, and taken out again for safety when the good lady leaves the wings in the double sense. The wands and other larger properties are treated in the same way.
Now for the stage and the rehearsal. We could hear voices singing, accompanied by a piano with many whizzing notes.
The place was dimly lighted. Scene-shifters were busy rehearsing their “sets” at the sides, the electrician was experimenting with illuminations from above; but the actors, heeding none of these matters, went on with their own parts. The orchestra was empty and not boarded over; so that the cottage piano had to stand at one side of the stage, and near it I was given a seat. A T-piece of gas had been fixed above the footlights, so as to enable the prompter to follow his book, and—gently be it spoken—allow some of the actors to read their parts. The star was not there—I looked about for the mirth-provoking Dan Leno, but failed to see him. Naturally he was the one person I particularly wanted to watch rehearse, for I anticipated much amusement from this wonderful comedian, with his inspiring gift of humour. Where was he?
A sad, unhappy-looking little man, with his MS. in a brown paper cover, was to be seen wandering about the back of the stage. He appeared miserable. One wondered at such a person being there at all, he looked so out of place. He did not seem to know a word of his “book,” or, in fact, to belong in any way to the pantomime.
It seemed incredible that this could be one of the performers. He wore a thick top coat with the collar turned up to keep off the draughts, a thick muffler and a billycock hat; really one felt sorry for him, he looked so cold and wretched. I pondered for some time why this sad little gentleman should be on the stage at all.
“Dan, Dan, where are you?” some one called.
“Me? Oh, I’m here,” replied the disconsolate-looking person, to my amazement.
“It’s your cue.”
“Oh, is it? Which cue?” asked the mufflered individual who was about to impersonate mirth.
“Why, so and so——”
“What page is that?”
“Twenty-three.”
Whereupon the great Dan—for it was really Dan himself—proceeded to find number twenty-three, and immediately began reading a lecture to the goose in mock solemn vein, when some one cried:
“No, no, man, that’s not it, you are reading page thirteen; we’ve done that.”
“Oh, have we? Thank you. Ah yes, here it is.”
“That’s my part,” exclaimed Herbert Campbell. “Your cue is——”
“Oh, is it?” and poor bewildered, unhappy-looking Dan made another and happier attempt.
It had often previously occurred to me that Dan Leno gagged his own part to suit himself every night—and really after this rehearsal the supposition seemed founded on fact, for apparently he did not know one word of anything nine days before the production of Mother Goose, in which he afterwards made such a brilliant hit.
“Do I say that?” he would inquire, or, “Are you talking to me?”
After such a funny exhibition it seemed really wonderful to consider how excellent and full of humour he always is on the stage; but what a strain it must be, what mental agony, to feel you are utterly unprepared to meet your audience, that you do not know your words, and that only by making a herculean effort can the feat be accomplished.
Herbert Campbell differs from Dan Leno not only in appearance but method. He was almost letter-perfect at that rehearsal, he had studied his “book,” and was splendidly funny even while only murmuring his part. He evidently knew exactly what he was going to do, and although he did not trouble to do it, showed by a wave of his hand or a step where he meant business when the time came.
Herbert Campbell’s face, like the milkmaid’s, is his fortune. That wonderful under lip is full of fun. He has only to protrude it, and open his eyes, and there is the comedian personified. Comedians are born, not made, and the funny part of it is most of them are so truly tragic at heart and sad in themselves.
There is a story I often heard my grandfather, James Muspratt, tell of Liston, the comic actor.
Liston was in Dublin early in the nineteenth century, and nightly his performance provoked roars of laughter. One day a man walked into the consulting-room of a then famous doctor.
“I am very ill,” said the patient. “I am suffering from depression.”
“Tut, tut,” returned the physician, “you must pull yourself together, you must do something to divert your thoughts. You must be cheerful and laugh.”
“Good Heavens! I would give a hundred pounds to enjoy a real, honest laugh again, doctor.”
“Well, you can easily do that for a few shillings, and I’ll tell you how. Go and see Liston to-night, he will make you laugh, I am sure.”
“Not he.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am Liston.”
Collapse of the doctor.
This shows the tragedy of the life of a comic actor. How often we see the amusing, delightful man or woman in society, and little dream how different they are at home. Most of us have two sides to our natures, and most of us are better actors than we realise ourselves, or than our friends give us credit for.
But to return to Drury Lane. Peering backwards across the empty orchestra I saw by the dim light that in the stalls sat, or leaned, women and children. Mr. Collins, who was in the front of the stage, personally attending to every detail, slipped forward.
“Huntsmen and gamekeepers,” he cried. Immediately there was a flutter, and in a few minutes these good women—for women were to play the r?les—were upon the back of the stage.
“Dogs,” he called again. With more noise than the female huntsmen had made, boys got up and began to run about the stage on all fours as “dogs.”
They surrounded Dan Leno.
“I shall hit you if you come near me,” he cried, pretending to do so with his doubled-up gloves.
The lads laughed.
“Growl,” said Mr. Collins—so they turned their laugh into a growl, followed round the stage by Dan, and the performance went on.
It was all very funny—funny, not because of any humour, for that was entirely lacking, but because of the simplicity and hopelessness of every one. Talk about a rehearsal at private theatricals—why, it is no more disturbing than an early stage rehearsal; but the seasoned actor knows how to pull himself out of the tangle, whereas the amateur does not.
About a fortnight after the pantomime began I chanced one afternoon to be at Drury Lane again, and while stopping for a moment in the wings, the great Dan Leno came and stood beside me, waiting for his cue. He was dressed as Mother Goose, and leant against the endless ropes that seemed to frame every stage entrance; some one spoke to him, but he barely answered, he appeared preoccupied. All at once his turn came. On he went, hugging a goose beneath which walked a small boy. Roars of applause greeted his entrance, he said his lines, and a few moments later came out amid laughter and clapping. “This will have cheered him up,” thought I—but no. There I left him waiting for his next cue, but I had not gone far before renewed roars of applause from the house told me Dan Leno was again on the stage. What a power to be able to amuse thousands of people every week, to be able to bring mirth and joy into many a heart, to take people out of themselves and make the saddest merry—and Dan can do all this.
The object of my second visit was to have a little chat with Miss Madge Lessing, the “principal girl,” who exclaimed as I entered her dressing-room:
“I spend eleven hours in the theatre every day during the run of the pantomime.”
After that who can say a pantomime part is a sinecure? Eleven hours every day dressing, singing, dancing, acting, or—more wearisome of all—waiting. No one unaccustomed to the stage can realise the strain of such work, for it is only those who live at such high pressure, who always have to be on the alert for the “call-boy,” who know what it is to be kept at constant tension for so many consecutive hours.
Matinée days are bad enough in ordinary theatres, but the pantomime is a long series of matinée days extending over three months or more. Of course it is not compulsory to stay in the theatre between the performances; but it is more tiring, for the leading-lady, to dress and go out for a meal than to stay in and have it brought to the dressing-room.
Miss Lessing was particularly fortunate in her room; the best I have ever seen in any theatre. Formerly it was Sir Augustus Harris’s office. It was large and lofty, and so near the stage—on a level with which it actually stood—that one could hear what was going on in front. This was convenient in many ways, although it had its drawbacks. Many of our leading theatrical lights have to traverse long flights of stairs between every act; while Miss Lessing was so close to the stage she need not leave her room until it was actually time to step upon the boards.
It was a matinée when the pantomime was in full swing that I bearded the lion in her den, and a pretty, dainty little lion I found her. It was a perilous journey to reach her room, but I bravely followed the “dresser” from the stage door. We passed a lilliputian pony about the size of a St. Bernard dog, we bobbed under the heads and tails of horses so closely packed together there was barely room for us to get between. The huntsmen were already mounted, for they were just going on, and I marvelled at the good behaviour of those steeds; they must have known they could not move without doing harm to some one, and so considerately remained still. We squeezed past fairies, our faces tickled by their wings, our dresses caught by their spangles, so closely packed was humanity “behind.” There were about two hundred scene-shifters incessantly at work moving “cloths,” and “flies,” and “drops,” and properties of all kinds. Miss Lessing was just coming off the stage, dressed becomingly in white muslin, with a blue Red Riding Hood cape and poppy-trimmed straw hat.
“Come along,” she said, “this is my room, and it is fairly quiet here.” The first things that strike a stranger are Miss Lessing’s wonderful grey Irish eyes and her American accent.
“Both are correct,” she laughed. “I’m Irish by extraction, although born in London, and I’ve lived in America since I was fourteen; so you see there is ground for both your surmises.”
Miss Lessing is a Roman Catholic, and was educated at the Convent of the Sacred Heart at Battersea.
“I always wanted to go on the stage as long as ever I can remember,” she told me, “and I positively ran away from home and went over to America, where I had a fairly hard time of it. By good luck I managed to get an engagement in a chorus, and it chanced that two weeks later one of the better parts fell vacant owing to a girl’s illness, and I got it—and was fortunate enough to keep it, as she was unable to return, and the management were satisfied with me. I had to work very hard, had to take anything and everything offered to me for years. Had to do my work at night and improve my singing and dancing by day; but nothing is accomplished without hard work, is it? And I am glad I went through the grind because it has brought me a certain amount of reward.”
One had only to look at Miss Lessing to know she is not easily daunted; those merry eyes and dimpled cheeks do not detract from the firmness of the mouth and the expression of determination round the laughing lips. There was something particularly dainty about the “principal girl” at Drury Lane, and a sense of refinement and grace one does not always associate with pantomime.
“Why, yes,” she afterwards added, “I played all over the States, and after nine years was engaged by Mr. Arthur Collins to return to London and appear in the pantomime of The Sleeping Beauty. Of course, I felt quite at home in London, although I must own I nearly died of fright the first time I played before an English audience. It seemed like beginning the whole thing over again. Londoners are more exacting than their American cousins; but I must confess, when they like a piece, or an artist, they are most lavish in their applause and approbation.”
It was cold, and Miss Lessing pulled a warm shawl over her shoulders and poked the fire. It can be cold even in such a comfortable dressing-room, with the luxury of a fire, for the draughts outside, either on the stage or round it, in such a large theatre are incredible to an ordinary mind. Frequenters of the stalls know the chilly blast that blows upon them when the curtain rises, so they may form some slight idea of what it is like behind the scenes on a cold night.
“After the performance I take off my make-up and have my dinner,” laughed Miss Lessing. “I don’t think I should enjoy my food if all this mess were left on; at all events I find it a relief to cold-cream it off. One gets a little tired of dinners on a tray for weeks at a time when one is not an invalid; but by the time I’ve eaten mine, and had a little rest, it is the hour to begin again, for the evening performance is at hand.”
“At all events, though, you can read and write between whiles,” I remarked.
“That is exactly what one cannot do. I no sooner settle down to a book or letters than some one wants me. It is the constant disturbance, the everlasting interruption, that make two performances a day so trying; but I love the life, even if it be hard, and thoroughly enjoy my pantomime season.”
“Have you had many strange adventures in your theatrical life, Miss Lessing?”
“None: mine has been a placid existence on the whole, for,” she added, laughing, “I have not even lost diamonds or husbands!”
Sir Henry Irving’s Position—Miss Geneviève Ward’s Dress—Reformations in Lighting—The most Costly Play ever Produced—Strong Individuality—Character Parts—Irving earned his Living at Thirteen—Actors and Applause—A Pathetic Story—No Shakespeare Traditions—Imitation is not Acting—Irving’s Appearance—His Generosity—The First Night of Dante—First night of Faust—Two Terriss Stories—Sir Charles Wyndham.
HENRY IRVING is a name which ought to be revered for ever in stageland. He has done more for the drama than any other actor in any other country. He has tactfully and gracefully made speeches that have commanded respect. He has ennobled his profession in many ways.
As Sir Squire Bancroft was the pioneer of “small decorations,” so Sir Henry Irving has been the pioneer of “large details.” Artistic effect and magnificent stage pictures have been his cult; but nothing is too insignificant for his notice.
Miss Geneviève Ward told me that in the play of Becket a superb costume was ordered for her. It cost fifty or sixty guineas, but when she tried it on she felt the result was disappointing. A little unhappy about the matter she descended to the stage.
“Great Heavens, Miss Ward! what have you got on?” exclaimed the actor manager.
“My new dress, sire, may it please you well,” was the meek reply, accompanied by a mock curtsey.
“You look a cross between a Newhaven fish-wife and a balloon,” he laughed; “that will never do. It is most unbecoming. As we cannot make you thinner to suit the dress, we must try and make the dress thinner to suit you.”
They chaffed and laughed; but finally it was decided alterations would spoil the costume—which in its way was faultless—so without any hesitation Henry Irving relegated it to a “small-part lady,” and ordered a new dress for Miss Ward.
Perhaps the greatest reform this actor ever effected was in the matter of stage lighting. No one previously paid any particular attention to this subject, a red glass or a blue one achieved all that was thought necessary, until he realised the wonderful effects that might be produced by properly thrown lights, and made a study of the subject.
It was Henry Irving who first started the idea of changing the scenes in darkness, a custom now so general, not only in Britain but abroad. He first employed varied coloured lights, and laid stress on illumination generally. It was he who first plunged the auditorium into darkness to heighten the stage effects.
“Stage lighting and grouping,” said Irving on one occasion, “are of more consequence than the scenery. Without descending to minute realism, the nearer one approaches to the truth the better. The most elaborate scenery I ever had was for Romeo and Juliet, but as I was not the man to play Romeo the scenery could not make it a success. It never does—it only helps the actor. The whole secret of successful stage management is thoroughness and attention to detail.”
To Sir Henry Irving is also due the honour of first employing high-class artists to design dresses, eminent musicians to compose music which he lavishly introduced. It is said that his production of Henry VIII., a sumptuous play, cost ￡16,000 to mount, but all his great costume plays have cost from ￡3,000 to ￡10,000 each.
Sir Henry Irving is famous for his speeches. Few persons know he reads every word of them. Carefully thought out—for he wisely never speaks at random—and type-written, his MS. lies open before him, and being quite accustomed to address an audience, he quietly, calmly, deliberately reads it off with dramatic declamation. His voice has been a subject of comment by many. That characteristic intonation so well known upon the stage is never heard in private life, and even in reading a speech is little noticeable.
Photo by Window & Grove, Baker Street, W.
SIR HENRY IRVING.
If there ever was a case of striking individuality on the stage it is surely to be found in Henry Irving. People often ask if it is a good thing for the exponents of the dramatic profession to possess a strong personality. It is often voiced that it is bad for a part to have the prominent characteristics of the actor noticeable, and yet at the same time there is no doubt about it, it is the men and women of marked character who are successful upon the stage. They may possess great capability for “make-up,” they may entirely alter their appearance, they may throw themselves into the part they are playing; but tricks of manner, intonations of voice, and peculiarities of gesture appear again and again, and very often it is this particular personality that the public likes best.
In olden days it was the fashion—if we may judge from last century books—to speak clearly and to “rant” when excited; in modern days it is the fashion to speak indistinctly, and play with “reserved force.” The drama has its fancies and its fashions like our dresses or our hats.
No man upon the stage has gone through a more severe mill than Sir Henry Irving. Forty-six years ago he was working in the provinces at a trifling salary on which he had to live. Board, lodging, washing, clothes, even some of his stage costumes, had to come out of that guinea a week. The success he has attained has been arrived at—in addition to his genius and ability—by sheer hard work and conscientious attempts to do his best, consequently at the age of sixty-five he was able to fill a vast theatre like Drury Lane when playing in such a trying part as Dante.
The first years of the actor’s life were spent at an office desk. He began to earn his own living as a clerk at thirteen; but during that time he memorised and studied various plays. He learnt fencing, and at the age of nineteen, when he first took to the stage, he was well equipped for his new profession.
For ten years he made little headway, however, and first came into notice as a comedian. In his early days every one thought Irving ought to play “character parts.”
“What that phrase means,” he remarked later, “I never could understand, for I have a prejudice in the belief that every part should be a character. I always wanted to play the higher drama. Even in my boyhood my desire had been in that direction. When at the Vaudeville Theatre, I recited Eugene Aram, simply to get an idea as to whether I could impress an audience with a tragic theme. In my youth I was associated in the public mind with all sorts of bad characters, housebreakers, blacklegs, thieves, and assassins.”
And this was the man who was to popularise Shakespeare on the modern English stage—the man to show the world that Shakespeare spelt Fame and Success.
That acting is a fatiguing art Irving denies. He once played Hamlet over two hundred nights in succession, and yet the Dane takes more out of him than any of his characters. Hamlet is the one he loves best, however, just as Ellen Terry’s favourite part is Portia.
In Percy Fitzgerald’s delightful Life of Henry Irving we find the following interesting and characteristic little story:
“Perhaps the most remarkable Christmas dinner at which I have ever been present, was one at which we dined upon underclothing. Do you remember Joe Robins—a nice, genial fellow who played small parts in the provinces? Ah, no! that was before your time. Joe Robins was once in the gentleman’s furnishing business in London city. I think he had a wholesale trade, and was doing well. However, he belonged to one of the semi-Bohemian clubs; associated a great deal with actors and journalists, and when an amateur performance was organised for some charitable object, he was cast for the clown in a burlesque called Guy Fawkes.
“Perhaps he played the part capitally; perhaps his friends were making game of him when they loaded him with praise; perhaps the papers for which his Bohemian associates wrote went rather too far when they asserted that he was the artistic descendant and successor of Grimaldi. At any rate Joe believed all that was said to and written about him, and when some wit discovered that Grimaldi’s name was also Joe, the fate of Joe Robins was sealed. He determined to go upon the stage professionally and become a great actor. Fortunately Joe was able to dispose of his stock and goodwill for a few hundreds, which he invested, so as to give him an income sufficient to prevent the wolf from getting inside his door, in case he did not eclipse Garrick, Kean, and Kemble. He also packed up for himself a liberal supply of his wares, and started in his profession with enough shirts, collars, handkerchiefs, and underclothing to equip him for several years.
“The amateur success of poor Joe was never repeated on the regular stage. He did not make an absolute failure; no manager would trust him with big enough parts for him to fail in; but he drifted down to “general utility,” and then out of London, and when I met him he was engaged in a very small way, on a very small salary, at a Manchester theatre.
“His income eked out his salary; Joe, however, was a generous, great-hearted fellow, who liked everybody, and whom everybody liked, and when he had money, he was always glad to spend it upon a friend or give it away to somebody more needy than himself. So piece by piece, as necessity demanded, his princely supply of haberdashery diminished, and at last only a few shirts and underclothes remained to him.
“Christmas came in very bitter weather. Joe had a part in the Christmas pantomime. He dressed with other poor actors, and he saw how thinly some of them were clad when they stripped before him to put on their stage costumes. For one poor fellow in especial his heart ached. In the depth of a very cold winter he was shivering in a suit of very light summer underclothing, and whenever Joe looked at him, the warm flannel under-garments snugly packed away in an extra trunk weighed heavily on his mind. Joe thought the matter over, and determined to give the actors who dressed with him a Christmas dinner. It was literally a dinner upon underclothing, for most of the shirts and drawers which Joe had cherished so long went to the pawnbrokers, or the slop-shop to provide the money for the meal. The guests assembled promptly, for nobody else is ever so hungry as a hungry actor. The dinner was to be served at Joe’s lodgings, and before it was placed on the table, Joe beckoned his friend with the gauze underclothing into a bedroom, and pointing to a chair, silently withdrew. On that chair hung a suit of underwear, which had been Joe’s pride. It was of a comfortable scarlet colour; it was thick, warm, and heavy; it fitted the poor actor as if it had been manufactured especially to his measure. He put it on, and as the flaming flannels encased his limbs, he felt his heart glowing within him with gratitude to dear Joe Robins.
“That actor never knew—or, if he knew, could never remember—what he had for dinner on that Christmas afternoon. He revelled in the luxury of warm garments. The roast beef was nothing to him in comparison with the comfort of his under-vest: he appreciated the drawers more than the plum-pudding. Proud, happy, warm, and comfortable, he felt little inclination to eat; but sat quietly, and thanked Providence and Joe Robins with all his heart.
“‘You seem to enter into that poor actor’s feelings very sympathetically.’
“‘I have good reason to do so,’ replied Mr. Irving, with his sunshiny smile, ‘for I was that poor actor!’”
Irving, like most theatrical folk, has a weakness for applause. It is not surprising that hand-clapping should have an exhilarating effect, or that the volley of air vibrations should set the actor’s blood a-tingling. Applause is the breath in the nostrils of every “mummer.” On one occasion the great Kean finding his audience apathetic, stopped in the middle of his lines and said:
“Gentlemen, I can’t act if you can’t applaud.”
There is no doubt about it, a sympathetic audience gets far more out of the actor than a half-hearted apathetic one.
“The true value of art,” once said Henry Irving, “as applied to the drama can only be determined by public appreciation. It is in this spirit that I have invariably made it my study to present every piece in such a way that the public can rely on getting as full a return for their outlay as it is possible to give. I have great faith in the justice of public discrimination, just as I regard the pit audience of a London theatre as the most critical part of the house.
“Art must advance with the time, and with the advance of other arts there must necessarily be advance in art as applied to the stage. I believe everything that heightens and assists the imagination in a play is good. One should always give the best one can. I have lived long enough to find how short is life and how long is art,” he once pithily remarked.
“Have you been guided by tradition in mounting Shakespearian plays?”
“There is no tradition, nor is there anything written down as to the proper way of acting Shakespeare,” the great actor replied, and further added: “Imitation is not acting—there is no true acting where individuality does not exist. Actors should act for themselves. I dislike playing a part I have seen acted by any one else, for fear of losing something of my own reading of the character. We all have our own mannerisms; I never yet saw any human being worth considering without them.”
There is no doubt that Irving’s personality is strong and his appearance striking. He is a tall man—for I suppose he is about six feet high—thin and well knit, with curiously dark and penetrating eyes which are kindly, and have a merry twinkle when amused. The eyebrows are shaggy and protruding, and, oddly enough, remained black after his hair turned grey. He almost always wears eyeglasses, which somehow suit him as they rest comfortably on his aquiline nose. His features are clear-cut and clean-shaven, and the heavy jaw and slightly underhanging chin give strength to his face, which is always pale; the lips are thin and strangely pallid in colouring. Irving, though nearing seventy, has a wonderfully erect carriage, his shoulders are well thrust back and his chest forward, and somehow his movements always denote a man of strength and character. The very dark hair gradually turned grey and is now almost white; it was fine hair, and has always been worn long and thrown well back behind the ears.
There is something about the man which immediately arrests attention; not only his face and his carriage, but his manner and conversation are different from the ordinary. He is the kind of man that any one meeting for the first time would wish to know more about, the kind of man of whom every one would inquire, “Who is he?” if his face were not so well known in the illustrated papers. He could not pass unnoticed anywhere. But after all it is not this personality entirely that has made his fame, for there are people who dislike it as much as others admire it; but as he himself says, any success he has attained is due to the capacity for taking pains.
That Irving’s success has been great no one can deny. His reign at the Lyceum was remarkable in every way. He acted Shakespeare’s plays until he made them the fashion. He employed great artists, musicians, and a host of smaller fry to give him of their best. He produced wondrous stage pictures—he engaged a good company, and one and all must own he was the greatest actor-manager of the last quarter of the last century. Not only England but the world at large owes him a debt of gratitude. With him mere money-making has been a secondary consideration, and this, coupled with his unfailing generosity, has always kept him comparatively a poor man. No one in distress has ever appealed to him in vain. He has not only given money, but time and sympathy, to those less fortunate than himself, and Henry Irving’s list of charitable deeds is endless. But for this he would never have had to leave the Lyceum, a theatre with which his name was associated for so many years.
When Irving opened Drury Lane at Easter, 1903, with Dante he had an ovation such as probably no man has ever received from an audience before. It was a pouring wet night; the rain descended in torrents, but the faithful pittites were there to welcome the popular favourite on his return from America. It so chanced that the audience were entering the Opera House next door at the same moment, and this, combined with the rain, which did not allow people to descend from their carriages before they reached the theatre doors, made the traffic chaotic. I only managed to reach my stall a second before the house was plunged in darkness and the curtain rose.
And here let me say how much more agreeable it is to watch the play from a darkened auditorium such as Irving originally instituted than to sit in the glaring illumination still prevalent abroad. When the lights went down, the doors were closed, and half the carriage folk were shut out for the entire first act, thus missing that wondrous ovation. The great actor looked the very impersonation of Dante, and as he bowed, and bowed, and bowed again he grew more and more nervous, to judge by the tremble of his lips and the twitching of his hands. It was indeed a stirring moment and a proud one for the recipient. As the play proceeded the audience found all his old art was there and the magnificent mise-en-scène combined to keep up the traditions of the old Lyceum. That vast audience at Drury Lane rose en masse to greet him, and literally thundered their applause at the end of the play. The programme is on the following page.
APRIL 30th, 1903.
theatre royal drury lane limited
Managing Director ARTHUR COLLINS.
Business Manager SIDNEY SMITH.
HENRY IRVING’S SEASON.
Every Evening, at 8.15.
Matinée Every Saturday, at 2.30.
dante
BY
MM. SARDOU & MOREAU.
Rendered into English by LAURENCE IRVING.
Persons in the Play:
Dante Henry Irving
Cardinal Colonna { Papal Legate, Resident } Mr. William Mollison
at Avignon.
Nello della Pietra (Husband to Pia) Mr. Norman McKinnel
Bernardino { Brother to Francesca da Rimini, } Mr. Gerald Lawrence
betrothed to Gemma
Giotto
Friends to Dante
Mr. H. B. Stanford
Casella Mr. James Hearn
Forese Mr. Vincent Sternroyd
Bellacqua Mr. G. Englethorpe
Malatesta (Husband to Francesca) Mr. Jerold Robertshaw
Corso (Nephew to Cardinal Colonna) Mr. Charles Dodsworth
Ostasio (A Familiar of the Inquisition) Mr. Frank Tyars
Ruggieri (Archbishop of Pisa) Mr. William Lugg
The Grand Inquisitor Mr. William Farren, Junr.
Paolo (Brother to Malatesta) Mr. L. Race Dunrobin
Ugolino Mr. Mark Paton
Lippo } Swashbucklers { Mr. John Archer
Conrad Mr. W. L. Ablett
Enzio (Brother to Helen of Swabia) Mr. F. D. Daviss
Fadrico Mr. H. Porter
Merchant Mr. R. P. Tabb
Merchant Mr. H. Gaston
Townsman Mr. T. Reynold
Townsman Mr. A. Fisher
A Servant M. J. Ireland
Pia dei Tolomei (Wife to Nello della Pietra) } Miss Lena Ashwell
Gemma (Her Daughter)
The Abbess of the Convent of Saint Claire Miss Wallis
Francesca da Rimini Miss Lilian Eldée
Helen of Swabia { Daughter-in-law } Miss Laura Burt
to Ugolino
Sandra (Servant to Pia) Miss Ada Mellon
Picarda
Miss E. Burnand
Tessa Miss Hilda Austin
Marozia Florentine Miss Mab Paul
Cilia Ladies Miss Ada Potter
Lucrezia Miss E. Lockett
Julia Miss Mary Foster
Fidelia Miss Dorothy Rowe
Maria Miss May Holland
Nun Miss Emmeline Carder
Nun Miss E. F. Davis
Custodian of the Convent of Saint Claire Miss Grace Hampton
A Townswoman Miss Mabel Rees
Nobles, Guests of the Legate, Pages, Jesters, Nuns, Townsfolk, Artisans,
Street Urchins, Catalans, Barbantines, Servants, etc.
Spirits:
The Spirit of Beatrice Miss Nora Lancaster
Virgil Mr. Walter Reynolds
Cain Mr. F. Murray
Charon Mr. Leslie Palmer
Cardinal Boccasini Mr. F. Faydene
Cardinal Orsini Mr. W. J. Yeldham
Jacques Molay (Commander of the Templars) Mr. J. Middleton
Spirits in the Inferno.
Sir Henry Irving certainly has great magnetic gifts which attract and compel the sympathy of his audience. He always looks picturesque, he avoids stage conventionalities, and acts his part according to his own scholarly instincts. Passion with him is subservient to intellect.
One American critic in summing him up said:
“I do not consider Irving a great actor; but he is the greatest dramatic artist I ever saw.”
The version of Faust by the late W. G. Wills which modern playgoers know so well was one of the most elaborate and successful productions of the Lyceum days, and amongst the beautiful scenic effects some exquisite visions which appeared in the Prologue at the summons of Mephistopheles will always be remembered. On the first night of the production I am told—for I don’t remember the occasion myself—owing to a temporary break down in the lime-lights, these visions declined to put in an appearance at the bidding of the Fiend. The great actor waved his arm and stamped his foot with no result. Again and again he tried to rouse them from their lethargy, but all to no avail. The visions came not. As soon as the curtain fell Irving strode angrily to the wing, even his stride foreboded ill to all concerned, and the officials trembled at the outburst of righteous wrath which they expected would break forth. The first exclamations of the irate manager had hardly left his lips before they were interrupted by a diminutive “call boy,” who rushed forward with uplifted hand, and exclaimed in a high treble key to the great actor-manager fresh from his newest triumph:
“Bear it, bear it bravely! I will explain all to-morrow!”
The situation was so ridiculous that there was a general peal of laughter, in which Irving was irresistibly compelled to join.
The last part played at the Lyceum by the veteran actor Tom Mead was that of the old witch who vainly strove to gain the summit of the Brocken, and was always pushed downwards when just reaching the goal. In despair the wretched hag exclaims, “I’ve been a toiler for ten thousand years, but never, never reached the top.” On the first night of Faust, the worthy old man was chaffed unmercifully at supper by some of his histrionic friends who insisted that the words he used were, “I’ve been an actor for ten thousand years, but never, never reached the top.”
Those who saw the wonderful production of The Corsican Brothers at the Lyceum will remember the exciting duel in the snow by moonlight, between Irving and Terriss. At the last dress rehearsal, which at the Lyceum was almost as important a function as a first night, Terriss noticed that as the combatants moved hither and thither during the fight he seemed to be usually in shadow, while the face of the great actor-manager was brilliantly illuminated. Looking up into the flies, he thus addressed the lime-light man:
“On me also shine forth, thou beauteous moon—there should be no partiality in thy glorious beams.”
A friend relates another curious little incident which occurred during the run of Ravenswood at the Lyceum. In the last act there was another duel between William Terriss and Henry Irving. For the play Terriss wore a heavy moustache which was cleverly contrived in two pieces. Somehow, in the midst of the scuffle, one side of the moustache got caught and came off. This was an awkward predicament at a tragic moment, but Terriss had the presence of mind to swerve round before the audience had time to realise the absurdity, and finished the scene with his hair-covered lips on show. When they arrived in the wings Irving was greatly perturbed.
“What on earth do you mean spoiling the act by jumping round like that?” he demanded. “You put me out horribly: it altered the whole scene.”
Terriss was convulsed with laughter and could hardly answer; and it was only when Irving had spent his indignation that he discovered his friend was minus half his moustache. This shows how intensely interested actors become in their parts, when one can go through a long scene and never notice his colleague had lost so important an adjunct.
Sir Charles Wyndham is one of the most popular actor-managers upon the stage. He is a flourishing evergreen. Though born in 1841 he never seems to grow any older, and is just as full of dry humour, just as able to deliver a dramatic sermon, just as quick and smart as ever he was.
He began at the very beginning, did Sir Charles, and he is ending at the very end. Though originally intended for the medical profession, he commenced his career as a stock actor in a provincial company, is now a knight, and manager and promoter of several theatres. What more could theatrical heart desire? And he has the distinction of having acted in Berlin in the German tongue.
Wyndham gives an amusing description, it is said, of one of his first appearances on the American stage, when he had determined to transfer his affections from Galen to Thespis. He was naturally extremely nervous, and on his first entrance should have exclaimed:
“I am drunk with ecstasy and success.”
With emphasis he said the first three words of the sentence, and then, owing to uncontrollable stage fright, his memory forsook him. After a painful pause he again exclaimed:
“I am drunk.” Even then, however, he could not recall the context. He looked hurriedly around, panic seemed to overpower him as he once more repeated:
“I am drunk—”; and, amid a burst of merriment from the audience, he rushed from the stage.